Hooligans Part 70

"Go on outside," Pravano said, and Nance bristled for a second, then turned and vanished from the doorway.

"You ought to do something about him," I said, "like give him a brain transplant for Christmas."

"Big-mouth Fed," he said, shaking his head. "You got about as much time left as an ice cube in a frying pan."

"No less than you," I replied, although I was sorry the moment I said it. They were all in it up to their eyeb.a.l.l.s. Murder, kidnapping, arson-all could be proven, regardless of whether or not we broke down Cohen, Donleavy, and Seaborn and opened up the pyramid. They were all smart enough to know you can only hang once. One or two more murders couldn't have bothered them less, so I cut the smart talk and hoped that Doe wouldn't figure it out too.

"So why are we here?" I asked.

"It's a scientific experiment," Pravano said. "We want to see how long it takes for a Fed to wet his pants."

"There's a lady in the room," I said.

"She's got rotten taste," he snarled.

"Your dance partner's no trophy winner," I snapped back.

He let it pa.s.s. "Don't try nothing spectacular, okay, to impress the lady, like the thing with Turk back there in town. Keep away from the windows. Don't make no racket, bust up the furniture, start no fires, that kind of s.h.i.+t. We got people outside and people watching that." He jerked a thumb toward the monitor. "You f.u.c.k with that, I'll let Turk come in and blow off your G.o.dd.a.m.n b.a.l.l.s, if you got any."

He left.

"Who was that!" Doe cried.

"One of the Seven Dwarfs," I said, and tried a chuckle. It sounded more like a dirge.

Zapata was sitting sidesaddle on his hog, smoking a Fatima and watching the traffic go by, when Stick got there.

"He's in that strip joint over there, drinking Scotch and checking crotch," the Mexican said. "What the h.e.l.l's going on?"

"Costello and his bunch ditched the boys. They're out pleasure cruising on Costello's boat."

"I know. I been watching this Weasel 'cause I heard him and Nance were, y'know, kinda tight, if that psycho has any friends. Anyways, he don't go on the boat. So I figure maybe he's gonna meet Nance and I s.h.a.g him. He comes over here. Is that what it's all about?"

"Dutch wants to have a talk with Weasel," Stick said. "Let's go over and see can we ease him out of there without starting a riot."

The girl on stage was all legs. Legs and purple hair with a white streak, front to back, dyed on one side; a punk strapper who looked about as s.e.xy as a stuffed flounder. Weasel Murphy was sitting at the bar, as close to the action as he could get without getting his nose caught in her G-string. A pair of worn-out speakers were thumping out a scratched version of "Night Life" as the punker peeled off her bra and let her ample bosom flop out. The Prussian army could have marched in and Murphy would have missed it. He had eyes only for the Purple People Eater.

"Wanna just put the arm on him?" said Chino.

"Dutch says try to avoid a ruckus," Stick said.

"What do we do?"

They sat down at a table the size of a birdbath near the door to think it over. Purple People Eater was snapping her bra like a slingshot in Murphy's face. He stuffed a five-dollar bill in the tip gla.s.s and she kneeled down in front of him, pulled her G-string down to the bar, and let it snap back. He tucked a twenty in the string, dead center. She ended her performance by seducing an imaginary pony, complete with squeals of delight and instructions to the invisible animal. Murphy was wired so tight he was humming.

One of the B-girls slid a chair over to the table and sat down backward. The runs in her hose looked like black varicose veins. This one had orange hair, no streak. It looked like it had been cut with pruning shears. She ran a finger along the brim of Stick's hat.

"Love it," she said. "I didn't think anybody wore those anymore."

"It was my grandfather's," Stick said. "How'd you like to make an easy twenty?"

"We're not allowed to do that," she said coyly. "Just have a drink with the customers."

"You don't even have to do that," said Stick. "See that dude at the bar, the one who's sweating so hard?"

"You mean the one that looks like a possum?"

"Close enough. See, what's happening, we got this bowling club and we just voted him in but he don't know it yet."

"You're into bowling?" she said. She made it sound like child molestation.

"Yeah. Anyway, see, we're gonna put the s.n.a.t.c.h on him, take him out to my boat. The rest of the guys are out there waiting and we're gonna surprise. him, tell him he's in, y'know."

"Sounds like a real great party," she said, and yawned.

"What we'd like, see, all you have to do is get him out the side door there, onto Jackson Street. We'll take it from there."

"This ain't some kidnapping or something?" she said suspiciously. "I mean, I ain't goin' to the freezer for some s.n.a.t.c.h job."

"Look at him," Zapata said. "His own mother wouldn't kidnap him."

"So how do I get him outside?" she asked.

"For twenty bucks, you can write the script. When he goes through the door, you get the double saw."

She thought about it for a minute.

"He's a big spender," she said. "The boss might get p.i.s.sed with me."

Stick took out a twenty and wrapped it around his little finger.

"When's the last time the boss laid twenty on you for walking to the door?"

She eyed the twenty, eyed Murphy, who was catching his breath between acts, and looked back at the twenty.

"I'll see what I can do," she said.

"The Jackson Street entrance. The twenty'll be right here on my pinky."

She giggled. "Pinky! Jesus, I haven't heard that since I was in the fourth grade."

Stick and Zapata went outside and Stick pulled his car around the corner and parked near the door.

"This seems like a lot of time and money when we could just bust his a.s.s and haul him in."

"Dutch doesn't want a fuss."

"Yeah, you told me. How do we do this? We just cold-c.o.c.k the son of a b.i.t.c.h or what?"

Stick took out a pair of thumb cuffs.

"When he gets outside, b.u.mp into him and knock him into me. I'll grab him from behind, get his arms behind him, and thumbcuff him, throw him in the car."

"My hog's around the corner."

"I'll see you out at the Warehouse."

"Okay, but it seems like a lot of ha.s.sle."

They waited about five minutes; then the door opened and the orange-haired punker and Murphy came out. He was wrapped around her like kudzu around a telephone pole. Zapata b.u.mped into them and the girl stepped back and Stick grabbed both his elbows and jerked them back, slid his hands down Murphy's arms to his wrist, and twisted both of Murphy's hands inward. Murphy hollered and jerked forward, and as he did, Stick snapped the tiny cuffs on his thumbs, twisted him around, and shoved him into the back seat of the car. The girl saw the wire-caged windows.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n it, you're the heat, you G.o.dd.a.m.n lying-"

Stick dangled the twenty in front of her. She s.n.a.t.c.hed it out of his hand and stuffed it down her bosom.

"Better than busting up the place, ain't it?" Zapata said as Stick tipped his hat, jumped into his car, and sped off "He's like that," Zapata said, walking toward his hog. "Impetuous."

"What d'ya mean, you s.n.a.t.c.hed Weasel Murphy?" Dutch bellowed after Zapata had finished his story.

"He said you wanted we should hustle Weasel outta that joint and bring him out here on the QT. So that's what we did. He shoulda been here by now, he got two minutes' head start on me."

"Maybe it's the international Simon Says sweepstakes," Kite Lange said.

"Will you stop with the wisecracks, Lange," Dutch grumbled. "Things're bad enough without you imitating Milton Berle. What I wanna know is, where the h.e.l.l's Stick and Murphy?"

"Perhaps I should put out an all points on Parver's vehicle," Charlie One Ear suggested.

"Why don't we just bust everybody in town," Callahan said. "We can put them in the football stadium and let them go one at a time."

Dutch buried his face in his hands. "What is it, is the heat getting everybody?" he moaned. "I shoulda known when I was lucky, I should of stayed in the army."

74.

CHRISTMAS CREEK.

The thirty-horsepower motor growled vibrantly behind him as Stick guided the sailboat out of the mouth of South River and into the bay. Buccaneer Point was two miles away. Five miles beyond it was Jericho Island, where a sliver of creek, two or three hundred yards wide and a quarter of a mile long, sliced the small offsh.o.r.e island into Big Jericho and Little Jericho. Stick set his course for Jericho.

Clouds played with the face of a full moon and night birds chattered at them as the sleek sailboat cruised away from land, its sails furled, powered by the engine. Stick flicked on the night light over his compa.s.s. It was 8:45. He would be there in another fifteen minutes. He checked his tide chart. High tide was at 9:57. The bar would be perfect.

Weasel Murphy, was crunched down against the cabin wall, his thumbs still shackled behind him.

"I already told you," the rodent-faced gunman said arrogantly, "I don't know nothin' about nothin'."

"Right," said Stick.

"I get seasick; that's why I didn't go along on the boat. You can't understand plain English?"

"You start getting sick," said the Stick, "you better stick your head over the side. Puke in my boat and I'll use you for a mop and throw you overboard."

"f.u.c.k you," Murphy growled, but his arrogance was less than convincing.

"Cute," Stick said. "I admire your stuff."

"How many times I gotta tell you," Murphy said, "I don't know nothin' about s.n.a.t.c.hing no Fed, or the Raines dame. That's all news t'me."

"Where's Costello heading on that schooner of his?"

"I told you, I don't f.u.c.kin' know! They was just goin' out to have dinner and get away for a few hours. We was all tired of looking up some cop's nose every time we turned around."

He s.h.i.+fted slightly.

"Where the h.e.l.l are we going?" he demanded.

"Up the lazy river," Stick said.

"You're a full-out loony, you know that. You need about fifty more cards to fill out your deck."

"Big talk from a man who can't even scratch his nose," Stick said.

"Look, these things are killing my thumbs," Murphy said. "Can you at least loosen them a little? My whole d.a.m.n arm's goin' to sleep."

"I want to know where Kilmer is and where Costello's going. You just tell me that, we turn around and head for home."

"s.h.i.+t, man, how many ways can I-"

"You already have," the Stick said. "You're beginning to annoy me. If you won't tell me what I want to know, keep your mouth shut or I'll put my foot in it."

They went on. The only sound now was the bow of the boat slicing through the water, and the occasional slap of a wave as it rolled up into a whitehead and peaked. Stick was using running lights, although occasionally he snapped on a powerful searchlight for a look around. Otherwise he watched his compa.s.s and smoked and said nothing.

At 9:05 he pa.s.sed the north point of Big Jericho, swung the trim boat in toward land, and followed the beach around to the south. A minute or two later the moon peered out from behind the clouds and in its gray half-light he could see the mouth of Christmas Creek. He turned into it, cut back the motor, and switched the spotlight on again. He swept it back and forth. Murphy straightened up and peered over the gunwale. A large heron thrashed its wings nearby and flapped noisily away. Startled by the sudden and unexpected sound, Murphy slumped down again.

Then he heard the sounds for the first time.

A sudden whirlpool of movement in the water near the boat.

"What'sat?" he asked, sitting up again. "Hey, there it goes again. You hear that?"

The Stick said nothing.

The sounds continued. There seemed to be a lot of turbulence. in the water around the boat. Then there was a splash and something thunked the side of the sailboat.

"Don't you hear it?" Murphy croaked, staring wide-eyed at the circle of light from the spotlight. The Stick still didn't answer.