Hooligans Part 37

"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 pus.h.i.+ng-"

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 h.e.l.l 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 b.u.ms of yours has been hara.s.sing us for the past few weeks?"

"Oh, I would hardly call that hara.s.sment, Mr. Costello, Dutch said. "I'll be glad to show you real hara.s.sment, 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 a.s.sa.s.sination 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 f.u.c.king around. You're just a mobster, Costello. We all know it, so let's stop the bulls.h.i.+t. 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, a.s.shole," 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 n.o.body 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 a.s.sa.s.sins 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 s.h.i.+vering. 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 f.u.c.ked 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 a.s.s, 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 sc.u.m, Chevos, and you're on my list too."

It felt good. d.a.m.n, 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 a.s.shole'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 h.e.l.l 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 d.a.m.ned," 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 b.a.l.l.s of his feet touching. No jewelry. The Kid was dressed for yachting: a pale blue sailcloth s.h.i.+rt, jeans, and dirty, white, low-cut sneakers. All he needed was a rugby s.h.i.+rt 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 s.h.a.gging Mr. Bada.s.s since Sunday morning, eleven a.m." His voice was soft, dusty, confident. I a.s.sumed Mr. Bada.s.s 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 a.s.shole 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. f.u.c.ker dropped fifteen grand before he could wipe his nose."

"Graves was the big winner, then?" I asked.

"That's it. Who the h.e.l.l 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 Ca.n.a.l Street vegetable man when I was four years old. I ain't trusted anybody since."

"How the h.e.l.l did you keep him in sight for thirty-six hours?" Dutch asked.

"Nose don't know me from a brick s.h.i.+thouse, 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 n.i.g.g.e.r 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 f.u.c.ker 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 f.u.c.kin' daylight. We couldn't bend him for disturbing the peace. And he disturbed the h.e.l.l out of McGee's peace."

"What do you know about McGee?" I asked.

"He's a dead f.u.c.kin' 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 s.h.i.+t?" he said. "Maybe you should read my palm. I been told I got a life line shorter than a lovebird's p.e.c.k.e.r."

"I wouldn't know," I said. "I've never seen a lovebird's p.e.c.k.e.r."

"See what I mean," he said. Then he turned back to Dutch. "What the h.e.l.l's goin' on here? Who are all these people f.u.c.kin' 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 f.u.c.kin' Fed, huh," he said. "We ain't got enough trouble."