"Security. Nobody gets in here without one of us saying so. That includes everybody from the chief of police and the mayor to the President of the United States."
"Nice weapon," I said, with a nod toward the Uzi.
"We liberated it. My bunch is pretty good at dog-robbing," Dutch said, then added, almost as an afterthought, "among other things. "
Inside, the front of the place had been divided into half a dozen office cubicles. Behind them, in the center of the building, was a fairly sophisticated computer system and a telephone switchboard. Behind that was what appeared to be a large meeting room, walled with chalk- and corkboards. A six-foot television screen was mounted in the wall at the front of the room and twenty or so old-fashioned movable chairs were scattered about, the kind with writing platforms attached, like they had in school when I was a kid—and still do, for all I know.
The big room in back was affectionately known as the Kindergarten.
Two rooms filled the back end of the old supermarket. One was a holding cell that looked big enough to accommodate the entire D-Day invasion force, and the other was behind a door marked simply VIDEO OPERATIONS. I counted three uniformed cops on duty, including the man on the door and a black woman who was operating the switchboard.
A pretty classy setup: Morehead's war room.
"Are the uniform people part of your gang or on loan-out?"
"Probation. If they can hack the everyday stuff, they maybe can work their way into the gang. Also we find out pretty quick whether they can keep their mouths shut."
I decided to take one last shot at my immediate problem. "Before the rest of your guys show up," I said, "can we settle this Fed problem?"
"It's settled. We don't have a problem," he said, trying to brush it off.
"Right," I said with more than a little acid. I decided to let him blow off a little steam.
"Okay," he snapped, "let's put it this way. At first we tried workin' with the IRS, but cooperating with the Leper Colony is no different than loanin' your watch to Jesse James. They're either young turks just out of college, in it so they can learn how to beat the system and get rich, or they're misfits none of the other agencies' ll touch. Either way, it's every man for himself. Like workin' in a patch of skunk cabbage."
"No argument," I said.
"A bunch of pfutzlükers!" he bellowed.
"Absolutely," I agreed. "Whatever that means."
"If I broke half the laws they do, I'd be doing time."
"Life plus twenty, at least." Now it was his turn and I let him rage on.
He leaned over me, jabbing his chest with his thumb. "I wouldn't let one of 'em in here, not if he showed up with a court order and the entire Marine Corps to back 'em up!" he roared. "And the Feebies aren't much better! All they wanna do is make nickels in Washington. If it looks good on the daily report and they can get a press conference out of it, that's all they care about. Ask them for a little help, you get senile waitin' for the phone to ring."
"I've had the same experience," I said with sympathy.
"Dipshits and robots!" he said. Now his arms were in the act. He was waving them around like a symphony conductor. "Bastards steal our information, make deals that sour our cases, violate civil rights, and we get the enema. They always ride off with the chick in the end."
I nodded agreement. He was running out of steam.
"All my boys get is to kiss the horse at the fadeout, know what I mean?"
"Sure." Pause. "How about you?"
"How about me what?"
"You feel all you get out of them is to kiss the horse?"
He stopped and stared me up and down and then he figured it all out and started to laugh.
"Aw, hell, pal," he said, "I been around so long I'm glad for all the kissin' I can get, even if it's a horse's ass."
"Okay, Dutch," I said quietly. "I'm not looking for any fadeout kisses. If these people are looting your town, I'll help you put them away. All the Freeze wants out of it is information. Connections. How they operate. How did they infiltrate the town? Who did they have to buy? How are they connected with the other mobs? No conflict, okay?"
"We'll just play it by ear," he said, still coy. It was like kicking a brick wall.
"Shit, if that's the play, that's the play," I said with a shrug.
"You'll do fine. You got a hair up your ass just like the rest of us."
"I just do the best I can," I said, throwing in a little humility.
"According to your boss, that's pretty damn good," he said.
"Far as I'm concerned, if we get enough to make a case against somebody, it can go state or federal," I said. "My style is give it to whoever has the strongest case—and the best prosecutor. I get a little crazy when somebody walks on me"
"That's fair enough," he said. "Who doesn't?"
"What kind of DA do you have?"
"A woman. Her name's Galavanti and she's meaner than a three-day hangover."
"On us or them?"
He smiled. "On everybody. You put a case on her with holes in it, you'll hear language would turn a lifer purple."
"Good. Maybe we can help each other."
"Thing of it is, I never heard of your bunch until a couple months ago. This guy Mazzola shows up one day outta the blue, buys me lunch, gives me the same buck and wing you're givin' me."
Mazzola was Cisco Mazzola, my boss in the Freeze. He had told me Dutch Morehead was a man who said his piece and I was beginning to believe him.
"Which you sneezed off," I said.
"Not exactly. For starters, he put something in the pot."
"Like what?"
"Like the Stick."
"The Stick? What's the Stick?"
He looked at me kind of funny, one of those "what year were you born" looks.
"Not what, who. You know . . . the Stick. Parver. So far he fits right in."
I didn't have the foggiest idea what he was talking about and before I could pursue it any further, he picked up a bright red bullhorn, turned up the volume, and summoned his men to the back room.
I took the opportunity to step into an empty office and call the hotel. They patched me through to Cisco, who was in the restaurant, eating. He had flown in from Washington to brief me on the local situation. Since it had changed radically in the last couple of hours, I didn't know what to expect.
Cisco and I were friends in a remote kind of way. He was one of several shadows that wove in and out of my life, altering its course without ever touching me directly, our main connection provided by the telephone company. In the seven or so years I had known him, I had never seen the inside of his house, never met his family, and knew little about his personal tastes other than that he had a penchant for vitamins and health food. He also had an obsession about saving his hair, most of which was gone.
It took him a minute to get to the phone.
"Sorry to take you away from dinner," I said. "I would have called sooner but I've been busy. There's been a takeout. Tagliani, Stinetto, and Tagliani's wife."
"Yes, I've heard," he said in his flat, no-nonsense voice. "Any details yet?"
"At his place, about three hours ago. Pistols and a fire bomb. The woman was killed by the bomb. Whoever scratched the other two knew what he, or they, were doing. It looks like a couple of Petes to me."
"I want you to stay with this," he said.
"Good. How many have you made so far?"
"The whole mob's here except for Tuna Chevos and his gunslinger—"
"Nance," I hissed, cutting him off. Anger roiled inside me at the mention of Turk Nance. We went back a ways, Nance and I, and it wasn't a friendly trip. "They're here too," I said. "I'll give you odds."
"Maybe so, but this isn't a vendetta. Nance is just a tinhorn shooter. Forget him."
"Right."
"Forget him, Jake."
"I heard you!"
"What are you so edgy about?"
"Oh, nothing at all. I've been hounddogging this mob for what, four, five
years?"
"Closer to five," he sighed.
"I'm just a little burned that the iceman beat me to it."
"Understandable. Just remember why you're here. I want information. Where are you now?"
"Morehead's war room."
"A good man," Cisco said. "A little short on procedure, maybe."
That was the understatement of the year.
I said, "So far he's treating me like I just broke his leg."
"Cautious," said Cisco. "Give him a little time."
"What happens if things pick up speed and I need some backup?" I asked.
"Mickey Parver will help you," he said.
"He the one they call Stick?"
"Right. "
"I felt a little like an idiot. How come I never heard of this guy before now?"
"Because you never read the weekly report, that's why," he snapped. "He files a report every—"
I cut him off, trying to change the subject.
"Oh, yeah, I do seem to remember- "
"Don't bullshit me," said Cisco. "You haven't read the weekly poop sheet since the pope was a plumber."
"How long's he been in the squad?" I asked, trying to avoid that issue.
"He's been in the squad for a year or so," Cisco said, with annoyance. "You'll like him. He's young and not too jaded yet. Please don't spoil him by getting lost out in left field someplace. He's a lot like you, a lone wolf. You two can be good for each other. "
"I don't have time to baby-sit some- "
"Who said anything about baby-sitting? Did I say that?"
"It sounded like- "
"It sounded like just what I said. Don't stray off the dime, Jake. I want information, period. You're a lawyer and you always stick to due process. I'd like a little of that to rub off on Stick."
"I got a feeling he's not going to get a lot of help in that respect from Morehead's bunch."
"That's what I mean," Cisco said. "Give the lad a little balance, okay?"
"What if I need some professional backup?" I asked.
"He wouldn't be in the Freeze if he wasn't first class, and you know it," Cisco growled. "You get in trouble, he's as good a man to have at the back door as you could ask. All I'm saying is, if we do happen to turn up a RICO case, I want it to be airtight. No illegal wiretaps, no hacking their computers. Nothing that won't hold up in court."
"Yeah, okay," I said.
Cisco couldn't resist throwing in a little jab.
"Maybe he can get you to file a report now and again, once a week or so, y'know."
"Mm-hmm."
"Dutch has a computer setup. You can tie directly into our terminal in Washington."
"Right," I said, and before I could move on to something else, he added sarcastically, "Maybe he can help you a little in that area."
"Sure thing."
"Stick sent the Tagliani photos up to me in his weekly report; that's how we made them."
I was beginning to hate this kid they called Stick, already. He sounded like a miserable little eager beaver.
"How long you in town for?" I asked.
"I'm in town to say hello," Cisco answered. "I head back to Washington tomorrow."
"Aw, and just when the fun's starting."
"Somebody has to put food on the table. We're in the middle of the annual battle of the budget—which reminds me, you're two months behind in your expense reports and you haven't filed a field report for—"
"Tell me more about this Stick fellow," I said, trying to avoid another issue.
Mazzola paused. "I want those expense reports," he said. "Clear?"
"Right. You got 'em."
"Now, about Parver. Before he came with us, he was a D.C. plainclothes, then a narc, then he worked on the D.C. mob squad. Before all that he did time in Nam. Army intelligence or something. He's tough enough."
"Not too jaded, huh?"
Cisco chuckled like he'd just heard a dirty joke. "I loaned him to Dutch. I don't think anybody else in the outfit knows he's one of us. Dutch'Il fix it so the two of you can pair up. You'll like him."
"Says who?"
"All the ladies do."
"Great."
"Sorry about Tagliani," Mazzola said. "I know how long you been working on his case."
"Well, saves the Fed a lot of money, I suppose," I said. "But it would have been nice to put the bastard in Leavenworth with his brother."
"One more thing," Cisco said before hanging up. "You're not here to solve any murder cases. You're here to find out if there were any outside mob strings on Tagliani and who holds them. That's number one. We could have a classic case working here, Jake. "
"Morehead said something funny," I told him. "He said, 'I've got the whole thing on tape.'"
"What whole thing? You mean the Tagliani hit?"
"I guess so. He was evasive when I asked him."
"Well, ask him again. You can fill me in at breakfast."
"Sure."
"I'll meet you in the hotel restaurant. Eight o'clock suit you?"
"Nine might be better."
"See you at eight," he said, ending the conversation.
6
INSTANT REPLAY
When I got back to the Kindergarten, Dutch Morehead's SOB's were beginning to gather in the room. One or two had drifted in. Dutch had a handful of photographs which he was about to pin on a corkboard. A quick glance confirmed that the Tagliani gang was in Dunetown and was there in force. Only two pictures were missing: Tuna Chevos and his gunman, Turk Nance. And as I told Cisco, I knew they had to be in Dunetown somewhere.
"That's Tagliani's outfit all right," I told Dutch. "All but two of them. Otherwise known as the Cincinnati Triad. Mind if I ask you what put you on to him in the first place?"
"Ever hear of Charlie Flowers?" Dutch asked.
"Charlie 'One Ear' Flowers?" I asked, surprised.
"Could there be more than one?" he said with a smile.
"Everybody in the business has heard of Charlie One Ear," I said.
"What've you heard?" he asked.
Charlie One Ear was a legend in the business. It was said that he had the best string of snitches in the country, had a computer for a brain, was part Indian, and was one of the best trackers alive. If rumor was correct, Flowers could find a footprint in a jar of honey, and I told Dutch that.
"Ever meet him?"
"No," I said, "I've never met a living legend."
"What have you heard lately?"
He asked it the way people who already know the answers ask questions.
I hesitated for a moment, then said, "Word is, he got on the sauce and had to retire."
"You been listening to a bunch of sheiss kopfes," he said. "That gent in the tweeds, second row there, that's Charlie One Ear. He's never had a drink in his life."
I looked at him. He was short and squat, a barrel of a man, impeccably dressed in a tweed suit, tan suede vest, and a perfectly matched tie. His mustache was trimmed to perfection, his nails immaculately manicured. He had no right ear, just a little bunch of balled-up flesh where it should have been. I had heard that story too. When Flowers was a young patrolman in St. Louis, a mugger bit his ear off.
He was chatting with a middling, wiry tiger of a man who was dressed on the opposite end of the sartorial scale: Hell's Angels' leather and denim. His face looked like it had been sculpted with a waffle iron.
"Flowers remembers every face, rap sheet, stiff he's ever seen or met," said Dutch. "Photographic memory, total recall-whatever you call it-he's got it. Anyway, he didn't make Tagliani, but he made a couple of Tagliani's out-of-town pals. A lot of heavyweights from out of state spent time with Tagliani at the track, none of them exactly movie-star material. Tagliani was also a very private kind, but he flashed lots of money. Big money. So Charlie One Ear got nosy, shot some pictures one day out at the track. Stick sends the photos up to D.C. to Mazzola and tells him Turner, which is how we knew him then, is keeping fast company and spending money like he owns the Bank of Engl
and. Cisco takes one look and bingo, we got a Tagliani instead of a Turner on our hands. That was last week."
"Great timing," I said.
"Ain't it though," Dutch said woefully.
"Who's that he's talking to?" I asked.
"You mean the dude in black tie and tails?" Dutch said with a snicker. "That's Chino Zapata. He mangles the king's English and thinks Miranda is a Central American banana republic, but he can follow a speck of dust into a Texas tornado and never lose sight of it. And in a pinch, he's got a punch like Dempsey."
"Where'd you find him?"
"LAPD. The story is they recruited him to get him off the street, although nobody in the LAPD will admit it. When I found him, he was undercover with the Hell's Angels."
"How'd you get him down here?"
"I told him he could bring his bike and wear whatever he pleased."
"Oh. "
By this time the room had gathered three more men-about half of Dutch Morehead's squad-a strange-looking gang whose dress varied from Flowers' tweeds and brogans to Zapata's black leather jacket and hobnail boots. They stood, or sat, smoking, drinking coffee, making nickel talk and eyeballing me. It was my first view of the hard-case bunch I would get to know a lot better, and fast.
Morehead sidled around so his back was to the room and started quietly giving me a rundown on the rest of his gang.
"Sitting right behind Zapata is Nick Salvatore, a real roughneck. His old man was soldato for a small-time mafioso in south Philly, blew himself up trying to wire a bomb to some politician's car. You'll probably get the whole story from him if you stick around long enough, but the long and short of it is he hates the Outfit with a passion. Calls our job the dago roundup. He's more streetwise than Zapata. I guess you might call Salvatore our resident LCN expert. He doesn't know that many of the people, but he knows the way they think."
Salvatore was dressed haphazardly at best: a T-shirt with GRATEFUL DEAD printed over a skull and crossbones, a purple Windbreaker, and jeans. A single gold earring peeked out from under his long black hair. It was hard to tell whether he was growing a beard or had lost his razor.
"The earring is his mother's wedding band," Dutch whispered. "He's touchy about that. He also carries a sawed-off pool cue with a leaded handle in his shoulder holster."
On my card it was a split decision whether Zapata or Salvatore was the worst dresser, although Dutch gave the nod to Salvatore.
Hooligans Page 4