Hooligans Part 44

"Who d'ya think I'm talkin' to, G.o.d?" Dutch growled. "Just do it."

"Right."

He started to lead Guttman away.

"Cap'n?"

"What is it now?"

"Can I get a pack o' b.u.t.ts, too?"

"Get him a pack of b.u.t.ts, too," Dutch said to the policeman.

"Yes, sir."

"G.o.d bless ya," Socks said, and stuck out his hand. Dutch recoiled in horror. "Take that thing away from me," he said to Socks, and to the cop: "Make him wash his d.a.m.n hands before he eats; he's liable to poison himself."

Salvatore and Callahan returned to the fold with half a dozen bra.s.s b.u.t.tons in tow.

"Just did the park. Nothin'," Callahan said, in his Western Union parlance.

"Had to be the car," said Salvatore.

The Stick was standing across the street, near the entrance to the park, looking back at the marquee. He waved us over and pointed at the front of the theater. Light bulbs had been blown out across the front of it. Wires hung down, spitting at each other. Several of the letters were blown out.

What was left of the sign spelled SO-LONG-

49.

WHO'S NEXT?.

The shootout at South Longbeach had attracted most of the SOB's and others were on the way. Only Kite Lange and Cowboy Lewis failed to show up for the festivities. While the hooligans were gathering, I grabbed a minute with Stick.

"Anything new on Nance and Chevos?" I asked.

"Nothing on Nance yet," he said apologetically. "No, nothing new but Kite Lange is still staked out at the marina where Chevos lives."

"I wonder how come Stizano didn't make the wake?"

"He did. He and his entourage left early, I guess to catch the flicks. "

As far as I was concerned that still left Nance in the picture. I wasn't kidding myself or trying to conceal my joy.

Charlie One Ear was next to appear, as dapper as ever in tweeds although he had replaced shirt and tie with a turtleneck sweater.

"G.o.d, what a mess!" was Charlie One Ear's reaction.

Callahan said, "Take a look, other end of the park."

"why asked Charlie One Ear. "Is it worse down there?"

"Line of fire," said Callahan, in his abbreviated English.

"Also we got a witness, thinks he saw a car," Salvatore added.

Charlie turned his back on the police gala in front of the theater and said, "Let's get off the firing line, shall we, gentlemen? I've got a bit of news I'd rather not share with the ma.s.ses."

Dutch led us to the hot dog stand, where he ordered two dogs suffocated by chili, kraut, mustard, and raw onions. The rest of us settled for coffee, which was strong enough to poison a whale. Charlie One Ear ordered tea. We moved down the street for a powwow.

"So far it's a goose egg," he began. "n.o.body knows anything, n.o.body's heard anything. I cruised the hotels out on the Strip, spent the afternoon at the track, and didn't see a face that worried me. I got on the horn, checked the network . . . "

He counted them off on his fingers.

"New Orleans, New York, Cincy, Detroit, Saint Looey, Chi, Vegas, L.A. What I got from that was bupkus. As of this minute, I'll stake my pension there aren't any outside guns in this town. At least none I can connect to this little hurrah."

"Maybe we should just sit back and wait a day or two more," Salvatore said. "There won't be anybody left and we can forget it. "

"If this was an outside mob moving in, somebody would know about it," Charlie One Ear said. "That kind of information moves faster than a dirty joke at a wedding reception."

"Any of these insiders of yours try a guess as to the why of it?" Dutch asked.

Charlie One Ear shook his head. "No, but the word is about. The Taglianis, or what's left of them, are very nervous. Apparently they haven't got the foggiest either."

Dutch moved away from the group and stood on the curb, shaking his head, then turned suddenly and threw his cup at the wall. Coffee showered all over the sidewalk.

"What a bunch of sheiss kopfes," he growled to himself, "and I lead the parade. Twelve people! We had eyeb.a.l.l.s on them all, they still get shot right out from under us!"

Frustration shimmered around him like an aura. He turned and looked down at me, his blue eyes burning fiercely behind his gla.s.ses.

"I'm G.o.dd.a.m.ned embarra.s.sed, if you want to know the truth," he said. It was one of the few times I heard him use profanity in English.

"Don't take it personally," I said. "These people have much more experience taking care of each other than you or I. If they can't keep themselves alive, it's not our fault."

"Look, I'm really sorry, old man," Charlie One Ear said, "but I may have a consolation prize for you. I'm not sure whether it ties in or not, but a chap I know is carrying a rather large snow monkey. He says the c.o.ke market's been dry for more than a month, but the local s...o...b..rds are dancing in the street. The word is, the drought is about to end."

"Harry Nesbitt mentioned that," I said.

"When's this snowstorm going to happen?" asked Dutch.

"Imminently."

"Does this snitch know who the importer is?"

"I wish you'd refrain from calling them snitches," Charlie One Ear said. "Some of these people take a great deal of pride in working for me. It's rather like a public service for them."

"Charlie, all canaries sing alike. Does he know who the distributor is or not?"

"He only knows his own street connection."

"Want a guess?" I said. "Bronicata. It's his game."

"That makes sense," Stick said. "Unless maybe it's Longnose Graves."

The Mufalatta Kid broke his silence. "Nose don't touch hard stuff," he said.

"Times are changing," I countered. "This place is ripe for toot; it's wallowing in heavy rollers."

"I ain't stickin' up for the dinge," the Kid said. "On the line, he ain't nothin' but a shanty-a.s.s, nickel-dime n.i.g.g.e.r, say. He just don't f.u.c.k with heavy drugs, man. Ain't his style."

Dutch stepped in. "Any idea how much c.o.ke we're talking about here?"

"Rumors vary. I would say fifty kilos, pure."

"Gemtlich!" Dutch rumbled under his breath.

Salvatore whistled softly through his teeth. "We're talking bucks here," he said.

Charlie One Ear took a thin, flat calculator from his shirt pocket and started adding it up.

"Let's see. A hundred and ten pounds of stuff, which they'll likely kick at least six, perhaps eight, to one. Let's say roughly eight hundred pounds, which is roughly thirteen thousand ounces, which is roughly three hundred thousand grams. At eighty dollars a gram, that would come to twenty-four million dollars along the Strand. Roughly."

That stopped conversation for almost a minute. Stick broke the silence.

"Well, that'll cover the old car payment," he said.

Dutch turned to me again. "You're the one knows these people," he said. "Do you think they'd snuff each other over twenty-four million bucks?"

"h.e.l.l, I might kill them for twenty-four million bucks, Dutch. The question is, does it make sense? My answer is no, it doesn't. They deal in bigger numbers than that every week."

Salvatore added his thoughts: "I agree. It could happen if there was some rhubarb over territory, somebody in the family got his feelings jacked off, personal s.h.i.t like that. Then, maybe. I don't see them cuttin' each other up over some dope deal either." He shook his head vigorously. "That don't come across as a possibility."

"So we're back to square one, and we got five more corpus delictis on our hands," Dutch said.

"I'll keep digging, of course," Charlie One Ear said, and went off to the other side of the park with Salvatore and Callahan to look for car tracks.

They returned ten minutes later. Charlie stood with his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, rocking on his heels. After a proper dramatic pause he said, "It's highly likely the damage was done from the other end of the park. We found what could be tire tracks. Actually it looks like someone may have wrapped burlap or some other heavy material around the wheels so they wouldn't leave any identifying tracks."

"How far is it from back there to the theater?" Dutch asked.

"About a furlong," Callahan said, and when we all stared dumbly at him, he added, "Two hundred yards, give or take a few feet."

"An M-16 with a good scope could handle that," said the Stick.

"Isn't that comforting," Dutch said.

I took Callahan aside and told him about the game at the Breakers Hotel and Thibideau dropping over fifteen grand.

"Interesting," said Callahan. "Disaway'll go off, twenty, thirty to one tomorrow. It rains, pony wins, Thibideau can buy the Breakers."

"Maybe I'll come to the races tomorrow afternoon," I said.

"Back gate, one o'clock. I'll wait ten minutes." And he drifted back with the gang.

Dutch walked over and joined me.

"Twelve people blown out from under us," he said, "and all we've done so far is provide airtight alibis for every good suspect we got . . . at least the ones that are still alive."

"All but one," I said.

"Who's that?" Dutch asked.

"Turk Nance."

"You sure got a one-track mind," he said, drifting off to talk to the Kid and Zapata. I checked the time. It was half past twelve. I sought out Stick.

"How about a nightcap?" I suggested.

"Sure. Want to meet at the hotel?"

"Ever been to a place called Casablanca?" I asked.

His eyes widened. "I've been to almost every place in town at least once," he said. "Once was enough for that place."

"We'll take my car," I said, ignoring his comment.

"Done," he said with a shrug. As we headed for my rented Ford, Stick tossed his car keys to Zapata.

"Take my heap back to the Warehouse, will you, Chino?" he asked. "And keep it in second under forty, otherwise it'll stall out on you." And then to me, "Let's go to the zoo."

I was about to find out what he meant.

50.

CASABLANCA.

I didn't talk a lot on the way to the place. I was thinking about the Kid's itching-foot story, which led me to murder, which led me back to the Kid.