Hooligans (16 page)

“That‟s on page eighteen,” Cisco said without looking up from his breakfast.

The Draganata story, identifying him as John Dempsey, a retired businessman, was even more

ludicrous. It was three paragraphs long and said he died in his swimming pool. „The police did not

suspect foul play.

“Well,” 1 said, “the police got the Draganata kill right. He certainly did die in his swimming pool.

“Point is, that‟s the kind of reporting you can expect here. Nobody‟s gonna dig for anything; they‟ll

print what they‟re told to print.”

“Dutch told me this would happen and I as much as laughed in his face.”

“Yeah, well, he‟s got the last laugh Just keep this in mind, pal, everybody supported the track. The

press supported it and the businessmen‟s association and the chamber of commerce and the local

politicians. Even the board of education endorsed it. Don‟t you get it? They don‟t want anything t

make their town look sour. So they‟ll play it down, make it look like exactly what they want it to look

like, and hope somebody will solve the case so they can cover it up. Let the killer cop a plea and keep

his mouth shut.”

“That‟s bullshit,” I said.

“It‟s the way the world turns,” he said. “That‟s why I don‟t want you spinning your wheels on the

homicide angle. Just find out how the Tagliani clan got their foot in the door and how far in it is now,

Okay? Forget local politics. Things here haven‟t changed in two hundred years, and a little massacre

isn‟t gonna make a bit of difference.”

“These islands have been raped,” I said bitterly.

“Maybe so,” he went on, “but look around you. These are the people who pull the strings in

Dunetown. When you talk about the rape of paradise, these are the people who are doing the raping.

They‟re the ones making the big bucks. Tagliani didn‟t ruin the place. He just got in on the kill.” Then

he did another fast change-up. “Anything else for now?”

“Did you hear the tape of the Tagliani chill?” I said.

He nodded.

“Did you catch that, about a fix at the track?”

He gave me one of those “what do you think I am, stupid?” looks.

“So?” he said.

“So, if Tagliani knew about it, maybe the track‟s dirty too.”

Cisco‟s dark brown eyes bored into rue. “It‟s an illegal tape,” he said. “Anyway, it‟s probably just

some owner building up odds on one of his ponies. On the other hand He paused for a few moments

and stared off into space.

“On the other hand what?” I asked.

“On the other hand, this commissioner, Harry Raines? He might be worth looking into. He‟s got more

muscle than anyone else in the town.”

Bingo, there it was. I felt a twinge of vindication.

“He controls gambling in the whole state,” Cisco went on. “The racetrack commission is also the state

gaming commission. It‟s the way the law was written.”

“Interesting,” I said.

“Yeah. If they want anything, Harry Raines is the man they need to deal with—or bypass.”

“Maybe they bought him,” I suggested.

“From what I hear, not likely, although always a possibility,” said Cisco. “I‟ll give you some logic.

Whether they bought him or not, the last thing anybody wants right now is a gang war. if Raines is in

their pocket, it puts him on the dime and destroys his effectiveness. if they haven‟t bought him, this

melee still hurts everybody, the Triad included. The bottom line is that Raines needs this kind of

trouble like he needs a foot growing out of his forehead. He and his partner, Sam Donleavy, are both

up the proverbial creek right now.”

“Donleavy was in here last night,” I said. “I saw Titan talking to him, and the old man didn‟t look like

he was giving away any merit badges.”

“They‟re all edgy,” he said, sliding the bill across the table to me. “Here, put this on your tab. I‟ve got

to catch a plane.”

He stood up and threw his napkin n the table. “It‟s time somebody put a turd in the Dunetown punch

bowl,” he said. “Glad you‟re here—I can‟t think of a better person to do it. Finish your breakfast and

get to work. See you in about a week.”

And with that he left.

I didn‟t have to leave the restaurant to get to work. Babs Thomas walked in as Cisco walked out. I

decided it was time to find out whose shoes were under whose bed in Doomstown.

18

CHEAP TALK, RICH PEOPLE

The Thomas woman was tallish, honey blond, coiffured and manicured, dressed in printed silk, with a

single strand of black pearls draped around a neck that looked like it had been made for them. Her

sunglasses were rimmed in twenty-four-karat gold. An elegant lady, as chic as a pink poodle in a

diamond collar.

I scratched out a note on my menu: “A gangster from Toronto would love to buy you breakfast,” and

sent it to her table by waiter. She read it, said something to the waiter, who pointed across the room at

me; she lowered her glasses an inch or two, and peered over them. I gave her my fifty-dollar, Torontogangster smile. The waiter returned.

“Ms. Thomas said she‟d be delighted if you‟d join her,” he said. I gave him a fin, dug through my

wallet and found a card that identified me as a reporter for a fictional West Coast newspaper, and

went to her table.

She looked me up and down. I was wearing unpressed corduroy jeans, a blue Oxford shirt, open at the

collar, and an old, scarred Windbreaker. Definitely not the latest mobster look.

“If you‟re a gangster from Toronto, I‟m Lady Di,” she said, in a crisp voice laced with magnolias,

“and I‟ve got a good ten years on her.”

Closer to fifteen, I thought, but a very well-disguised fifteen.

“You don‟t look a day over twenty-six,” I lied.

“Oh, I think we‟re going to get along,” she said, pointing to a chair. “Sit.”

I sat and slid the card across the table to her. It identified me as Wilbur Rasmussen from the Las

Andreas Gazette in San Francisco. She looked at it, snorted, looked at the back, and slid it back across

the table.

“Phooey, a visiting fireman,” she said. “And here I thought I was going to be wooed by some dashing

Mafioso.”

“Do I look like a dashing Mafioso?”

“You look like an English professor with a hangover.”

“You‟re half right.”

“Try a screwdriver. At least the orange juice makes you feel like you‟re doing something decent for

your body.”

“1 couldn‟t stand the vodka.”

“It‟ll get your heart beating again. What can I do for you? I‟ll bet you‟re here about that mess last

night.” She leaned over the table and said quietly, “Everybody in town‟s talking about it,” flagging

down a waiter as she spoke and ordering me a screwdriver.

“No kidding?” I said, trying to act surprised.

“It was ghastly. I had calls before the maid even opened my drapes this morning. I hardly knew this

Turner man, but he seemed like a charming old gentleman.”

“Charming?” I said. Uncle Franco was probably smiling in his grave.

“Well, you know. He contributed to the ballet and the symphony. He was on the board of the

children‟s hospital. And he was quite modest about it all.”

“No pictures, no publicity, that sort of thing?”

“Mm-hmm. Why?”

“Just wondering. I always suspect modesty. It‟s unnatural.”

“You‟re a cynic.”

“Very possibly.”

“I always suspect cynics,” she said.

“Why‟s that?” I asked.

“There‟s security in cynicism,” she said. “Usually it covers up a lot of loneliness.”

“You the town philosopher?” I asked, although I had to agree with her thesis.

“Nope,” she said rather sadly. “I‟m the town cynic, so I know one when I see one.”

“So what‟s the pipeline saying about all this?” I asked, changing the subject.

She lowered the glasses again, peering over them at me. “That he‟s a gangster from Toronto,” she said

with a smirk.

“Couldn‟t be, I never heard of him,” I said.

“Just what is your angle?”

“1 do travel pieces.”

“Really.”

“Yeah.”

“And lie a lot?”

“That too.”

“To gossip columnists?” she said.

“1 don‟t discriminate.”

“Thanks.”

“Maybe 1 ought to try and get a job on the Ledger,” I said, changing the subject.

“Why, for God‟s sake?”

“1 don‟t know much about women‟s clothes but 1 can tell a silk designer dress when I see one. They

must pay-wel4-over there.”

She threw back her head and laughed hard. “Now that is a joke,” she said. “Did you ever know any

newspaper that paid well?”

„The waiter brought my screwdriver. I took a swallow or two and it definitely got the blood flowing

again.

“Actually my husband died young, the poor dear, and left me wonderfully provided for,” Babs said.

“You don‟t sound real upset over losing him.”

“He was a delight, but he drank himself to death.”

“What did he do?” I asked, sipping at the screwdriver.

“Owned the hotel,” she said casually, but with a glint in her eyes.

“What hotel?”

“This hotel.”

“You own the Ponce?” I said.

“Every creaky inch of it. Actually I hired a very good man from California to run it before Logan

died. I love owning it but I dread the thought of having to run it.”

“You live here?”

She nodded and pointed toward the ceiling. “Six flights up. The penthouse, darling. Owning the joint

does have its perks. I have a beach place out on the Isle of Sighs but I don‟t go out there much

anymore. It‟s a bit too solitary.”

“I‟m on the third floor,” I said. “I don‟t have any perks.”

“Is there something wrong with your accommodations?” she asked. “If there‟s a problem, I have a lot

of pull with the management.”

“The room‟s fine, thank you.” I ordered coffee to chase the taste of vodka out of my mouth.

“What‟s your room number? I‟ll have them send up a basket of fruit.

“Three sixteen. I love fresh pineapple.”

“I‟ll remember that. You were telling me what you‟re doing here.”

“1 was?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Actually I‟m interested in doing a piece on the social order in Dunetown. Movers and shakers, that

kind of thing.”

“For the Los Aghast Gazette or whatever it was?”

I would have bet my underwear that she remembered the name of the paper and everything else I had

said since joining her.

“Yeah, kind of a background piece.”

She said “Mm-hmm” again and didn‟t mean a syllable of it. She lit a pink Sherman cigarette, leaned

back in her chair, and blew smoke toward the ceiling. “Well, it was founded in 1733 by—”

“Not that far back.”

“Just what do you want, Wilbur whatever-your-name-is, and I don‟t believe that for a minute, either.”

“Who would make up a name like Wilbur Rasmussen?” I said. She dipped her dark glasses at me

again but made no comment. “I hear it‟s an old town run by old money,” I said.

“You‟re looking at some of it, darling.”

“Accurate?”

“Fairly accurate.”

“They making any money off the track?”

“Honey, everybody‟s making money off the track. If you own a bicycle concession in this town you

can get rich.” She sighed. “I suppose we are going to have to talk about this, aren‟t we?”

“Sooner or later.”

The waiter brought my coffee and as I was diluting it with cream and sugar she made an

imperceptible little move with a finger toward the hostess, a pretty, trim young black woman, no more

than nineteen or twenty, who, a second or two later, appeared at the table.

“Scuse me,” she said. “You have a phone call, Ms. Babs.”

“My public is after me,” she said with mock irritation. “Excuse me for a moment, would you,

darling?”

I watched her in the row of mirrors at the entrance to the restaurant. She picked up the phone at the

hostess desk and punched out a number. That would be the desk she was calling, checking me out.

She said a few words, waited, then hung up and came back to the table, still smiling, but a little colder

than when I first sat down.

I smiled back.

“Jake Kilmer,” she said.

“Nice trick with the hostess. I could see you calling the desk in the mirrors.”

“That obvious, huh? Hmm. I wonder how many other people have caught me at it.”

“Lots. The others were just too nice to mention it.”

“Why do I know your name?”

“It‟s fairly common.”

“Hmm. And you‟re a cop,” she said.

“Kind of.”

“How can you be kind of a cop?”

“Well, you know, I do statistical profiles, demographic studies, that kind of thing.”

“You‟re much too cute to be that dull.”

“Thanks. You‟re pretty nifty too.”

“You‟re also an outrageous flirt.”

“I am?” I said. “Nobody‟s ever complained about that before.”

“Who‟s complaining?” she said, dipping her head again and staring at me with eyes as gray as a rainy

day. I passed.

“So tell me who makes Dunetown click,” I said.

“Persistent too,” she said, then shrugged. “Why not, but it‟ll cost you a drink at the end of the day.”

“Done.”

She knew it all. Every pedigree, every scallywag, every bad leaf on every family tree in town. She

talked about great-grandfathers and great-great-grandfathers who came over in the early l800s and

made a fortune in privateering, cotton, land, and shipping; who rose to become robber barons and

worse, what Babs called varmints,” a word that seemed harmless somehow, the way she used it, but

which I took to mean tough men who destroyed each other in power brawls. She talked about a

onetime Irish highwayman named Larkin who escaped the noose by becoming an indentured servant