Hooligans (31 page)

his old lady don‟t even go out there, Also it has good sight lines; there ain‟t a blade of grass within

twenty yards of the place.”

I thought some more about it. It would have been smarter to leave then and follow Nesbitt to the meet,

but I wanted to let somebody know where I was.

“Where is this place exactly?” I asked.

“You hang a right three blocks after you cross the bridge from Thunderhead to Oceanby. It‟s a mile or

so down the road, on the bay, like I said. You can‟t miss it, the road ends there.”

I studied him for a long minute, tugged my ear, and then nodded. “What‟s the name of the street?”

“Bayview.”

“I have a breakfast appointment,” I said. “It‟ll be about ten thirty.”

“No problem, he‟s spending the night out there. Ten thirty.” He smiled and held out his hand, palm

up. “How about the piece?” he said.

I took out the revolver, loosened the retaining pin, dropped the cylinder into my palm, and handed

him his gun.

“I‟ll give O‟Brian the rest of it when I see him,” I said.

His acne scars turned purple and pebbles of sweat began to ridge his forehead. He looked at me

quizzically. “Why the badass act?” he said. “You don‟t have to prove how tough you are. Like I told

ya, we know all about Cincy.”

“I‟m a cautious man,” I said. “Too many people are dying in town right now.”

“Did I lay any heat on you, Kilmer? No. I just come and delivered the message like I was supposed to.

Y‟know, I get caught in the middle of this thing, I‟ll end up in the bay, parley-vooin‟ with the fuckin‟

shrimps.”

“That‟s your problem.”

“So I come back with half a gun? It gets everything off on the wrong foot, know what I mean?”

I tossed him the cylinder for his .38 and he caught it without taking his yellow eyes off mine.

“You owe me one,” I said.

“You talk to O‟Brian, you‟ll be paid in spades,” he said, and was gone, darting across the lobby like a

dragonfly and out the nearest exit.

36

There was a message in my box when I went down to meet Dutch the next morning, it was a

handwritten note from Babs Thomas:

“Cocktails in the penthouse tomorrow at 6. I expect you there. Love and kisses, B T.”

She wasn‟t in the breakfast room but Dutch and Charlie One Ear were. I slid the note across the table

to Dutch as I sat down. He read it and chuckled.

“You
better be there,” he said. “It‟s a felony in Doomstown to turn down a command performance

from the duchess.”

“Just what I need,” I said, “a freaking cocktail party.”

“Give you a chance to see how the other half lives,” Charlie One Ear said without looking up from his

fruit cocktail.

“1 don‟t like crowds,” I said.

He looked up and smiled. “Perhaps it‟ll be just the two of you,” he suggested.

That earned him a dirty look from me and a bit of contemplation from Dutch.

“Well,” Dutch said, “you could do worse.”

“Let‟s forget cocktail parties for the moment,” I said, ending the conjecture. “Something‟s come up. It

could be our first real break.”

“Oh?” Dutch retorted.

“Johnny O‟Brian sent one of his gunmen to see me last night. He wants to have a powwow. Sounds

like he could be running scared.”

“Are you going to meet him?” Dutch asked.

“Yeah. At ten thirty. Do you have anybody on O‟Brian‟s tail?” He nodded. “Salvatore‟s doing the

honors today.”

“Has he reported in?”

“Do any of these guys ever report in?” Dutch said. “I can check the Warehouse and see, but I can tell

you what the chances are.”

“We‟ve got to raise him,” I said. “My deal is that I go alone. If O‟Brian tumbles onto Salvatore it

could blow the whole deal.”

“I‟ll see what I can do,” Dutch said, heading for the phone.

“Is that real smart?” Charlie One Ear asked.

“You mean going alone?”

He nodded. The muscles in his face had tightened up. I knew what he was thinking.

“Don‟t worry,” I said. “If this is some kind of trap they wouldn‟t warn me first. They can‟t be that

sure I won‟t have some kind of backup with me.”

“You know this bunch better than I do,” he answered, turning back to his breakfast. “But I wouldn‟t

stray too far from the range, just in case.”

“I appreciate your concern,” I said. “The thing is, if O‟Brian wants to make some kind of a deal, we

can‟t afford to lose it. I‟ve been down this road before, Charlie. I‟ll watch my step.”

He shrugged. “You‟re a big boy now,” he said. “I assume you know what you‟re doing.”

I ordered a light breakfast and doctored my coffee. Dutch was gone about five minutes. He seemed

concerned when he got back.

“Okay,” he said. “Zapata was in the Warehouse and he beeped Salvatore. Zapata‟s going to call me

back if he raises him.”

“I thought Zapata was tailing Nance,” I said.

Dutch was scowling. He lit a cigarette and blew smoke toward the ceiling.

“He lost him,” Dutch said. “Followed him out to the docks at dawn. Nance went out on a shrimp boat

and left Zapata at the altar.”

I got a sudden chill, as if a cold breeze had blown across the back of my neck. Nance being on the

loose was a wild card I hadn‟t counted on.

“An awful lot of people know about this gig,” I mused.

“Are you worried about Salvatore and Zapata?” Dutch asked stiffly.

“No. But I don‟t want anybody screwing this thing up.”

“Don‟t worry about it,” Dutch replied. “We‟ll raise Salvatore and call him off, if you‟re sure that‟s the

way you want to play it.”

“That was my deal,” I said as the waitress brought my breakfast.

“You want to tell us where you‟re going?” Charlie One Ear asked.

“Not really,” I said. “You know how it is with these people, Charlie. They spook real easily.”

I decided we had talked enough about O‟Brian arid changed the subject again.

“Anything new on the Logeto killing?” I asked.

Dutch shook his head. “We combed the neighbourhood. Nobody saw anybody on the roof or coining

down the walls. So far it‟s a blank. But I do have something for you.” He took an envelope out of his

pocket and handed it to me. „Here‟s that list of drops Cohen made. Cowboy finally got it together for

you.”

I opened it up and checked over the list. Most of the addresses didn‟t mean anything to me. The most

significant note was that on two of the three days, Cohen had visited both a branch bank of the

Seacoast National and made his usual two o‟clock visit to the bank.

“Have you checked this over?” I asked Dutch.

He nodded. “I can give you chapter and verse on the drops if you want.”

“I don‟t have time now,” I said, “There‟s one thing that jumps out. I wonder why Cohen has been

hitting the bank twice. On Wednesday and Friday he went to a branch and the main bank. Now why

would he do that?”

“Maybe he doesn‟t like to carry a lot of cash around for too long,” Charlie One Ear suggested.

“Maybe,” I said, staring at the list. “But I don‟t think so. Unless things have changed, he‟s used to

moving large sums of money.”

“You got another idea?” asked Dutch.

“Yeah. Maybe he‟s skimming a little off the top for himself.”

“If he is, he‟s got more guts than I give him credit for,” said Dutch.

“Or he could be working it with Costello,” I said.

“Wouldn‟t that be sweet, to catch them in the middle like that,” Charlie thought aloud. “We could

probably get a whole chorus of canaries out of it.”

“That‟s if he‟s playing games,” I said.

“Cowboy‟s on him again today,” Dutch said. “Maybe he‟ll turn up something new.” Then his

eyebrows went up. “I‟ll be damned,” he said. “Speak of the devil. See the two guys that just walked

in? The one that looks like a football player and the jellyfish with him?”

The two men sat down at a corner table and immediately began to jabber like two spinsters gossiping.

One was Donleavy. The other one was as tall, but slender, and older, probably in his mid-forties, with

wavy, graying hair that framed a weak, flaccid face. His manicured hands jittered nervously as he

talked, fiddling with the bits of toast on his plate the way a spider fiddles with a fly. Both of them

looked like they spent a lot of time in the sun.

“The one on the left is Donleavy,” said Dutch. “The bird in the navy blue suit is the banker, Charles

Seaborn. From the looks of things, they‟re having a lovers‟ spat.”

“I think I‟ll just stir the pot a little,” I said.

“What are you going to do?” Dutch asked nervously.

“Just introduce myself” I said, patting his shoulder as I rose. “I‟m not going to bite anybody.”

I strolled across the restaurant toward the table where Donleavy and Seaborn were bickering over

breakfast. Donleavy saw me from the corner of his eye. He kept talking, but it was obvious that he

sensed I was heading their way and he didn‟t want to be disturbed. As I reached them, he looked up

angrily, trouble clouding his brown eyes.

“I‟m Jake Kilmer,” I said before he had a chance to explode. “I think it‟s about time we met.”

He wasn‟t sure what to do. The anger in his hard features was suddenly replaced by a wide grin, a car

salesman‟s grin, the kind that makes you want to count your fingers after you‟ve shaken hands.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he suddenly babbled, and jumped up. “Of course.” He pumped my hand and

introduced me to Seaborn, who looked like he‟d just bitten his tongue. Seaborn offered me a hand that

was as clammy as it was insincere.

It was obvious that neither of them was overjoyed at meeting

“I‟d like to have a talk with you,” I said to Donleavy, “whenever it‟s convenient.”

“Is it urgent?” he said. “Aren‟t we going to see you tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow night?”

“At Babs‟ cocktail party,” he said with a lame grin. “You better not forget—she‟s touting you as the

guest of honour. She‟s got a short temper and a long memory.”

“I‟ll be there,” I said. “But I need a little time alone with you. It‟s nothing unpleasant. information

mostly.”

He dug a small notebook from an inside pocket and leafed through it. “How about Friday around

noon?” he asked. “I‟ll take the phone off the hook and send out for sandwiches.”

“Sounds like a winner,” I said. “I‟ll buy.”

“Not in my town you won‟t,” he said. His smile had grown more relaxed and genuine. “It‟s

Warehouse. Three, overlooking the Quadrangle. We have the whole top floor.”

“I‟m afraid I won‟t be seeing you tomorrow evening,” Seaborn said. “I have the bank examiners in

town. You know how that can be.”

“By the way,” I said to Seaborn. “I believe you have a customer I know from Cincinnati. His name‟s

Cohen.”

“Cohen?” he echoed, raising his eyebrows much too high. He looked like he had lust swallowed

something much too big for his throat, which was bobbing up and down like a fishing cork.

“Yes. Lou Cohen?”

“Oh, yes, I believe I‟ve seen him in the bank from time to time.”

“Give him my regards the next time you see him,” I said.

I could almost hear their sighs of relief when I left the table. And I knew enough about human nature

to know that Charles Seaborn had more than a casual acquaintance with Cohen.

Perhaps Cowboy Lewis would confirm my suspicions. In the meantime, I couldn‟t help wondering

why tiny beads of sweat had been twinkling from Seaborn‟s upper lip. I usually don‟t make people

that nervous.

When I got back to the table, Dutch still looked nervous.

“What‟d you say to them?” he asked. “Seaborn looked like he swallowed a lemon.”

“1 just asked Seaborn if he knew my old friend Lou Cohen,” I said with a smile.

“Verdammt,” Dutch said, shaking his head. “You sure do play hard cheese.”

“Is there any other way to play?” I replied.

On the way out Dutch was paged. He spoke into the lobby phone for a few moments and hung up.

“That was Zapata,” he said. “Salvatore‟s screaming bloody murder, but he‟s giving up O‟Brian. He

thinks you‟re nuts.”

“I‟ve been accused of that before too,” I said.

“Just so you‟ll know,” Dutch added, “Salvatore knows where O‟Brian is. If you‟re not back in two

hours, we‟re going in with the marines, although I don‟t know why we should bother.”

“We‟re just getting accustomed to that ugly pan of his,” Charlie One Ear commented.

It was nice to know they cared.

37

The fat old pelican sat on a corner post of the deck surrounding the fishing shack, looking bored. He

surveyed the broad expanse of bay which emptied into the Atlantic Ocean a mile away to the east at

Thunder Point. A warm breeze ruffled in from the sound and the old bird stared, half-asleep, across

the surface of the water, looking for the tell-tale signs of lunch. Then, spotting a school of mullet, he

flapped his broad wings and sod red off the post, climbing twenty feet or so above the water, wheeling

over and diving straight in, hitting with a splat and bobbing back up with a fish flopping helplessly in

his bucket of a beak.

The Irishman watched the pelican make his catch. He was making a fishing lure. He had set up a

.small vise on the edge of a table and was carefully twining and ret wining nylon, hook, and feathers,

weaving them into a shiny lure. He had stopped to watch the pelican, keeping the line taut so it would

not ravel.

He was a big man with one of those florid Irish faces that would look fifteen years old until he was