Hooligans (65 page)

“It was my grandfather‟s,” Stick said. “How‟d you like to make an easy twenty?”

“We‟re not allowed to do that,” she said coyly. “Just have a drink with the customers.”

“You don‟t even have to do that,” said Stick. “See that dude at the bar, the one who‟s sweating so

hard?”

“You mean the one that looks like a possum?”

“Close enough. See, what‟s happening, we got this bowling club and we just voted him in but he don‟t

know it yet.”

“You‟re into bowling?” she said. She made it sound like child molestation.

“Yeah. Anyway, see, we‟re gonna put the snatch on him, take him out to my boat. The rest of the guys

are out there waiting and we‟re gonna surprise him, tell him he‟s in, y‟know.”

“Sounds like a real great party,” she said, and yawned.

“What we‟d like, see, all you have to do is get him out the side door there, onto Jackson Street. We‟ll

take it from there.”

“This ain‟t some kidnapping or something?” she said suspiciously. “I mean, I ain‟t goin‟ to the

freezer for some snatch job.”

“Look at him,” Zapata said. “His own mother wouldn‟t kidnap him.”

“So how do I get him outside?” she asked.

“For
twenty bucks, you can write the script. When he goes through the door, you get the double saw.”

She thought about it for a minute.

“He‟s a big spender,” she said. “The boss might get pissed with me.

Stick took out a twenty and wrapped it around his little finger.

“When‟s the last time the boss laid twenty on you for walking to the door?”

She eyed the twenty, eyed Murphy, who was catching his breath between acts, and looked back at the

twenty.

“I‟ll see what I can
do,”
she said.

“The Jackson Street entrance. The twenty‟ll be right here on my pinky.”

She giggled. “Pinky!
Jesus,
I haven‟t heard that since I
was
in the fourth grade.”

Stick and Zapata went outside and Stick pulled
his
car around the corner and parked near the door.

“This seems like a lot of time and money when we could just bust his ass and haul him in.”

“Dutch doesn‟t want
a
fuss.”

“Yeah, you told me. How do we do this? We just cold-cock the son of a bitch or what?”

Stick took out a pair of thumb cuffs.

“When he gets outside, bump into him and knock him into me. I‟ll grab him from behind, get his arms

behind him, and thumb-cuff him, throw him in the car.”

“My hog‟s around the corner.”

“I‟ll see you out at the Warehouse.”

“Okay, but it seems like a lot of hassle.”

They waited about five minutes; then the door opened and the orange-haired punker and Murphy

came out. He was wrapped around her like kudzu around a telephone pole. Zapata bumped into them

and the girl stepped back and Stick grabbed both his elbows and jerked them back, slid his hands

down Murphy‟s arms to his wrist, and twisted both of Murphy‟s hands inward. Murphy hollered and

jerked forward, and as he did, Stick snapped the tiny cuffs on his thumbs, twisted him around‟, and

shoved him into the back seat of the car. The girl saw the wire-caged windows.

“Goddamn it, you‟re the heat, you goddamn lying—”

Stick dangled the twenty in front of her. She snatched it out of his hand and stuffed it down her bosom.

“Better than busting up the place, isn‟t it?” Zapata said as Stick tipped his hat, jumped into his car,

and sped off.

“He‟s like that,” Zapata said, walking toward his hog. “Impetuous.”

“What d‟ya mean, you snatched Weasel Murphy?” Dutch bellowed after Zapata had finished his

story.

“He said you wanted we should hustle Weasel outta that joint and bring him out here on the QT. So

that‟s what we did. He shoulda been here by now, he got two minutes‟ head start on me.”

“Maybe it‟s the international Simon Says sweepstakes,” Kite Lange said.

“Will you stop with the wisecracks, Lange,” Dutch grumbled. “Things‟re bad enough without you

imitating Milton Berle. What I wanna know
is,
where the hell‟s Stick and Murphy?”

“Perhaps I should put out an all points on Parver‟s vehicle,” Charlie One Ear suggested.

“Why
don‟t we
just
bust everybody in town,” Callahan said.
“We
can put them in the football stadium

and let them go one at a time.”

Dutch buried his face in his hands. “What is it, is the heat getting everybody?” he moaned. “I

shoulda known when I was lucky, I should of stayed in the army.”

74

The thirty-horsepower motor growled vibrantly behind him as Stick guided the sailboat out of the

mouth of South River and into the bay. Buccaneer Point was two miles away. Five miles beyond it was

Jericho Island, where a sliver of creek, two or three hundred yards wide and a quarter of a mile long,

sliced the small offshore island into Big Jericho and Little Jericho. Stick set his course for Jericho.

Clouds played with the face of a full moon and night birds chattered at them as the sleek sailboat

cruised away from land, its sails furled, powered by the engine. Stick flicked on the night light over

his compass. It was 8:45. He would be there in another fifteen minutes. He checked his tide chart.

High tide was at 9:57. The bar would be perfect.

Weasel Murphy was crunched down against the cabin wall, his thumbs still shackled behind him.

“1 already told you,” the rodent-faced gunman said arrogantly, “1 don‟t know nothin‟ about

nothin‟.”

“Right,” said Stick.

“I get seasick; that‟s why I didn‟t go along on the boat. You can‟t understand plain English?”

“You start getting sick,” said the Stick, “you better stick your head over the side. Puke in my boat and

I‟ll use you for a mop and throw you overboard.”

“Fuck you,” Murphy growled, but his arrogance was less than convincing.

“Cute,” Stick said. “I admire your stuff”

“How many times I gotta tell you,” Murphy said, “I don‟t know nothin‟ about snatching no Fed, or

the Raines dame. That‟s all news t‟me.”

“Where‟s Costello heading on that schooner of his?”

“I told you, I don‟t fuckin‟ know! They was just goin‟ out to have dinner and get away for a few

hours. We was all tired of looking up some cop‟s nose every time w turned around.”

He shifted slightly.

“Where the hell are we going?” he demanded.

Up the lazy river,” Stick said.

“You‟re a full-out loony, you know that. You need about fifty more cards to fill out your deck.”

“Big talk from a man who can‟t ever scratch his nose,” Stick said.

“Look, these things are killing my thumbs,” Murphy said. “Can you at least loosen them a little? My

whole damn arm‟s goin‟ to sleep.”

“I want to know where Kilmer is and where Costello‟s going. You just tell me that, we turn around

and head for home.”

“Shit, man, how many ways can

“You already have,” the Stick said. “You‟re beginning to annoy me. If you won‟t tell me what I want

to know, keep your mouth shut or I‟ll put my foot in it.”

They went on. The only sound now was the bow of the boat slicing through the water, and the

occasional slap of a wave as it rolled up into a whitehead and peaked. Stick was using running lights,

although occasionally he snapped on a powerful searchlight for a look around. Otherwise he watched

his compass and smoked and said nothing.

At 9:05 he passed the north point of Big Jericho, swung the trim boat in toward land, and followed the

beach around to the south. A minute or two later the moon peered out from behind the clouds and in

its gray half-light he could see the mouth of Christmas Creek. He turned into it,
cut back the motor,

and switched the spotlight on again. He swept it back and forth. Murphy straightened up and peered

over the gunwale. A large heron thrashed its wings nearby and flapped noisily away. Startled by the

sudden and unexpected sound, Murphy slumped down again.

Then he heard the sounds for the first time.

A sudden whirlpool of movement in the water near the boat.

“What‟s „sat?” he asked, sitting up again. “Hey, there it goes again. You hear that?”

The Stick said nothing.

The sounds continued. There seemed to be a lot of turbulence in the water around the boat. Then

there was a splash and something thunked the side of the sailboat.

“Don‟t you hear it?” Murphy croaked, staring wide-eyed at the circle of light from the spotlight. The

Stick still didn‟t answer.

Stick had stopped in an all-night supermarket on the way to the boathouse and bought a large beef

shoulder. It had been soaking in a bucket of warm water near his feet. Now he took it out, laid it on

the rear bulkhead, and slashed several deep gashes in it with a rusty machete. Blood crept out of the

crevices, seeping slowly into the seams between the boards.

There was a loud splash near the stem, then another, even louder, just beyond the bow. Fear began as

a worm in Murphy‟s stomach, a twisty little jolt. He began to look feverishly at each new tremor in the

water, but he could see nothing but swirls on the surface of the creek.

Then he thought he saw a gray triangle cut the surface ten feet away.

“What was that?” he asked.

The worm became a snake. It crawled up through his chest and stuck in his throat. His mouth dried

up.

“This is a little nature trip, Weasel,” Stick said, taking a grappling hook from the bulkhead storage

box and burying its hooks in the beef shoulder. He wrapped a thick nylon fishing line around it

several times and tied it in a half hitch. “Ever hear of Christmas Creek?”

“I told you, I get seasick. I don‟t have nothin‟ to do with the fuckin‟ ocean.” His voice was losing its

bravado.

Stick saw the bar dead ahead, a slender strip of sand, barely a foot above water.

“Well, you‟re right in the middle of it. This is it, this is Christmas Creek,” Stick said. “One of the

local ecological wonders.”

There was another, more vigorous splash of J the starboard bow and this time Murphy saw it clearly,

a shiny gray dorsal fin, It sliced the surface for an instant and then disappeared in a swirl.

“Good Christ, those‟re sharks,” Murphy gasped.

“1 was about to tell you,” said Stick. “This is a breeding ground for gray sharks and makos, and this

is the month for it. That‟s why they‟re so fidgety. I‟d guess there are probably, oh hell, two, three

hundred sharks within spitting distance of the boat right now.”

The first shark Murphy actually saw breached water three feet away, rolled over on its side, and dove

again.

It was half the length of the sailboat!

“Sweet Jesus,” Murphy muttered to himself. He was still trying to maintain his tough facade, but his

eyes mirrored his growing fear. He dropped back onto the floor of the cockpit and cowered there.

“This bloody piece of beef here will drive them crazy,” Stick continued. “I thought I‟d just give „em a

snack, let you see one of the wonders of the world.”

Murphy hunched down lower.

“C‟mon, fella, watch the show,” said Stick. He reached down and pulled Murphy up and slammed

him against the bulkhead. He threw the piece of meat overboard, holding it by the nylon cord. It had

hardly hit before the creek was churned into bubbles. The water looked like it was boiling. The

frenzied killers streaked to the bloody morsel. Their tails whipped out of the water. Fins seemed to be

slashing all over the creek. The creatures surfaced in their frenzy, their black marble eyes bulging

with excitement, their ragged mouths blood-smeared from ripping at the beef shoulder. A great, ugly

mako breached the surface, twisted violently in the water, then suddenly lurched into the air as a

large gray disemboweled it, the attacker thrashing its head back and forth as it tore a great chunk

from the other shark‟s belly. More blood churned to the surface. A half dozen more sharks converged

on the mako, ripping it to shreds. Then one of them turned and charged the sailboat.

Murphy screamed, a full-fledged, bloodcurdling scream.

The big gray turned at the last moment and scraped down the side of the sailboat.

All Murphy saw were insane eyes and gleaming teeth.

Within seconds the hook was empty. Stick pulled it back in.

“Lookit that, they even gnawed at the hooks,” Stick said with a chuckle.

“What‟re we doin‟ here?” Murphy whispered, as though he were afraid he would disturb the

predators.

“I‟ll tell you, when these bastards are horny, they‟re downright unreasonable,” Stick rambled on.