Hooligans Part 41

He moved closer.

"The only firearms we 'low hereabouts go with the house," he said.

"I was just leaving."

"You goin' the wrong way."

Behind me, I heard a car window whirring. I turned. Graves was a shadow in the back seat, a pair of eyes eager for trouble. The bad end of a .38 peeking over the windowsill took my attention away from his eyes.

A voice as soft as baby skin said, "Let him do his move."

They thought I was going for a heist.

Before I could say anything, the Mufalatta Kid's pickup roared out of the parking lot and skidded up beside me, raising a small dust storm. When it cleared, Zapata and Mufalatta were there. I wondered where the h.e.l.l Zapata came from!

Zapata had his wallet in one hand and a police special in the other. The wallet was hanging open and his buzzer was gleaming for all to see. Mufalatta was behind the door of the pickup, aiming his Cobra at the limo.

"You sure know how to pep up a party," said the Kid.

47.

t.i.tAN DEALS A HAND.

The tension was broken by the appearance of another limo. This one was black and I had seen it before, in front of the Ponce Hotel after Draganata was killed. I even remembered the license plate, ST-1. It pulled slowly toward us until its headlights were shining between us and Uncle Jolly's goon squad. All weapons magically vanished. I heard Graves' window glide quietly back up.

"A lot of limos here tonight," I said.

"Either one of these is a lot of limos," the Mufalatta Kid said.

The driver's door opened and a tall, rangy man in a county uniform got out. He wasn't an inch over six six and probably didn't weigh more than two hundred fifty pounds. He walked with a decided limp and there was about him a bug-eyed, almost haunted look. It was a look I had seen many times before, eyes full of fear of what they might see next-or had already seen. He limped toward the front of the car and leaned against the hood. He didn't do or say anything, just leaned against the hood.

The goon squad turned like robots and marched back inside the arena.

"Luke Burger, the sheriff's man," said Zapata. "He's only got one good leg but he can kick the s.h.i.t out of a rhino with it."

"What happened to him?" I asked.

"What I heard," said Mufalatta, "he was chasing a bootlegger on his hog, lost it going over South River Bridge, took a header over the railing, and went through the roof of some public housing two stories down. I hear it took them six months to glue him back together. One of his legs ended up three inches shorter than the other. "

Zapata said, "I also heard t.i.tan covered all the bills his insurance didn't take care of."

Graves' man sauntered back to his boss's Lincoln and pa.s.sed a roll of bills through the window.

All of a sudden it was business as usual.

"I had enough of this party for one night," Zapata said. "I think I'll just haul my a.s.s outta here. You comin', Kilmer?"

"I think it's time for me to have a chat with Mr. Stoney," I said.

"I'll stick around," the Kid said. "I get a bang outta surprises. Take the pickup. I'll go back with Kilmer."

I walked toward the black Cadillac. Behind me, Hears the big-wheel scratch off in the sand. As I neared t.i.tan's car, his man opened the back door.

"Get in," t.i.tan's crusty voice said from the back seat.

I got in.

"You got more guts than a slaughterhouse floor, doughboy," he said, "but a sparrow's got more brains."

He sat forward, almost on the edge of the seat, his legs tucked close to the black cane, his gimlet eyes glittering like diamonds. When he wanted, his voice had the lilt of Irish flavored with mola.s.ses, a voice you listened to and wanted to believe. It could also be as tough as a cowhand's behind.

"I've heard you're a smart cop," he said quietly. "Very savvy, they say. I can believe that. You were a h.e.l.luva good ballplayer. Too bad about the foot."

"It was my ankle."

"Foot, ankle, what's the difference? So you remember me, eh?"

"h.e.l.l, Mr. Stoney, who could forget you? I remember everything. That was one h.e.l.l of a summer."

"It's a dead and buried summer. Best you forget it or move on."

I didn't respond to his veiled threat, I just listened.

"I know everything that happens in this town, this county. If a cow farts, I know it. I've had my eye on you since you got off the plane. You been havin' quite a time for yourself."

"Just doing my job," I said.

"I could get you recalled with a phone call, doughboy. You got yourself way off base."

"Seems to me that's my business."

"Don't be a dreamer. Best you forget the past and get on with your work. In the first place, you don't even have the credentials. Besides, she's a happy woman, just gets a little lonely."

"Did Chief send you to-"

"Chief doesn't know you're here. If he did, I doubt he'd remember you. He's still livin' in 1969. Teddy's death destroyed him."

"It didn't do a h.e.l.luva lot for Teddy either."

"You gonna turn out to be a smarta.s.s?"

"I was with him when he died. That kind of thing stays with you."

"I saw the letter," he said. He was staring straight ahead, not looking at me or anything else in particular.

I gave him my hardest stare. "You never did like me, did you, Mr. Stoney? You never thought I was good enough for her."

"I told you what I thought," he said. "You were a good halfback until you got busted up. After that . . . "

He let the sentence dwindle away. Fill in the blanks.

"It was all part of watching out for Dunetown, right? Like you're doing now. Sticking your nose in my business again."

He looked at me and his lip curled up on one side.

"You found your level, doughboy," he said.

"Just like you, right?"

He sat for a few beats more and then, without looking at me, he said, "Harry Raines has a brilliant future. It wouldn't do for his wife to be caught screwin' around with a cop."

"Or anybody else," I added.

"There ain't anybody else, doughboy."

"How about Tony Lukatis?"

His eyes narrowed. "You sure been busy prying into things that don't matter."

"That makes two of us. Besides, you brought the subject up," I said. "Seems to me everybody's awfully concerned about Harry Raines' future and n.o.body particularly gives a d.a.m.n about his wife."

"She ain't runnin' for office."

"That's all it's about, running for office?"

"Look, don't go making a monkey of yourself. She's vulnerable right now. I'd hate to think you were takin' advantage of the situation. "

"You've got a lot of time invested in him, don't you?" I pressed on.

His eyes continued to twinkle, even in the subdued interior of the limo. He nodded his head sharply.

"Bet your a.s.s I do," he said.

"I can understand your concern."

"Hasn't a d.a.m.n thing to do with that. Chief and Doe are family to me. I won't stand by and see either of them hurt."

"I wasn't planning on it."

"Anything else would be tomfoolery," he snapped. The mola.s.ses in his tone had changed to flint.

"Could be there's more to it than that," I suggested.

"Now what the h.e.l.l's that supposed to mean?"

"How long do you think you can keep this under the table? How long can Harry Raines play dumb?"

"He ain't playing nothin'," the sheriff snapped vehemently. "If Morehead was doin' his job, none of this would've happened."

"That's bulls.h.i.t and you know it. If the Committee had done its job, none of this would've happened."

At my mention of the Committee, he reared back as if I had slapped him. I went on before he could say anything.

"That makes you as much to blame for what's happening here as anybody. I could understand Donleavy and Seaborn being naive enough to swallow Tagliani's line. You're the sheriff, Mr. Stoney, lord high protector of Dunetown and all its peasants and all its kings. You should have tumbled to them. Why dump it off on somebody else?"

"Doughboy, I'm beginning to think you're suicidal," he said softly, and with enough menace that it made me pucker a little.

"Okay," I said, "I'll put it on the table. How clean is Raines?"

"Don't be silly," he snapped. "You think Harry Raines had anything to do with this?"

I said, "If anybody local sold out to the Taglianis, they're looking down the throat of a RICO case. And that means you, Harry Raines, or anybody else."

"You have to prove racketeering on the Taglianis," he said. "From what I hear, you ain't got doodly-s.h.i.t on any of them. You're gonna bust out here, just like you did up north. They got you buffaloed, doughboy. Admit it."

I wanted to tell the crafty old b.a.s.t.a.r.d more, but I decided not to. Instead, I said: "If he's dirty, he's going to get turned up."

"I said, don't be silly, boy. Harry Raines is as honest as a Swiss pocket watch. You're dreamin' if you think different. Dangerous dreamin'. Harry, Sam Donleavy, me, we all did our best to keep Dunetown clean. Sounds to me like you may be tryin' to put a size two shoe on a size ten foot."

"On the other hand, if the shoe fits . . . "

I let the rest of the sentence dangle.

"Let me put it to you straight, doughboy," he said with unmistakable authority. "You stay away from Doe Raines."

I didn't answer him. We sat and stared through the shadows for several moments. His jaw was flinching.

"This isn't going anywhere," I said finally. "I owe you my thanks. I don't know what you're doing out here, but I'm glad you showed up. A little law never hurt anybody."

"A little law ain't worth a d.a.m.n," he said. "Either you got muscle or you got numbers. You didn't have either."

I asked it suddenly. I wasn't planning on it, it just popped out, kind of like my gun popping out at the dog fights.

"Is this your game, Mr. Stoney?"

He chuckled to himself, a mischievous chuckle, a tsk-tsk chuckle, which made me feel like a wahoo, which is exactly what he wanted.

"I'm gonna give you a little advice, us being in the same game, so to speak. I been at it forty-five years. How about you?"

"Almost ten."

"People are gonna gamble, doughboy, it's natural. The reason it's natural is because most people are losers and they see themselves as losers and they don't think they'll ever amount to a G.o.dd.a.m.n, so they gamble because in their eyes it's their shot at changin' their luck. So people'll gamble, and a lot of harda.s.s law ain't gonna change it. The same thing can be said of whorin'. Always gonna be whorin' goin' on, doughboy. A man wants to get laid, he's gonna get laid. Now, my job isn't to teach 'em not to gamble or not to get laid; that's a job for a preacher. No, my job is to make sure they don't get hurt bad at it. We all know gamblin' and whorin' can attract some unsavory characters around it, so for that reason I keep my finger on things. I like to know who's doin' what. That way I keep things from gettin' outta line, my folks from gettin' hurt."