I nodded. “Absolutely.”
He gave me another big smile. “Splendid,” he said. “I truly admire a man who‟s strongly motivated.”
He offered me his hand. “I think Zapata and I will have a go at finding this Nance chap.”
“I‟d like that a lot,” I said.
A minute or two later Stick came back to the table. “Zapata just called,” he said. “They‟ve already
spotted Tanner. He‟s at the Breakers Hotel eating breakfast.”
“See what I mean about Chino?” Charlie One Ear said with a grin, and we were on our way.
21
MEMORANDUM
Okay, Cisco, you‟re always complaining that I don‟t file reports. So I have a thing about that. I can‟t
type and it takes me forever to peck out one lousy report. Also there are never enough lines on the
forms and I can‟t get the stuff in between the lines that are there. If you want to know the truth, it‟s a
royal pain in the ass. But if I were going to write a memorandum, it would probably go something like
this
I‟ve been in Dunetown less than twenty-four hours. So far I‟ve witnessed one death, seen three other
victims, fresh on the slab, been treated like I got smallpox by Dutch Morehead and his bunch of
hooligans, and seen just enough of Dunetown to understand why they call it Doomstown. It‟s an
understatement.
Due process? Forget it. It went out the window about the time Dunetown got its first paved road. As
far as the hooligans are concerned, due process is the notice you get when you forget to pay your
phone bill. Most of them think Miranda is the president of a banana republic in Central America.
Stick understands the territory but he‟s kind of in the squeeze. He has to go along with the hooligans
so they won‟t tumble that he‟s a Fed. On the other hand, he‟s smart enough to know that any evidence
these guys might gather along the way would get stomped flat at the door to the courthouse.
What we‟re talking about, Cisco, is education. Stick is a smooth operator. The rest of Dutch
Morehead‟s people would rather kick ass than eat dinner. Yesterday I tried to discuss the RICO
statutes with them and Chino Zapata thought I was talking about a mobster he knows in Buffalo.
The only exception is Charlie “One Ear” Flowers, who knows the game but doesn‟t buy the rules.
He‟s like the rest of these guys—they‟ve been fucked over so much by the system that they walk with
their legs crossed. I‟m not making any value judgments, mind you. Maybe some of them deserved
their lumps.
Take Salvatore, for instance. He was up on charges in New York City when Dutch found him. The
way I get it, Salvatore was on stakeout in one of those mom and pop stores in the Bronx. It had been
robbed so often, the people who owned it took out the cash and put it on the counter every time
somebody walked into the store. The old man had been shot twice. Classic case. It‟s the end of the
year and Salvatore is behind two-way glass and this freak comes into the store and starts waving a
Saturday night special around. Salvatore steps out from his hiding place, says, “Merry Christmas,
motherfucker,” and blows the guy into the middle of the street with an 870 riot gun loaded with rifle
slugs. The police commissioner took issue with the way Salvatore. did business. Now he‟s down here.
One thing about them, they don‟t complain. Between you arid me, I‟m glad they‟re here.
You can add this to everything else: every time I go around a corner I get another rude shock. Like
going out to the beach today. I wasn‟t ready for that. The traffic should have been a clue. It got heavy
about a quarter mile from where the boulevard terminates at Dune Road, which runs parallel to the
ocean. See, the way I remember Dune Road, it was this kind of desolate macadam strip that merged
with the dunes. It went out to the north end of the island and petered out at the sea; one of those old
streets that go nowhere in particular.
Now it‟s four lanes wide with metered parking lots all over the place. There are three hotels that
remind rue a lot of Las Vegas, and shops and fast-food joints one on top of the other, and seawalls to
protect the hotel guests from the common people. Two more going up and beyond them condos
polluting the rest of the view. And the noise! It was a hurricane of sound. Stereos, honking horns, and
hundreds of voices, all jabbering at once.
La Cote de Nightmare is what it is now.
See what I mean about rude shocks? The Strip, that‟s one rude shock.
Anyway, I‟m on my way out there with Stick and Charlie One Ear followed in his car. Going
anywhere with Stick is taking your life In your hands. He doesn‟t drive a car, he flies it. He can do
anything in that Pontiac but a slow roll and I wouldn‟t challenge him on that. I ought to be getting
combat pay.
Without boring you with details, Salvatore and Zapata made this St. Louis pimp named Mortimer
Flitch and we went out to have a chat with him.
He was hanging out on the Strip and before I go any further with that, let me tell you about the Strip_
The first thing I noticed when we got there, the hotels are almost identical triplets. Take the Breakers,
for instance. The lobby is the size of the Dallas stadium. It would take about five minutes to turn it
into a casino. I could almost hear the cards ruffling and the roulette balls rattling and the gears
cranking in the slot machines. When Raines pushed through the pari-mutuel law, he promised there
would never be any casino gambling in Dunetown. Well, you can forget that, Cisco. They‟re ready.
It‟s just a matter of time. I‟ll give them a year, two at the most. What we‟re looking at is Atlantic City,
Junior. About fifteen minutes told me all I wanted to know about the Strip.
When we got there, the pimp, Mortimer, is sitting in a booth in the coffee shop looking like he just
swallowed a 747. Salvatore is sitting across from him, kind of leaning over the table, grinning like
he‟s running for mayor. One thing I left out: Salvatore carries a sawed-off pool cue in his shoulder
holster. It‟s about eighteen inches long and it‟s always catching on things, which doesn‟t seem to
bother him a bit. Zapata is standing by the door. That‟s their idea of backup.
When we arrived, Zapata split. He‟s on the prowl for Nance and Chevos. That makes me feel real
fine, because if Chevos and Nance are within a hundred miles of here, Zapata will find them. I‟ll
make book on it.
We join Salvatore and Mortimer at the table and then I see why this Mortimer Flitch has got that
screwy look on his face. Salvatore has his pool cue between Morti men‟s legs and every once in a
while he gives the cue a little jerk and rings Mortimer‟s bells.
“Tell him what you told me there, Mort,” Salvatore says, and bong! he rings the bells and Mortimer
starts singing like the fat lady in the opera.
“I got in a little trouble in Louisville about two months ago and—”
Bong! “Tell „em what for,” says Salvatore.
“Beating up this chippie. She had it coming—
Bong! “Forget the apologies,” says Salvatore.
“Anyway, the DA was all over me and—”
Bong! “Tell „em why,” says Salvatore.
“It, uh, it—”
Bong!
“It was my fifth offense. Anyway, I give a call to a friend of mine, does a little street business in
Cincy, and he says forget it out there, things are real hot, I should try calling Johnny O‟Brian down
here. So I did and he sends me the ticket.”
Mortimer stopped to catch his breath and Salvatore gave him another little shot.