Hooligans (66 page)

He swung the sailboat in a tight arc, pulling as close to the sandbar as he could. He knew the creek

well; knew, too, that the bar dropped off sharply on its north side, sharply enough to get in tight. Stick

grabbed the back of Murphy‟s shirt and hauled him to his feet.

“What the hell are you doing? Lemme alone, lemmee the mobster howled.

The boat nudged the bar.

Stick threw him over the side.

Murphy shrieked. He landed on his side in the soft sand, rolled over, still screaming, scrambled to his

feet, and sloshed through ankle-deep sand to the middle of the bar. He stood there, his hands behind

his back, his eyes bulging with fear, watching the fins circle his diminishing island.

“For God‟s sakes, what‟d I do? I didn‟t do nothin‟! Get rue offa here. Jesus, Mary, and lose ph,

please, get me offa here!”

Stick leaned toward him. “Now listen good, Weasel. The tide‟s coming in. This bar lies very low in the

water. Another five, six minutes, the water will cover it. At full tide, in about forty-five minutes, it‟ll be

up to your waist. Do you get the drift?”

Murphy looked around, wide-eyed. There were sharks all over the place, circling the tiny island as if

they could smell him.

“Here, I‟ll give you a break,” Stick said. “You won‟t have to look at them.”

Stick turned the spotlight off.

“No-o-o,” Murphy moaned.

The moon dipped behind the clouds. Murphy was rooted to his spot. He was beyond fear now, afraid

to move in any direction. He squinted into the darkness but it was too dark to see anything.

But he could hear them.

“Get me offa here, please,” Murphy pleaded. There was no bravado left.

Stick replied, “The tide‟s coming in, Weasel. In two or three minutes you‟ll feel it around your

ankles.”

Murphy‟s feet squirmed beneath him. He had trouble catching his breath. He was overwhelmed with

fear. Then he felt the first cold, wet fingers seeping through the soles of his shoes, down through the

shoelace holes, around the tongues of his expensive brogans, clutching at his feet.

Murphy suddenly started to babble. He couldn‟t talk fast enough. His words tumbled over each other

arid he started to stutter:

“They‟re going to Thunder Point! To Chevos‟ p-p-p-place! They went out on the boat to celebrate. .

“Celebrate what?”

“Costello‟s the new capo di capi.”

“When are they coming in?”

“They‟re due to get to the marina about t-t-ten. ..“

“How do you know that?”

“That‟s when I‟m supposed to be back. I g-g-got a coupla hours off „cause I get seasick.”

“Who‟s going to be there?”

“It‟s everybody. It‟s the whole goddamn w-w-works, except maybe for Nance. I. . . I swear to G-G-

God I don‟t know where he is. Please, oh, God, please get me offa here. That‟s all I know. All I know,

I swear on my mother‟s eyes, I don‟t know another f-f-fuckin‟ thing. Jesus, man I‟ll p-p-pay you. What

d‟ya want? You want my car? I got a brand-new Chrysler convertible it‟s yours. Damn it, please. .

“That‟s better, Weasel. Okay, start walking this way.”

“1 can‟t, not in the dark, don‟t do..

“Just walk toward my voice.”

“1 can‟t m-m-move!”

“I‟ll keep talking and you keep walking and if you don‟t lose your cool, you‟ll make
it
over here. But

you better stop fuckin‟ around, Weasel, because the tide doesn‟t stop. It‟s gonna get deeper and. .

“I‟m walkin‟, I‟m walkin‟. Can I have the light, can I please have the fuckin” light?”

Murphy was dragging one foot after the other through the sandy water. Each step seemed to take him

deeper.

“I‟m going wrong!” he yelled at the darkness. “The water‟s up to my shins!”

“I warned you about the tide, Weasel. just keep coming. You‟re doing fine, but don‟t stop. If you stop,

they‟ll be on top of you in another five minutes.”

Murphy took another step and the water swirled around his knees. He began to get sick to his

stomach. He started running, lost his balance, and fell face down in the cold salt water. He scrambled

frantically, trying to get his knees under him, but with his hands shackled behind him he had trouble.

He swallowed a mouthful of water, then got his head up, coughing and gulping for air.

“Where are ya?” Murphy screamed when he finally regained his footing.

He heard the sailboat‟s motor, then realized it was moving away from him!

“Hey!” Murphy screamed. “H-e-e-e-y!”

The sound of the motor grew dimmer and dimmer. The thrashing of the sharks was drawing closer.

The water was almost up to his waist.

The last human voice Murphy heard was the Stick‟s, far off in the blackness of night. The man‟s

singing! Murphy cried out to himself

“Up a lazy river, by the old mill run -.

75

An hour crept by. It seemed like four or five. At first the TV monitor discouraged conversation. I

figured the room had to be bugged. After I got my wits together I decided to give it a test. I looked

straight into the camera and said, “Would it be too much to ask for a glass of water?” Nothing 1ad

happened, so I kicked on the door. Sweetheart Pravano answered my summons. He was still wearing

the battle scars from the fight at the Warehouse: a mouse on his right eye and a four-inch gash in his

jaw. He glared at me when I made the request and shut the door in my face, but a minute or two later a

young kid who was wearing both suspenders and a belt, as well as an empty shoulder holster under his

arm, brought us each a glass of ice water. „Then they left us alone.

“What do you think they‟re going -to do with us?” Doe asked.

“I don‟t know,” I said, quite honestly.

During the remainder of that hour Doe and I talked quietly but steadily. I explained who Tagliani was,

although she seemed to have a vague notion already. I also told her Tony Lukatis had been slain

hijacking the cocaine shipment, which she didn‟t know, although the information didn‟t seem to upset

her too much.

“So you knew about Tony?” she said. “That was over such a long time ago. Poor Tony. He wanted so

desperately to make something of himself, to be more than...” She tried to explain Lukatis‟ obsession,

but it wouldn‟t come out.

“I can understand that,” I said. “He just picked the wrong way to do it.”

“Was he involved with these people?”

I shook my head. „1 don‟t think so,” I said, but didn‟t take it any farther. I still didn‟t know who he

was involved with.

“I guess I was the cause of all that, too,” she said, and started to cry. “1 caused it all.”

“No, that‟s not true,” I said. “You were a pawn in the game, like a lot of us.”

“It was all over between us before he ever got in trouble,” Doe went on, purging the memory of

Lukatis. “He wouldn‟t accept that. He kept calling, sending me cards, leaving little gifts. Then I saw

him one day and he told me things were going to be different. He called it his big score. I had no idea

he was going to She let the sentence drift off. She was having a lot of trouble finishing sentences.

That‟s when I told her about Sam Donleavy. Her shoulders sagged as the story unfolded. Tears welled

in her eyes. The shock of disbelief pulled at her face, like the heavy hand of time. I took her in my

arms and held her as tightly as I could and let her sob it out.

Then I heard the throb of heavy engines outside. There was a lot of yelling and laughter, people

entering the other room. A few minutes later there was what sounded like an angry exchange,

although I couldn‟t tell for sure who was talking to whom, or what the rhubarb was all about. Then the

door opened.

The lights of Thunder Point Marina twinkled like stars on the bay a half mile away. Stick hunched

down in the cockpit of the sailboat, his hat pulled down over his eyes so the wind wouldn‟t blow it off.

There was a strong wind coming in from the southeast and the sails were full, billowed out like

shrouds above him in the darkness. He had the sheets pulled in as tight as he could and the boat was

keeled low in the water. The waves bounded past his elbow like a river on a rampage.

For ten minutes he had been watching Costello‟s yacht as it sailed into the inlet from open water and

headed for the marina. Now it was pulling into the dock.

He set the tiller, tied it down, reached under the seat, and pulled out a waterproof bag. First he took

out the .357 and checked the chamber. It was loaded with cont rolled-expansion treasury rounds.

Then the 180, his little jewel. He checked the silencer and snapped a 180-round drum into the

chamber, mentally ticking off his firepower as he did. He turned on the laser scope and watched the

little red dot dance across the swollen sails. Next came the M16, the old standby, fully loaded with a

thirty-shot clip. He took a forty-millimetre grenade from the hag and inserted it in the grenade

launcher under the barrel. Finally he got the ammo bag, which held two drums for the 180, six clips

for the 16, six grenades, and five quick-loads for the Magnum.

Not bad. Seven grenades and 786 rounds of ammo.

He mentally counted the enemy: Costello, Bronicata, Chevos, and two other gunmen on the boat.

Nance, Sweetheart Pravano, and at least four others he could think of inside the marina, and the two

guards with sawed-off shotguns on the dock.

Thirteen. About sixty rounds per man plus the grenades. Piece of cake. He‟d been up against a lot

worse.

He adjusted the night sight on the M-16 and checked out the deck of the yacht. There they were:

Costello, Chevos, Bronicata, Drack Moreno, all the heavyweights bi4 Nance and Pravano, who had

to be inside somewhere, and Cohen, who was probably home in bed.

Beautiful, he thought. The timing couldn‟t be better. Just one big happy family.

That was fine about Cohen. Cohen belonged to lake. The rest of them were his. He started smearing

black shoe polish on his face.

This time it was Dutch who snatched up the phone when it rang. He was waiting for the call. It was

Cowboy Lewis, patched in from the police helicopter.

“We spotted „em, Dutch. Costello‟s barge is pullin‟ into the private dock on the back of Thunder

Point Marina right now.”

“You sure it‟s him?”

“It is unless he cloned that boat of his. Ain‟t another one around here like it.”

“How far away are you?”

“Half a mile, maybe.”

“Can you get down low enough to check the parking kit for that cinnamon Eldorado without getting

your kiester blown off?”

“We‟ll have to use lights.”

“Okay, but be careful. We‟re heading out there anyway, just in case. I‟m tired of sitting on my duster

back here.”

“See ya,” said Lewis.

Stick trimmed his sails and slid quietly past the end of the dock. The two guards were leaning against

the side of the yacht, talking.

Stick studied the layout. The marina was to his left, separated from the private dock by a concrete

wharf and twenty feet of water. A walkway led from the dock up to the house.

A hundred meters maybe, no more, from dock to house.

Plenty of trees for cover plus a terraced lawn that led down to the water.

Two big lights on a pole at the end of the dock. Fuck it, no problem.

The house itself was one-story. That was good. No high ground for them. He swept the house with his

night scope, planning his attack. From left to right, he made the kitchen, with a sliding panel out to a

terrace; the main room, big, with a cathedral ceiling; a bedroom with a large picture window

overlooking the water, and a circular waterbed in the center of it; and a smaller room at the end of

the house. At first he thought that room was dark; then he saw a sliver of light streaming through the

drapes. That‟s where they had to be. And they were here. He knew that because Nance was here.

He counted heads.

Three in the kitchen, including Bronicata.

Five in the living room, including Moreno and Pravano.

Chevos, Nance, and Costello in the bedroom.

Eleven, just as he had figured. He still had the touch.

Behind him, out over the bay somewhere, he heard a chopper whop-whop-whopping. He ignored it.

He tied down the tiller, slung the ammo bag over his shoulder, grabbed the 180 and M16, and

clambered over the cabin to the front of his boat, stretched out on the deck, and got the submachine

gun ready. The sailboat sliced through the water and sailed into the orb of light from the two big dock

lights.

The door opened and Costello was standing there.

He looked like Yankee Doodle Dandy: white slacks, a blue blazer, a red silk scarf flouncing around

his neck.

“Well, well,” I said, “it‟s Captain America.”