took out a small black notebook. “He stays real busy in the morning. Moves around a lot. Goes to the
bank every day at two o‟clock, just as it closes.”
“Every day?” I asked.
“All three days he went to the bank there on the river.” He nodded.
“This activity in the morning—does he always go to the same places?” Stick asked.
Lewis shook his head. “He‟s all over town. But he always seems to wind up on the Strip around noon.
Leastwise he did these three days.”
“Where does he bank?” I queried.
“Seacoast National, down there by the river like I said. Although sometimes he makes deposits at the
branches.”
The good-news worm nibbled at my stomach. That was Charles Seaborn‟s home plate.
“Cash deposits?” I asked.
“Never got that close,” Lewis said with a shrug. “Didn‟t wanna tip my hand, y‟see. He travels first
class. Big black Caddy limo with a white driver looks like he could carry the heap in his arms. Then
there‟s another pug in the front seat and a souped-up Dodge Charger with a high-speed rear end
fo1lowing them. Usually two, three mutts in it.”
“Like a little parade?” Stick suggested.
“Yeah,” he said with a smile, “a little parade. Any one of „em could win an ugly contest, hands down.
The Charger is usually in pretty tight. Half a block behind at least.”
“And he moves around a lot, you say?” I threw in.
“Uh-huh. But he always ends up there at the bank by the river, just before it closes.”
He offered me his notebook, which had notations scrawled everywhere. Slantwise, up the sides of the
pages, upside down. It was far worse than his typed report.
“What does all this mean?” I asked.
He looked a little hurt. “That‟s addresses and stuff,” he said. “See here, 102 Fraser, that‟s an address
where he stopped. Here‟s Bay Br. That‟s the Bay branch of the bank. Uh, I don‟t know what this one
is for sure, but I can figure it out.”
“Any of these addresses mean anything to you?”
“Well, some of „em do. See here where I wrote down „Port?‟ That‟s the Porthole Restaurant on the
way out to the Strip. He hit there two days, Tuesday and Friday. Bron,‟ that‟s Bronicata‟s joint. That
was Wednesday.”
“He sure eats a lot,” I said.
“Naw. Never stays that long. Five minutes, sometimes ten. I ambled in behind him once at the
Porthole. He has a cup of coffee at the corner of the bar, goes to the can, and leaves. Two guys from
the Charger sit a few stools away, another grabs a table near the door. The other two stand by the car.
He sure ain‟t lonely.”
It was an excellent tail job, but it was impossible for me to decipher his notes.
“This is a great job,” I told him, “but I need a big favour. Can you list the places he stopped with the
dates and times for me? Nothing fancy, just write them down in a straight line on a sheet of paper.”
“Can‟t read my writing, huh?” he said, looking hurt again.
I tried to ease the pain. “It‟s strictly my problem,” I said. “I have a very linear mind.”
His “Oh” told me that he didn‟t quite get my meaning but wasn‟t interested in pursuing it any further.
“Does Dutch have you shadowing Cohen anymore?” I asked.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “I‟m pulling a double. Logeto tonight, Cohen in the morning. Then I‟m off a
day.”
“Maybe he ought to watch the car instead of Cohen,” Stick suggested. “Some of his operators
probably have a key to the trunk. He parks in a lot or on a side street somewhere, goes into a place,
and while he‟s gone, the henchman makes a drop in the trunk.”
“Excellent idea,” I said. “Also you might switch cars with one of the other guys. These people are
very nervous. They keep their eyes open; that‟s their job.”
“That and cutting down anybody that gets near the family jewels,” Stick said.
“Got it,” Cowboy said. “I‟ll get right on this list.” He returned to his desk.
I pulled Stick out of earshot. “When he gets finished,” I said, “we need to pull a link matrix on this
stuff, just to see where these pickups overlap. The same with the rest of the gang. This Cohen is very
particular. I‟m sure he‟s smart enough to avoid any obvious patterns, but in the long run he‟s going to
end up setting patterns whether he likes it or not.”
“What‟s the significance of the restaurants?” Stick asked.
“I‟d have to guess.”
“So guess.”
“Bronicata probably owns the Porthole, as well as his own place. Maybe some other eateries around
town as well. That‟s probably dope money. The hotels‟ is probably skim. I‟m sure they have doubleentry books to keep the Lepers off their ass.”
Stick said, “We might have Salvatore pay Mortimer another visit and find out who he pays and when.
That could give us a lead on the pros take.”
He had learned his lessons well, the Stick. He was revealing himself as a first-class detective with a
handle on how the mob operates and I told him so.
“Thanks, teacher,” he said with that crooked smile of his. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. It wouldn‟t hurt to know who owns the businesses they frequent. We‟ve got to start putting
together some kind of profile on the whole Triad operation here.”
“Charlie One Ear‟s the man for that He knows all the tricks and you can‟t beat that computer he uses
for a brain. I can help with the legwork.”
“Good enough,” I said.
“How about dinner tonight?” Stick asked. “Maybe hit a few hot spots afterward.”
“I‟m tied up tonight,” I said. “Can we shoot for tomorrow night?”
Stick smiled. “I‟ll check my dance card,” he said.
Charlie One Ear appeared from the back of the building with an expression that spelled trouble.
“You need to have a chat with Dutch, old man,” he said to
“Trouble?”
“I think his feelings are hurt.”
“Oh, splendid,” I replied.
“I‟ll fill Charlie in,” Stick said as I headed back toward the big man‟s office. Dutch operated out of a
room the size of a walk-in closet. A desk, two chairs, one of which he occupied, and a window. The
desk could have qualified for disaster aid. It was so littered with paper that he kept the phone, which
he was using when I knocked, on the windowsill.
“Talk to ya later,” he barked into the phone, and slammed it down. I decided to close the door.
“You don‟t have t‟do that,” he growled. “We ain‟t got any secrets here.” He pointed to the other chair.
“Take a load off.”
I sat down. He cleared his throat and moved 1unk around on his desktop for a minute or so, then took
off his glasses and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.
“I don‟t wanna sound unappreciative,” he started, “but I got a way of doing things, okay? It may not
be SOP, and it may not be to the Fed‟s liking, but that‟s the way it is. No it seems to me that all of a
sudden you‟re kind of running this operation, got my people running errands all over town, doing
little numbers on wayward pimps, like that, and I like to get things off my chest, so I‟m speaking my
piece right up front.”
“Is that all that‟s bothering you?” I asked. I sensed that there was something else behind his
annoyance but I wasn‟t sure exactly what.
“So far.”
“Okay,” I said. “Since it‟s your ballgame, maybe you better tell me the rules.”
He opened a drawer and took out a sheet of paper.
“This here‟s my schedule sheet, I spend a lot of time workin‟ this out, make sure all the bases are