Hooligans

by William Diehl

  I was wondering who would be beeping me at this time of night.

  "The beeper," I whispered. "I gotta call the office."

  She rose up an inch or so, a tousled head peering through tangled hair with one half-open eye.

  "Wha' time is it?"

  "Past eleven."

  "You have to call the office at this time of night?"

  "I have terrible hours."

  "Ridiculous. Besides, it's too early to leave."

  "You've got a husband, remember?"

  "I have a husband in Atlanta for the night," she said. She looked up at me and smiled. There wasn't a hint of remorse on her face. She looked as innocent as a five-year-old.

  "He may call."

  She snuggled up again.

  "Uh-uh. Out of sight, out of mind. Besides, he trusts me."

  I didn't feel like dealing with that. I didn't feel like dealing with any of it. Guilt gnawed at my stomach like an ulcer and it had nothing to do with Harry Raines. I kept lying to myself that it had been inevitable. I shifted again and reached for my clothes. She sat up, leaning naked against the bulkhead, her tawny form outlined by the dying moon.

  "More," she whispered, and it was more of a demand than a plea.

  A new fire ignited deep in my gut, but the old devils were creeping back: guilt, frustration, jealousy, distrust.

  I threw the Windbreaker over her.

  "Give me a break," I said, squeezing out a smile.

  "You never asked for a break before," she said, putting a hand as soft as chamois on my chest.

  "I was in training then."

  "Please come back," she said as I started to dress.

  "I never know about later. I could be on my way to Alaska an hour from now."

  "No."

  I laughed. "No? What did you mean, no?"

  "I waited all these years for you to come back. You are not going to just up and leave, not again."

  She closed her eyes and put her head back against the side of the boat. "I went crazy inside when I saw you at the restaurant yesterday and then at the track this morning," she said. "It all came rushing back at me. Like a tidal wave inside me." She opened her eyes and looked at me. "It happened, and it wasn't one of those things you question. Do you know what I mean?"

  Instant replay: rampant fantasy from the past. For months after Chief had written his good-bye letter, fantasies had infested my days. Uncontrollable, they were like panes of glass, separating me from reality. the fantasies were impossible dreams that she would show up at my door in the middle of the night to tell me she couldn't live another instant without me; that I would find her waiting in the corner of some restaurant. I looked for her everywhere I went, in supermarkets, in the windows of other cars as I drove down the highway. I bought a pair of cheap binoculars so I could scan Chief's box at Sanford Stadium on football weekends. Even a glimpse, I thought, would help. Finally I accepted the danger of fantasies. They sour into nightmares and vanish, leaving scars on the soul. Tonight could not change that, even though the fantasy was becoming real again.

  I could feel the armor, like a steel skin, slipping around me.

  "Don't go away again," she said. "Not for a while, at least. Give it a chance."

  I let some anger out, not much, just relieving the pressure for a moment.

  "That isn't exactly the way it played," I said harshly.

  "It was Chief. He never understood how we really felt about each other."

  "He understood all right."

  She looked away, fiddling with a strand of cotton raveling from her dress.

  "Hey, Jake, you know Chief. He always made whatever he said sound so . . . so, right. Nobody ever argued with Chief."

  "Maybe somebody should have."

  She stared at me for several seconds before saying, "Why didn't you?"

  I didn't know how to answer that properly.

  What I said was "Pride," and let it go at that.

  She nodded. "Beats us all, doesn't it."

  "Well, it's a little hard, coming to grips with the feeling that you're a failure at twenty-one because you have bad ankles. It made me readjust some of my values."

  "Jake," she said suddenly, changing the mood entirely. "I want to hear about Teddy."

  "I wrote you all there is to know."

  "I want to hear it from you."

  "Why, for God's sake?"

  "So I'll know it's true and I can forget it, once and for all."

  "It's true, believe me. I won't replay it, Doe. It's not one of my favorite images."

  It had been so long I had almost forgotten the lie. It was heroic, a real Greek tragedy, that much I remembered.

  "Time you laid Teddy to rest," I said softly. "Forget the war. That wasn't reality, it was madness. Remember him the way he was the day you pushed him into the bay. That's what he'd want."

  Then she started to cry, very softly so you would hardly notice it.

  "He'd like it, that we're together here. He was all for us, Jake."

  "I know it."

  She went on, ignoring the tears. "When I think back, I think of all of us together. Such bright promises, and all of them broken. Everything seemed to go bad and stay bad. They kept taking things away from me. First you, then Teddy, then . . . oh, just everything."

  "Then what? You started to say something, finish it."

  "Lots of thens. I have this horse, a beautiful stallion, Georgia-bred. He had real promise. Chief gave him to me when I turned thirty. He said Firefoot—it was a silly name but he had this white splash on one foot, jet black only he had this white streak, so I called him Firefoot—anyway, Chief said Firefoot and I would stay young together. I wanted to race him, oh, how I wanted that. But Harry got involved with this racetrack thing. I guess inheriting Dunetown from Chief wasn't enough. It wouldn't look right, he said, the racing commissioner's wife racing horses. So Firefoot's up for stud now. When I go out there, he runs across the meadow to me with his head up, so proud . . . he wanted to race; it's what Thoroughbreds are all about, Jake, they're born to run, to prove themselves. He really deserved the chance. He deserved that. An animal like that, it has rights."

  She stopped and bit off another strand raveling from her dress, wiggled it off her fingers, then turned back to me.

  "It's been that way ever since you left. Everything went bad."

  "I'll buy that," I said bitterly.

  "It just seems like nobody's what they appear to be," she went on angrily. "At first Harry reminded me of you. He was fun and he laughed a lot and he made me laugh. Then Chief decided to retire and Harry changed overnight. It was business, business, business!"

  "That went with the territory."

  "I didn't know he was so ambitious. Suddenly Findley Enterprises wasn't enough. Next it was politics and then the track. It's always something new. He's like a man on a roller coaster; he can't seem to stop. I didn't want that. There's no reason for it. We've got more than we'll ever need."

  For a few moments I felt sorry for Raines, because I understood that drive. Harry Raines had to prove himself. He couldn't be satisfied with the role of Mr. Doe Findley, and for that I respected him. I wondered if I would have done the same thing. But I didn't say anything, I just listened. I had very little respect for his political aspirations. In my book, politicians usually rank one step above bank robbers and child molesters. That was my prejudice and my problem to deal with, of course, but I had met damn few of them I either liked or trusted.

  "I love Harry," she said. "I'm just not in love with him anymore. He's not Harry anymore, he's already Governor Raines."

  "Maybe he's got troubles," I said, buttoning my shirt.

  "Tiger by the tail, that's all he keeps saying."

  "More like a two-ton elephant on a piece of string."

  "Is it that bad? Is he in trouble?" she asked.

  "I don't know. Is he honest?"

  "Chief believed . . . believes in him."

  "Oh, so Chief picked him out," I said. It was a cru
el comment. I was sorry I'd said it before all the words were out of my mouth.

  She stood up, her back as straight as a slat, smoothing her dress. "I picked him out," she snapped.

  "Sorry," I said. "Anyway, I'm not interested in what Chief thinks, Doe. What do you think?"

  She pulled on the dress, but didn't button it, and gave me back my Windbreaker.

  "I don't think he could be dishonest."

  "That's a nice vote of confidence."

  "I'm trying to be honest myself. Are you here because of something to do with the track?"

  "Hell, I'm not sure of anything," I answered. "I'm new in town. Can I use the phone up at the house?"

  She opened a metal box on the wall of the boathouse, reached in and took out a wall phone, handed me the receiver, and leaned back against the wall, staring at me.

  I dialed the war room and Dutch answered.

  "Where are you?" he bellowed.

  "With friends," I said. "What's up?"

  "You got a weird phone call about an hour ago. Kite fielded it. He says a guy wanted to talk to you real bad, but he hung up when Kite tried to press him. Thing is, Kite says the guy didn't exactly sound like Mary Poppins. The reason I'm calling, before Kite put it together he told this guy he might be able to reach you at the hotel. So you might want to keep your eyes open."

  "Thanks. Maybe we ought to have breakfast and do a little catchup."

  "I'll pick you up at nine," he said. I told him that was real civilized of him and hung up.

  "More trouble?" Doe asked, anxiety in her voice.

  "I don't think so."

  "Please come back."

  I played it tough. "Sure," I said, and leaned over and kissed her. As I started to leave I felt her hand on my sleeve.

  "Jake?"

  "Yeah?"

  "What did they do to us?"

  "The hyenas got us," I said. "The bastards never let up."

  When I got back to the car, the light was still on in the upper bedroom. Then I remembered that that was Teddy's old room. I wondered if the light was left on permanently, like the eternal torch at Arlington.

  I drove as fast I could back to reality.

  35

  WESTERN UNION

  A gray Olds blundered on to me a couple of blocks before I got back to the hotel and followed at a respectable distance. The driver was pretty good. I did a couple of figure-eights, trying to throw him off, but he didn't panic and he didn't close the gap. He stayed a block or so behind me all the way to the hotel.

  I parked in front and let the doorman take the car. The Olds pulled in half a block away and sat with the lights out. I checked the desk. Then I walked across the lobby and ducked behind a small forest of ferns and ficus trees near the elevators.

  A medium-sized man got out of the Olds and drifted across Palm Drive, acting like he wasn't in a hurry. I got a better look at him in the light of the lobby. He was neither tall nor short, fat nor thin, old nor young. He was decked out in a nondescript gray business suit, no hat, and his chiseled features might have been handsome except for the deep acne scars that pitted his cheeks. Once he got inside, he picked up his pace, his deep-set eyes darting back and forth, perusing the lobby. He headed straight for the elevators and speared the up button with a forefinger.

  I stepped in behind him, grabbed a handful of jacket and collar, slammed him face-forward against the wall, bent his left arm behind him, reached under his arm, and relieved him of a Smith & Wesson .38.

  "What'ya think yer doin'?" he whined.

  I leaned close to his ear and put a rasp in my voice.

  "You just took the words right out of my mouth," I whispered. "You've been following me for the last ten minutes. I don't think you're attracted to my beautiful eyes."

  "Lemme go," he continued to whine.

  I shoved his gun between his shoulder blades.

  "You got a name?" I asked.

  He paused and I shoved harder. He turned his face sideways, glared at me though yellow-flecked snake eyes, and snarled, "Harry Nesbitt."

  "Just why are you so attracted to me, Harry?"

  "I came to talk. Lemme loose."

  "You talk with your arm?"

  "You got the gun, hotshot."

  "Yeah, and I'm kind of jumpy, homicide being the hottest game in town right now. Talk first."

  "Look, all I'm doin' is a Western Union. You wanna listen or not. "

  "I'm listening, Harry."

  "Johnny O'Brian wants a meet."

  "Is that a fact. And what's that to you?"

  "I work for him."

  "What do you do, carry his gun?"

  "Very funny," he said, beginning to put an edge back into his voice. I let him go, slipped his gun into my belt, and backed away from the potted plants, out to the edge of the lobby.

  "Do you mind," he said, his eyes beginning to dance around the room again. "O'Brian ain't anxious the whole fuckin' world should know we're talking."

  "Uh-huh," I said.

  He moved farther back among the plants.

  "This joint is crawling with people," he said, although all I could see was one sleepy bellhop and a desk clerk who was busy sorting bills.

  "Just speak your piece and shag," I said.

  "O'Brian says he'll meet you anywhere you say, any time. One on one. Nobody knows but him and you."

  "What about you? You going to get amnesia?"

  "Cute." He chuckled. "Anyway, I already got it."

  "And how do I contact O'Brian?"

  "You don't. I do the go-between, okay? You tell me, I give it to the boss."

  "And why should I trust you? Because I like your taste in ties?"

  "Lookee here," said Nesbitt. "He wants to make a deal with you, okay? He ain't got nothing to do with this hit parade goin' down."

  "Now how would I know that?"

  "Look, it comes to O'Brian that you heated up Cincy real good. It comes to O'Brian that you burned Skeet Tagliani and gave Uncle Franco and the rest of them a hotfoot there. It also comes to him that you're a stand-up guy when it comes to your word. He wants to do business. What's the matter, you got something against free enterprise?"

  "Am I supposed to be flattered by all this?" I asked.

  "You wanna talk or you wanna audition for vaudeville? O'Brian ain't lookin' for trouble, okay? Am I drifting your way?"

  "Getting scared, is he?"

  "O'Brian don't scare," Nesbitt said matter-of-factly.

  "Pigs don't lie in the mud, either."

  "Look, my boss don't go to the party empty-handed, know what I mean? You wanna be the smartass, don't wanna listen, fuck off."

  I thought about it for a moment or two—not about meeting O'Brian, that was a gimme—but about where and when to meet him. It could be a setup, except there was no reason to set me up. Was he representing the family? Or was he free-lancing? What was he willing to talk about that could interest me? I was still guessing that O'Brian was running scared, looking for an umbrella to hide under.

  "Does he know who scratched Tagliani and the rest?" I asked.

  Nesbitt shifted from one foot to the other and sighed. "Whyn't yuh ask him? I told yuh, I'm just doin' a Western Union. I don't know shit besides that and my orders are to forget it!"

  "When?" I asked finally.

  "Sooner the better."

  "How's tomorrow morning sound?"

  "Worse than now, better than later," he said with a shrug.

  "It's too late to do anything now," I said. "It's got to be tomorrow, middle of the morning." I make a lot of bad decisions this late at night.

  "That's the best you can do, that's the best you can do. You wanna pick the spot?"

  I didn't know or remember the town well enough. I decided to test the water a little.

  "Does O'Brian have a place in mind?"

  "Yeah, but he don't want you should get nervous, him pickin' it out, I mean."

  "Try me."

  "He has this little fishing camp out on Skidaway. On the bay sid
e, sits out over the water. It's private; his old lady don't even go out there. Also it has good sight lines; there ain't a blade of grass within twenty yards of the place."

  I thought some more about it. It would have been smarter to leave then and follow Nesbitt to the meet, but I wanted to let somebody know where I was.

  "Where is this place exactly?" I asked.

  "You hang a right three blocks after you cross the bridge from Thunderhead to Oceanby. It's a mile or so down the road, on the bay, like I said. You can't miss it, the road ends there."

  I studied him for a long minute, tugged my ear, and then nodded. "What's the name of the street?"

  "Bayview."

  "I have a breakfast appointment," I said. "It'll be about ten thirty."

  "No problem, he's spending the night out there. Ten thirty." He smiled and held out his hand, palm up. "How about the piece?" he said.

  I took out the revolver, loosened the retaining pin, dropped the cylinder into my palm, and handed him his gun.

  "I'll give O'Brian the rest of it when I see him," I said.

  His acne scars turned purple and pebbles of sweat began to ridge his forehead. He looked at me quizzically. "Why the badass act?" he said. "You don't have to prove how tough you are. Like I told ya, we know all about Cincy."

  "I'm a cautious man," I said. "Too many people are dying in town right now."

  "Did I lay any heat on you, Kilmer? No. I just come and delivered the message like I was supposed to. Y'know, I get caught in the middle of this thing, I'll end up in the bay, parley-vooin' with the fuckin' shrimps."

  "That's your problem."

  "So I come back with half a gun? It gets everything off on the wrong foot, know what I mean?"

  I tossed him the cylinder for his .38 and he caught it without taking his yellow eyes off mine.

  "You owe me one," I said.

  "You talk to O'Brian, you'll be paid in spades," he said, and was gone, darting across the lobby like a dragonfly and out the nearest exit.

  36

  BREAKFAST TALK

  There was a message in my box when I went down to meet Dutch the next morning. It was a handwritten note from Babs Thomas:

  "Cocktails in the penthouse tomorrow at 6. I expect you there. Love and kisses, B T."

  She wasn't in the breakfast room but Dutch and Charlie One Ear were. I slid the note across the table to Dutch as I sat down. He read it and chuckled.