Hooligans Part 71

Stick had stopped in an all-night supermarket on the way to the boathouse and bought a large beef shoulder. It had been soaking in a bucket of warm water near his feet. Now he took it out, laid it on the rear bulkhead, and slashed several deep gashes in it with a rusty machete. Blood crept out of the crevices, seeping slowly into the seams between the boards.

There was a loud splash near the stern, then another, even louder, just beyond the bow. Fear began as a worm in Murphy's stomach, a twisty little jolt. He began to look feverishly at each new tremor in the water, but he could see nothing but swirls on the surface of the creek.

Then he thought he saw a gray triangle cut the surface ten feet away.

"What was that?" he asked.

The worm became a snake. It crawled up through his chest and stuck in his throat. His mouth dried up.

"This is a little nature trip, Weasel," Stick said, taking a grappling hook from the bulkhead storage box and burying its hooks in the beef shoulder. He wrapped a thick nylon fis.h.i.+ng line around it several times and tied it in a half hitch. "Ever hear of Christmas Creek?"

"I told you, I get seasick. I don't have nothin' to do with the f.u.c.kin' ocean." His voice was losing its bravado.

Stick saw the bar dead ahead, a slender strip of sand, barely a foot above water.

"Well, you're right in the middle of it. This is it, this is Christmas Creek," Stick said. "One of the local ecological wonders."

There was another, more vigorous splash off the starboard bow and this time Murphy saw it clearly, a s.h.i.+ny gray dorsal fin. It sliced the surface for an instant and then disappeared in a swirl.

"Good Christ, those're sharks," Murphy gasped.

"I was about to tell you," said Stick. "This is a breeding ground for gray sharks and makos, and this is the month for it. That's why they're so fidgety. I'd guess there are probably, oh h.e.l.l, two, three hundred sharks within spitting distance of the boat right now."

The first shark Murphy actually saw breached water three feet away, rolled over on its side, and dove again.

It was half the length of the sailboat!

"Sweet Jesus," Murphy muttered to himsel He was still trying to maintain his tough facade, but his eyes mirrored his growing fear. He dropped back onto the floor of the c.o.c.kpit and cowered there.

"This b.l.o.o.d.y piece of beef here will drive them crazy," Stick continued. "I thought I'd just give 'em a snack, let you see one of the wonders of the world."

Murphy hunched down lower.

"C'mon, fella, watch the show," said Stick. He reached down and pulled Murphy up and slammed him against the bulkhead. He threw the piece of meat overboard, holding it by the nylon cord. It had hardly hit before the creek was churned into bubbles. The water looked like it was boiling. The frenzied killers streaked to the b.l.o.o.d.y morsel. Their tails whipped out of the water. Fins seemed to be slas.h.i.+ng all over the creek. The creatures surfaced in their frenzy, their black marble eyes bulging with excitement, their ragged mouths blood-smeared from ripping at the beef shoulder. A great, ugly mako breached the surface, twisted violently in the water, then suddenly lurched into the air as a large gray disemboweled it, the attacker thras.h.i.+ng its head back and forth as it tore a great chunk from the other shark's belly. More blood churned to the surface. A half dozen more sharks converged on the mako, ripping it to shreds. Then one of them turned and charged the sailboat.

Murphy screamed, a full-fledged, bloodcurdling scream.

The big gray turned at the last moment and sc.r.a.ped down the side of the sailboat.

All Murphy saw were insane eyes and gleaming teeth.

Within seconds the hook was empty. Stick pulled it back in.

"Lookit that, they even gnawed at the hooks," Stick said with a chuckle.

"What're we doin' here?" Murphy whispered, as though he were afraid he would disturb the predators.

"I'll tell you, when these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are homy, they're downright unreasonable," Stick rambled on.

He swung the sailboat in a tight arc, pulling as close to the sandbar as he could. He knew the creek well; knew, too, that the bar dropped off sharply on its north side, sharply enough to get in tight. Stick grabbed the back of Murphy's s.h.i.+rt and hauled him to his feet.

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing? Lemme alone, lemmee . . . " the mobster howled.

The boat nudged the bar.

Stick threw him over the side.

Murphy shrieked. He landed on his side in the soft sand, rolled over, still screaming, scrambled to his feet, and sloshed through ankle-deep sand to the middle of the bar. He stood there, his hands behind his back, his eyes bulging with fear, watching the fins circle his diminis.h.i.+ng island.

"For G.o.d's sakes, what'd I do? I didn't do nothin'! Get me offa here. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, please, get me offa here!"

Stick leaned toward him. "Now listen good, Weasel. The tide's coming in. This bar lies very low in the water. Another five, six minutes, the water will cover it. At full tide, in about forty-five minutes, it'll be up to your waist. Do you get the drift?"

Murphy looked around, wide-eyed. There were sharks all over the place, circling the tiny island as if they could smell him.

"Here, I'll give you a break," Stick said. "You won't have to look at them."

Stick turned the spotlight off.

"No-o-o," Murphy moaned.

The moon dipped behind the clouds. Murphy was rooted to his spot. He was beyond fear now, afraid to move in any direction. He squinted into the darkness but it was too dark to see anything.

But he could hear them.

"Get me offa here, please," Murphy pleaded. There was no bravado left.

Stick replied, "The tide's coming in, Weasel. In two or three minutes you'll feel it around your ankles."

Murphy's feet squirmed beneath him. He had trouble catching his breath. He was overwhelmed with fear. Then he felt the first cold, wet fingers seeping through the soles of his shoes, down through the shoelace holes, around the tongues of his expensive brogans, clutching at his feet.

Murphy suddenly started to babble. He couldn't talk fast enough. His words tumbled over each other and he started to stutter: "They'regointo ThunderPoint! To Chevos' p-p-p-place! They went outontheboat to celebrate . . . "

"Celebrate what?"

"Costello's the new capo di capi."

"When are they coming in?"

"They're due to get to the marina about t-t-ten . . . "

"How do you know that?"

"That's when I'm supposed to be back. I g-g-got a coupla hours off 'cause I get seasick. "

"Who's going to be there?"

"It's everybody. It's the wholeG.o.dd.a.m.nw-w-works, except maybe for Nance. I . . . IsweartoG-G-G.o.d I don't know where he is. Please, oh, G.o.d, please get me offa here. That's all I know. All I know, I swear on my mother's eyes, I don't know another f-f-f.u.c.kin' thing. Jesus, man I'll p-p-pay you. What d'ya want? You want my car? I got a brand-new Chrysler convertible it's yours. d.a.m.n it, please . . . "

"That's better, Weasel. Okay, start walking this way."

"I can't, not in the dark, don't do . . . "

"Just walk toward my voice."

"I can't m-m-move!"

"I'll keep talking and you keep walking and if you don't lose your cool, you'll make it over here. But you better stop f.u.c.kin' around, Weasel, because the tide doesn't stop It's gonna get deeper and . . . "

"I'm walkin', I'm walkin'. Can I have the light, can I please have the f.u.c.kin" light?"

Murphy was dragging one foot after the other through the sandy water. Each step seemed to take him deeper.

"I'm going wrong!" he yelled at the darkness. "The water's up to my s.h.i.+ns!"

"I warned you about the tide, Weasel. Just keep coming. You're doing fine, but don't stop. If you stop, they'll be on top of you in another five minutes."

Murphy took another step and the water swirled around his knees. He began to get sick to his stomach. He started running, lost his balance, and fell face down in the cold salt water. He scrambled frantically, trying to get his knees under him, but with his hands shackled behind him he had trouble. He swallowed a mouthful of water, then got his head up, coughing and gulping for air.

"Where are ya?" Murphy screamed when he finally regained his footing.

He heard the sailboat's motor, then realized it was moving away from him!

"Hey!" Murphy screamed. "H-e-e-e-y!"

The sound of the motor grew dimmer and dimmer. The thras.h.i.+ng of the sharks was drawing closer. The water was almost up to his waist.

The last human voice Murphy heard was the Stick's, far off in the blackness of night. The man's singing! Murphy cried out to himself.

"Up a lazy river, by the old mill run . . . "

75.

GOOD-BYE HIT.

An hour crept by. It seemed like four or five. At first the TV monitor discouraged conversation. I figured the room had to be bugged. After I got my wits together I decided to give it a test. I looked straight into the camera and said, "Would it be too much to ask for a gla.s.s of water?" Nothing had happened, so I kicked on the door. Sweetheart Pravano answered my summons. He was still wearing the battle scars from the fight at the Warehouse: a mouse on his right eye and a four-inch gash in his jaw. He glared at me when I made the request and shut the door in my face, but a minute or two later a young kid who was wearing both suspenders and a belt, as well as an empty shoulder holster under his arm, brought us each a gla.s.s of ice water. Then they left us alone.

"What do you think they're going to do with us?" Doe asked.

"I don't know," I said, quite honestly.

During the remainder of that hour Doe and I talked quietly but steadily. I explained who Tagliani was, although she seemed to have a vague notion already. I also told her Tony Lukatis had been slain hijacking the cocaine s.h.i.+pment, which she didn't know, although the information didn't seem to upset her too much.

"So you knew about Tony?" she said. "That was over such a long time ago. Poor Tony. He wanted so desperately to make something of himself, to be more than . . . " She tried to explain Lukatis' obsession, but it wouldn't come out.

"I can understand that," I said. "He just picked the wrong way to do it."

"Was he involved with these people?"

I shook my head. "I don't think so," I said, but didn't take it any farther. I still didn't know who he was involved with.

"I guess I was the cause of all that, too," she said, and started to cry. "I caused it all."

"No, that's not true," I said. "You were a p.a.w.n in the game, like a lot of us."

"It was all over between us before he ever got in trouble," Doe went on, purging the memory of Lukatis. "He wouldn't accept that. He kept calling, sending me cards, leaving little gifts. Then I saw him one day and he told me things were going to be different. He called it his big score. I had no idea he was going to . . . " She let the sentence drift off. She was having a lot of trouble finis.h.i.+ng sentences.

That's when I told her about Sam Donleavy. Her shoulders sagged as the story unfolded. Tears welled in her eyes. The shock of disbelief pulled at her face, like the heavy hand of time. I took her in my arms and held her as tightly as I could and let her sob it out.

Then I heard the throb of heavy engines outside. There was a lot of yelling and laughter, people entering the other room. A few minutes later there was what sounded like an angry exchange, although I couldn't tell for sure who was talking to whom, or what the rhubarb was all about. Then the door opened.

The lights of Thunder Point Marina twinkled like stars on the bay a hal mile away. Stick hunched down in the c.o.c.kpit of the sailboat, his hat pulled down over his eyes so the wind wouldn't blow it off. There was a strong wind coming in from the southeast and the sails were full, billowed out like shrouds above him in the darkness. He had the sheets pulled in as tight as he could and the boat was keeled low in the water. The waves bounded past his elbow like a river on a rampage.

For ten minutes he had been watching Costello's yacht as it sailed into the inlet from open water and headed for the marina. Now it was pulling into the dock.

He set the tiller, tied it down, reached under the seat, and pulled out a waterproof bag. First he took out the 357 and checked the chamber. It was loaded with controlled-expansion treasury rounds. Then the 180, his little jewel. He checked the silencer and snapped a 180-round drum into the chamber, mentally ticking off his firepower as he did. He turned on the laser scope and watched the little red dot dance across the swollen sails. Next came the M16, the old standby, fully loaded with a thirty-shot clip. He took a forty-millimeter grenade from the bag and inserted it in the grenade launcher under the barrel. Finally he got the ammo bag, which held two drums for the 180, six clips for the 16, six grenades, and five quick-loads for the Magnum.

Not bad. Seven grenades and 786 rounds of ammo.

He mentally counted the enemy: Costello, Bronicata, Chevos, and two other gunmen on the boat. Nance, Sweetheart Pravano, and at least four others he could think of inside the marina, and the two guards with sawed-off shotguns on the dock.

Thirteen. About sixty rounds per man plus the grenades. Piece of cake. He'd been up against a lot worse.

He adjusted the night sight on the M-16 and checked out the deck of the yacht. There they were: Costello, Chevos, Bronicata, Drack Moreno, all the heavyweights but Nance and Pravano, who had to be inside somewhere, and Cohen, who was probably home in bed.

Beautiful, he thought. The timing couldn't be better. Just one big happy family.

That was fine about Cohen. Cohen belonged to Jake. The rest of them were his. He started smearing black shoe polish on his face.

This time it was Dutch who s.n.a.t.c.hed up the phone when it rang. He was waiting for the call. It was Cowboy Lewis, patched in from the police helicopter.

"We spotted 'em, Dutch. Costello's barge is pullin' into the private dock on the back of Thunder Point Marina right now."

"You sure it's him?"

"It is unless he cloned that boat of his. Ain't another one around here like it."

"How far away are you?"

"Half a mile, maybe."

"Can you get down low enough to check the parking lot for that cinnamon Eldorado without getting your kiester blown off?"