Hooligans (57 page)

Graves leaned back and waved his hands. “Okay,” he said, “give us some air. You men drink?”

“Not right now,” I said.

“You the talker, dog lover?” he asked, nodding toward me.

I said I was.

“So talk.

I didn‟t know how I was going to start or exactly what I was going to say. I had to wing it. Graves was

no fool. If we were there because of the morning raid on Chevos‟ shrimp company, we would have

come in force with warrants. We wanted to talk and he was all ears.

“Things come to me,” I said. “Because of my business I hear things.”

“And what‟s been comin‟ at you, man?” the lean, ebony mobster said, still smiling.

“It comes to me that a Cincinnati gangster named Tagliani and his outfit came down here to set up

shop. They wanted the Front Street action, but they knew they had to get past you, one way or

another. They may have had some local help moving in here—that‟s up for grabs right now—but one

person Tagliani definitely did not have help from was Stoney Titan, and since you and Stoney have a

deal, they couldn‟t ease you out. It comes to me that the Taglianis decided to try the water, find out

just how tough you were, so they sent an Ohio hoodlum named Cherry McGee in to test you. He

couldn‟t take you, so Tagliani managed to frame you, and after you did your clock, you came out and

blew McGee up, along with a couple of his pistols.

“Meantime, they started taking over, squeezing in here and there. They started dealing heavy drugs,

mostly cocaine, to service the big rollers from out of town, which, it comes to me, is not your style.

They also had big money, and that‟s where they started hurting you. They were squeezing you out

because they had the financing.

“So it comes to me that you decided to make one big move, a coke connection in South America that

would net you maybe twenty, thirty mil on the street plus bite a big hole in their trade.

“Then, last Sunday, Tagliani hijacked your load, killed your people, and burned the boat, which left

you without your goods and owing the connections that fronted you. So, it comes to me, you declared

war and started wasting Taglianis. And then when Harry Raines got hot under the collar over all the

shooting, you put him away.”

I paused for a moment and then said, “That‟s the way it comes to me.”

He took off the sunglasses and bored holes in me with cast iron eyes.

“Dog lover, you‟re so full of shit you‟re contagious,” Graves murmured, without humour. “Comes to

you, my ass.”

“I said that‟s the way it comes to me, I didn‟t say that‟s the way it was. But that‟s how it could be

played, if enough people wanted it done that way.”

He leaned back and toyed with the glasses. Now I had his interest.

“Okay,” he whispered, “how do you think it was?”

“Well, here‟s the way it wasn‟t. I don‟t think you killed any of the Tagliani clan, except maybe

McGee and some of his gang. And I don‟t think you put Harry Raines away. Not only that, but I can

probably prove you didn‟t.”

“That‟s damn nice of you, brother,” he said. “What do you want rue to do in return, marry your

sister?”

“I want you to call off your guns, right now. Before the shooting really starts and a lot of people who

don‟t have anything to do with this get wasted.”

“You want we should stand in the middle of the boulevard and invite that fuckin‟ Nance to have target

practice on us, that it?” his voice rasped.

“I‟ll take care of Nance,” I said. “I got more reason than you. He‟s tried to kill me twice.”

For some reason that impressed Graves. He said, “I‟m not real clear on what it is you‟re offering me

to do for what.”

“If you hang up your guns, I‟ll see to it that the Taglianis do the same. Then all you have to do is sit

back and let the Feds put the rest of the Tagliani clan away and it‟ll be all yours again.”

“And the Feds‟re just gonna leave rue alone, right?”

“That‟s the way it‟ll work out,” I said.

“And what it is, you‟re just doin‟ this because you‟re a fine, upstanding dude that does good work,

right? Shit, man, what you take me for? I wasn‟t out pickin‟ cotton when the brains were handed out.”

“Look, I know about your deal „with Mr. Stoney and I don‟t—”

“1 ain‟t got no deal with Mr. Stoney ,“ he said. “He don‟t deal, man, don‟t come grubbin‟ around wit1

his hand out lookin‟ for part of the action, shit. That ain‟t his style. Me and Mr. Stoney have an

understanding. If I fuck up, I get hammered. If I don‟t, everything‟s velvet.”

“What I‟m saying is, I‟m after Tagliani. I don‟t care how you and Mr. Stoney run the town. It looked

pretty good to me in the old days.”

“You talked to Mr. Stoney about all this?”

“He‟ll figure it out by himself,” I said. “Personally, I think you‟re getting suckered into this gunfight

with Tagliani.”

His smile vanished, but the voice didn‟t change.

“1 don‟t get suckered, dog lover. That ain‟t my style.”

“You want to listen?” I said bluntly.

He put his leg back on the floor and leaned over the table toward me. “Okay,” he said, “we‟ve come

this far. Just don‟t piss me off.”

“They need a fall guy for the whole enchilada.”

“Who needs?”

“Maybe Chevos. Maybe Costello. 4aybe even Bronicata, although I doubt it. Whoever knocked aver

twelve Taglianis so far this week. Somebody had to go down for it and they‟re setting you up to be the

guy.”

He leaned back in his chair, making a church steeple of his fingertips, and stared up at the dark

ceiling. There was a lot to sort through, most of it guesswork on my part, and very little of it, if any,

could be substantiated.

Without looking down, Graves whispered:

“Also I didn‟t kill McGee. Man, I was gonna whack that little cocksucker off but somebody else did

the job for me.”

That one caught me by surprise, although I did my best not to show it.

“I‟ve had my people killed in this thing,” he said. “Hard to forget.”

“So why get more killed? It‟ll just get harder to forget. I understand people went down on both sides.”

Pause.

“That‟s true,” he agreed. Then, still looking at the ceiling, “I take the fifth on that cocaine shit. That‟s

federal. Put that motherfucker back in the file.”

“You‟re clean on that one too,” I said. “If somebody else lifted the load, you‟re not guilty of violating

anything. Whoever stole and brought it in, that‟s the guilty party.”

He looked down at me and smiled. “You could be in the wrong game, dog lover,” he said. “You

oughta be a fixer.”

“I used to be,” I said.

“Well, shit, how about that.”

“Can we talk about Leadbetter?” 1 asked. I wanted to know about the dead police chief. That was

another coincidence I didn‟t believe in. Mufalatta was staring at me, open-mouthed, as I pushed it as

far as it would go.

“What about him?”

“Was he giving you any trouble?”

Graves shook his head very slowly. “Him and Mr. Stoney,” he said, entwining two angers., “like

that.”

“Do you know why he was killed?”

“1 heard it was an accident,” he said.

“There‟s one other thing,” I said. “Did Tony Lukatis ever do a job for you?”

“Shit, don‟t be a jive-ass. I hardly knew the little motherfucker.”

“You didn‟t like him, then?”

“I didn‟t think about him one way or the other.”

“So he wasn‟t working for you on the Colombia run?”

“If there was a Colombia run, he wouldn‟t have been workin‟ for me, nohow. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“So what the hell‟s the plan, baby? Do we wait for you to tell us the truce is on or what?”

“I need a couple of hours,” I said.

“To do what?”

“Cool the situation down. Just stay low, that‟s all you got to

He stroked his jaw with a large, rawboned hand that sparkled with a diamond ring as big as the house

I was born in. He started to chuckle in that whispery, gravel voice of his.

“I don‟t believe this, y‟know. I mean, me trustin‟ a fuckin‟ honky Fed. What‟s your name, man?”

“Kilmer. Jake Kilmer.”

“Like the poet?”

“You read poetry?” I said.

“Why not,” he said. “1 got class.”

66

SHOOTOUT IN BACK O’TOWN

“Okay, you got a deal,” Graves said, offering roe his hand. “We‟ll stay cool until you get Nance and

the rest of them off the street. But they come lookin‟ for trouble, Kilmer, forget it. I ain‟t standing still

for any motherfucker.”

A phone rang somewhere in the darkness of the Church. It kept ringing persistently until it was finally

answered. A voice in the darkness said, “It‟s for somebody named Kilmer. Is that either one of you?”

I stood up, followed by Graves‟ hard glance.

“I hope this ain‟t some kind of stand-up, „cause if it is, man, you go down first.”

“Probably my broker,” I said, and followed a vague form back to the cash register. The phone was on

the wall, an old-fashioned black coin-eater.

“Kilmer,” I said.

It was Dutch. “Get your ass outta there now,” he told me.

“We‟re doing fine here,” I said.

“Kite Lange just called central from his car He‟s following Nance and two carloads of Tagliani

gunsels, and they‟re headed your way.”

“Call in some blue and whites.”

“I‟ve done that but you got maybe a minute to get out of there before shooting‟s likely to start.”

“Goddamn it,” I said, “Nose has agreed to a cease-fire!”

“Then you better get your ass out here and tell that to your buddy Nance, „cause he‟s about to come

around the corner.”

I slammed down the phone and stumbled through the darkness back to Graves‟ table.

“We got a problem,” I said as calmly s I could. “Nance is on his way with two cars.”

An S&W .38 appeared in Graves‟ fist. There was a lot of movement around us. The gun was a beauty,

a Model 19 with a four-inch barrel, Pachmar grip, the cocking spur shaved off. Not fancy, all pro.

“What the fuck‟s goin‟ down here?” he hissed.

“That was our partner. One of our people spotted Nance and his bunch heading this way. Police cars

are coming. Just stay inside, keep your heads down. Let us handle it.”

“You ain‟t goin‟ nowhere till this gets unwound, dog lover.”

An explosion ended the conversation. The front door erupted and yellow flames lashed up the

stairwell, followed by bits and pieces of wood and glass that seemed to float lazily in the updraft.

The place shook like an earthquake had hit us.

The Kid dove sideways, out of Graves‟ line of fire, and pulled me with him. Graves couldn‟t have

cared less about us, though. He dashed toward the door.

Handguns started popping down on the street. Then a shotgun bellowed and somebody screamed.

The Kid turned a service table on its side, smacked a leg off with his elbow, grabbed it like a club, and

motioned me to follow him to a side door.

Another explosion. I looked back and saw a gaping hole in the side of the room. Light slashed through

smoke and fire, showing me several men with guns, heading toward the front stairs, fire be damned.

More gunfire. Another scream. Handguns were popping off all over the place. I could hear several

sirens shrieking out on the street.

Heavy artillery boomed behind the door lust as we got to it. The Kid kicked it open and came face to

face with one of Turk Nance‟s goons. His Remington twelve-gauge had lust blown a hole through one

of Graves‟ men, who was tumbling down the stairs behind him. The Kid jumped back inside as the

hoodlum swung the shotgun up. Mufalatta pulled the door shut, and dragged me to my knees beside

him as the riot gun blew a six-inch plug out of the centre of the door. The Kid counted to three and

then slammed the door open again, right into the gunman‟s face. The shotgun barrel slid through the

hole it had just made in the door. The Kid grabbed the barrel with one hand, pulled the door shut

again, and wrenched the weapon from the gunman‟s hands. He reached through the hole, grabbed a

handful of the hoodlum‟s shirt, pulled him against the shattered door, and slammed the butt end of the

table leg into his chest. The gangster fell away from the front door, gagging, and the Kid charged out,

swinging the table leg like Lou Gehrig, and almost took off the goon‟s head. The gunman hit the stairs

halfway down, bounced once, and piled up in the doorway.

We followed him down the stairs. The shotgun was an 870P police riot gun loaded with pellets, an

awesome weapon. At the foot of the stairs we peered cautiously around the corner of the door. One of

Nance‟s cars was parked twenty feet away. They saw the Kid‟s black face and every gun in the car

opened up.

We jumped back as the doorjamb was blown to pieces.

“There‟s one of „em outside the car on the other side,” the Kid said. “I‟m gonna squirrel the son of a

bitch and get us a little breathin‟ room.”

Squirreling is a useful trick. Fire a shotgun or any projectile weapon at less than a forty-five-degree

angle into anything solid, and the bullet or pellets will ricochet exactly eight inches off that surface

and stay at that height. That‟s just low enough to go under a car. The Kid got the shotgun ready,

leaned around the corner, and cut loose twice.

Kow-boom! Kow-boom!

Forty-eight pellets sang off the sidewalk and showered under the car, tearing through the ankle and

shin of the man on the other side. He went down screaming. The Kid took advantage of the hiatus to

put another blast through the rear window. The car took off, with the wounded thug hanging on to the