43
DOG WITH A BAD COLD
With things back under control, we left the war room and went back to the front of the Warehouse.
Costello remained in his corner, still tense, like a big cat waiting to spring. He looked back at me and stared for a few seconds, as though not quite sure who I was, and then recognition swept over his features. I could feel the hatred across the room. I smiled at him and stared back. My turn was coming.
Our group had narrowed down to the Stick, Dutch, and me. Most of the aggravated tension moved into the other room with us.
"Excuse me," Costello said in a voice that was flat, harsh, and no less venomous than the bite of an asp. "Do you mind reading us our rights and telling us what we're charged with?"
Dutch said, "The rest of them I'm gonna charge with, let's see, how about assaulting an officer, resisting arrest, creating a riot, destroying city property—"
"All right, let's make it simple," Costello interrupted. "What the hell are we doing here?"
"Things were a little too quiet, we only had one murder so far today," Dutch said. "So I thought we'd have us all a little picnic."
"Look," Costello said to Dutch, "I realize you're a well-respected police officer, Morehouse, but you're pushing—"
Now it was Dutch's turn to do the interrupting.
"Morehead," Dutch said in a growl. "Lieutenant Morehead."
"All right, Morehead—"
"Lieutenant."
Costello glared a moment or two more. "Lieutenant Morehead, what the hell do you want from us? Why are we here?"
Dutch said, "Maybe you haven't noticed, but a lot of your relatives have dropped suddenly dead in the last couple of days."
"Is that why that bunch of beach bums of yours has been harassing us for the past few weeks?"
"Oh, I would hardly call that harassment, Mr. Costello, Dutch said. "I'll be glad to show you real harassment, if you'd like."
Throughout the exchange, Chevos never took his eyes off me. They glittered like the eyes of a night predator. It had suddenly occurred to him who I was, a man whose assassination he had once ordered. I looked back and for a moment we were eye to eye. A lot went on in that face in a couple of seconds: hate, fear, annoyance, curiosity, anger, frustration. He finally looked away.
I finally cut into the conversation. "So you're representing all these people, right, Costello?"
"That's right. I'm glad somebody finally remembered I'm an attorney. "
"Then let's just you and us talk," I said, and I stepped back into the war room. Dutch ushered Costello in and the Stick followed.
I slammed the door and said, "Look, let's stop fucking around. You're just a mobster, Costello. We all know it, so let's stop the bullshit. Uncle Franco is dead and that makes you primo candidate for capo di capi—that's if you don't join the rest of your worthless ancestors, which wouldn't hurt my feelings at all."
He started to say something but I held my hand up and kept talking. "Now we figure two things, Costello; either some mob from up country has decided to muscle you out of Dunetown and take over, or somebody inside your clan has got a real beef going on."
"Are you implying that I engineered these killings?" he said angrily.
"You haven't got the guts," I said, letting my feelings hang out. "I'm telling you what we know and what we're guessing."
"It's our problem."
"Wrong again, asshole," I said. "We just made it our problem."
"Not likely," he said, very slowly and deliberately. "Whatever the problem is, it's our problem and we'll take care of it."
"Yeah," I said with a smile. "Just like you have so far?"
His face turned red. Dutch said, "Wrong, anyway. We're talking about homicide, lots of it. It's out of your hands, Costello. It's officially a police matter. As such, what we're suggesting is your cooperation."
"I'll tell it one more time," he said, holding up a forefinger. "I don't know who is doing this, or why. And that's all any of us will have to say on the matter."
"That's hardly what we call cooperation, counselor," Dutch said. Then he piped up, "Right now, I got you down as an A-number-one client for a hit and an A-number-one suspect. You could be in a lot of trouble, Mr. Costello. I could book you as a material witness for starters."
"I'd be out before the desk sergeant cleared his throat," Costello said.
"Where's Turk Nance?" I asked.
"I barely know Turk Nance. Why, is he missing?" Costello hissed, then, turning to Dutch, added, "I'm leaving now and I'm taking my people with me."
"I'm booking that bunch of muggers of yours for disorderly conduct," Dutch said. "Seventy-five bucks apiece."
"Don't be silly . . . "
"Disorderly conduct, period," Dutch said. "You want to argue, we'll see you all in court. Otherwise you can pay the night judge on your way out. It'll fix the holes in the ceiling." He jabbed a thumb toward the two bullet holes.
Costello turned back to me. "You, I know about. Your name came down from Cincy. I hear you're on the list, buddy boy. Way up. My wife's uncle Skeet had a lot of friends."
"I'm all torn up over your wife's uncle Skeet," I said. "I'll make you a promise, wimp. I'm going to send you up there with him. A Christmas present, so he doesn't get lonely."
"You know, you could work yourself to death, Kilmer."
"I doubt even you're stupid enough to knock over a Fed," the Stick said to Costello.
"Sure he is," I said. "He's real stupid."
"Maybe you ought to be on the list too," Costello said to Stick.
"Love it," said the Stick, and started laughing.
"You've been a flea bite to my family for a long time, Kilmer," Costello said.
"Sure, that's why you all ran out of Cincinnati," I said with a leer. "You couldn't stand the itch."
"I suggest you back off," he said coldly. "We've done nothing illegal here. This is none of your business."
"Everything you do's my business," I snarled. "I've made you my favorite charity."
There was one of those tense moments when nobody says anything. I decided to fill in the blanks.
"There's an African proverb, goes like this," I said. "'When the skunk saw the lion run from him, he thought he was king of the jungle. And then he met a dog with a bad cold.' That's me, Costello, I'm your dog with a bad cold. I know all about your lily-white record and I don't care. I'm going to turn you up. Sooner or later this dog is going to bite. That's if you're still around."
"Oh, I'll be around," he said, and turned to leave. He hesitated at the door. "This is a family affair," he said. "Resolving it is a matter of honor to us."
"That explains the problem," I said. "If honor's concerned in this, you're dead already."
Costello turned and left. I followed him back out and went up to Chevos, standing so I was a few inches from his face. He looked like one of those Russian assassins that usually get elected to the Politburo.
I put on my toughest voice, almost a whisper with an edge like a carving knife.
"Where's Nance, old man?"
He stared at me, snake-eyed, his jaws shivering. He didn't answer and he couldn't look me in the eye; he just kept staring over my shoulder.
"Where's Nance, old man?" I snarled again, with as much menace as I could put in it.
Blood filled his face at the insult but he still didn't answer.
"Give him a message from me," I hissed angrily. "You tell that gutless back-shooter he fucked up when he missed me in Cincinnati that night. Tell him the next time he tries, I'm gonna take his gun away from him, stick it up his ass, and blow his brains out. Do you think you can remember that, or are you too senile?"
He was so angry his eyes started to water. His Adam's apple was bobbing like a bubble in the surf as he swallowed his spit.
"I know all about you, you disgusting freak," I went on, getting all the venom I could out of my system. "You make junkies out of children. You kill women. You're scum, Chevos, and you're on my list
too."
It felt good. Damn, did it feel good. I may not have had ball bearings in my sneakers or a sawed-off pool cue in my holster, but I felt good.
I turned and went back into the war room, followed momentarily by Stick and Dutch.
"Well, that's throwing down the old gauntlet," Stick said.
"Blood feud," I said. "I put their patron saint in the place and sooner or later some punk asshole's gonna try to even the score and make a name for himself. I just decided to give it a nudge."
"That's a comforting thought," said the Stick. Then he turned to Dutch. "What the hell did all that accomplish, anyway?" he asked.
"Blew off a little steam. I figured you boys needed some closeup contact, see these guys eyeball to eyeball. Us too. It's good to see the enemy up close. Also to get it out in the open air, so there's no question about where everybody stands."
Stick's face curled up into that crazy-eyed smile and he shook his head. "You made it clear, all right."
At that point Dutch stared past us in surprise.
"Well, I'll be damned," he said. "Look who finally blew in with the wind."
I turned to check out the new arrival.
"You're about to meet the Mufalatta Kid, Jake," Dutch said.
The Mufalatta Kid was not what I expected. I had pictured a man smaller and leaner, almost emaciated. I suppose because the Stick had implied as much. The Mufalatta Kid was a shade under six feet tall and built like a swimmer. He walked loose, his hands dangling at his sides, fingers limp, shoulders sagging from side to side, only the balls of his feet touching. No jewelry. The Kid was dressed for yachting: a pale blue sailcloth shirt, jeans, and dirty, white, low-cut sneakers. All he needed was a rugby shirt and a pipe. But what surprised me most was that he didn't look a day over sixteen. Even his pencil-thin mustache didn't help. The Kid was well named—that's exactly what he looked like.
"Welcome home," Dutch growled. "I hope you had a nice trip."
The Kid didn't say anything, but he didn't look too concerned about anything, either.
"Okay," Dutch demanded, "what's your story? We got World War Three going on here, and you drop off the face of the earth."
"I've been shagging Mr. Badass since Sunday morning, eleven a.m." His voice was soft, dusty, confident. I assumed Mr. Badass was Longnose Graves.
"You eyeballed him that entire time?" Dutch said.
"Until about thirty minutes ago. He's been in a high-stakes poker game at the Breakers Hotel with two horseplayers from California, some asshole from Hot Springs, Texas, in a Stetson hat who insulted everybody at the table, a white pimp off Front Street, and a few fast losers. A Louisiana horse breeder came into the game late today and Nose stayed around to clean his tank also. Fucker dropped fifteen grand before he could wipe his nose."
"Graves was the big winner, then?" I asked.
"That's it. Who the hell are you, anyway?"
Dutch did the honors. Mufalatta had a handshake that almost crippled me for life. He stuck up his nose at me upon learning I was a Fed. Another one to educate.
"Do you know what's been happening?" Dutch asked.
"No details. Just that all these bozos are from points north and somebody has a hard-on for them." He paused and looked at me for the blink of an eye, then added, "All of a sudden."
Dutch said, "Kilmer was on the plane when Tagliani got wasted. I picked him up myself at the airport."
The Kid shrugged. "No offense," he said. "My mother sold me for six bucks to a Canal Street vegetable man when I was four years old. I ain't trusted anybody since."
"How the hell did you keep him in sight for thirty-six hours?" Dutch asked.
"Nose don't know me from a brick shithouse, so I bribed the bellhop who's got the room, give him a Franklin and all the tips I took in, he let me take the job. I handled the room, mixed drinks, kept the place tidy. Kept the ladies in the other room happy. Let me tell you, the only time that nigger left the table was to go to the growler. He didn't do so much as a Ma Bell the whole time."
"Was he by himself?" Dutch asked.
"Just him and his bodyguard. A Chinee called Song. Big Chinee," the Kid said, giving it a little vibrato for emphasis. "I mean, that fucker makes King Kong look like an organ grinder's monkey. "
"Graves probably wouldn't be doing the dirty work himself, anyway," I offered.
"I'd want long odds if I made that bet," the Kid said, glaring at me.
"You think he would?" I asked.
"He did Cherry McGee in, personally. And in broad fuckin' daylight. We couldn't bend him for disturbing the peace. And he disturbed the hell out of McGee's peace."
"What do you know about McGee?" I asked.
"He's a dead fuckin' honky," the Kid said.
I had a wild hunch and I threw it at the Kid. "That Louisiana horse breeder that came in the game late, his name wasn't Thibideau, was it?"
He looked surprised. "Thibideau? Yeah, I think that was the name. Short guy, dark hair, built like a crate?"
"Close enough. How much did he drop?"
"Fifteen and change. How you know he was in the game?"
"I'm psychic," I said.
"No shit?" he said. "Maybe you should read my palm. I been told I got a life line shorter than a lovebird's pecker."
"I wouldn't know," I said. "I've never seen a lovebird's pecker."
"See what I mean," he said. Then he turned back to Dutch. "What the hell's goin' on here? Who are all these people fuckin' up the place?"
"Kid, it's a long, long story," Dutch said wearily. "You're about three days behind. I'll buy you a sandwich; maybe Kilmer here can fill you in."
He looked back at me. "A fuckin' Fed, huh," he said. "We ain't got enough trouble."
"You'll learn to love me," I said, and begged off dinner with some vague excuse. I had to meet Harry Nesbitt at Uncle Jolly's and this time I decided to keep the meeting to myself.
I headed back to the hotel to take a quick shower.
There were four phone messages in my box. Three of them were from Doe Findley. The fourth was from DeeDee Lukatis.
44
UNCLE JOLLY'S
I put on my oldest jeans, a faded cotton shirt, clodhopper boots, a nasty old Windbreaker from my narc days, put my .357 under my arm, and slipped a bob-nosed .22 into my boot. It was about eight o'clock when I headed out Highway 35 south.
I was thinking about Doe, and I was also thinking about DeeDee Lukatis. She had obviously left the message at the desk. It was handwritten.
Dear Jake:
You probably don't remember me. The last time I saw you I was barely 15. I need to talk to you about a matter of some urgency. My phone number is below. If we miss each other I'll be at Casablanca after ten tonight.
An old friend,
DEEDEE LUKATIS.
It was followed by a P.S. with her phone number. I had tried it but there was no answer. I might have ignored the message except for two things. DeeDee Lukatis was Tony Lukatis' sister, and Tony Lukatis had once been Doe's lover. That would have been enough to warrant a phone call. But Babs Thomas had also told me that DeeDee Lukatis was the personal secretary of my favorite Dunetown banker, Charles Seaborn. That made it very important. She might know a lot about Lou Cohen's relationship with Seaborn.
Then I started thinking about Doe. Her first two phone messages had been simple and to the point: "Please call Mrs. Raines about the stud fee." Nice and subtle. The last message informed me that she was out for the evening but I could call her after ten in the morning. That was to let me know Harry was back in town. I felt a sudden urgency to see her, knowing I couldn't, and I felt some sense of guilt at not calling her earlier in the day.
Uncle Jolly's Fillup ended that reverie. The place wasn't hard to find. It would have been harder not to find.
It looked like a Friday night football game. A country cop was directing traffic, most of which was going down the same dirt road I went down. I followed the crowd about two miles through pine trees and palmetto b
ushes to the parking lot. Through the cracks and peeling paint I could just make out the sign: PARK HERE FOR UNCLE JOLLY'S FILLUP.
A hundred cars in the space, at least.
I parked among dusty Chevys and Dodges, Pontiacs with high-lift rear ends, and pickup trucks with shotguns in the rear window gunracks, and drifted with the crowd. As I passed one of those big-wheel pickups, the kind with wheels about six feet high, the door opened and the Mufalatta Kid stuck his caramel-colored face out.
"You take a wrong turn someplace?" he asked.
"What're you doing here?" I asked.
"Just checkin' out the territory."
"Me too."
"Glide easy, babes. Strangers make these people real nervous."
"What's this all about, anyway?" I asked him.
"You mean you don't know why you came all the way out here?" he said incredulously. "Shit, man, I guess you are psychic. This is the dog fights, babes."
It jolted me.
Dog fighting was the last thing I expected. Bare-knuckle boxing, a porno show, a carnival, a lot of things had occurred to me when I saw the traffic jam, but dog fighting was the farthest thing from my mind.
"Dog fighting," he repeated. "Not your thing, huh?"
"Jesus, dog fighting. I didn't know they still did that kind of thing. "
"Well, you do now, man, 'cause that's what it's all about."
"You going to bust this little picnic?"
"Me? All by myself? Shit. If I was that fucked up I wouldn't have any life line. These people take their sports real serious. You wanna die in a backwoods swamp in south fuckin' Georgia? If I was you, what I would do is, I would hightail my ass back up the road and be glad you're gone."
"I don't want to start a thing," I said lamely.
"So how the fuck did you wind up here?"
"I was invited," I said.
"You are a piece of work, all right. Stick was tellin' me about you. 'He's a real piece of work,' he said. He left off that you're nuts."
"Well, that's what happens when you're in a strange town," I said. "You'll do anything for a laugh."
We watched a lot of coming and going, a lot of lean men in felt hats, overalls, and galluses, a lot of weary women in Salvation Army duds dragging four- and five-year olds with them, a few friendly arguments over the merits of the dogs, two freckle-bellied high school kids wandering off into the brush to settle a dispute over a cheerleader who looked thirteen years old except for a bosom you could set Thanksgiving dinner on, a woman nursing a child old enough to tackle a two-dollar steak, and a few blacks, all of whom were men and all face-creased, gaunt-looking, and smiling.
Hooligans Page 26
