Hooligans Read online

  19

  LITTLE TONY LUKATIS

  It's hard to be casual when every muscle in your body has turned to ice. I tried playing for time.

  "Who?" I asked, in a voice that seemed to me to be at least an octave above normal.

  "Doe Findley," Babs said impatiently, pointing over my shoulder. "Turn around!"

  I turned in slow motion, still playing the charade, still acting like the whole thing was a bore. Doe was coming out of a small meeting room with a dozen other well-dressed women. She was wearing tan silk slacks and a dark green silk blouse and her golden hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail and tied with a red ribbon.

  "That's the horsey set," Babs said. "Thoroughbred breeders."

  But I wasn't paying any attention. I was remembering the first time I ever saw Doe. Her hair was tied back just like that, except she was only fifteen at the time. Teddy brought her into the dorm, where we shared a room. She was wearing tight white jeans and a red pullover and she didn't look any more like a fifteen-year-old than I look like Muhammad Ali. I had seen her pictures, of course; Teddy was big on family pictures. But she didn't look like that in pictures. No way. All I clearly remember was that she had an absolutely sensational rear end. I couldn't take my eyes off it. I was embarrassed, but my eyes kept straying. It was like a magnet. I tried, I tried really hard, but it didn't do any good. I kept sneaking peeks. Then Teddy suddenly buried an elbow in my side.

  "She's fifteen," he hissed under his breath.

  "What's the matter with you?" I whispered back.

  "Clicking eyeballs, Junior," he said. "Lay a finger on that behind before she's eighteen and I'll disengage your fucking clutch." Then he broke down and started laughing.

  That was the fall of 1960, a couple of weeks after Teddy Findley and I met, became roommates, and began a friendship that would last far beyond college. He started calling me Junior the day we met. I don't know why, and he never explained it. I finally figured it was because he was taller than me. Two, three inches. Nobody else, not even Doe, shared that privilege.

  Anyway, I waited until she was eighteen. Two and a half years; that's a lot of waiting. And during those two and a half years she kept getting better and better, blossoming from little sister to big sister to woman, while I watched it happen. Teddy didn't help. He became a verbal calendar, taunting me every week of the way.

  "How about it, Junior," he'd say, "only four months to go." It never occurred to me until later that I was being sized up all that time: that waiting until she was eighteen had as much to do with me as it did with her.

  "Jake! Jake Kilmer. Is that really you?"

  She was standing a foot away. I could feel the fire starting in the small of my back and coursing up to my neck, like the fuse on a stick of dynamite.

  Time seemed to have evaded her. No lines, no wrinkles. Just pale gray eyes staring straight at me and the warmth of her hand as she squeezed mine.

  I stood up and said something totally inadequate like "Hi, Doe."

  Then she put her anns around me and I was smothered by the warmth of her body pressing against mine, by the hard muscles in her back and the softness of the rest of her. I was consumed with wanting her.

  Then she stepped back and looked up at my face, cocking her head to one side.

  "Hardly a gray hair," she said. "And every line in the right place. "

  "Is that your way of saying I'm growing old gracefully?" I tried to joke.

  "Oh, no," she said softly, "not that. You look beautiful." She stared hard at me for another second or two, and just as quickly turned her attention to Babs.

  "I see you've cornered him already," she said playfully, and then back at me: "Call me . . . please. I have a private line. It's listed under D. F. Raines. Chief would love to see you."

  I didn't buy that. To Chief I would just be bad news, a vague face from the past, a painful reminder that his son was dead. What she was really asking was, Are you coming to Windsong tonight?

  "Sure," I said.

  "Promise?"

  "Promise. "

  She didn't just leave, she turned and fled.

  I sat back down and looked across the table at Babs, whose mouth was dangling open. She reached up slowly and pushed it closed with a finger.

  "You sly son of a bitch," she said.

  "What're you talking about?"

  "You know Doe Findley that well?" she said.

  "What do you mean, that well?"

  "I mean that well."

  "We knew each other in college. Twenty years ago."

  "Uh-huh, honey. That wasn't a 'gee it's nice to see you again after all these years' look. That was a 'where the hell have you been for the last twenty years' look."

  "It was probably a shock seeing me again. I knew her brother."

  "I don't care who you knew. These old eyes are not that bad yet. Twenty years, huh?"

  "What are you raving about?" I said to her.

  "So where did she fall in love with you? She didn't go to Georgia, she went to . . . oh, let's see, one of those snotty colleges up north."

  Now she was doing the coaxing.

  "Vassar," I said. "Real hard to remember."

  "So you have kept track?"

  "Through Teddy."

  "Oh, right. And you just sat there, letting me jabber on about the Findleys and Harry Raines . . . "

  "Trash it," I said.

  "Trash it?"

  "Trash it. There's nothing there."

  She wasn't about to back off. She leaned back in her chair and appraised me through narrowed eyes.

  "Jake Kilmer. That name ought to mean something to me," she said.

  She sat there struggling with her memories, trying to sort me out of the hundreds of names and faces from her past. Then recognition slowly brightened her eyes.

  "Of course," she said. "You played football for the Dogs."

  "You have some memory," I said, wondering how often that interlude was going to keep haunting me. I doubt that it had been mentioned once in the last ten years, and now it seemed to pop up every time I said hello, or maybe it was just popping up in my mind.

  "You and Teddy played on the same team, didn't you?"

  "For a while."

  "She's not a real happy woman, Kilmer."

  "How would you know that?"

  "I know everything, darling. It's what I do, remember? I'm the town snoop."

  "I thought you said Raines had a wonderful family."

  "I didn't say he had a happy one. Raines is married to politics and Doe doesn't play second fiddle well at all."

  "People seem to think she married well."

  "Tom Findley couldn't have picked a better man for the job."

  "Christ, you are bitchy."

  "I like Doe," she said, ignoring the slur. "She's very honest. Not too bright, though, do you think?"

  "I don't remember. When I was in college I thought everybody was brilliant but me."

  "She had an affair, you know."

  I leaned over toward her. "I haven't heard a word about her since Teddy died, okay? I am not hooked into the Dunetown hot line."

  "You're really not going to ask who she had the affair with?"

  "Nope. "

  "It was Tony Lukatis."

  "No kidding. Little old Tony, huh?"

  "You're much too blase to really be blase, I know it. I know all the tricks. Listen, we have name entertainers coming out to the beach hotels now. I get some big-time gossip. They all try to act blasé, too, but it doesn't work—and they've been at it forever. Tony Lukatis was the guy. The golf pro at the country club. His father was the manager."

  My memory jumped back to that summer like the ball bouncing over the lyrics of a song at an old-time movie matinee.

  "Nick?"

  "Ah, you do remember."

  "I remember Nick. I don't remember Tony."

  But then suddenly I did remember him, a little kid with incredibly curly hair who spent most of his time on the putting green when he wasn
't caddying. He must have been fifteen or sixteen that summer.

  "Aha, I see recognition in those green eyes."

  "Yeah, he's younger than she is."

  "The best kind, darling."

  "He had a sister."

  "Dierdre . . . DeeDee?" Babs pressed on.

  "Skinny little kid, used to hang around the club?" I asked.

  "Skinny little kid? I can tell you haven't see her in a while."

  "What's she doing these days?" I asked, trying to seem interested.

  "She's Charlie Seaborn's secretary-Seacoast National Bank."

  "Did Raines know about the affair?" I tried not to sound too interested.

  "Not so you could tell."

  "What happened?"

  "Poor little Tony. Rumor has it he decided to get rich quick and got mixed up in some pot smuggling. He went to prison for five years. I've lost track of him since. It almost killed DeeDee."

  The conversation was cutting close to the bone. I decided it was time to ease on out.

  "You've been a lot of help," I said. "I've got to get moving but I owe you a drink."

  "You better believe you do, dearie," she said. "You know how to get in touch. And if you don't, I will."

  I headed out of the restaurant, feeling like I had barely averted disaster.

  No such luck.

  20

  HIDE AND SEEK

  Stick was hiding behind the morning paper in the lobby of the hotel when I left the restaurant. He flashed that crazy smile of his when I spotted him.

  "Not bad, not bad at all," he said. "Doe Findley and Babs Thomas for breakfast. And I was afraid you'd get lonely."

  "Strictly business," I said.

  "Hey," he said, spreading his arms out at his sides, "I never doubted it for a minute."

  "I'm sure you have my social calendar filled for the day," I said. "What's up?"

  "A little war conference with the troops."

  "You mean they're speaking to me?"

  "They're thinking about it," he said, leading me out the door. His Black Maria was hunched down in the loading zone, like it was looking for trouble.

  "Why don't I take my car?" I suggested. "In case we have to split up."

  "No worry," he said, opening the door for me. "I'm your tour guide for the day. It was a raffle. I lost."

  "Keep it under ninety, will you?" I asked as I got in.

  "It stutters under ninety," he answered.

  "Fine, let's listen to it stutter for a while."

  He took me to a bright, airy place in a row house overlooking the river. It didn't look like a restaurant; it was more like having coffee in someone's living room. The place was about five minutes away, hardly time for the Maria to get up to speed, for which I was momentarily thankful. I was sure I wouldn't be that lucky for the entire day. Zapata, Salvatore, and Flowers were seated at a table in the back.

  "Hey, Mildred," Salvatore yelled across the room as we entered, "two more javas."

  They all stared at me as I approached their table.

  "What's the matter, is my fly open?" I asked as I sat down.

  "Sorry," Charlie One Ear said. "We haven't seen you in the daytime."

  "What you see, gentlemen, is a ruin," I said. "Give me a couple of days to get some sun. I look much better with a decent night's sleep and a little color."

  "It's the fluorescent lights in the Warehouse," Charlie One Ear joked. "They give everyone a ghastly pallor."

  "Well," I said, smiling at everybody, "thanks for not judging me on first appearances."

  "Yeah, you're welcome," said Salvatore.

  "Y'see what it is, Kilmer, we decided to throw in with you," Zapata said. "On a temporary basis, see what happens."

  "Gee whiz, I don't know what to say," I replied sarcastically.

  "'Thank you' will be fine," said Charlie One Ear.

  "Thanks again."

  "Our pleasure," Charlie One Ear replied. "Now, just what specifically is it we're looking for?"

  "What I need," I said, "is connections."

  "Like such as?" Chino Zapata asked.

  "Like maybe a hooker who's been bending her heels in Louisville, suddenly shows up here. Chances are, she's on the circuit. The mob moves them around like that."

  "How about pimps?" Charlie One Ear queried.

  "Sure, the same thing. Maybe I can tie a pimp to some outfit in Cincy or Chicago. Next step is, who's he working for? How did he get here? Pimps don't move from town to town. What I mean is, they don't free-lance. They move when the heat's on. They usually work for the man. He tells them where to go."

  "So what's different about Dunetown?" Salvatore said. "That's pretty common, isn't it?"

  "What's different is that the Tagliani family is here," Stick threw in.

  "Right," I said. "If I can make a connection between here and someplace else, that's the start of an interstate case. If I can tie it to Tagliani's mob, that's part two. If I can prove it, then I can take it to the Justice Department. That's three, and then it's their problem. Anything else I lay off on you guys. I'm not here to make collars, okay?"

  "All that is by way of telling us you're looking for out-of-town talent, correct?" Charlie One Ear said.

  "Right. I'd also like to know the names of companies owned by the Triad. Where they bank. Who they do business with. What kind of straight businesses they're into."

  "That's a little outta our line," Zapata said.

  "The key man is the accountant, Cohen," I said. "He's the bagman. Unless he's changed his MO, he makes three or four pickups a day, never at the same spots. He carries a little black satchel, like one of those old-fashioned doctor's bags, and it's probably full of cash. That's the skim, the money they need to wash."

  "The IGG," offered Charlie One Ear.

  "Correct."

  "This is street money, right?" Stick said, playing along with me. "Gambling, prostitution, dope, that kind of thing."

  I nodded.

  "So why don't we just grab the bag away from the little shit and take a look?" Zapata suggested.

  "For one thing, he's probably got four or five cannons escorting him," I said.

  "Yes," Charlie One Ear said snidely. "It's also against the law. It's called robbery. One to five for first offense, which might not be applicable in your case."

  Zapata looked at him and laughed.

  "They don't usually put their swag in the bank," Salvatore offered.

  "I agree," I said. "But Cohen's a crafty son of a bitch. He may have something worked out at the bank."

  "They're in cahoots?" Zapata asked.

  "Not necessarily," I said. "He may be depositing in several different accounts or putting it in a safe deposit box. The bank doesn't have to be involved."

  I was trying to be honest about it, but I couldn't help wondering whether Charles Seaborn, president of the bank, and a member of the Committee, knew Cohen personally. And if so, whether Sam Donleavy knew that Seaborn knew Cohen. And whether Raines knew that Donleavy knew that Seaborn knew Cohen. It was time I faced up to the facts. I wanted Raines and Donleavy to be up to their necks in it, because if things had gone differently and Teddy were still alive, I would have been in Donleavy's boots. I didn't want to feel that way, but coming back to Dunetown had stirred old emotions that I thought were long dead, and the lies, the hurt, the resentments, were as visceral as fresh wounds. I could taste the blood. So there it was. What can a man do?

  "We should maybe talk to Cowboy," said Salvatore, breaking up my train of thought. "He shagged the little weed for a couple days. "

  "Good," I said. "If we can put together enough evidence to show cause, we might find a judge who'll let us look into their bank accounts or let us have some wiretaps."

  "Kite Lange can handle that," said Zapata.

  "He means legal wiretaps, el retardo," said Salvatore.

  "In the meantime, I can throw a few crumbs your way," I offered.

  "How's that?" said Zapata, slurping his coffee.

  I
decided to try Charlie One Ear out, to see if he was as good as everybody said he was.

  "I spotted Spanish Eddie Fuereco on the way in," I said.

  "At the airport, no doubt," Charlie One Ear piped up immediately.

  Zapata stared over at him, obviously impressed.

  "Right," I said.

  "How'd you know that, Charlie?" asked Zapata, who appeared to be genuinely in awe of the one-eared detective.

  "And in the bar," Charlie One Ear added.

  "Right again," I said.

  "Geez," Zapata said.

  "The old coin trick," Charlie One Ear said. "Was he spinning heads and tails?"

  "You got it," I said.

  "What's the coin trick?" Zapata asked.

  "He marks the top of a quarter, say on the heads side but along the ridges so you can't see it unless you're looking for it," said Charlie One Ear. "He lets the mark spin the coin. Spanish Eddie never touches it. The mark doesn't suspect anything, y'see, because he's controlling the spin and Eddie's calling whether it'll fall heads or tails. He can tell by the mark on the coin. He's also a sleight-of-hand artist. If the mark wants to switch coins, he always has another one ready."

  "Geez," Zapata said again, his wonder still growing.

  "He's very good," Charlie One Ear said. "On a real good night he can score enough to buy a new car."

  "So how come you knew he was at the airport?"

  "If the mark starts getting pushy," Charlie One Ear said, "Fuereco switches to a regular coin, plays on the mark's money for a few rounds, then has to catch a plane. That's why he does airports. Gives him an excuse to end the game."

  "I'll be damned," Zapata said. He looked over at me. "Charlie knows every scumbag in the business," he said with great pride.

  "Only the cream of the crop," Charlie One Ear threw in. "And Spanish Eddie Fuereco only by reputation. I'd love to go a few rounds with him, before I put the arm on him."

  "He'll beatcha," Zapata said. "He can read the coin."

  "I'm not too bad at sleight of hand myself," Charlie One Ear said proudly. "I'll mark two coins and switch them back and forth so he keeps reading them wrong. What a coup, beating Fuereco at his own game!"

  "He's all yours," I said.