Hooligans Part 15

"It's 'if the shoe fits,'" he said.

"Not in this case."

"All right, tell me more."

"We have reason to believe whoever's in on this did time in Nam."

"How do you figure that?"

"Weapons, MO, style."

"Uh-huh."

"Nance was in Nam, right in the thick of it."

"Uh-huh. And so were you, Stick, and half of Dutch Morehead's bunch. h.e.l.l, even I was in Nam. That doesn't make Nance an a.s.sa.s.sin. Some people might even consider him a hero."

"The war's over," I said.

"I think maybe you're s.h.a.gging flies," he said.

"Maybe," I said with a shrug.

"Anything else?"

"Well, uh . . . "

He leaned over the table and dropped his voice to a whisper.

"Before you go any further," he said, "let me remind you that you're not here to solve homicides. Just between us, I don't care if Yankee Doodle Dandy's doing it, unless it's relevant. I want the package on Tagliani."

He didn't wait for me to say anything.

"This used to be a nice, quiet, historical tourist trap," he said. "It's turning into Rotten City, U.S.A. I want to know how deep Tagliani had his hooks in. What did he own? Who did he buy? How did he pull it off? h.e.l.l, I don't have to give you the lecture, you know what the Freeze is all about."

"If you're interested in what I think," I said, "I think the homicides have to be relevant."

He pointed at me with his fork.

"Don't get lost on me, Jake. And don't lead Stick astray."

"Lead Stick astray! You got to be joking. And what's all this s.h.i.+t about him not being jaded?"

"What do you think of him?" he asked with a smile.

"He's as off the wall as the rest of Dutch Morehead's hooligans," I said.

"He's just like you were," he said. "Eager, tough, a lone wolf. You two can help each other. Working with Dutch and his boys'll give you both a sense of team play."

"I know all about team play, remember?"

"You been playing your own game for a while," Cisco said. "Now you got plenty of help. I want to nail the Cincinnati Triad. I think we got a giant was.h.i.+ng machine here, Jake, and I want to see the inside of it. I want to know how it works. That's what this trip is all about, okay?" He paused for a moment and added, "And I'd like to find out while a few of them are still breathing. Seen the morning paper?"

Cisco could change the subject in midsentence. When he had said all he had to say on a subject, he just dropped it and moved on.

He laid the paper beside my plate. It was turned to page 12, where the Tagliani killing was reported quietly, under a one-column headline:THREE DIE IN

HOUSE ROBBERY.

I read the story, which was vague, inaccurate, and short. The police weren't saying anything except that they expected an arrest "shortly."

"They're expecting an arrest, I see," I commented.

"Keep reading," Cisco said. "It gets worse."

Tagliani was identified as Frank Turner, a Cincinnati businessman with interests in racehorses. Stinetto-Nat Sherman in the story-was listed as "a business a.s.sociate of Mr. Turner's." Robbery was the suspected motive. Not a mention of the Molotov c.o.c.ktail the killer had dropped on his way out. According to the story, the police believe that Turner and Sherman surprised the robbers and were killed in so doing. There was a very fuzzy picture of Tagliani and his wife getting into a car, obviously shot from somewhere in New Jersey and blown up until the grain was as big as the moon.

"Not a mention of Draganata."

"That's on page eighteen," Cisco said without looking up from his breakfast.

The Draganata story, identifying him as John Dempsey, a retired businessman, was even more ludicrous. It was three paragraphs long and said he died in his swimming pool. The police did not suspect foul play.

"Well," I said, "the police got the Draganata kill right. He certainly did die in his swimming pool."

"Point is, that's the kind of reporting you can expect here. n.o.body's gonna dig for anything; they'll print what they're told to print."

"Dutch told me this would happen and I as much as laughed in his face."

"Yeah, well, he's got the last laugh. Just keep this in mind, pal, everybody supported the track. The press supported it and the businessmen's a.s.sociation and the chamber of commerce and the local politicians. Even the board of education endorsed it. Don't you get it? They don't want anything to make their town look sour. So they'll play it down, make it look like exactly what they want it to look like, and hope somebody will solve the case so they can cover it up. Let the killer cop a plea and keep his mouth shut."

"That's bulls.h.i.+t," I said.

"It's the way the world turns," he said. "That's why I don't want you spinning your wheels on the homicide angle. Just find out how the Tagliani clan got their foot in the door and how far in it is now, Okay? Forget local politics. Things here haven't changed in two hundred years, and a little ma.s.sacre isn't gonna make a bit of difference."

"These islands have been raped," I said bitterly.

"Maybe so," he went on, "but look around you. These are the people who pull the strings in Dunetown. When you talk about the rape of paradise, these are the people who are doing the raping. They're the ones making the big bucks. Tagliani didn't ruin the place. He just got in on the kill. " Then he did another fast change-up. "Anything else for now?"

"Did you hear the tape of the Tagliani chill?" I said.

He nodded.

"Did you catch that, about a fix at the track?"

He gave me one of those "what do you think I am, stupid?" looks.

"So?" he said.

"So, if Tagliani knew about it, maybe the track's dirty too."

Cisco's dark brown eyes bored into me. "It's an illegal tape," he said. "Anyway, it's probably just some owner building up odds on one of his ponies. On the other hand . . . " He paused for a few moments and stared off into s.p.a.ce.

"On the other hand what?" I asked.

"On the other hand, this commissioner, Harry Raines? He might be worth looking into. He's got more muscle than anyone else in the town."

Bingo, there it was. I felt a twinge of vindication.

"He controls gambling in the whole state," Cisco went on. "The racetrack commission is also the state gaming commission. It's the way the law was written."

"Interesting," I said.

"Yeah. If they want anything, Harry Raines is the man they need to deal with-or bypa.s.s."

"Maybe they bought him," I suggested.

"From what I hear, not likely, although always a possibility," said Cisco. "I'll give you some logic. Whether they bought him or not, the last thing anybody wants right now is a gang war. If Raines is in their pocket, it puts him on the dime and destroys his effectiveness. If they haven't bought him, this melee still hurts everybody, the Triad included. The bottom line is that Raines needs this kind of trouble like he needs a foot growing out of his forehead. He and his partner, Sam Donleavy, are both up the proverbial creek right now."

"Donleavy was in here last night," I said. "I saw t.i.tan talking to him, and the old man didn't look like he was giving away any merit badges."

"They're all edgy," he said, sliding the bill across the table to me. "Here, put this on your tab. I've got to catch a plane."

He stood up and threw his napkin on the table. "It's time somebody put a t.u.r.d in the Dunetown punch bowl," he said. "Glad you're here-I can't think of a better person to do it. Finish your breakfast and get to work. See you in about a week."

And with that he left.

I didn't have to leave the restaurant to get to work. Babs Thomas walked in as Cisco walked out. I decided it was time to find out whose shoes were under whose bed in Doomstown.

18.

CHEAP TALK, RICH PEOPLE.

The Thomas woman was tallish, honey blond, coiffured and manicured, dressed in printed silk, with a single strand of black pearls draped around a neck that looked like it had been made for them. Her sungla.s.ses were rimmed in twenty-four-karat gold. An elegant lady, as chic as a pink poodle in a diamond collar.

I scratched out a note on my menu: "A gangster from Toronto would love to buy you breakfast," and sent it to her table by waiter. She read it, said something to the waiter, who pointed across the room at me; she lowered her gla.s.ses an inch or two, and peered over them. I gave her my fifty-dollar, Toronto-gangster smile. The waiter returned.

"Ms. Thomas said she'd be delighted if you'd join her," he said. I gave him a fin, dug through my wallet and found a card that identified me as a reporter for a fictional West Coast newspaper, and went to her table.

She looked me up and down. I was wearing unpressed corduroy jeans, a blue Oxford s.h.i.+rt, open at the collar, and an old, scarred Windbreaker. Definitely not the latest mobster look.

"If you're a gangster from Toronto, I'm Lady Di," she said, in a crisp voice laced with magnolias, "and I've got a good ten years on her."

Closer to fifteen, I thought, but a very well-disguised fifteen.

"You don't look a day over twenty-six," I lied.

"Oh, I think we're going to get along," she said, pointing to a chair. "Sit."

I sat and slid the card across the table to her. It identified me as Wilbur Rasmussen from the Las Andreas Gazette in San Francisco. She looked at it, snorted, looked at the back, and slid it back across the table.

"Phooey, a visiting fireman," she said. "And here I thought I was going to be wooed by some das.h.i.+ng mafioso."

"Do I look like a das.h.i.+ng mafioso?"

"You look like an English professor with a hangover."

"You're half right."

"Try a screwdriver. At least the orange juice makes you feel like you're doing something decent for your body."

"I couldn't stand the vodka."

"It'll get your heart beating again. What can I do for you? I'll bet you're here about that mess last night." She leaned over the table and said quietly, "Everybody in town's talking about it," flagging down a waiter as she spoke and ordering me a screwdriver.

"No kidding?" I said, trying to act surprised.

"It was ghastly. I had calls before the maid even opened my drapes this morning. I hardly knew this Turner man, but he seemed like a charming old gentleman."

"Charming?" I said. Uncle Franco was probably smiling in his grave.

"Well, you know. He contributed to the ballet and the symphony. He was on the board of the children's hospital. And he was quite modest about it all."

"No pictures, no publicity, that sort of thing?"

"Mm-hmm. Why?"

"Just wondering. I always suspect modesty. It's unnatural."

"You're a cynic."

"Very possibly."

"I always suspect cynics," she said.