Hooligans (44 page)

lives in a castle on the ocean and nothing bad ever happens to her. I know that‟s not true, though. She

lost Teddy.” She paused and then added, “She lost you.”

“That‟s not quite accurate,” I said. “She didn‟t lose me.”

“Oh yes,” she said with a nod, “she lost you.”

I didn‟t disagree. There wasn‟t anything to disagree with. We had different points of view.

“I used to dream of being Doe,” she said. “When we had a picnic, Doe always carried the flag and the

rest of us cleaned up the trash. It‟s just the way it was. She never asked to be treated special; nice

things just happened to her. I suppose it‟s always that way with the rich.”

She said it almost wistfully and without malice, like it was an undeniable fact of life, and I suppose it

was, until life inevitably caught up with even the rich. For the flash of a second I considered telling

her what really happened to Teddy, but I didn‟t want to bust her pretty balloon. She seemed to have

control of her memories. Perhaps that‟s why she recalled them with such innocence and without angst.

She had learned the difference between memories and dreams.

She dozed off that way. It felt good there, with her curled up in my lap. I thought I might relax for a

few minutes before going back to the hotel, to make sure she was sleeping soundly. I leaned back and

thought about Tony and DeeDee Lukatis, always on the outside looking in, close enough to savour the

sweet life, but never close enough to taste it. I thought about Tony Lukatis, who tried to make the

dream come true and ended up in jail instead, and DeeDee, harbouring a futile high school dream for

all those years. I fell asleep thinking about them and realizing that in the end, DeeDee, Tony, and I

were not that much different.

I had the same old dream again that night, only this time Tony Lukatis was running on the ridge.

53

I awoke to soft sunlight, filtering through gauze drapes, and the smell of fresh coffee. Sometime

during the night DeeDee had slipped a pillow under my head and draped a blanket over me, but! still

felt like I‟d been stretched on the rack.

She was wearing a plain black silk dress and her long hair was gathered in a bun at the back of her

head, quite a departure from the previous night. Either way, she was a knockout. She put a tray with

orange juice, toast, and coffee on the table in front of me.

“Thanks,” I said. “What time is it?”

“A little after eight. This should give you enough strength to go back to the hotel and clean up before

you meet.. what‟s his name?”

.

“Mickey Parver. Everybody calls him Stick but don‟t ask why, it‟s too early to talk.”

The Juice was ice cold, the coffee strong and hot, and the toast wasn‟t burned. I wolfed it down while

she sat across from me and had her second cup.

“1 want to thank you for last night,” she said. She sounded almost embarrassed.

“For what, almost getting you killed?”

“I mean later, after that. It‟s the first time I‟ve slept in days. And thanks, too, for. . . listening to me

ramble.”

“Better watch out,” 1 said. “Your inhibitions are showing again.”

“I only wish there was some way I could repay you.”

There it was, the perfect opening. It was time to play cop again. I sipped a little more coffee. It was

tough coming out with it.

“Maybe there is,” I said finally.

She was pleased at the prospect. “Really?” she cried. “What? Anything!”

I sipped at my coffee for a moment or two, trying to phrase it just right, but that never works. No

matter how I put it, it was going to come out wrong in the end.

“You might want to think about this,” I said.

“Think about what?”

“What I‟m about to ask you.”

Her smile started to fade.

“You know a man named Cohen who banks at the Seacoast?” I asked.

“Yes. Not personally, just as a customer of the bank.”

“Does he come in often?”

“Usually every day. Why?”

“Do you handle his account?”

She cocked her head like a puppy hearing an unfamiliar sound.

“No,” she said. “Mr. Seaborn handles
it
personally.”

There it was. The connection. My pulse picked up but it
still didn‟t prove anything. “Is that

customary? I mean for the president of the bank to handle an account personally?”

“He does it on several major accounts, if that‟s what the customer wants. What‟s this about, Jake?”

“I need some information,” I said. “It will be kept totally confidential, I promise you that. There‟s no

danger of anyone ever finding out where it came from. It will only be used by me to dig up some

background information.”

Her forehead furrowed into a deep frown.

“What is it? What do you want?” she asked. Her tone was becoming more formal.

“I need the access number for the bank‟s computer, and Cohen‟s account number or numbers.”

She was shocked. For two full minutes she stared at me in disbelief, then she lowered her eyes to the

floor.

“So,” she said, “we both wanted something.”

There was no response to that. It was true.

“If it‟s at all risky I said, but her stare killed the sentence while it was still in my mouth.

“Isn‟t giving out that information a felony?” she asked.

“Only if you‟re caught.”

“Seems to me somebody said that to Tony once.”

I was prepared to take whatever abuse she might throw my way. It was a rotten thing to ask, a rotten

position to put her in. Had it not been for her concern over Tony and my promise to try and help, I

could never have broached the subject. I‟m sure all of that was racing through her mind.

“Look,” I said, “if you don‟t trust me, forget it. I‟m still going to get a line on Tony for you, if it‟s

possible.”

“Thanks for telling me that, anyway,” she said. She stared at the floor some more. I decided to push it.

“There are laws that make it possible to put people away,” I said, “people who deserve to be put

away, if we can prove their money is earned illegally. I believe Cohen is a money man for the Mafia.

That‟s who tried to kill us last night.”

She looked up sharply, her concern tempered by curiosity.

“It isn‟t the first time they‟ve tried to put me away,” I said. “I have a bullet hole in my side as a

memento from their last try.”

She kept staring without comment, making me work for it.

“Would you like to hear how they make their money? Or what they do to people who get in their

way?”

“I got a hint of that last night,” she said, getting up and taking the tray back to the kitchen. When she

returned, she said, “Come on, I‟ll take you to the hotel.”

She didn‟t say anything else. She got her things together and checked the door to make sure it was

locked when we left. Just a couple of normal folks heading off for the daily grind. In the daylight her

street was like a picture from an eighteenth-century history book. I almost expected to see Ben

Franklin strolling by with a kite or Thomas Paine ranting on the street corner. It didn‟t seem possible

that Front Street was only a few blocks away.

DeeDee didn‟t say a word on the way to the Ponce. When we got there she turned to me, her face

tortured with anguish and anxiety.

“I know how to reach you,” I said. “I‟ll call, even if I don‟t hear anything definite.” I started to leave

the car.

“Jake?”

“Yeah?”

She sat for a minute longer, then shook her head. “I can‟t do it,” she said. “I owe a lot to Charles

Seaborn, and somehow what you‟re asking seems like an affront to him. When Tony got in all that

trouble, some of the directors at the bank wanted Mr. Seaborn to fire me. They felt it gave the bank a

lad image. He stuck by me through it all, never said a word or asked anything more of me than I

usually gave. I didn‟t even know about it for months. Lark found out and told me. I‟m sorry, but what

you‟re asking d feel as if I‟d done something to him personally.”

“My mistake,” I said. “I never should have asked.”

“I‟m glad you did,” she said. “I‟m glad you felt comfortable enough to ask me. I‟m just sorry I feel

this way.”

“Loyalty‟s a rare commodity, don‟t apologize for it,” I said. “I‟ll be talking to you.”

“Thanks again,” she mumbled as I got out of the car. I watched her drive away and went into the

hotel. The Stick was sitting in the lobby reading the morning paper.

“This is a terrible hour to be getting in,” he said drolly. “What‟ll the neighbours think?”

“You know what you can do with the neighbours,” I snapped.

“Uh-oh. Get out on the wrong side of the bed?”

“I never got into bed.”

“Ah, that‟s the problem.”

I glared at him and suggested breakfast in the room to save time. “I need a shower,” I growled.

We went to the room and I ordered food. I needed more than the toast and coffee DeeDee had

provided. Then I got Dutch on the phone and gave him a quick report on the night‟s activities, not

wanting him to hear it from anybody else. In the excitement at the movie theatre I had forgotten to tell

him about my meeting with Harry Nesbitt. I started off with that, finishing with the shootout at

Casablanca.

The latter got him fuming.

“I‟ll have Kite pick up that son of a bitch Nance now,” he growled.

“Won‟t do any good. He‟s probably got a dozen people who‟ll swear he was six other places at the

time.”

“So what do we do, ignore it?”

“For the time being,” I said, “When we get him, I want to get him good—and I want it to stick.”

“What do you want to do about Nesbitt?” Dutch asked. “It doesn‟t sound like his info on Nance was

too swift.”

“Maybe Nance went around the bend,” I said. “I can‟t imagine Costello or Chevos pulling a stunt that

stupid the way things are.”

“Why not?” the Stick cut in. “If he‟d nailed you, they could‟ve written you off as another victim.”

“I made a promise to Nesbitt and I‟d like to keep it,” I told Dutch. “Can we find a couple of honest

cops who‟ll smuggle him down to Jax and stick with him until his plane leaves?”

“I‟ll take care of it,” Dutch said. “Let me know when you hear from him.”

“Thanks. Stick and I are working on some other things. I‟ll catch up with you later.”

He rang off and I gave Stick the license number of the black Pontiac. He called the DMV while I

showered and shaved.

The license plates were hot, stolen a Few hours before Nance and company came calling on me.

“Shit,” 1 growled, “the way this day is starting maybe I ought to go back to bed and start over.”

A bellhop who didn‟t look a day over fifteen showed up with breakfast. The phone rang and I

answered it, trying to eat, talk, and put fresh clothes on at the same time.

“Good morning, darling.” Doe‟s voice was as soft as lambskin and husky with sleep. “Sleep late?”

I looked over at Stick, who was back into his newspaper, then turned my back to him and dropped my

voice an octave.

“Yeah. A late night. A lot happened.”

“1 thought about you all day and all night.”

“Me too,” I mumbled.

“It was torturous being with Harry after the other night.”

I made a dive for the safe spots, but stopped before I got there. I thought, Why does it scare me when

it‟s what I want to hear?

“That‟s understandable,” I answered.

“Are you under the covers? I can hardly hear you.”

“My partner just stopped by for breakfast,” I half whispered.

“Ah, so that‟s it,” she purred. “Well, I‟ll let you go. I just wanted to hear your lovely voice before I

got up. I want to lie here and think about you. Please make it happen again soon. God, how I miss

you.”

“Well, that‟s good,” I said awkwardly.

She laughed. “What a silly thing to say,” she replied. “I‟ll be staying at Windsong for a week or so,

alone. Harry‟s staying at the townhouse. I‟m coming out here after the party tonight.”

“Party?”

“Babs‟ cocktail party, you goose. If you miss it, she‟ll kill you— that‟s if I don‟t do it first. See you at

six. Thank you for coming back, Jake. I love you, my sweet.”

“Uh, yeah, me too.”

She hung up.

I cradled the phone and turned around to finish dressing. A minute crept by before Stick said, without

looking up from his paper, “You really got it bad. You can hardly talk to the woman.” Before I could

protest, he held his hand up and closed his eyes.

“Please, don‟t insult me by telling me that was your insurance man.”

“That‟s right, it was my insurance man,” I said with mock irritation.

“She wants to crawl all over your bones, right? It‟s always like that the morning after.”

“How come you reduce everything to a cliché? Maybe this is different.”

“It‟s different, all right. I‟ll give you that in spades, friend. It is unique. Her old man owns the town,

her husband runs the town, you‟d like to put him in jail, at least for murder if nothing better pops up,

and you tell me it‟s different! That‟s the understatement of the year.”

“It‟s only a problem if I make it a problem.”

“You‟ve already made it a problem, putz! What in the flick do you call a problem if this isn‟t one?”

“Dunetown. There‟s a problem.”

I finished dressing and ate another piece of soggy toast.

“Okay,” I blurted, “it‟s a problem. She‟s rooted too deep, man. I haven‟t been able to get her out of

my mind for twenty years. I keep thinking it was the best shot I ever had. I want another crack at it.

I‟m stuck on what could have been instead of what is.”