Hooligans (35 page)

hands. Charlie One Ear mumbled something that could have been “shithouse mouse,” although I‟m

not sure.

The Stick and I ambled into a neutral corner on the opposite side of the room from Dutch and laid

back, waiting for something to happen.

Callahan started it.

“Tag these and put „em away,” Dutch told him. The dapper cop found paper and pencil and went up to

the desk to complete his chore. He picked up a palm-sized .25 with a pearl handle, a cute little

weapon, accurate for maybe three feet if the wind isn‟t blowing.

“Which one of you girls belongs to this?” Callahan said with a snicker, holding it between thumb and

forefinger, like a dead fish.

Sweetheart Pravano, well over six feet tall and built like a Russian weightlifter, stepped up and

slapped the carnation out of Callahan‟s lapel.

„Whyn‟t ya eat that daisy, ya fuckin‟ fag,” he said.

His comment was greeted with a right hook that hurt my jaw and sent Sweetheart soaring across the

room, head over heels over a table.

All hell broke loose.

Dutch was so appalled, he just watched it, open-mouthed.

Cowboy swept the artillery back into the paper bag and threw it in a desk drawer.

I held my corner of the room.

The Stick waded right in.

Makeshift weapons appeared from under jackets, armpits, pants legs.

Salvatore drew his sawed-off pool cue from his shoulder holster and whapped Weasel Murphy across

the back of the head as if he were swinging at a fastball. A tuft of Murphy‟s hair lifted straight up and

Murphy slid across a table, sweeping file folders, baskets, and other stenographic paraphernalia before

him to the floor.

Callahan took the meanest-looking of Costello‟s mutts, squared off in a fighting stance, and as the

goon closed in on him, kicked him in the jaw. The toe of his sneaker was loaded with ball bearings, It

burst open like a squashed grapefruit, and steel marbles rattled all over the floor. Callahan‟s target

destroyed a typing stand and landed in a corner, spitting out his front teeth.

The floor was covered with ball bearings. It looked like amateur night at the roller derby, everybody

dilly-dancing on the things like three-year-olds at ballet school.

Charlie One Ear, who had seemed a little overweight to me and far too elegant to mix it up with this

bunch, slid out of his tweed jacket, spun around on the ball of one foot, kicked a goon in the

diaphragm with a perfectly aimed toe-shot, slashed him across the temple with the flat of his hand,

and was hack on both feet before the goon hit the floor. A lovely little pas seul.

Zapata relied on nothing more than his fists, waltzing across the ball-bearinged floor and hitting any

and all targets of opportunity.

The Stick picked Drack Moreno and they went at it, Moreno outweighing him by twenty pounds and

outreaching him by three inches, a condition Stick quickly remedied by first kicking Moreno in the

kneecap, then pulling a handkerchief loaded with silver dollars from his pocket and swinging it

around and around like a bob. It caught Moreno more than once. Moreno‟s face bunched up in pain.

„The Stick hit him in the throat. Moreno‟s tongue almost hit the far wall. His eyes crossed. He gasped

for air. Zapata stepped in and flattened Moreno with a lovely one-two, a short jab to the face, followed

by a gorgeous right uppercut to the jaw.

The Stick‟s silver dollars and Salvatore‟s pool cue finished off Weasel Murphy, who made the

mistake of trying to get up off the floor.

Charlie One Ear gave another of his brief karate demonstrations and put another one away.

Salvatore held the last of Costello‟s strongarms by the collar of his shirt at arm‟s length and was

socking him, almost casually, in the face, over and over again, with his pool cue.

Dutch ended the melee with two shots into the ceiling.

All motion was suspended.

“Verdammt, Salvatore, drop that guy!” he boomed.

Salvatore opened his hand and let him go, the tough dropping face first into a typewriter that lay on

the floor.

Weasel Murphy groaned and slid down the wall.

The asshole with the mouse now had a pair of mice and no front teeth.

Drack Moreno‟s face looked like Omaha Beach on June seventh.

To my knowledge, not one of the hooligans had suffered so much as a bruise, except for Cowboy

Lewis‟ fat lip.

The entire gala had lasted maybe a full minute, no more.

Dutch stood in front of the room, gun in hand, dust drizzling down on his shoulders from two holes in

the ceiling.

“What‟s the matter with everybody? You all comin‟ unwired? Book these punks here for resisting

arrest.”

The door opened cautiously and three uniformed cops peered in nervously before entering the room.

There were a lot of clinking handcuffs and groans as they cleared out the Tagliani goons.

Lewis and the others helped Callahan clean up his ball bearings.

“Brand-new sneakers,” he complained, surveying the split toe of his Nikes.

All clubs and other weapons had magically vanished back to their nesting places.

The Stick returned to my solitary corner. He was smiling. “I feel much better,” he said.

“I thought maybe one of them stole your hat,” I said.

43

With things back under control, we left the war room and went back to the front of the Warehouse.

Costello remained in his corner, still tense, like a big cat waiting to spring. He looked back at me and

stared for a few seconds, as though not quite sure who I was, and then recognition swept over his

features. I could feel the hatred across the room. I smiled at him and stared back. My turn was

coming.

Our group had narrowed down to the Stick, Dutch, and me. Most of the aggravated tension moved

into the other room with us.

“Excuse me,” Costello said in a voice that was flat, harsh, and no less venomous than the bite of an

asp. “Do you mind reading us our rights and telling us what we‟re charged with?”

Dutch said, “The rest of them I‟m gonna charge with, let‟s see, how about assaulting an officer,

resisting arrest, creating a riot, destroying city property—”

“All right, let‟s make it simple,” Costello interrupted. “What the hell are we doing here?”

“Things were a little too quiet, we only had one murder so far today,” Dutch said. “So I thought we‟d

have us all a little picnic.”

“Look,” Costello said to Dutch, “I realize you‟re a well-respected police officer, Morehouse, but

you‟re pushing—”

Now it was Dutch‟s turn to do the interrupting.

“Morehead,” Dutch said in a growl. “Lieutenant Morehead.”

“All right, Morehead—”

“Lieutenant.”

Costello glared a moment or two more. “Lieutenant Morehead, what the hell do you want from us?

Why are we here?”

Dutch said, “Maybe you haven‟t noticed, but a lot of your relatives have dropped suddenly dead in the

last couple of days.”

“is that why that bunch of beach bums of yours has been harassing us for the past few weeks?”

“Oh, I would hardly call that harassment, Mr. Costello,” Dutch said. “I‟ll be glad to show you real

harassment, if you‟d like.”

Throughout the exchange, Chevos never took his eyes off me. They glittered like the eyes of a night

predator. It had suddenly occurred to him who I was, a man whose assassination he had once ordered.

I looked back and for a moment we were eye to eye. A lot went on in that face in a couple of seconds:

hate, fear, annoyance, curiosity, anger, frustration. He finally looked away.

I finally cut into the conversation. “So you‟re representing all these people, right, Costello?”

“That‟s right. I‟m glad somebody finally remembered I‟m an attorney.”

“Then let‟s just you and us talk,” I said, and I stepped back into the war room. Dutch ushered Costello

in and the Stick followed.

I slammed the door and said, “Look, let‟s stop fucking around. You‟re just a mobster, Costello. We all

know it, so let‟s stop the bullshit. Uncle Franco is dead and that makes you primo candidate for capo

di capi—that‟s if you don‟t join the rest of your worthless ancestors, which wouldn‟t hurt my feelings

at all.”

He started to say something but I held my hand up and kept talking. “Now we figure two things,

Costello; either some mob from up country has decided to muscle you out of Dunetown and take over,

or somebody inside your clan has got a real beef going

on.

“Are you implying that I engineered these killings?” he said angrily.

“You haven‟t got the guts,” I said, letting my feelings hang out. “I‟m telling you what we know and

what we‟re guessing.”

“It‟s our problem.”

“Wrong again, asshole,” I said. “We just made it our problem.”

“Not likely,” he said, very slowly and deliberately. “Whatever the problem is, it‟s our problem arid

we‟ll take care of it.”

“Yeah,” I said with a smile. “Just like you have so far?”

His face turned red. Dutch said, “Wrong, anyway. We‟re talking about homicide, lots of it. It‟s out of

your hands, Costello. It‟s officially a police matter. As such, what we‟re suggesting is your

cooperation.”

“I‟ll tell it one more time,” he said, holding up a forefinger. “I don‟t know who is doing this, or why.

And that‟s all any of us will have to say on the matter.”

“That‟s hardly what we call cooperation, counsellor,” Dutch said. Then he piped up, “Right now, I got

you down as an A-number-one client for a hit and an A-number-one suspect. You could be in a lot of

trouble, Mr. Costello. I could book you as a material witness for starters.”

“I‟d be out before the desk sergeant cleared his throat,” Costello said.

“Where‟s Turk Nance?” I asked.

“I barely know Turk Nance. „Why, is he missing?” Costello hissed, then, turning to Dutch, added,

“I‟m leaving now and I‟m taking my people with me.”

“I‟m booking that bunch of muggers of yours for disorderly conduct,” Dutch said. “Seventy-five

bucks apiece.”

“Don‟t be silly

“Disorderly conduct, period,” Dutch said. “You want to argue, we‟ll see you all in court. Otherwise

you can pay the night judge on your way out. It‟ll fix the holes in the ceiling.” He jabbed a thumb

toward the two bullet holes.

Costello turned back to me. “You, I know about. Your name came down from Cincy. I hear you‟re on

the list, buddy boy. Way up. My wife‟s uncle Skeet had a lot of friends.”

“I‟m all torn up over your wife‟s uncle Skeet,” I said. “I‟ll make you a promise, wimp. I‟m going to

send you up there with him. A Christmas present, so he doesn‟t get lonely.”

“You know, you could work yourself to death, Kilmer.”

“I doubt even you‟re stupid enough to knock over a Fed,” the Stick said to Costello.

“Sure he is,” I said. “He‟s real stupid.”

“Maybe you ought to be on the list too,” Costello said to Stick.

“Love it,” said the Stick, and started laughing.

“You‟ve been a flea bite to my family for a long time, Kilmer,” Costello said.

“Sure, that‟s why you all ran out of Cincinnati,” I said with a leer. “You couldn‟t stand the itch.”

“I suggest you back off,” he said coldly. “We‟ve done nothing illegal here. This is none of your

business.”

“Everything you do‟s my business,” I snarled. “I‟ve made you my favourite charity.”

There was one of those tense moments when nobody says anything. I decided to fill in the blanks.

“There‟s an African proverb, goes like this,” I said. “When the skunk saw the lion run from him, he

thought he was king of the jungle. And then he met a dog with a bad cold.‟ That‟s me, Costello, I‟m

your dog with a bad cold. I know all about your lily-white record and I don‟t care. I‟m going to turn

you up. Sooner or later this dog is going to bite. That‟s if you‟re still around.”

“Oh, I‟ll be around,” he said, and turned to leave. He hesitated at the door. “This is a family affair,” he

said. “Resolving it is a mailer of honour to us.”

“That explains the problem,” I said. “If honour‟s concerned in this, you‟re dead already.”

Costello turned and left. I followed him back out and went up to Chevos, standing so I was a few

inches from his face. He looked like one of those Russian assassins that usually get elected to the

Politburo.

I put on my toughest voice, almost a whisper with an edge like a carving knife.

“Where‟s Nance, old man?”

He stared at rue, snake-eyed, his jaws shivering. He didn‟t answer and he couldn‟t look me in the eye;

he just kept staring over my shoulder.

“Where‟s Nance,
old man
?” I snarled again, with as much menace as I could put in it.

Blood filled his face at the insult but he still didn‟t answer.

“Give him a message from me,” I hissed angrily. “You tell that gutless back-shooter he fucked up

when he missed me in Cincinnati that night. Tell him the next time he tries, I‟m gonna take his gun

away from him, stick it up his ass, and blow his brains out. Do you think you can remember that, or

are you too senile?”

He was so angry his eyes started to water. His Adam‟s apple was bobbing like a bubble in the surf as

he swallowed his spit.

“1 know all about you, you disgusting freak,” I went on, getting all the venom I could out of my

system. “You make junkies out of children. You kill women. You‟re scum, Chevos, and you‟re on my

list too.”

It felt good. Damn, did it feel good. I may not have had ball bearings in my sneakers or a sawed-off

pool cue in my holster, but I felt good.