Hooligans

by William Diehl

  "My God," I said, and ran back to the telex room with Charlie a few steps behind me. Dutch was sitting beside the machine, leafing through some reports.

  "These things are embarrassing," he said as we entered the room. "If anybody else read them, they'd swear Salvatore and Zapata were illiterate. " Then he looked up at me and said, "What's wrong with you?"

  I handed him the Polaroid of Tony Lukatis.

  "Know him?" I asked.

  He took a look. "Sure, that's Tony Lukatis. He did a deuce for smuggling grass. Titan nailed him."

  "Titan? I got the impression he more or less tolerated pot."

  "Smoking, not smuggling," Charlie One Ear said. "What's this all about?"

  "The white guy that floated up with Stitch Harper, it could be Lukatis," I said.

  "Why?" asked Dutch.

  "Hunch," I said. "He's been missing since Sunday. His sister thinks he may have been involved in smuggling."

  The first photo rolled off the tube twenty minutes later.

  "Stitch," Dutch said, "or what's left of him."

  Crabs or sharks or both had done a lot of damage to the black man's face but there was enough left to tell who he was. The white man was not as lucky. He was missing a foot, his face was nibbled to bits, and he was badly bloated. I hoped the dead man would be someone else, anybody else. I remembered DeeDee's picture of Tony, pleasant, dark, good-looking kid. And I was thinking about DeeDee, to whom life so far had been one bottom deal after another. First her father, now the brother she adored, warts and all. I didn't hope for long.

  "It's Lukatis," Dutch said.

  "You're sure?" I asked.

  He nodded. "There isn't much, but there's enough."

  I turned away from the photo. I knew I would be the one to tell DeeDee. And now something new was gnawing at me.

  Who had Tony Lukatis been working for? Longnose Graves or the hijackers?

  55

  OBIT

  The Quadrangle was a grassy square formed on three sides by old brick warehouses that dated back to the Federalist period, and bordered on the fourth by the river. Cobblestone walks crisscrossed the park; a sundial at its center gleamed under a broiling, bronze sky. In one corner of the green oasis was a large oak tree, knobby with age, that shed what little shade there was, although nobody had sought its comforting shadows yet. There was hardly a breath of wind.

  It was five to twelve when I got there. The park was beginning to fill up with pretty young girls in cotton summer dresses and men who looked awkward and uncomfortable in their business suits, most of them with their jackets tossed over their shoulders. A hot dog stand was doing record business. It was a pleasant enough place to enjoy lunch, despite the heat.

  The Seacoast National was on the ground floor of one of the buildings. Facing it on the other side of the Quadrangle was Warehouse Three, where I was to break bread with Sam Donleavy the next day. The third building, which ran lengthwise between them, facing park and river, turned out to be an old, one-story counting house that was now a maritime museum.

  I sat on a concrete bench near the corner of the bank, so I could watch both entrances, and waited for DeeDee. I didn't have to wait long. At about five after, she and Lark came out, a striking pair that turned heads like waves as they walked by.

  She eyed me uncertainly as they came toward me, as if she wasn't sure whether we were still speaking. I broke the ice.

  "I thought maybe we could get back to being friends and forget business," I said.

  Lark took the hint.

  "Hot dogs and Cokes, anybody?" she asked brightly. "I'm buying."

  DeeDee and I both ordered one of each and Lark slithered off toward the hot dog stand, stopping conversation all along the way.

  "You were right this morning," I said. "It would've been a dishonest thing for you to do and I'm sorry I asked."

  "What's the difference," she said, still edgy. "You got the numbers anyway. Your friend convinced Lark it was the patriotic thing to do."

  "Obviously he has more of a way with women than I do," I said jokingly.

  "Oh, I wouldn't say that," she said, without looking at me.

  We started walking and I took her by the arm and guided her under the large oak, away from the noonday sun worshippers. She turned suddenly and faced me, looking up straight into my eyes and sensing my anxiety.

  "There's something wrong," she said. "I can tell." And then after a moment she added, "It's Tony. Something's happened to Tony!"

  I nodded and said awkwardly, "I'm afraid it's bad news."

  Her eyes instantly glazed over with tears. Funny how people know before you ever tell them.

  "Oh my God," she said. "He's dead, isn't he?"

  I nodded dumbly, trying to think of something to say, some gentle way of putting it when there wasn't any.

  "Oh no," she said. Her voice was a tiny, faraway whimper.

  She sagged against me like a rag doll with the stuffing punched out of it. I put my arms around her and stood under the tree for a long time, just holding her. I could feel her body tightening in ripples as she tried to control the sobs; then the ripples became waves of grief that overwhelmed her and suddenly she started to cry uncontrollably. I lowered her to the grass and sat beside her, clutching her to me, rocking her back and forth, as if she were a child who had just lost her first puppy dog.

  I saw Lark walking back across the square, engrossed in a hot dog. When she saw us, I waved her over. She knew what had happened before she got to us. She stared at me, her eyebrows bunching up into question marks. She didn't say anything, just sat down next to DeeDee and began to rub her back, trying to fight the tears captured in the corners of her own eyes.

  As we sat there I looked over at the bank and caught a glimpse of Charles Seaborn staring out the window. He stepped back into the shadows when he realized I had seen him. I looked back at the third-floor windows of Warehouse Three. I don't know what I expected, perhaps Donleavy sending semaphore messages across the park to the banker. The windows were empty, like blind eyes staring sightlessly out of the old building. All the power that had once ruled Dunetown seemed focused on this grassy flat, only now it seemed to be replaced by fear.

  We sat under the tree for fifteen minutes, trying to console DeeDee. Finally she got the courage to ask what had happened.

  "A boating accident," I lied. I didn't seem to have the guts for the truth at that moment. For the first time since Nam, I felt desperately sorry for someone on the bad side of the law.

  Regardless of what Tony Lukatis had done, I knew what demons had taunted him to his death. Doe, the promise of Windsong, the easy life, the same demons that had taunted me, distorted my values, left me emotionally barren after Nam. I remembered the day I wrote the letter to Doe and Chief. It was like history repeating itself, except this time I couldn't escape behind a letter. DeeDee was here and I had to face her grief, to touch it, to feel her tears against my face.

  Finally she started asking the inevitable questions, questions for which I didn't have answers yet.

  Where? When? Did he drown? Probably. Was he doing something wrong when it happened? I wasn't sure. Where was his body now? I didn't know. Was it terribly painful? No, I said honestly, I didn't think so, it was very quick.

  "Look," I said. "There's something I have to do. I'll tell Seaborn what happened. Take her home, Lark. Call the doctor and get her a sedative. I'll be over as soon as I can get there."

  We took her to her car and Lark got behind the wheel. DeeDee sat motionless beside her, staring through her tears at nothing.

  "Damn, damn, damn!" she cried vehemently, her anger suddenly spilling over. "Damn them all!" And she covered her face with her hands as Lark pulled away.

  Seaborn's spidery fingers were dancing along the edge of a barren desk the size of a soccer field. He was trying to look busy when I tapped on the door and entered the room without being invited. He was startled, his eyes widening like a frightened fawn's.

  The office was bi
g enough to comfortably accommodate the enormous desk and was as barren as the desktop. Behind the high back desk chair, facing the door, was an oil portrait of a stern-looking man with devilish eyebrows that curved up at the ends and unsympathetic eyes. I guessed from his dress that the man in the painting was Seaborn's old man. There was one other picture in the office which I assumed to be of Seaborn's family. Otherwise, the room was as sterile as a spayed bitch. He started to object when I entered but I cut him off.

  "DeeDee Lukatis' brother has been killed," I said. "Lark is taking her home. I told them I'd tell you."

  "My God," he said, "how frightful. What happened?"

  "Boating accident," I said, perpetuating the new lie. "He was in the water for a couple of days. The predators made quite a mess of things."

  His face turned gray contemplating what I had just told him.

  "What can I do?" he said, half-aloud, as though asking himself the question.

  "Well," I said, "a little tenderness and understanding would help."

  "Of course, of course," he said. Seaborn seemed to have trouble saying anything once. After a moment he cautiously asked, "Did this have anything to do with . . . uh, the, uh . . . "

  "Murders?" I said. He winced at the word. "Why would you think that?" I asked.

  "Her brother's been in trouble before, you know," he said, as though letting me in on a secret.

  "I've heard," I said. "I can't answer that question. Right now I'm more concerned about DeeDee than why her brother died."

  "Of course, of course," he repeated. And then, "What is she to you?"

  "Just a friend," I said. "We all need them, you know." I left him sitting in his vast, sterile office, wiping the thin line of sweat off his upper lip.

  As I left the bank, a frenetic little man with sparse black hair and hyperactive eyes scurried past me, hugging his briefcase to his side. Lou Cohen, making his daily deposit. Death didn't change anything in Doomstown.

  56

  DEAD HEAT

  Driving out to the track, I kept thinking that it seemed like an awfully festive thing to be doing after the events of the morning. For the first time in years I felt connected to someone else's pain. I could feel DeeDee's, like psychic agony, but there was little I could do about it.

  A cloud as dark as Tony's future followed me most of the way to the track, then obliterated the sun and dumped half an inch of rain in about thirty seconds. It was one of those quick, drenching summer showers that come and go quickly, but it made a mess of the traffic at the racetrack gate and made me a few minutes late arriving.

  Callahan was waiting at the back gate, with his customary flower decorating a tan silk suit and his cap cocked jauntily over one eye. Here was a man who dressed for the occasion.

  "What's the latest body count?" he asked dryly as we headed for the grandstand.

  "I've lost count," I said, not wishing to get into the Tony Lukatis thing. "What's happening today?"

  "Disaway's going to win," he said matter-of-factly. "Little storm drenched the track down just enough."

  "Will it bring down his odds?" I asked.

  "Doubt it. Hasn't shown anything his last two times at bat. Players don't trust him."

  "Are you going to put some money on him?" I asked.

  "Never bet the ponies," he said. "Rather give my money away."

  The stadium and grounds were exquisite. The grandstand, with its gabled roof and tall cupolas at the corners, was Old South to the core. It could have been a hundred and fifty years old. Callahan led me on a quick walk through the premises.

  The place was jammed. The parking lot was almost full and people were milling about the betting windows, worrying over their racing forms, studying the electronic totalizator boards, which showed Disaway paying $33.05 to win, almost fifteen to one.

  "He has to beat Ixnay," said Callahan. Ixnay was the favorite, paying only $3.40 to win. "The eight horse," he continued. "Two horse, Johnny's Girl, is favored to place. Then it's nip and tuck among the field."

  We went from the betting rooms to the paddock. Disaway and the rest of the horses in the first race were on display. He was showing good temper, standing with his legs slightly apart, his nostrils flared, checking out the crowd. Judging on looks, I would have had my money on Disaway. The other horses in the first race didn't look like they could carry his feed bag.

  "Good-looking horse," said Callahan. "Too bad he's got such tender feet."

  "Who's riding him today?" I asked.

  "Scoot Impastato's up," Callahan said.

  "I thought he was through with Thibideau," I said.

  "Who knows," Callahan answered vaguely. "Maybe he needed a ride."

  "Why would he do that?" I asked. "He seemed so dead against him the other day."

  Callahan looked at me like I had just spit on his shoe.

  "How would I know? Why do you do what you do? Why do jockeys jock? Hell, they get fifty bucks a ride, a piece of the purse if they win. Rainy days, when the track's muddy, it's easy for a horse to go down doing forty miles an hour. Jock can get trampled to death."

  "You mean like today," I said.

  "Not too bad out there now," Callahan said. "Sun'll cook off most of the standing water. When it's real muddy, shit! I'll tell you, racing in the mud is one piss-poor way to make fifty bucks. But it's a ride, what they do. Thibideau probably said, 'I'm sorry, kid, here's an extra fifty,' old Magic Hands is up. Kid knows the horse, Thibideau wants a winner. He made peace."

  After the paddock we went to the top tier and he walked me through the private club section, a posh series of tiered rooms protected from wind, rain, and sun by tinted glass, with royal-blue velveteen sofas, low-cut mahogany tables for drinks and snacks, and TV monitors to provide close-ups of the race for the privileged. Red-jacketed waiters, all of whom seemed to be elderly black men, solemnly served refreshments. The place seemed to brag of its elegance, a fact I mentioned to Callahan.

  "The sport of kings," he said. "These are the aristocrats. Owners, breeders, money people. All part of it, all part of the show."

  From the elite of the club we went down among the commoners at the rail. The crowd was already four deep. Callahan, I learned, had a box in the club section, courtesy of the track, but he preferred to be as close to the horses as he could get.

  "Like to feel 'em go by," he said, adjusting his field glasses, checking out the infield, then the gate. "When betting starts, we can get next to the wood."

  He handed me a program and I checked out the charts. There was a list of the stewards, headed by Harry Raines, and some track information that surprised me. According to the program, taxes took fourteen percent of the pari-mutuel's first ten million, eight percent of the next ten mil, six percent on the next fifty, and five percent on everything over that. Obviously the state was getting fat, a fact which certainly vindicated Raines.

  The infield was as impressive as the stadium. A large pond with a fountain in the center had attracted herons and other water birds to it. Gardens surrounded the pond and there was a granite obelisk at one end.

  "What's that?" I asked, pointing to the large marker.

  "Remember me telling you about Justabout at chow the other morning?"

  "You mean the ugly horse?"

  Callahan nodded. "First big winner to come off this track. Ran his first heat here, ran here most of the next season. First two years he won forty-two races. Ugly as he was, he was so good he once got a standing ovation for coming in second. The crowd figured he'd been racing so much he was tired. Just before the season ended last year, he got trapped against the rail going into the far turn, tried to break out, bumped another kid, went down. They had to destroy him, so the board of stewards decided to bury him out there."

  At exactly ten minutes before post time a horseman in a red cutaway and a black hunter's cap led the horses out onto the dirt, parading them around the track and in front of the stands. There was a ripple of applause, now and then, and a lot of chitchat among the horseplay
ers as the Thoroughbreds went by. Disaway was acting a little frisky, jogging sideways and shaking his head.

  Callahan was right about the railbirds. Ten minutes before the first race, half of the crowd around us seemed to rush off en masse, waiting until the last minute to get their bets down. We moved up against the rail and across from the finish line, a perfect position.

  The odds on Disaway changed very little, as Callahan had predicted. Five minutes before post time they dropped from $33.05 to $26.20, still a hefty long shot as far as the bettors were concerned.

  As they started putting the horses in the gate, Callahan gave me the binoculars.

  "Watch Disaway, the four horse. He's acting up a little but I don't think he's nervous. Anxious to run. Looks good, lots of energy."

  I could see him jogging sideways and throwing his head about as the handler tried to lead him into the chute. Magic Hands was leaning over his shoulder, talking into his ear. A moment later the horse settled down and strolled into the gate.

  I turned around and appraised the clubhouse with the glasses. Raines was in the center box, alone, looking stern, like Patton leading his tanks into combat.

  "There's Raines," I said, "center stage."

  Callahan gave him an unsolicited compliment. "Raines is a tough administrator. Built a rep for the track; well run, clean, profitable. "

  "Aren't they all?" I suggested.

  "Hah! I got out of college," said Callahan, "got a job working for the vet at a little track. Florida. Assistant track doctor. Track was dirty. Shift, they switched blood samples, dosed horses . . . crazy. Saw two horses die that summer, one with heaves. Terrible. Pony just lies down, gags for air. Like watching him suffocate, only takes hours. Don't want to kill him because you keep hoping he'll turn around, make it. I decided to make a stink how bad it was. Got me fired. Told me I'd never work at a racetrack again. So I became a cop, went back, cleaned their tank. Heads up, they're coming out."

  I gave him back his glasses just as the bell rang. I could see the horses charging out of the stalls, a blur of horseflesh and wild colors; mauve, pink, orange, bright blues and greens seemed to blend together in a streak of color, then the line began to stretch out as the field moved for position. The crowd was already going so crazy as the eight horses pounded toward the first turn, I couldn't hear the announcer giving the positions.