Hooligans (18 page)

“She had an affair, you know.”

I leaned over toward her. “1 haven‟t heard a word about her since Teddy died, okay? I am not hooked

into the Dunetown hot line.”

“You‟re really not going to ask who she had the affair with?”

“Nope.”

“It was Tony Lukatis.”

“No kidding. Little old Tony, huh?”

“You‟re much too blasé to really be blasé, I know it. I know all the tricks. Listen, we have name

entertainers coming out to the beach hotels now. I get some big-time gossip. They all try to act blasé,

too, but it doesn‟t work—and they‟ve been at it forever. Tony Lukatis was the guy. The golf pro at the

country club. His father was the manager.”

My memory jumped back to that summer like the ball bouncing over the lyrics of a song at an oldtime movie matinee.

“Nick?”

“Ah, you do remember.”

“I remember Nick. I don‟t remember Tony.”

But then suddenly I did remember him, a little kid with incredibly curly hair who spent most of his

time on the putting green when he wasn‟t caddying. He must have been fifteen or sixteen that

summer.

“Aha, I see recognition in those green eyes.”

“Yeah, he‟s younger than she is.”

“The best kind, darling.”

“He had a sister.”

“Dierdre.. . DeeDee?” Babs pressed on.

“Skinny little kid, used to hang around the club?” I asked. “Skinny little kid? I can tell you haven‟t see

her in a while.” “What‟s she doing these days?” I asked, trying to seem interested.

“She‟s Charlie Seaborn‟s secretary—Seacoast National Bank.”

“Did Raines know about the affair?” I tried not to sound too interested.

“Not so you could tell.”

“What happened?”

“Poor little „Tony. Rumour has it he decided to get rich quick arid got mixed up in some pot

smuggling. He went to prison for five years. I‟ve lost track of him since. It almost killed DeeDee.”

The conversation was cutting close to the bone. I decided it was time to ease on out.

“You‟ve been a lot of help,” I said. “I‟ve got to get moving but I owe you a drink.”

“You better believe you do, dearie,” she said. “You know how to get in touch. And if you don‟t, I

will.”

I headed out of the restaurant, feeling like I had barely averted disaster.

No such luck.

20

Stick was hiding behind the morning paper in the lobby of the hotel when I left the restaurant. He

flashed that crazy smile of his when I spotted him.

“Not bad, not bad at all,” he said. “Doe Findley and Babs Thomas for breakfast. And I was afraid

you‟d get lonely.”

“Strictly business,” I said.

“Hey,” he said, spreading his arms out at his sides, “1 never doubted it for a minute.”

“I‟m sure you have my social calendar filled for the day,” I said. “What‟s up?”

“A little war conference with the troops.”

“You mean they‟re speaking to me?”

“They‟re thinking about it,” he said, leading me out the door. His Black Maria was hunched down in

the loading zone, like it was looking for trouble.

“Why don‟t I take my car?” I suggested. “In case we have to split up.”

“No worry,” he said, opening the door for me. “I‟m your tour guide for the day. It was a raffle. I lost.”

“Keep it under ninety, will you?” I asked as I got in.

“It stutters under ninety,” he answered.

“Fine, let‟s listen to it stutter for a while.”

He took me to a bright, airy place in a row house overlooking the river. It didn‟t look like a restaurant;

it was more like having coffee in someone‟s living room. The place was about five minutes away,

hardly time for the Maria to get up to speed, for which I was momentarily thankful. I was sure I

wouldn‟t be that lucky for the entire day. Zapata, Salvatore, and Flowers were seated at a table in the

back.

“Hey, Mildred,” Salvatore yelled across the room as we entered, “two more javas.”

They all stared at me as I approached their table.

“What‟s the matter, is my fly open?” I asked as 1 sat down.

“Sorry,” Charlie One Ear said. “We haven‟t seen you in the daytime.”

“What you see, gentlemen, is a ruin,” I said. “Give me a couple of days to get some sun. I look much

better with a decent night‟s sleep and a little colour.”

“It‟s the fluorescent lights in the Warehouse,” Charlie One Ear 1oked. “They give everyone a ghastly

pallor.”

“Well,” I said, smiling at everybody, “thanks for not judging me on first appearances.”

“Yeah, you‟re welcome,” said Salvatore.

“Y‟see what it is, Kilmer, we decided to throw iii with you,” Zapata said. “On a temporary basis, see

what happens.”

“Gee whiz, I don‟t know what to say,” 1 replied sarcastically.

“Thank you‟ will be fine,” said Charlie One Ear.

“Thanks again.”

“Our pleasure,” Charlie One Ear replied. “Now, just what specifically is it we‟re looking for?”

“What I need,” I said, “is connections.”

“Like such as?” Chino Zapata asked.

“Like maybe a hooker who‟s been bending her heels in Louisville, suddenly shows up here. Chances

are, she‟s on the circuit. The mob moves them around like that.”

“How about pimps?” Charlie One Ear queried.

“Sure, the same thing. Maybe I can tie a pimp to some outfit in Cincy or Chicago. Next step is, who‟s

he working for? How did he get here? Pimps don‟t move from town to town. What I mean is, they

don‟t free-lance. They move when the heat‟s on. They usually work for the man. He tells them where

to go.”

“So what‟s different about Dunetown?” Salvatore said. “That‟s pretty common, isn‟t it?”

“What‟s different is that the Tagliani family is here,” Stick threw in.

“Right,” I said. “If I can make a connection between here and someplace else, that‟s the start of an

interstate case. If I can tie it to Tagliani‟s mob, that‟s part two. If I can prove it, then I can take it to

the Justice Department. That‟s three, and then it‟s their problem. Anything else I lay off on you guys.

I‟m not here to make collars, okay?”

“All that is by way of telling us you‟re looking for out-of-town talent, correct?” Charlie One Ear said.

“Right. I‟d also like to know the names of companies owned by the Triad. Where they bank. Who

they do business with. What kind of straight businesses they‟re into.”

“That‟s a little outta our line,” Zapata said.

“The key man is the accountant, Cohen,” I said. “He‟s the bagman. Unless he‟s changed his MO, he

makes three or four pickups a day, never at the same spots. He carries a little black satchel, like one of

those old-fashioned doctor‟s bags, and it‟s probably full of cash. That‟s the skim, the money they need

to wash.”

“The TGG,” offered Charlie One Ear.

“Correct.”

“This is street money, right?” Stick said, playing along with me. “Gambling, prostitution, dope, that

kind of thing.”

I nodded.

“So why don‟t we just grab the bag away from the little shit and take a look?” Zapata suggested.

“For one thing, he‟s probably got four r five cannons escorting him,” I said.

“Yes,” Charlie One Ear said snidely. “It‟s also against the law. It‟s called robbery. One to five for first

offense, which might not be applicable in your case.”

Zapata looked at him and laughed.

“They don‟t usually put their swag in the bank,” Salvatore offered.

“I agree,” I said. “But Cohen‟s a crafty son of a bitch. He may have something worked out at the

hank.

“They‟re in cahoots?” Zapata asked.

“Not necessarily,” I said. “He may be depositing in several different accounts or putting it in a safe

deposit box. The bank doesn‟t have to be involved.”

I was trying to be honest about it, but I couldn‟t help wondering whether Charles Seaborn, president

of the bank, and a member of the Committee, knew Cohen personally. And if so, whether Sam

Donleavy knew that Seaborn knew Cohen. And whether Raines knew that Donleavy knew that

Seaborn knew Cohen. It was time I faced up to the facts. I wanted Raines and Donleavy to be up to

their necks in it, because if things had gone differently and Teddy were still alive, I would have been

in Donleavy‟s boots. I didn‟t want to feel that way, but coming back to Dunetown had stirred old

emotions that I thought were tong dead, and the lies, the hurt, the resentments, were as visceral as

fresh wounds. I could taste the blood. So there it was. What can a man do?

“We should maybe talk to Cowboy,” said Salvatore, breaking up my train of thought. “He shagged the

little weed for a couple days.”

“Good,” I said. “If we can put together enough evidence to show cause, we might find a judge who‟ll

let us look into their bank accounts or let us have some wiretaps.”

“Kite Lange can handle that,” said Zapata.

“He means legal wiretaps, el retardo,” said Salvatore.

“In the meantime, I can throw a few crumbs your way,” I offered.

“How‟s that?” said Zapata, slurping his coffee.

I decided to try Charlie One Ear out, to see if he was as good as everybody said he was.

“1 spotted Spanish Eddie Fuereco on the way in,” I said.

“At the airport, no doubt,” Charlie One Ear piped up immediately.

Zapata stared over at him, obviously impressed.

“Right,” I said.

“How‟d you know that, Charlie?” asked Zapata, who appeared to be genuinely in awe of the oneeared detective.

“And in the bar,” Charlie One Ear added.

“Right again,” I said.

“Geez,” Zapata said.

“The old coin trick,” Charlie One Ear said. “Was he spinning heads and tails?”

“You got it,” I said.

“What‟s the coin trick?” Zapata asked.

“He marks the top of a quarter, say on the heads side but along the ridges so you can‟t see it unless

you‟re looking for it,” said Charlie One Ear. “He lets the mark spin the coin. Spanish Eddie never

touches it. The mark doesn‟t suspect anything, y‟see, because he‟s controlling the spin and Eddie‟s

calling whether it‟ll fall heads or tails. He can tell by the mark on the coin. He‟s also a sleight-of-hand

artist. If the mark wants to switch coins, he always has another one ready.”

“Geez,” Zapata said again, his wonder still growing.

“He‟s very good,” Charlie One Ear said. “On a real good night he can score enough to buy a new car.”

“So how come you knew he was at the airport?”

“If the mark starts getting pushy,” Charlie One Ear said, “Fuereco switches to a regular coin, plays on

the mark‟s money for a few rounds, then has to catch a plane. That‟s why he does airports. Gives him

an excuse to end the game.”

“I‟ll be damned,” Zapata said. He looked over at me. “Charlie knows every scumbag in the business,”

he said with great pride.

“Only the cream of the crop,” Charlie One Ear threw in. “And Spanish Eddie Fuereco only by

reputation. I‟d love to go a few rounds with him, before I put the arm on him.”

“He‟ll beatcha,” Zapata said. “He can read the coin.”

“I‟m not too bad at sleight of hand myself” Charlie One Ear said proudly. “I‟ll mark two coins and

switch them back and forth so he keeps reading them wrong. What a coup, beating Fuereco at his own

game!”

“He‟s all yours,” I said.

“1 love con games,” Zapata said. “Did you ever wonder who dreams them up?”

Charlie One Ear stared at Zapata for a moment or two, then said, “No, I never really thought about it

before.”

“I also saw Digit Dan out there,” I said.

“Ah, now there‟s a man with talent,” said Charlie One Ear. “Fastest hands I‟ve ever seen. Nobody

works the shoulder bump like Dan.”

“The shoulder bump?” Zapata said, his sense of wonderment continuing to grow as Charlie One Ear

showed off.

“He works crowds, bumps the shoulder of the mark. Usually the mark will touch his wallet to make

sure he hasn‟t been boosted. That does two things for Digit. One, it tells him where the mark‟s wallet

is. Two, the next time he bumps him, the mark is too embarrassed to check his belongings. Bingo!

The wallet‟s gone and so is Dan.”

“You don‟t miss a trick, there, Charlie,” Zapata said, shaking his head.

“The thing about Digit Dan that‟s remarkable,” said Charlie One Ear, “is that he always hits

somebody who‟s well heeled. He has that talent. He can look at a mark and tell how much money he‟s

got in his kick.”

“Amazing,” Zapata said, shaking his head.

“He‟ll be working the track tomorrow,” Charlie One Ear said. “We‟ll nail him. Now, about your

problem. Perhaps we can give you something there.”

That didn‟t surprise me.

“A pimp named Mortimer Flitch, alias Mort Tanner,” he continued. “A wimpy sort and not too flashy.

Handles high-class clientele, usually four or five girls at most. He calls Saint Louis home. He also has

a thing for ladies of means.”

“Rich broads, you mean,” Zapata said.

“Yes, Chino, rich broads.”

“A gigolo, eh?” said Stick.

“I hate to give him that distinction,” said Charlie One Ear.

“Where‟d you see him at?” Zapata asked.

“Out on the Strip, a week or two ago. This Turner thing came up and I never followed through.”

“It‟s Tagliani,” said Salvatore.

“What‟s he look like?” Zapata asked.

“Tallish, a little under six feet. Slender, I‟d say one forty, one forty-two. Wears three-piece suits.

Lightweight for the climate. Goes in for coloured shirts and has atrocious taste in ties. Flowers, lots of

bad colours, that kind of thing. Brown hair and not a lot of it. Combs it over his forehead to stretch it

out. Brown eyes. Always wears black boots.”

“Quirks?” Zapata asked.