Hooligans Part 19

"In the meantime, I can throw a few crumbs your way," I offered.

"How's that?" said Zapata, slurping his coffee.

I decided to try Charlie One Ear out, to see if he was as good as everybody said he was.

"I spotted Spanish Eddie Fuereco on the way in," I said.

"At the airport, no doubt," Charlie One Ear piped up immediately.

Zapata stared over at him, obviously impressed.

"Right," I said.

"How'd you know that, Charlie?" asked Zapata, who appeared to be genuinely in awe of the one-eared detective.

"And in the bar," Charlie One Ear added.

"Right again," I said.

"Geez," Zapata said.

"The old coin trick," Charlie One Ear said. "Was he spinning heads and tails?"

"You got it," I said.

"What's the coin trick?" Zapata asked.

"He marks the top of a quarter, say on the heads side but along the ridges so you can't see it unless you're looking for it," said Charlie One Ear. "He lets the mark spin the coin. Spanish Eddie never touches it. The mark doesn't suspect anything, y'see, because he's controlling the spin and Eddie's calling whether it'll fall heads or tails. He can tell by the mark on the coin. He's also a sleight-of-hand artist. If the mark wants to switch coins, he always has another one ready."

"Geez," Zapata said again, his wonder still growing.

"He's very good," Charlie One Ear said. "On a real good night he can score enough to buy a new car."

"So how come you knew he was at the airport?"

"If the mark starts getting pushy," Charlie One Ear said, "Fuereco switches to a regular coin, plays on the mark's money for a few rounds, then has to catch a plane. That's why he does airports. Gives him an excuse to end the game."

"I'll be d.a.m.ned," Zapata said. He looked over at me. "Charlie knows every sc.u.mbag in the business," he said with great pride.

"Only the cream of the crop," Charlie One Ear threw in. "And Spanish Eddie Fuereco only by reputation. I'd love to go a few rounds with him, before I put the arm on him."

"He'll beatcha," Zapata said. "He can read the coin."

"I'm not too bad at sleight of hand myself," Charlie One Ear said proudly. "I'll mark two coins and switch them back and forth so he keeps reading them wrong. What a coup, beating Fuereco at his own game!"

"He's all yours," I said.

"I love con games," Zapata said. "Did you ever wonder who dreams them up?"

Charlie One Ear stared at Zapata for a moment or two, then said, "No, I never really thought about it before."

"I also saw Digit Dan out there," I said.

"Ah, now there's a man with talent," said Charlie One Ear. "Fastest hands I've ever seen. n.o.body works the shoulder b.u.mp like Dan."

"The shoulder b.u.mp?" Zapata said, his sense of wonderment continuing to grow as Charlie One Ear showed off.

"He works crowds, b.u.mps the shoulder of the mark. Usually the mark will touch his wallet to make sure he hasn't been boosted. That does two things for Digit. One, it tells him where the mark's wallet is. Two, the next time he b.u.mps him, the mark is too embarra.s.sed to check his belongings. Bingo! The wallet's gone and so is Dan."

"You don't miss a trick, there, Charlie," Zapata said, shaking his head.

"The thing about Digit Dan that's remarkable," said Charlie One Ear, "is that he always. .h.i.ts somebody who's well heeled. He has that talent. He can look at a mark and tell how much money he's got in his kick."

"Amazing," Zapata said, shaking his head.

"He'll be working the track tomorrow," Charlie One Ear said. "We'll nail him. Now, about your problem. Perhaps we can give you something there."

That didn't surprise me.

"A pimp named Mortimer Flitch, alias Mort Tanner," he continued. "A wimpy sort and not too flashy. Handles high-cla.s.s clientele, usually four or five girls at most. He calls Saint Louis home. He also has a thing for ladies of means."

"Rich broads, you mean," Zapata said.

"Yes, Chino, rich broads."

"A gigolo, eh?" said Stick.

"I hate to give him that distinction," said Charlie One Ear.

"Where'd you see him at?" Zapata asked.

"Out on the Strip, a week or two ago. This Turner thing came up and I never followed through."

"It's Tagliani," said Salvatore.

"What's he look like?" Zapata asked.

"Tallish, a little under six feet. Slender. I'd say one forty, one forty-two. Wears three-piece suits. Lightweight for the climate. Goes in for colored shirts and has atrocious taste in ties. Flowers, lots of bad colors, that kind of thing. Brown hair and not a lot of it. Combs if over his forehead to stretch it out. Brown eyes. Always wears black boots."

"Quirks?" Zapata asked.

"Bites his fingernails."

Zapata turned to me. "You want this guy?"

I wasn't sure what I'd do with him, but I said, "Sure, it's a start. "

"Thirty minutes," Zapata said. "Wait here. Come on, Salvatore, I need company," and they were gone.

"Zapata's amazing," Charlie One Ear said, watching them rush out the door. "Nose like a bloodhound."

"Looks more like a waffle iron," I said with a laugh.

"True," said Charlie One Ear. "But that doesn't impede his instinct for finding people. He's unerring."

I got the impression maybe Zapata had been hit one or two times too many on the soft part of his head. Later I learned that he was as streetwise as any cop I've ever known. He may have been short on Shakespeare, but he was long on smarts.

"He was a middleweight contender, you know," Charlie One Ear continued. "Got full of patriotism, volunteered for the army, and spent a year in Vietnam. Then he came back and joined the h.e.l.l's Angels. I've never quite understood why."

"You seem to have a nice team going," I said. "You spot them, Zapata finds them, and Salvatore sticks to them."

"Like flypaper," said Charlie One Ear.

Stick excused himself to go call the coroner and see if there were any autopsy reports yet. When he left, I leaned over the table toward Charlie One Ear.

"I've got to ask you something," I said. "It's a personal thing."

"Yes?"

"I heard your father was an English lord and your mother was a Ute Indian. Whenever your name comes up, somebody says that. "

"Only partly correct. It was my grandparents and she was a Cree. I inherited my memory from my father and my instincts from my mother. Thank G.o.d it wasn't the other way around. I'm quite flattered you've heard of me."

"Charlie Flowers, the man who smashed the Wong Yang Fu opium ring in San Francisco almost single-handed! You're a legend in your time," I said with a smile.

"I really enjoy this, y'know," he said, grinning back. "I have an enormous ego."

"Is it true you once busted so many moonshiners in Georgia that they threw together and hired a couple of Philly shooters to do you in?"

"Actually it was four, including Dancing Rodney Shutz out of Chicago, who was reputed to have killed over sixty people, a lot of whom didn't deserve the honor."

"And you got 'em all?"

"Yes. Without a scratch, I might add. They made a mistake. They all took me on at once-I suppose they thought there was safety in numbers." He paused for a moment and then flashed a twenty-dollar smile. "Dancing Rodney was so aghast I don't think he realizes to this day that he's dead." We both broke out laughing.

"So what're you doing here?" I asked.

His smile stayed but got a little brittle. "Well, I don't share Dutch Morehead's consternation with condos. My wife and I enjoy ours quite a lot. Beautiful view. We're near the water. The climate's wonderful . . . " He paused. He could have let it drop there, but he went on. "Besides, I couldn't get a job anywhere else. "

"What!"

He took out one of those long, thin Dutch cigars, lit it, and blew smoke rings at the ceiling. "I was working internal affairs for the state police out in Arizona a couple of years back. There had been a lot of killing and they suspected it was dope-related. The main suspect was a big-time dealer named Mizero. They sent me in, undercover, to check it out. It was Mizero's game all right, but he had an inside man, a narc named Burke, who was very highly situated. What they were doing, Mizero would make a big sale. Maybe a hundred pounds of gra.s.s. Then Burke would step in, bust the buyer, confiscate his money and goods, tell him get lost and he wouldn't press charges. If the buyer got antsy, Mizero would push him over. Then they'd re-sell the dope.

"I got too close to the bone and blew my cover. So Burke decided he had to get rid of Mizero. The trouble was, it went the other way. Mizero dropped Burke. The locals made a deal with the state to keep Burke out of it. It was an election year and this was a big case. n.o.body wanted to deal with a bad-cop scandal.

"I was a key witness for the prosecution. They knew they couldn't muzzle Mizero, so they wanted me to testify that Burke was working undercover with me. I said no, I won't do that. Some things I'll do, but I won't perjure myself for anyone, particularly a bad cop. Next thing you know, they ship me out of state so the defense can't call me, and put out the word I'm a drinker, a big troublemaker. And, get this, they put it out that I committed perjury! For over a year everybody in the business thought I was a drunken liar. And I don't even drink."

"How about the Feds?" I said.

"They didn't want me back. I was always too independent to suit the bureaucrats. Anyway, Dutch heard about it. I was living in Trenton working a security job and he showed up one day, didn't ask any questions, just offered me a job. After I took it, I said, 'I don't drink and I've never told a lie under oath in my life,' and he says, 'I know it,' and it's never come up since."

Then he leaned across the table toward me. "That's my excuse, what's yours?"

"I know the rest of the Cincinnati Triad is here. I just want to dig a hole under all of them. I don't care where they fall, but I want them to drop."

"Is it because you couldn't nail them up there?"

"That's part of it."

"And the rest of it's personal?" he said.

I nodded. "Absolutely."

He gave me another big smile. "Splendid," he said. "I truly admire a man who's strongly motivated." He offered me his hand. "I think Zapata and I will have a go at finding this Nance chap."

"I'd like that a lot," I said.

A minute or two later Stick came back to the table. "Zapata just called," he said. "They've already spotted Tanner. He's at the Breakers Hotel eating breakfast."

"See what I mean about Chino?" Charlie One Ear said with a grin, and we were on our way.

21.

MEMORANDUM.

Okay, Cisco, you're always complaining that I don't file reports. So I have a thing about that. I can't type and it takes me forever to peck out one lousy report. Also there are never enough lines on the forms and I can't get the stuff in between the lines that are there. If you want to know the truth, it's a royal pain in the a.s.s. But if I were going to write a memorandum, it would probably go something like this: I've been in Dunetown less than twenty-four hours. So far I've witnessed one death, seen three other victims, fresh on the slab, been treated like I got smallpox by Dutch Morehead and his bunch of hooligans, and seen just enough of Dunetown to understand why they call it Doomstown. It's an understatement.

Due process? Forget it. It went out the window about the time Dunetown got its first paved road. As far as the hooligans are concerned, due process is the notice you get when you forget to pay your phone bill. Most of them think Miranda is the president of a banana republic in Central America.

Stick understands the territory but he's kind of in the squeeze. He has to go along with the hooligans so they won't tumble that he's a Fed. On the other hand, he's smart enough to know that any evidence these guys might gather along the way would get stomped flat at the door to the courthouse.

What we're talking about, Cisco, is education. Stick is a smooth operator. The rest of Dutch Morehead's people would rather kick a.s.s than eat dinner. Yesterday I tried to discuss the RICO statutes with them and Chino Zapata thought I was talking about a mobster he knows in Buffalo.

The only exception is Charlie "One Ear" Flowers, who knows the game but doesn't buy the rules. He's like the rest of these guys-they've been f.u.c.ked over so much by the system that they walk with their legs crossed. I'm not making any value judgments, mind you. Maybe some of them deserved their lumps.

Take Salvatore, for instance. He was up on charges in New York City when Dutch found him. The way I get it, Salvatore was on stakeout in one of those mom and pop stores in the Bronx. It had been robbed so often, the people who owned it took out the cash and put it on the counter every time somebody walked into the store. The old man had been shot twice. Cla.s.sic case. It's the end of the year and Salvatore is behind two-way gla.s.s and this freak comes into the store and starts waving a Sat.u.r.day night special around. Salvatore steps out from his hiding place, says, "Merry Christmas, motherf.u.c.ker," and blows the guy into the middle of the street with an 870 riot gun loaded with rifle slugs. The police commissioner took issue with the way Salvatore did business. Now he's down here.

One thing about them, they don't complain. Between you and me, I'm glad they're here.

You can add this to everything else: every time I go around a corner I get another rude shock. Like going out to the beach today. I wasn't ready for that. The traffic should have been a clue. It got heavy about a quarter mile from where the boulevard terminates at Dune Road, which runs parallel to the ocean. See, the way I remember Dune Road, it was this kind of desolate macadam strip that merged with the dunes. It went out to the north end of the island and petered out at the sea; one of those old streets that go nowhere in particular.

Now it's four lanes wide with metered parking lots all over the place. There are three hotels that remind me a lot of Las Vegas, and shops and fast-food joints one on top of the other, and seawalls to protect the hotel guests from the common people. Two more going up and beyond them condos polluting the rest of the view. And the noise! It was a hurricane of sound. Stereos, honking horns, and hundreds of voices, all jabbering at once.