Hooligans

by William Diehl

  And, of course, Bergman. The eternal virgin stared mystically from under the sweeping brim of her hat on the wall opposite Bogie.

  It wasn't the movie posters that gave the place its macabre charm, it was the animal heads, mounted like hunters' trophies between the blowups; psychedelic papier-mâché animal heads painted in nightmare colors. There was an enormous purple elephant with pink polka dots and a giant red hippo with mauve eyes. An orange snake speckled with blue dots curled around one of the posts that held up the ceiling, and a lapis lazuli parrot swung idly on a brass ring under a ceiling fan.

  The waitresses were poured into tan leather pants tucked into lizard-skin cowboy boots and wore matching leather halters, which just barely earned the name, and safari hats.

  Mondo Bizarro was a conservative appraisal.

  The crowd was as eclectic as the decor: tourists, college kids, pimps, gigolos, gays, straights, local drugstore cowboys, and what looked like every woman in town, eligible or otherwise.

  We took a table opposite the entrance and settled down to watch the Circus Maximus. I wondered if I could even see DeeDee Lukatis in the mob, or whether I would recognize her if I did see her.

  It didn't take five minutes for the action to start.

  I felt the eyes staring at me first. It started at the nape of my neck and crept up around my ears. I let it simmer for a while and finally I had to grab a peek.

  I saw her in quick takes, a tawny lioness, glimpsed between sweaty dancers weaving to a thunderous beat that was decibels beyond human endurance, and through smoke thick enough to be cancerous.

  Her sun-honeyed hair looked like it had been combed for hours by someone else's fingers; long hair, tumbling haphazardly around sleek, broad shoulders. Her gauzy white cotton blouse was open to the waist and held that way by that kind of dazzling superstructure that makes some women angry and others dash for the cosmetic surgeon. There wasn't a bikini streak anywhere on her bronze skin, at least anywhere that I could see. Her long thin fingers were stroking the rounded lines of the purple elephant's trunk. Her other hand held a margarita in its palm, the stem of the glass tucked neatly between her fingers.

  I watched her glide through the frenetic dancers without touching a soul. Did she practice her moves in front of a mirror, or did they come naturally? Not that it mattered.

  Could this be DeeDee Lukatis? I wondered. The way things were going, my ego needed a boost.

  It took her a long time to get to our table.

  She slid into the chair opposite me and became part of it, stroking the stem of her margarita glass with a forefinger as though she could feel every molecule of it.

  "Hi," I said, dragging out my smoothest line.

  That's when I found out she wasn't interested in me.

  She had eyes for the Stick, who was leaning back in his chair with his hands in his pockets, a cigarette dangling from a lopsided smile.

  "Well, what d'ya know," he said. "The place has a touch of class after all."

  Her voice, which started somewhere near her navel, was part velvet and part vodka. "Wow, it can talk, too," she purred.

  Class dismissed. Suddenly I was an eavesdropper.

  The Stick had an audacious approach.

  "The joint's full of younger, better-looking, richer guys. Why me?" he asked, certainly one of the great horse's mouth lines of all time.

  Her smile never strayed.

  "I love your tie," she said. "I like old, rotten ties with the lining falling out. The suit, too. I didn't think they made seersucker suits like that anymore."

  "They don't. It's older than the tie," the Stick said.

  "Are you going to be difficult?" she asked. "God, I love a challenge. "

  I leaned over to the Stick and said, "This is some kind of routine, isn't it? I mean, you two have been practicing, right?" My wounded ego was looking for an out.

  "Never saw her before," he mumbled, without taking his eyes off her. "Who are you?" he asked her.

  "Lark," she said.

  "That your name or your attitude?"

  That earned him a big laugh. Her gray-green eyes seemed to blink in slow motion. Her look would have melted the icecap.

  "Wonderful," she said. "Let's go."

  Just like that. Disgusting.

  He jabbed a thumb at me.

  "He's got the car."

  She looked at me. Flap, flap with the slow-motion eyelids, then back at him.

  "How about a cab?" she suggested.

  "Do we call it or can we grab one outside?" he asked.

  "No, I meant him with the cab." And she pointed at me.

  "Nifty," I said. "Played like a champion."

  "I knew you'd understand," she said, and slowly opened her hand toward me.

  I dropped the car keys in her palm.

  I glared at the Stick.

  "Be in by one," I said.

  His smile got a little broader. "Nothing personal," he said.

  "Naw."

  "Next time I'll loan you the suit."

  She was on her feet already. The Stick followed. He walked to the door; she augered her way out.

  I snagged one of the safari maidens and ordered a Bombay gin and soda with lime, no ice, and looked for someone who might be DeeDee Lukatis. The place had grown more and more obscure. It wasn't smoke, it was fog. A cold wind had sneaked across the marsh and invaded the warm river air. All of a sudden Casablanca seemed wrapped in gauze.

  I was beginning to think it was all a bad idea when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned and looked up at a very pretty young woman. She had a model's figure, tall and slender, topped by long, straight ebony hair. Her angular features were as perfect as fine porcelain and required very little makeup. Gray, faraway eyes.

  "Hi, Jake," she said. "Remember me? DeeDee Lukatis?"

  51

  A LITTLE R AND R

  "I was about to abandon hope," I said. She sat down. She was wearing a kind of bunched-up-looking khaki jumpsuit with a lot of pockets and a First Cav patch on the shoulder. The full-length zipper was pulled about halfway down to her waist, which for Casablanca was conservative.

  "I hope you don't mind the little subterfuge with Lark," she said.

  "She's a friend of yours?"

  "She works in the bank with me."

  "I'm developing a healthy respect for Mr. Seaborn," I said.

  "Mr. Seabom's all right. A little stuffy maybe."

  "There's nothing wrong with his taste."

  "Thank you. I told Lark I wanted to talk to you alone. She agreed to try and lure away anybody who might be with you."

  "Try?"

  She laughed. "Actually, she thought your friend was cute."

  "If that was an act, she ought to get out of the banking business."

  "She's a free spirit. Lark does whatever makes her feel good. I wish I could. I come here twice a week. Lark says it's a good way to get rid of my inhibitions. This isn't even my outfit; I borrowed it from her."

  "You have a problem with your inhibitions?"

  She rolled her eyes. "You don't know what a trauma it was to write that note to you."

  "Well, I'm glad you did."

  She had to lean closer to hear me. The music seemed to be getting louder by the minute.

  "I... I feel a little dishonest about this," she said.

  "About what?"

  "Asking you to meet me. Actually I want to ask a favor."

  "I didn't think you were going to propose."

  She laughed and began to relax.

  "I've thought about you often over the years," she said. "I was so jealous of you and Doe and Teddy Findley that summer. The three of you were so happy all the time; you just seemed to have everything. I was fourteen; all I had was acne and a terrible crush on you."

  "On me!"

  "Crazy isn't it?" she said, lowering her eyes. "I guess in a way I still do. You never quite get over the early ones."

  I thought about that for a moment or two and shook my head."No, I guess you don
't," I said. Then I began to get that feeling on the back of my neck again, only this time it wasn't pleasant. I shifted slightly in my chair and looked around the room, what I could see of it, but this time there was no tawny lioness skulking through the dancers. I saw no faces I recognized.

  I gave my attention back to DeeDee.

  "So what's the favor?" I asked, to make it easier for her.

  "I've heard you're a detective now," she said.

  "Well, not exactly. I'm a government investigator."

  "The FBI?" She sounded startled.

  "No, why? The possibility seems to worry you."

  "I don't know." She hesitated before she went on. "It's about my brother Tony. I'm very worried about him but I can't go to the police."

  "Why not?"

  "Because," she said, "he may be involved in something wrong."

  "You mean against the law, that kind of wrong?"

  She nodded.

  The din in Casablanca had become hazardous to the health. The music kept getting louder, the dancers more frenetic, and the special effects more surreal. The lights went out, strobes reflected off smoke and fog, lasers crackled from one side of the room to the other.

  I got that weird feeling in the back of my neck again. This time when I turned I thought I saw someone, but it was a momentary flash through light spasms and haze.

  DeeDee shrugged her shoulders as though a cold wind had blown by her.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "I guess all the noise and—"

  "Why don't we get out of here," I suggested. "I'll call a cab. We can go someplace and talk over coffee."

  "I have my car," she said. "That was part of the deal. Lark would get your buddy and the car, I'd get you and keep mine."

  "Did you rehearse this act long?"

  She laughed. The idea of leaving seemed to brighten her. I paid the bill and we elbowed through the crowd and left.

  The street was empty except for the eerie gas lamps flickering along the river's edge through the mist.

  The hazy figure of a man stepped briefly through one of the halos, half a block away.

  Barely audible over the din from Casablanca, a car door opened and closed.

  We started toward the circular iron stairway that led up to the promenade. The street echoed with the throbbing of the music. The damp fog settled over us. Our footsteps sounded like horse's hoofs on the cobblestones.

  I heard the car start. Then the stick dropped into place. It started to move, slowly at first.

  No headlights.

  Through the mist I could see the mouth of an alley thirty feet away.

  I said to DeeDee, "Listen to me carefully. When we get to that alley, I'm going to shove you in. Start running. I'll be right behind you."

  "What—" she started, but the tires behind us bit into the cobblestone street and squealed to life.

  "Let's go!" I yelled, and started running, pulling her beside me.

  Headlights pierced the gray swirling world around us. The car was beading in on us. I was almost dragging her as we reached the narrow passageway between two old warehouses. I shoved her in. There were half a dozen garbage pails piled up at the mouth of the alley.

  "Down!" I yelled, and shoved her behind the cans.

  The car, a black Pontiac, swept by a moment later, its brakes squealed, and there were three shots. I didn't hear them; they exploded against the cans and the wall behind us.

  I clawed for my .357 and gave them three back. They smacked into the side of the car and it suddenly backed away from the mouth of the alley.

  I looked behind us. The alley was about a car and a half wide, two hundred feet long. No doorways, although there was a loading platform and alcove about halfway down. The loading platform lip jutted three feet into the alley. There was dim light at the other end.

  "We're going to run for it," I said. "I'll be behind you. If you hear any shooting, keep running. If they come after us in the car, keep running."

  She looked at me, terrified.

  "Go, now!" I gave her a shove.

  She pulled off her shoes and took off. I went after her. She could move, I'll give her that, even in stocking feet on cobblestones. We were almost to the end of the alley when I heard the rumble of the sedan.

  The car had gone around the warehouse and was in front of us. Its headlights burst back on, turning the swirling fog into dancing halos.

  "Damn," I cried, spinning her around. We dashed back the way we had come. The car screamed around the corner behind us. I heard a pop, heard the slug wheeze past my ear, heard rubber tearing at cobblestones. Light flooded the alley.

  We ran to the loading platform and I dove up onto the lip, pulled her on top of me, and rolled over against a metal door at the back of the loading alcove.

  The driver of the car swerved toward our side of the alley, saw the platform lip too late. Metal screamed against wood. The corner of the platform pierced a headlight, ripped through it, and tore part of a fender away. The sedan lurched sideways, its tires trying to get a grip on the cobblestones as it skidded sideways and raked the opposite wall with its rear end. Sparks showered from its tortured rear end.

  The gunner was undaunted by all the action. Three more shots spanged off the metal door behind us.

  Among other things, I'm a rotten shot. But my .357 was equipped with phosphorescent T-sights and I swung the heavy pistol with the car, steadied my hand, lined up the little green button on the end of the barrel with the notch in the back sight, and started shooting at the face leering in the rear window. Three slugs splattered the rear windshield.

  They were playing hardball. The sedan slammed to a stop and I could hear the driver slapping it into reverse. Before he could let out the clutch I heard a cannon explode at the other end of the alley. It exploded three times. Two shots blew out the rest of the rear glass. The third one streaked off the rear bumper, an inch above the gas tank.

  Stick's voice yelled down the alley:

  "Go for the tires!"

  Followed by another blast that sparked off the cobblestones barely an inch off target.

  That whiskey-troubled voice was the sweetest sound I have ever heard.

  "It's okay," I told DeeDee. "It's Stick. We're home free."

  I lined up my little green sights and put two slugs into the left rear. The tire blew like a hand grenade going off. The driver shifted gears and roared off in retreat, the deflating tire peeling off the rim and the steel hub shrieking along the street. The hubcap spun off and clattered loudly against one wall.

  The ruined sedan plowed into the garbage cans, showered them into street and river, screeched around the corner, and was swallowed by the fog.

  I turned back to DeeDee, who was leaning against the metal door. Her eyes were the size of full moons.

  "Okay?" I asked.

  She stared at me for several seconds and then nodded furiously.

  "Are you good on numbers?"

  "I w-w-work in a b-b-bank, remember," she stammered.

  "B-G-O-3-9-6," I said.

  She repeated it. "Is that the license?" she asked.

  "Right. "

  A moment later the Stick came running up, his .357 in hand.

  "You two okay?" he asked breathlessly,

  I threw my arms around him.

  "Yeah, and damn am I glad to see you," I said, bear-hugging him. "Where the hell did you come from?"

  "When we left the place there was a joker standing up the street under a light," Stick answered. "So we stopped at the edge of the park for a couple of minutes, just in case."

  "So that's what that was all about," Lark pouted as she brought up the rear. "I thought it was love."

  Stick gave her that crazy look of his. "It was both, darlin'," he said. "I doubled up."

  "Whatever that means," she said.

  "It means we're still alive," I said, "for which we'll be eternally grateful. "

  "Just part of our twenty-four-hour service," he said gleefully. "Keeps us on our toes."


  I helped DeeDee off the platform and she sighed and fell up against me. I could feel her heart thumping against my chest.

  "C'mon, we'll follow you pal," Stick said, pulling me up the alley by the arm. "Dutch is right. You're dangerous when you're out alone."

  52

  DEEDEE

  At DeeDee's suggestion, she and I went back to her place. It was ten minutes away, in the restored section of town not far from where Della Norman and Tony Logeto had died a few days ago.

  On the way she asked, "Shouldn't we report this to somebody?"

  "I'm one of the somebody's you report it to," I said. "Besides, the car's probably registered to some nonentity. By now they've either dumped it in the river or dropped it at some body shop. We'll never see it again."

  "You seem to know an awful lot about these things."

  "It's what I do."

  "I thought you just did investigative work."

  "Sometimes it upsets people."

  "Upsets people!" she cried. "Is that what you call it?"

  The house was tucked among shaggy oaks, a two-hundred-year-old Revolutionary house that had been meticulously restored, as had the others on the street. It was like stepping into the eighteenth century. The inside was just as authentic. It was a museum piece, filled with bric-a-brac, old etchings and maps, and antique furniture that was as authentic as it was uncomfortable. There wasn't a cushion in the living room.

  "This was my inheritance," she said. "Dad didn't have much, but he bought this house for a song when it was a falling-down wreck. He and Tony did most of the restoration work themselves. It took them years."

  "Does Tony live here with you?"

  "Sometimes," she said vaguely. We made small talk for ten or fifteen minutes, trying to talk past the awkwardness of the situation. Finally I got Lark's phone number and she went off to make coffee.

  Lark answered the phone after eight or nine rings. Her voice was still sultry, but not quite as pleasant as earlier in the evening.

  "Hello?" she said tentatively.

  "I'm sorry to bother you," I said. "DeeDee gave me your number. I need to talk to the Stick. It's very important."

  "Who?"

  "Mickey."

  "You could have waited just about two minutes more, you know," she said, "just two little minutes."