"Then maybe he had Tagliani killed," I suggested.
"Not his style. Squeeze Tagliani out, maybe. But this high-style execution isn't gonna be good for Dunetown. And I don't see a hope in hell of cleaning this up right away, do you?"
I admitted that there was very little to go on at that point. I also told him I didn't think the town could keep the gang slayings a secret for too long.
"A day or two," I said, "maybe."
"When Cherry McGee and Nose Graves were going at it, the press kept it buried," he said. "As far as most folks know, the hoods that went down during that melee were robbers and thieves, part of the body count that can be chalked up to your normal, everyday crime statistics."
"Can't you sneak some of this information to them?" I said. "Having the press on your side can help sometimes."
He leaned over the table toward me and said, "You don't understand, Jake m'boy. They know it already. It's their option to underplay it. It's the way things have always been done here."
"As I recall, a sheriff is a very big man in this state," I said.
"Nothing like Stoney. Big doesn't even cover it. The way I hear it, he's delivered the swing vote for two governors, half a dozen senators, and this county helped give the state to Kennedy in 1960."
"A lot of people owe him then," I said.
"Yeah."
"He could probably put Raines in the statehouse."
"He could give him one helluva shove."
"And the town blowing up around them could sink Raines, right?"
"Yeah, I suppose you could say that. But Raines is a heavy hitter. He might could slug his way out of a scandal if it didn't touch him directly."
I leaned across the table and said very quietly, "You know as well as I do they can't ignore this. It's going to blow up bigger than Mount Saint Helens."
"Stoney's point is well made," said Dutch. "The sooner we stop it, the better."
"For Raines?"
"For everybody."
"Do you like Titan?" I asked bluntly.
"He's a relic," Dutch said. "And I love relics."
14
THE COMMITTEE
Dutch looked as if he were getting ready to pack it in for the night, but there was still a question left hanging in the air. He had avoided it. I didn't want him to. I decided to back into it with a shocker.
"You think there's any chance Harry Raines is behind this?" I asked. It worked. He looked up as if I had thrown cold water in his face.
"I'm just trying to get a fix on all the players," I said.
"Why would Harry want to create this kind of problem for himself? I told you, it's his worst nightmare come true."
"Maybe he thinks he can keep it quiet like the Cherry McGee affair. Get rid of these hoodlums and pass it off as some kind of kook slaying."
"You're reaching, son," he said. "Harry Raines has more to lose in this than anybody."
"Maybe that's what he wants everybody to think."
"You're serious, aren't you."
"You can look at it two ways. He's got the most to lose when this gets out, but he also has the most to gain by getting rid of the Triad."
"You know, if I didn't know better, I might think that's the way you want it to play out."
"Just asking. Like I said, I'm trying to cover all the bases."
"You're out of the ballpark on that one," he said, scowling at me over his drink. He looked around the room and jiggled his ice some more.
It was time to force the issue. Dutch Morehead knew more than he wanted me to know, I was sure of it.
"Look, Dutch," I said, "I don't mind standing muster for your SOB's. I understand all that. I'll make my peace with them in my own way. But I think it's time we started trusting each other. Right now I have the feeling I'm not playing with all the cards and you hold the missing ones."
He continued to play with his drink. Finally he said, "All right, what's stuck in your craw?"
"What about this Committee you mentioned? What's that all about? I mean, look around, Dutch. This is the creme de la creme of Dunetown in here. Society, politics, money. This is their watering hole. They act like nothing's happened. Three mainline mobsters and a woman have been butchered and there isn't a frown in the place."
"They don't know about it yet," he said. "And the local press is gonna keep it under wraps as long as they're told to."
"By whom?"
He sighed as only a big man can sigh. It shook the table.
"I got a few questions first," he said.
"My old man used to say, 'You can't listen when you're talking.'"
"Is that a fact," he said. "Well, my old man used to say, 'You can't get water out of a low well without priming it.'"
I started chuckling. "You're older than I am, Dutch, I suppose you can keep this up a lot longer. What do you want to know?"
"You been playin' coy ever since you got here, actin' like this is your first trip to town," he said. "See, I ain't buyin' that because I don't think you're on the level and it ain't a one-way street, y'know, it's give and take."
I had been underestimating the big man. He was either a lot more perceptive than I had given him credit for or he knew more about me than I thought he did.
"Give me a for instance."
"For instance, I got this gut feeling you know all about Chief and Titan and the Findleys."
I wasn't sure I could trust Dutch Morehead, I wasn't sure I could trust anybody. But I had to start someplace. I decided to prime the pump a little.
"No bullshit," he said.
"No bullshit," I answered. "I lived with Chief Findley and his family for one summer. That was 1963. Teddy Findley was my best friend. We played football together. We were in Nam together. I was with him when he died."
"Uh-huh."
That's all he said. He was waiting for more.
"I never knew my own father," I went on. "He died at Guadalcanal before I was born. I guess Chief was like a father figure to me. What he said was gospel. You could . . . you could feel the power of the man when he walked in the room. It made the room hum. I've got mixed feelings about all that now."
"I've heard that about him. There isn't much left anymore."
"No, now Raines is doing the humming."
"So what's that to you?"
"Bottom line, if Raines is the man now, then he has to take the rap for what's happened here. Sooner or later it's going to fall on him."
"So?"
"So how come he's got his head stuck so far in the sand?"
"Harry Raines is a local boy," he said. "Surprised everybody because he was kind of a hell-raising kid who grew up to be a shrewd businessman and a tough politician. His old man was a barely respectable judge, had a passion for all the things judges ain't supposed to lust after—women, racehorses, gambling. Hell, the old man died in his box at Hialeah with a fistful of winning tickets in his hand."
"So that's where the interest in horse racing started," I said.
"From what I hear, by the time Harry was old enough to pee by himself, he'd been to every racetrack in the country. He handicapped his way through Georgia, played football, was one of Vince Dooley's first All-Americans, got a law degree at Harvard, came back, went to work as a lawyer for Chief, married Doe Findley, and inherited the political power of the city, then ran for the state senate and was elected, thanks in no little way to Stoney Titan. There it is in about two paragraphs, the story of Harry Raines."
"Nice merger," I said, with more acid than I had planned.
Dutch's eyebrows rose. Then he pursed his lips and said, "I suppose you could say that."
"So Chief picked him out, right?"
"I don't know, that's before my time. We ain't exactly drinkin' buddies, Raines and me. I don't know the particulars."
"How'd he get to be racing commissioner?"
"Gave up his seat in the state senate and stumped one end of this state to the other, selling the idea. His big edge was that it would raise tax money for the school
system. He also turned over the operation of Findley Enterprises to his best friend, Sam Donleavy. That way nobody could accuse him of any conflict of interest. Hell, he won't even let his wife race her Thoroughbreds. The man's clean, Jake."
"Yeah, I know, he's going to be governor one of these days soon."
"Probably, if this mess doesn't blow him out of the water."
"Anybody jealous of his success? The fact that he married a rich girl and got richer?"
"I suppose so."
"Anybody who might be out to destroy him?"
He stared hard at me.
"Lissen here, a lot of people in this town got rich in the boom and they thank Harry for that. If you think he's unpopular around here, think again. He's the favorite son of Dunetown."
"And the most powerful," I added.
"I would say that."
"Because of Chief's clout," I went on.
"In the beginning maybe. Not anymore. He's got his own power base; he doesn't need a worn-out old man."
"He uses Titan."
I realized that was a mistake the minute I said it. I was letting my own feelings intrude on the conversation. Dutch shook his head and stared down into his drink.
"You're gonna waste a lot of time if you try to stretch that one out," he said. "Raines doesn't use Titan any more than Titan uses him. As far as the town goes, the people that run Doomstown don't have to drive down Front Street anymore. They can afford to shop in Atlanta."
"So they drew the battle line at Front Street," I said. "Gave that to the hoodlums."
"More or less."
I stared him hard in the eye.
"What's the Committee?" I asked bluntly.
He paused again. I had the feeling he wanted more out of me before going on but I waited him out. Finally he talked:
"Before he stepped out of local affairs, Harry formed an ex-officio committee. The five most powerful men in town. They have no legislative power per se. They don't have a name, an office, don't even meet any one place in particular. They're just old friends who feel it's their responsibility to look out for the town, just like your friend Chief used to do, and Titan still does. It's the way things're done down here."
"What do they do?"
"As I get it, the idea was that they screen everybody who comes near this town with a dollar to invest."
I said, "To make sure people like Tagliani don't get a foothold, is that it?"
"Part of it. And to contain the roughhouse element, so nobody gets out of line."
"That what you've been doing, containing the roughhouse element?"
"Part of it."
"That gives them ten points for awareness and none for performance."
"Thanks. I appreciate that."
"I don't mean you. It wasn't your job to spot Tagliani."
"They're local boys, Jake. They don't know from the Mafia. Babes in the woods. That was what Leadbetter was supposed to do, keep an eye on the new shakers that moved in."
"That makes a strong case against the Tagliani clan for Leadbetter's murder," I said. "Maybe he tumbled them and they hit him before he could say anything."
"I've been thinkin' the same thing. When Leadbetter took the wash, it kinda fell in my lap. What can I tell you, Tagliani got by all of us."
"Hell, I can't knock that," I said. "I lost them for a year. But how could five men operating ex-officio have any effect on the town?"
"'Cause they're the most powerful men in the city, son," he said. "This is still a small town to them. Since the day they laid the first cobblestone, a handful of men have run Dunetown. Them, their wives and families—hell, they own or control most of the property on the islands. They are the political power. They set the social standards. They screen people who want to do business here. And they directly or indirectly control most of the big banks. They are Roman emperors, Jake. Thumbs up, you're in; thumbs down, you're out. Now, that may not be to your likin' or mine, but that's the way it is. Nobody bucks that kind of power."
"So they'd know who owns the hotels, the marinas, condos, apartments, what have you?"
"I suppose so, unless they're all owned by blind corporations. The hotels are owned by a local combine."
"You're sure about that?"
"Straight from the horse's mouth."
"And which horse would that be?"
"Sam Donleavy. He's Harry's right-hand man, the second most powerful man in Dunetown. If there's a head of the Committee, he'd be it."
"How about Raines?"
"He doesn't sit. Donleavy's his voice. Raines is funny about conflict of interest. Right now he devotes all his time to the track. If he can prove it's worthwhile, he'll waltz into the governor's mansion."
"Who else is on this Committee?"
He wiggled his head like an old bear. "Shit, pal, you don't stop, do you? You prime the pump with a cup of water and get a gallon outta me. You could turn out to be a real son of a bitch."
"I have been accused of that."
His flaccid face flowed back into a smile.
"I'll just bet so," he said.
"It's what I do," I said, smiling back.
"Don't we all. Okay, first, there's Donleavy. That's him sitting right over there in the tweed jacket."
He nodded toward the man whom I had seen talking to Stoney Titan as I came in. He was a big guy with a bull neck and shoulders that threatened to split his jacket down the middle. He appeared to be in his thirties, wore his hair in a crew cut, and had a nose that had been flattened more than once. An ex-ballplayer, I guessed looking at him. He was entertaining the ladies at the table, there was a lot of giggling, but the lines around his mouth were tight and the laughter didn't spread to his eyes. He looked like a man with a lot of trouble trying to have a good time and I mentioned it to Dutch.
"I imagine Stoney's driven a spike up his tail," said Dutch. "Sam'll fall before Harry, and if he falls out of grace, he doesn't have the Findley millions to lean on."
"Which means they'll put the heat on you."
"Us, partner."
"Yeah, us."
"Our feet are already in the fire, make no mistake."
"Who else is on this Committee?"
"Charles Seaborn. He's president of the Seacoast National Bank chain, largest in these parts. He's old money. His father was chairman of the board when he died last year. Then there's Arthur Logan, who'll be president of the town's most prestigious and successful law firm in another year or two, soon's his old man dies or quits. Next, Roger Sutter, he's Sutter Communications. That's the newspaper and the television station. Between them, they own most of the ground with grass on it in the county. That's power."
"That covers all the bases but one," I said. "You said there were five members on the Committee."
"Before I answer that," he said, "I got one more question to ask you."
"Shoot. "
"It's personal, Jake. You can tell me to suck eggs if you want to."
I guess I knew what the question was going to be before he asked it.
"Were you in love with Doe Findley twenty years ago?" he asked.
I was ready for him. I smiled a big fifty-dollar smile. "Hell, I'm just like you, Dutch. I always end up kissing the horse at the finish. Who's number five?"
"Who else?" he said. "Stonewall Titan."
15
DOE
I finished my drink and said good night. My room on the third floor had a dormer window with a chintz loveseat and coffee table in front of it, a vintage TV set, a double bed, and ceilings so high you could fly a kite in it. Everything—the drapes, walls, carpeting, sills, and baseboards—was a combination of green and white. The room looked like it had been designed by a rampant garden club. I got out a bottle of amaretto and poured myself a couple of fingers.
Burned out, my bones aching with jet lag, I couldn't erase the images of the night from my mind. Tagliani and Stinetto in the icebox. Mrs. Tagliani's monitor going deeeeeeee right in front of my eyes. The haunting tape of two killer
s delivering their coup de grace and the bloody back wall of Draganata's house. I had seen worse, but never in any civilized place I could remember.
Then I looked at the note I had picked up at the desk. The handwriting was so precise it could have been calligraphy. I recognized it immediately and the old electricity streaked from my stomach to my throat.
"I know you are here," it said. "I'll be in the boathouse at Windsong, tomorrow night, 9 p.m. Please. D."
She must have written it before she went into the restaurant, before I had seen her downstairs.
I suppose you always remember the good things in life as being better than they really were. To me, Dunetown was a slow-motion movie shot through a hazy lens. Everything was soft, the reflections glittered like stars, and there were no hard edges on anything. It was the end of adolescence and being exposed to the sweet life for what was an instant in my time. It was living high, dancing at the country club, open cars and laughter and cool nights on the beach.
Fat City is what it was.
And it was Doe Findley.
Doe Findley had risen out of my past like a specter. For twenty years she had been the hope in my nightmares, a gauzy sylph brightening the dark corners of bad dreams like the nightlight at the end of a long, dark hall.
I thought about that boathouse and about Doe, dancing tightly against me to the music from the radio as we fumbled with buttons and snaps and zippers. I couldn't remember the song now, but it had stayed with me for a long time before Nam erased it.
The thought of her spread through me like a shot of good brandy. She was the memory of that lost summer, the last green summer I could remember. It had all vanished that fall on a Saturday afternoon in Sanford Stadium.
It's funny, Teddy and I used to joke about those days later in Nam. Anything for a laugh over there. I remember Teddy once saying to me, "Y'know something, Jake, we should have been born a little earlier or a little later. Our timing was terrible. Think about it—we played during three of the worst seasons the Bulldogs ever had. You remember what our record was for those three years?" Did I remember? Hell, yes, I remembered. "Ten, sixteen, and four," I answered with disgust. "Yeah," he said, "and the season after we graduated, Dooley came in and they had a seven, three, and one. Now we're here. See what I mean? A dollar short and a day late, that's us."
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