Hooligans (36 page)

I turned and went back into the war room, followed momentarily by Stick and Dutch.

“Well, that‟s throwing down the old gauntlet,” Stick said.

“Blood feud,” I said. “I put their patron saint in the place and sooner or later some punk asshole‟s

gonna try to even the score and make a name for himself. I just decided to give it a nudge.”

“That‟s a comforting thought,” said the Stick. Then he turned to Dutch. “What the hell did all that

accomplish, anyway?” he asked.

“Blew off a little steam. I figured you boys needed some close-up contact, see these guys eyeball to

eyeball. Us too. It‟s good to see the enemy up close. Also to get it out in the open air, so there‟s no

question about where everybody stands.”

Stick‟s face curled up into that crazy-eyed smile and he shook his head. “You made it clear, all right.”

At that point Dutch stared past us in surprise.

“Well, I‟ll be damned,” he said. “Look who finally blew in with the wind.”

I turned to check out the new arrival.

“You‟re about to meet the Mufalatta Kid, Jake,” Dutch said.

The Mufalatta Kid was not what I expected. I had pictured a man smaller and leaner, almost

emaciated. I suppose because the Stick had implied as much. The Mufalatta Kid was a shade under six

feet tall and built like a swimmer. He walked loose, his hands dangling at his sides, fingers limp,

shoulders sagging from side to side, only the balls of his feet touching. No jewellery. The Kid was

dressed for yachting: a pale blue sailcloth shirt, jeans, and dirty, white, low-cut sneakers. All he

needed was a rugby shirt and a pipe. But what surprised me most was that he didn‟t look a day over

sixteen. Even his pencil-thin mustache didn‟t help. The Kid was well named—that‟s exactly what he

looked like.

“Welcome home,” Dutch growled “I hope you had a nice trip.”

The Kid didn‟t say anything, but he didn‟t look too concerned about anything, either.

“Okay,” Dutch demanded, “what‟s your story? We got World War Three going on here, and you drop

off the face of the earth.”

“I‟ve been shagging Mr. Badass since Sunday morning, eleven am.” His voice was soft, dusty,

confident. I assumed Mr. Badass was Longnose Graves.

“You eyeballed him that entire time?” Dutch said.

“Until about thirty minutes ago. He‟s been in a high-stakes poker game at the Breakers Hotel with two

horseplayers from California, some asshole from Hot Springs, Texas, in a Stetson hat who insulted

everybody at the table, a white pimp off Front Street, and a few fast losers. A Louisiana horse breeder

came into the game late today and Nose stayed around to clean his tank also. Fucker dropped fifteen

grand before he could wipe his nose.”

“Graves was the big winner, then?” I asked.

“That‟s it. Who the hell are you, anyway?”

Dutch did the honors. Mufalatta had a handshake that almost crippled me for life. He stuck up his

nose at me upon learning I was a Fed. Another one to educate.

“Do you know what‟s been happening?” Dutch asked.

“No details. Just that all these bozos are from points north and somebody has a hard-on for them.” He

paused and looked at me for the blink of an eye, then added, “All of a sudden.”

Dutch said, “Kilmer was on the plane when Tagliani got wasted. I picked him up myself at the

airport.”

The Kid shrugged. “No offense,” he said. “My mother sold me for six bucks to a Canal Street

vegetable man when I was four years old. I ain‟t trusted anybody since.”

“How the hell did you keep him in sight for thirty-six hours?” Dutch asked.

“Nose don‟t know me from a brick shithouse, so I bribed the bellhop who‟s got the room, give him a

Franklin and all the tips I took in, he let me take the 1ob. I handled the room, mixed drinks, kept the

place tidy. Kept the ladies in the other room happy. Let me tell you, the only time that nigger left the

table was to go to the growler. He didn‟t do so much as a Ma Bell the whole time.”

“Was he by himself?” Dutch asked.

“Just him and his bodyguard. A Chinee called Song. Big Chinee,” the Kid said, giving it a little

vibrato for emphasis. 1 mean, that flicker makes King Kong look like an organ grinder‟s monkey.”

“Graves probably wouldn‟t be doing the dirty work himself, anyway,” I offered.

“I‟d want long odds if I made that bet,” the Kid said, glaring at me.

“You think he would?” I asked.

“He did Cherry McGee in, personally. And in broad fuckin‟ daylight. We couldn‟t bend him for

disturbing the peace. And he disturbed the hell out of McGee‟s peace.”

“What do you know about McGee?” I asked.

“He‟s a dead fuckin‟ honky,” the Kid said.

I had a wild hunch and I threw it at the Kid. “That Louisiana horse breeder that came in the game late,

his name wasn‟t Thibideau, was it?”

He looked surprised. “Thibideau? Yeah, I think that was the name. Short guy, dark hair, built like a

crate?”

“Close enough. How much did he drop?”

“Fifteen and change. How you know he was in the game?”

“I‟m psychic,” I said.

“No shit?” he said. “Maybe you should read my palm. I been told I got a life line shorter than a

lovebird‟s pecker.”

“I wouldn‟t know,” I said, “I‟ve never seen a lovebird‟s pecker.”

“See what I mean,” he said. Then he turned back to Dutch. “What the hell‟s goin‟ on here? Who are

all these people fuckin‟ up the place?”

“Kid, it‟s a long, long story,” Dutch said wearily. “You‟re about three days behind. I‟ll buy you a

sandwich; maybe Kilmer here can fill you in.”

He looked back at me. “A fuckin‟ Fed, huh,” he said. “We ain‟t got enough trouble.”

“You‟ll learn to love me,” I said, and begged off dinner with some vague excuse. I had to meet Harry

Nesbitt at Uncle Jolly‟s and this time I decided to keep the meeting to myself.

I headed back to the hotel to take a quick shower.

There were four phone messages in my box. Three of them were from Doe Findley. The fourth was

from DeeDee Lukatis.

44

UNCLE JOLLY’S

I put on my oldest jeans, a faded cotton shirt, clodhopper boots, a nasty old Windbreaker from my

flare days, put my 357 under my arm, and slipped a bob-nosed .22 into my boot. It was about eight

o‟clock when I headed out Highway 35 south.

I was thinking about Doe, and I was also thinking about DeeDee Lukatis. She had obviously left the

message at the desk. It was handwritten.

Dear Jake:

You probably don‟t remember me. The last time I saw you I was barely 15. I need to talk to you about

a matter of some urgency. My phone number is below, if we miss each other I‟ll be at Casablanca

after ten tonight.

An old friend,

DEEDEE LUKATIS.

It was followed by a P.S. with her phone number. I had tried it but there was no answer. I might have

ignored the message except for two things. DeeDee Lukatis was Tony Lukatis‟ sister, and Tony

Lukatis had once been Doe‟s lover. That would have been enough to warrant a phone call. But Babs

Thomas had also told me that DeeDee Lukatis was the personal secretary of my favorite Dunetown

banker, Charles Seaborn. That made it very important. She might know a lot about Lou Cohen‟s

relationship with Seaborn.

Then I started thinking about Doe. Her first two phone messages had been simple and to the point:

“Please call Mrs. Raines about the stud fee.” Nice and subtle. The last message informed me that she

was out for the evening but I could call her after ten in the morning. That was to let me know Harry

was back in town.

I felt a sudden urgency to see her, knowing I couldn‟t, and I felt some sense of guilt at not calling her

earlier in the day.

Uncle Jolly‟s Fillup ended that reverie. The place wasn‟t hard to find. It would have been harder not

to find.

It looked like a Friday night football game. A country cop was directing traffic, most of which was

going down the same dirt road I went down. I followed the crowd about two miles through pine trees

and palmetto bushes to the parking lot. Through the cracks and peeling paint I could just make out the

sign: PARK HERE FOR

UNCLE JOLLY‟S FILLUP.

A hundred cars in the space, at least.

I parked among dusty Chevys and Dodges, Pontiacs with high-lift rear ends, and pickup trucks with

shotguns in the rear window gun racks, and drifted with the crowd. As I passed one of those bigwheel pickups, the kind with wheels about six feet high, the door opened and the Mufalatta Kid stuck

his caramel-coloured face out.

“You take a wrong turn someplace?” he asked.

“What‟re you doing here?” I asked.

“Just checkin‟ out the territory.”

“Me too.”

“Glide easy, babes. Strangers make these people real nervous.”

“What‟s this all about, anyway?” I asked him.

“You mean you don‟t know why you came all the way out here?” he said incredulously. “Shit, man, I

guess you are psychic. This is the dog fights, babes.”

It jolted me.

Dog fighting was the last thing I expected. Bare-knuckle boxing,

a porno show, a carnival, a lot of things had occurred to me when

I saw the traffic jam, but dog fighting was the farthest thing horn

my mind.

“Dog fighting,” he repeated. “Not your thing, huh?”

“Jesus, dog fighting. I didn‟t know they still did that kind of thing.”

“Well, you do now, man, „cause that‟s what it‟s all about.”

“You going to bust this little picnic?”

“Me? All by myself? Shit. If I was that fucked up I wouldn‟t have my life line. These people take

their sports real serious. You wanna die in a backwoods swamp in south fuckin‟ Georgia? If I was

you, what I would do is, I would hightail my ass back up the road and be glad you‟re gone.”

“I don‟t want to start a thing,” I said lamely.

“So how the hick did you wind up here?”

“I was invited,” I said.

“You are a piece of work, all right. Stick was tellin‟ me about you. „He‟s a real piece of work,‟ he

said. He left off that you‟re nuts.”

“Well, that‟s what happens when you‟re in a strange town,” I said. “You‟ll do anything for a laugh.”

We watched a lot of coming and going, a lot of lean men in felt hats, overalls, and galluses, a lot of

weary women in Salvation Army duds dragging four-and five-year olds with them, a few friendly

arguments over the merits of the dogs, two freckle-bellied high school kids wandering off into the

brush to settle a dispute over a cheerleader who looked thirteen years old except for a bosom you

could set Thanksgiving dinner on, a woman nursing a child old enough to tackle a two-dollar steak,

and a few blacks, all of whom were men and all face-creased, gaunt-looking, and smiling.

As it started getting dark, the visiting team rolled up, a group of edgy, sharp-faced badgers in

polyester knits. Mug-book faces. Twenty in all and travelling in a herd. The Romans had arrived; time

for the festivities to begin.

“Track dudes,” Mufalatta said. “Always a bunch don‟t get enough action at the races. Look at those

threads, man. Now there‟s a fuckin‟ crime.”

Next the emperor arrived—in a silver and gray stretch Lincoln limo big enough to throw a Christmas

party in. The chariot stopped for a chat with the guard at the road.

“That‟s Elroy Luther Craves in that car there,” the Mufalatta Kid said. Now I knew what the Kid was

doing there.

“Elroy Luther?”

“That‟s his name, babes, Elroy Luther Graves,” he said.

“Nice to know,” I said, and decided to get a peek at the man everybody seemed to have a healthy

respect for. As I started toward the limo, I ran into the back of Mufalatta‟s hand. He never looked at

you when he spoke; he was always staring off somewhere at nothing in particular.

“Uh-uh,” he said.

“Uh-uh?” I said.

“Uh-uh. Not that way.”

“Fuck him,” I growled.

Mufalatta moved his hand. “Okay,” he said, “but you‟re on his turf, man. No place to start trouble”

I thought about that for a minute. What Mufalatta was telling me was that it wasn‟t just Graves‟ turf, it

was the Kid‟s too.

“I didn‟t know you had something going,” I said. “Sorry.”

“Don‟t be. It‟s the way things happen. You‟ll get the hang of

“Okay,” I said, “so we do it your way.”

“That‟s cool,” he said. “For now, the Kid‟s way is to hang loose, don‟t splash the water, don‟t wave

your face around a lot, lay back, see what comes along.”

“Is there gonna be trouble here?”

“Anyplace Elroy Luther is, there could be trouble. It comes to him like flies to a two-holer.”

“Well, are you expecting trouble?”

“I just answered that,” the Kid said, and shut up.

“I‟m going to mosey around,” I said.

I followed the silver chariot a hundred yards down the road until it ended at an old frame roadhouse, a

big place with a cone-shaped roof, boarded-up windows, and a lot of noise inside.

And there were the dogs. Mean dogs. Not yipping dogs. These were angry, snarling, growling,

scarred, teeth-snapping, gum-showing, slobbering dogs, biting at their cages with yellow teeth. I

could feel the gooseflesh on my arms rising like biscuits in a stove.

In all, I estimated three hundred fifty to four hundred people were packed inside, all of whom had

paid ten dollars a head, man, woman, and child, to the giant at the door. He was bald and blackbearded, wore overalls and no shirt, had arms like a truck tire and curly hair on his shoulders. For

those who were not impressed by his size, there was a .38 police special hanging haphazardly from his