Hooligans (64 page)

strands of cotton. So we drop a string down and three of us drop into the pit there, we beat it over to

the cave and we look in and this fuckin‟ Nim is sitting maybe twenty feet from the cave entrance. What

a mess! His legs are crossed at the ankles, he‟s naked as a fuckin‟ flounder. His body is covered with

these scorched sores, his eyes are swollen shut, and he‟s foaming at the fuckin‟ mouth from all the

Mace, like a goddamn mad dog. Fuckin‟ forty-five-year-old schoolteacher thinks he‟s Fidel Castro or

something, and the fucker‟s still breathing but blind as a bridegroom. All of a sudden he starts

reaching around for his weapon, which is an M-16 and you know where he got that,
the little bastard,

so I step in behind him and

Brrttttt.

Lights out, spook. Then, and I don‟t know why I did it, maybe it was because, you know, it‟s the last

day of the fuckin‟ war, you want to try to get in as much as you can
,
I take Fineman‟s machete and

lop that slope‟s head off,
swock,
just like that, pretty as you please. Fineman almost pukes, can you

believe that? All he‟s seen, for Christ sake. I throw the trophy in this ammo bag, take it back for the

rest of them to see. What the hell, they have a right. Call it spoils of war.

The last day:
This time the scuttlebutt‟s true. We get back to the river and it‟s all over. Everybody‟s

cheering, singing songs, drinking, and the black market man is giving away booze. I never thought I‟d

live to see the day. They‟re settin‟ off rockets and flares, shooting up shit, like the Fourth of Fuckin‟

July, and all I‟m doin‟, I‟m sittin‟ there thinkin‟ about what that lieutenant said, about bowling. Only

he didn‟t talk about what happens when it‟s over, maybe none of us thought it ever would be. Thing is,

we‟re gain‟ back to the World, man, whether we like it or not. It‟s all over. No more grace.

73

The call came in at
8:04.

The Warehouse was already babbling with activity. Dutch was quizzing Lange, Cowboy Lewis, and

Pancho Callahan. Charlie One Ear took the call.

Callahan was doing most of the talking.

“We all showed up at city pier together, no more than thirty minutes ago,” he told Dutch. “Kite there

was following Bronicata, and Cowboy was on Chevos. I had Costello. Zapata was there, too, doing

something, I don‟t know what. All of a sudden all four of us are watching each other and the three of

them are tooting out into the bay on Costello‟s boat.”

“Cute. So right now we‟re standing on empty, that it?” Dutch said.

“Well, Zapata powdered. I don‟t know where he went. One minute he was there, the next minute he

wasn‟t.”

“We woulda followed Costello and them but we couldn‟t find a rowboat to rent,” Kite Lange said.

“Hilarious,” said Dutch. “You auditioning for the
Comedy Hour?”

Charlie One Ear burst through the door.

“What‟s bugging you?” Dutch asked.

“A security guard over at the Breezes just called. That‟s where Harry Raines and his wife lived. He

says
lake Kilmer and the Raines woman were attacked leaving the place and were shoved in a car at

gunpoint.”

“When?” Dutch roared.

“About two minutes
ago.”

“Jake Khmer was with Doe Raines?” Dutch said.

“That‟s what the man said. It‟s a late Eldorado, cinnamon-colored, too far off to get a license. They

headed east on Palm.”

“Did you get an APB out on that?” Dutch demanded.

“You want to stop every Cadillac in town?” Charlie One Ear asked with surprise.

“How the hell many cinnamon Eldorados do you think we got in town?” Dutch yelled, snatching up

the phone and calling central radio.

The Stick was next to appear in the doorway.

“What the hell‟s going on?” he asked.

“It appears that Nance and his bunch have lifted fake Kilmer and Harry Raines‟ widow,” Pancho

Callahan said.

“Nance kidnapped them?”

“It don‟t sound like no scavenger hunt,” said Lange.

Charlie One Ear said, “It sounds straight. Jake‟s car is still out there. Apparently it‟s permanently

embedded in the security fence. The security man checked the license for me. I‟ve got a blue and white

on the way to make sure somebody isn‟t giving us the finger.”

“Speaking of fingers, right now we ain‟t got a finger on anybody in the mob, that right?” Stick

exclaimed.

“Chino and Salvatore are still on the range somewhere. Shall we try to raise them?” Charlie One Ear

replied.

Dutch slammed down the phone. “Okay,” he said. “There‟s gonna be a lot of pissed-off Cadillac

owners in town, but maybe we‟ll luck out and nab them before they get too far.”

Five minutes later Zapata answered his page. Stick snatched up the phone.

“Chino, it‟s Stick. Where the hell are you?”

“Outside one of these strip joints on Front,” he answered.

“What are you doing there?”

“Watching Silo Murphy, the one they call Weasel.”

“You got Murphy in sight right now?” the Stick said.

“Yeah. He didn‟t go on the boat ride, so I stuck with him. Salvatore‟s still trying to get a line on that

fuckhead Nance.”

“I‟m on my way,” said the Stick.
“
If he leaves, follow him and keep me cued through central. What‟s

your number?”

“Seventy-three. What‟s goin‟ on?”

“Ten minutes. Tell you when I get there,” said Stick. He slammed down the phone and headed for the

door.

In Dutch‟s office the rest of the SOB‟s were also wrestling with the problem.

“How about the traffic chopper,” suggested Cowboy Lewis.
“Maybe we can run down Costello‟s

cruiser.”

“Good idea, get on it,”
said Dutch. “So where do we stand right now?”

“Salvatore and Zapata are still on the street,” said Charlie One Ear. “Mufalatta‟s on the range

rounding up the rest of the Graves gang. The rest of us are here.”

“Where‟d the Stick go?” demanded Dutch.

“He‟s checking on Chino,” said Charlie One Ear.

“Not anymore,” said Callahan. “He just went out the door like his underwear was on fire.”

“Sheiss,
what next!” cried the Dutchman.

I came around with elephants thundering in one ear and out the other and the bitter-salty taste of blood

in my mouth. I was stretched out on a fairly comfortable Naugahyde sofa. Doe was sitting beside me,

bathing my aching head with a wet cloth.

“Oh, thank God!” she said as I opened my eyes.

“You okay?” I asked.

“I‟m fine. It‟s you they knocked out.”

“Where are we?”

“I‟m not sure. They blindfolded me,” she said. “We‟re near the water, though, I can smell it.”

My nose had been knocked out of commission along with half of my other senses. I couldn‟t have

smelled my hair if it was on fire.

“How long did it take to get here?”

“Twenty minutes, thirty maybe. I‟ve never been very good about time and I don‟t have a watch on.”

“My God, how long have I been out?”

“Another ten.”

“They must‟ve hit me with a poleaxe.”

“Actually it was a little black stick one of them had strapped to his wrist.”

“Just a plain old-fashioned sap,” I said. “Just like me.”

I sat up slowly, so my head wouldn‟t fall off, got my feet on the floor, and sat very still to keep from

vomiting. Eventually the nausea went away. The room was small and tidy and looked like a doctor‟s

office, without the medical journals and four-year-old National Geographics
strewn everywhere. The

only light in the room came from a table lamp made from a wooden anchor with “Saint Augustine,

Florida, 1981” hand painted on it. The room had two windows, both heavily draped, and there was a

TV monitor camera mounted high in one corner.

I decided to see if I could stand up. That brought some activity from the other room. The door opened.

I could tell from the silhouette that it was Nance. I didn‟t realize how badly I had beaten him until he

turned sideways and the light from the other room fell across his face. Both eyes were swollen to slits,

he had bruises and gashes down both sides of his face, he was limping, and there was a cut that had

swollen t the size of an egg on the corner of his mouth, surrounded by a blue-gray bruise that spread

almost to his ear. He was a wreck. I felt better when I saw him.

“Hi, Nance,” I said. “Been a real shitty day for you, hasn‟t it?”

He made animal noises in his throat and started toward me but a hairy paw against his chest stopped

him. Arthur Pravano, the one they called Sweetheart, stepped past him.

“Don‟t make any more trouble,” he said to Nance. Sweetheart leaned on the doorjamb and stared at

me.

“Well, well,” I said, “the pool‟s get-ting full.”

“You talk awfully big for a man with his balls in the wringer,” said Nance.

“Go on outside,” Pravano said, and Nance bristled for a second, then turned and vanished from the

doorway.

“You ought to do something about him,” I said, “like give him a brain transplant for Christmas.”

“Big-mouth Fed,” he said, shaking his head. “You got about as much time left as an ice cube in a

frying pan.”

“No less than you,” I replied, althot.gh I was sorry the moment I said it. They were all in it up to their

eyeballs. Murder, kidnapping, arson—all could be proven, regardless of whether or not we broke

down Cohen, Donleavy, an d Seaborn and opened up the pyramid. They were all smart enough to

know you can only hang once. One or two more murders couldn‟t have bothered them less, so I cut

the smart talk and hoped that Doe wouldn‟t figure it out too.

“So why are we here?” I asked.

“It‟s a scientific experiment,” Pravano said. “We want to see how long it takes for a Fed to wet his

pants.”

“There‟s a lady in the room,” I said.

“She‟s got rotten taste,” he snarled.

“Your dance partner‟s no trophy winner,” I snapped back.

He let it pass. “Don‟t try nothing spectacular, okay, to impress the lady, like the thing with Turk back

there in town. Keep away from the windows. Don‟t make no racket, bust up the furniture, start no

fires, that kind of shit. We got people outside and people watching that.” He jerked a thumb toward

the monitor. “You fuck with that, I‟ll let Turk come in and blow off your goddamn balls, if you got

any.”

He left.

“Who was that!” Doe cried.

“One of the Seven Dwarfs,” I said, and tried a chuckle. It sounded more like a dirge.

Zapata was sitting sidesaddle on his hog, smoking a Fatima and watching the traffic go by, when

Stick
got
there.

“He‟s
in that strip joint over there, drinking Scotch and checking crotch,” the Mexican said. “What

the hell‟s going on?”

“Costello and his bunch ditched the
boys.
They‟re out pleasure cruising on Costello‟s boat.”

“1 know. I been watching this Weasel „cause I heard him and Nance were, y‟know, kinda tight, if that

psycho has any friends. Anyways, he don‟t go on the boat. So I figure maybe he‟s gonna meet Nance

and I shag him. He comes over here. Is that what it‟s all about?”

“Dutch wants to have a talk with Weasel,” Stick said. “Let‟s go over and see can we ease him out of

there without starting a riot.”

The girl on stage was all legs. Legs and purple hair with a white streak, front to back, dyed on one

side; a punk stripper who looked about as sexy as a stuffed flounder. Weasel Murphy was sitting at

the bar, as close to the action as he could get without getting his nose caught in her C-string.
A
pair

of worn-out speakers were thumping out a scratched version of “Night Life” as the punker peeled off

her bra and let her ample bosom flop out. The Prussian army could have marched in and Murphy

would have missed it. He had eyes only for the Purple People Eater.

“Wanna just put the arm on him?” said Chino.

“Dutch says try to avoid a ruckus,” Stick said.

“What do we do?”

They sat down at a table the size of a birdbath near the door to think it over. Purple People Eater was

snapping her bra like a slingshot in Murphy‟s face. He stuffed a five-dollar bill in the tip glass and

she kneeled down in front of him, pulled her G-string down to the bar, and let it snap back. He tucked

a twenty in the string, dead center. She ended her performance by seducing an imaginary pony,

complete with squeals of delight and instructions to the invisible animal. Murphy was wired so tight

he
was
humming.

One of the B-girls slid a chair over to the table and sat down backward. The runs in her hose looked

like black varicose veins. This one had orange hair, no streak. It looked like it had been cut with

pruning shears. She ran a finger along the brim of Stick‟s hat.

“Love it,” she said. “I didn‟t think anybody wore those anymore.”