Hooligans Part 69

Nance wasn't alone. Nance was never alone. Nance was a company man; he liked people around.

"Run back inside the compound," I told Doe.

"But-"

"Do it now. This creep isn't alone. Just get inside and stay there until- "

Headlights ended that sentence. The car moved toward us from a block away. I gripped the Luger in two hands and blew out a headlight. The car picked up speed and stopped an inch in front of mine. I aimed at the other light and a voice behind me said: "Drop it, or the girl goes down."

Nance tried to gargle something through swollen, b.l.o.o.d.y lips. I dragged him off the hood and threw him on the ground, dropped the clip out of his gun, and threw it at him with everything I had, It hit him in the side and clattered harmlessly across the sidewalk.

A moment later something just as hard hit me in the back of the head. The street turned on end. Doe spun around me like a doll on a merry-go-round. The lights went out.

72.

FLASHBACK: NAM DIARY, END OF TOUR.

The 556th day: We been on the a.s.s of this crazy schoolteacher named Nim who's been raising h.e.l.l up and down the river and has maybe a hundred slopes tagging after him now. HQ says he'sgetting to be some kind of G.o.d to these people and to terminate the c.o.c.ksucker posthaste. I mean, there's five of us on this CRIP team, right, and we're gonna bust this crazy b.a.s.t.a.r.d and a hundred or so nuts that are hanging out with him?

So I tell HQ I need about fifty, sixty first-cla.s.s hunters, Kit Carsons'll do fine, but I ain't running up against this f.u.c.kin' army of Nim's with a five-man team, I don't care how good we are, and I'll tell you this, we're the best they got down here, G.o.dd.a.m.n it. Between the five of us, I'd say we got probably three hundred f.u.c.kin' scalps. Not bad for six months on the line, five guys. Corrigan, French Dip, Squeak, Joe Fineman, and me. Five guys, one head. We're charmed. We got this daily bet, we start off with a bill apiece and each add a twenty every day we're dry. First one gets his kill, takes the pot. It ain't ever gone over eight hundred, that's four days.

So anyway, we go down to meet the riverboat today and pick up this bunch of sharpshooters HQ sent down, and the boat crew says the war's gonna be over any day now and I say, "Sure, I've heard that before," but the team, they all buy it and they get a couple of jugs of Black Jack from the black market guy on board and while I don't put up with drinking out here I figure, what the h.e.l.l, we got all these wild-eyed slopes from HQ, why not, they deserve it. So the rest of the team, they get juiced up to the eyeb.a.l.l.s and I have to sit guard all night to make sure this a.s.shole Nim don't come crawling up on us, blitz us all. The slopes are okay in the daylight, face to face, that kind of fighting. I don't trust them at night when I can't see them, so I sit up.

All night I keep thinking about the cease-fire and about what that lieutenant, what was his name, Harris? said, that night in Dau Tieng, about going back to the World and bowling every night and all. s.h.i.+t.

Turns out it was a false alarm, about the cease-fire, I mean.

Another day of grace.

The 558th day: It was beautiful. Last night we catch up to Nim just before sunset and we blitz the s.h.i.+t out of his whole f.u.c.kin' bunch. We have them boxed in and we have a f.u.c.kin' field day. The Carsons are crazy motherf.u.c.kers. They cut heads, drink blood, I mean really rubber-room crazy. We get in close enough, the team is having some real sport. We all managed to acquire these Remington pumps from the juice man upriver, and so the deal is, this time we have to use shotguns to win the pot. So anyway we load up with rifle slugs; it's about an inch around and weighs about three ounces and it's rifled so you get a little spin on it and when it hits anything solid it f.u.c.kin' blows up. You hit one of those motherf.u.c.kers dead center, the body being mostly water, it's like shooting a f.u.c.kin' watermelon. We call them splashers.

Anyway, it was like shooting skeet. So I take the pot. We just put it up this morning, six hundred bucks. Nine scalps. A good day's work. The only problem is, this Nim and about twenty of his gooks got away from us.

So this morning we track them into this little valley with a hump in the middle, looks like a t.i.t in a cake pan. Lots of trees, I call in some air and we do a little Macing. It's hotter than a wh.o.r.e's mattress and we spread out around the perimeter and we give the f.u.c.kers a little while and that gas starts mixing with their sweat, next thing you know one of these Kit Carsons, he stands up, starts sniffing the air like a hyena, points down in the bush, here comes about fifteen of them, beating the s.h.i.+t out of themselves because of the Mace, crying. The Kit Carson, he up and blows the first one away, just like that if you please, and then he tells the rest of them to get their hands behind their heads like good little gooks. Man, they took a beating, all covered with Mace burns, their eyes all bugged out. Whipped dogs, man, they got as much fight left in them as a guppy. So we figure we're lookin' at, what, five, six of them that are left maybe. f.u.c.kin' Nim ain't in the group.

I got this American 180, a neat little submachine I won in a poker game with some civilian types in Saigon, shoots .22's but, like, thirty rounds a second. You could drill a hole in a brick wall with this motherf.u.c.ker. That's what it sounds like, a dentist's drill: Brrrttt, brrttttt.

Like that. Jesus, what a nice piece of work. Two of these, the Alamo would have never fallen. So what it is, you learn to do things quick over here, know what I mean? You move fast, shake 'em up, they'll tell you anything you want to know. The thing is, you don't spend a lot of time thinking, you just do it, see. I call one of these little b.a.s.t.a.r.ds over, he gets about four feet away, I give him a burst.

Brrttttt.

He hits the dirt, jerks once, it's all over. I call out the second one, ask him where this f.u.c.ker Nim is, he starts thinking about it...

Brrttttt.

Another one down. The third one I point at tells us all of it. The slopes don't call me Monsieur Morte for nothing. What it is, there's this pool at the foot of the hill and Nim's holed up there in a cave. I call the air back and this time he comes in and lands and the pilot, who is this f.u.c.kin' rosy-cheeked b.a.s.t.a.r.d about twelve years old, he jumps out, says, "Where's the lieutenant?" and I tell him there ain't any lieutenant, I'm a sergeant and I'm in charge and what's his problem, and he says the cease-fire is tonight and it's official, all that s.h.i.+t, and he wants to call the whole thing off. "What the h.e.l.l," he says, "it's only a few more hours," and I say, "Listen, you f.u.c.kin' wimp, we been following this little b.a.s.t.a.r.d for days and we're goin' in there and get the motherf.u.c.ker, so let's get on with it." He gets the color of a G.o.dd.a.m.n beet and he says, "I'm putting you on report. What's your name, mister?" and I say, "Just tell them Monsieur Morte insulted you, that a Pall Mall'll get you a kick in the a.s.s and that's all it'll get you," and he says, "Don't give me any of that Wild West s.h.i.+t, what's your name?" and I say, "Parver, P-a-r-v-e-r," and I spell it for him and then I say, "And either you're gonna fly that f.u.c.kin' bird or one of us will. We're goin' over that hump and my people ain't wadin' through a lot of f.u.c.kin' Mace to get there."

Anyway, before it was over, we were in the chopper and we go over the hump and the pool's down there, like the gook says, and there's little gray wisps of Mace, still hanging in there, like stringy strands of cotton. So we drop a string down and three of us drop into the pit there, we beat it over to the cave and we look in and this f.u.c.kin' Nim is sitting maybe twenty feet from the cave entrance. What a mess! His legs are crossed at the ankles, he's naked as a f.u.c.kin' flounder. His body is covered with these scorched sores, his eyes are swollen shut, and he's foaming at the f.u.c.kin' mouth from all the Mace, like a G.o.dd.a.m.n mad dog. f.u.c.kin forty-five-year-old schoolteacher thinks he's Fidel Castro or something, and the f.u.c.ker's still breathing but blind as a bridegroom. All of a sudden he starts reaching around for his weapon, which is an M-16 and you know where he got that, the little b.a.s.t.a.r.d, so I step in behind him and Brrttttt.

Lights out, spook. Then, and I don't know why I did it, maybe it was because, you know, it's the last day of the f.u.c.kin' war, you want to try to get in as much as you can, I take Fineman's machete and lop that slope's head off, swock, just like that, pretty as you please. Fineman almost pukes, can you believe that? All he's seen, for Christ sake. I throw the trophy in this ammo bag, take it back for the rest of them to see. What the h.e.l.l, they have a right. Call it spoils of war.

The last day: This time the scuttleb.u.t.t's true. We get back to the river and it's all over. Everybody's cheering, singing songs, drinking, and the black market man is giving away booze. I never thought I'd live to see the day. They're settin' off rockets and flares, shooting up s.h.i.+t, like the Fourth of f.u.c.kin' July, and all I'm doin', I'm sittin' there thinkin' about what that lieutenant said, about bowling. Only he didn't talk about what happens when it's over, maybe none of us thought it ever would be. Thing is, we're goin' back to the World, man, whether we like it or not. It's all over. No more grace.

73.

ZAPATA SAVES THE DAY.

The call came in at 8:04.

The Warehouse was already babbling with activity. Dutch was quizzing Lange, Cowboy Lewis, and Pancho Callahan. Charlie One Ear took the call.

Callahan was doing most of the talking.

"We all showed up at city pier together, no more than thirty minutes ago," he told Dutch. "Kite there was following Bronicata, and Cowboy was on Chevos. I had Costello. Zapata was there, too, doing something, I don't know what. All of a sudden all four of us are watching each other and the three of them are tooting out into the bay on Costello's boat."

"Cute. So right now we're standing on empty, that it?" Dutch said.

"Well, Zapata powdered. I don't know where he went. One minute he was there, the next minute he wasn't."

"We woulda followed Costello and them but we couldn't find a rowboat to rent," Kite Lange said.

"Hilarious," said Dutch. "You auditioning for the Comedy Hour?"

Charlie One Ear burst through the door.

"What's bugging you?" Dutch asked.

"A security guard over at the Breezes just called. That's where Harry Raines and his wife lived. He says Jake Kilmer and the Raines woman were attacked leaving the place and were shoved in a car at gunpoint."

"When?" Dutch roared.

"About two minutes ago."

"Jake Kilmer was with Doe Raines?" Dutch said.

"That's what the man said. It's a late Eldorado, cinnamoncolored, too far off to get a license. They headed east on Palm."

"Did you get an APB out on that?" Dutch demanded.

"You want to stop every Cadillac in town?" Charlie One Ear asked with surprise.

"How the h.e.l.l many cinnamon Eldorados do you think we got in town?" Dutch yelled, s.n.a.t.c.hing up the phone and calling central radio.

The Stick was next to appear in the doorway.

"What the h.e.l.l's going on?" he asked.

"It appears that Nance and his bunch have lifted Jake Kilmer and Harry Raines' widow," Pancho Callahan said.

"Nance kidnapped them?"

"It don't sound like no scavenger hunt," said Lange.

Charlie One Ear said, "It sounds straight. Jake's car is still out there. Apparently it's permanently imbedded in the security fence. The security man checked the license for me. I've got a blue and white on the way to make sure somebody isn't giving us the finger."

"Speaking of fingers, right now we ain't got a finger on anybody in the mob, that right?" Stick exclaimed.

"Chino and Salvatore are still on the range somewhere. Shall we try to raise them?" Charlie One Ear replied.

Dutch slammed down the phone. "Okay," he said. "There's gonna be a lot of p.i.s.sed-off Cadillac owners in town, but maybe we'll luck out and nab them before they get too far."

Five minutes later Zapata answered his page. Stick s.n.a.t.c.hed up the phone.

"Chino, it's Stick. Where the h.e.l.l are you?"

"Outside one of these strip joints on Front," he answered.

"What are you doing there?"

"Watching Silo Murphy, the one they call Weasel."

"You got Murphy in sight right now?" the Stick said.

"Yeah. He didn't go on the boat ride, so I stuck with him. Salvatore's still trying to get a line on that f.u.c.khead Nance."

"I'm on my way," said the Stick. "If he leaves, follow him and keep me cued through central. What's your number?"

"Seventy-three. What's goin' on?"

"Ten minutes. Tell you when I get there," said Stick. He slammed down the phone and headed for the door.

In Dutch's office the rest of the SOB's were also wrestling with the problem, "How about the traffic chopper," suggested Cowboy Lewis. "Maybe we can run down Costello's cruiser."

"Good idea, get on it," said Dutch. "So where do we stand right now?"

"Salvatore and Zapata are still on the street," said Charlie One Ear. "Mufalatta's on the range rounding up the rest of the Graves gang. The rest of us are here."

"Where'd the Stick go?" demanded Dutch.

"He's checking on Chino," said Charlie One Ear.

"Not anymore," said Callahan. "He just went out the door like his underwear was on fire."

"Sheiss, what next!" cried the Dutchman.

I came around with elephants thundering in one ear and out the other and the bitter-salty taste of blood in my mouth. I was stretched out on a fairly comfortable Naugahyde sofa. Doe was sitting beside me, bathing my aching head with a wet cloth.

"Oh, thank G.o.d!" she said as I opened my eyes.

"You okay?" I asked.

"I'm fine. It's you they knocked out."

"Where are we?"

"I'm not sure. They blindfolded me," she said. "We're near the water, though, I can smell it."

My nose had been knocked out of commission along with half of my other senses. I couldn't have smelled my hair if it was on fire.

"How long did it take to get here?"

"Twenty minutes, thirty maybe. I've never been very good about time and I don't have a watch on."

"My G.o.d, how long have I been out?"

"Another ten."

"They must've hit me with a poleaxe."

"Actually it was a little black stick one of them had strapped to his wrist."

"Just a plain old-fas.h.i.+oned sap," I said. "Just like me."

I sat up slowly, so my head wouldn't fall off, got my feet on the floor, and sat very still to keep from vomiting. Eventually the nausea went away. The room was small and tidy and looked like a doctor's office, without the medical journals and four-year-old National Geographics strewn everywhere. The only light in the room came from a table lamp made from a wooden anchor with "Saint Augustine, Florida, 1981" hand painted on it. The room had two windows, both heavily draped, and there was a TV monitor camera mounted high in one corner.

I decided to see if I could stand up. That brought some activity from the other room. The door opened. I could tell from the silhouette that it was Nance. I didn't realize how badly I had beaten him until he turned sideways and the light from the other room fell across his face. Both eyes were swollen to slits, he had bruises and gashes down both sides of his face, he was limping, and there was a cut that had swollen to the size of an egg on the corner of his mouth, surrounded by a blue-gray bruise that spread almost to his ear. He was a wreck. I felt better when I saw him.

"Hi, Nance," I said. "Been a real s.h.i.+tty day for you, hasn't it?"

He made animal noises in his throat and started toward me but a hairy paw against his chest stopped him. Arthur Pravano, the one they called Sweetheart, stepped past him.

"Don't make any more trouble," he said to Nance. Sweetheart leaned on the doorjamb and stared at me.

"Well, well," I said, "the pool's getting full."

"You talk awfully big for a man with his b.a.l.l.s in the wringer," said Nance.