goon closed in on him, kicked him in the jaw. The toe of his sneaker was loaded with ball bearings, It
burst open like a squashed grapefruit, and steel marbles rattled all over the floor. Callahan‟s target
destroyed a typing stand and landed in a corner, spitting out his front teeth.
The floor was covered with ball bearings. It looked like amateur night at the roller derby, everybody
dilly-dancing on the things like three-year-olds at ballet school.
Charlie One Ear, who had seemed a little overweight to me and far too elegant to mix it up with this
bunch, slid out of his tweed jacket, spun around on the ball of one foot, kicked a goon in the
diaphragm with a perfectly aimed toe-shot, slashed him across the temple with the flat of his hand,
and was hack on both feet before the goon hit the floor. A lovely little pas seul.
Zapata relied on nothing more than his fists, waltzing across the ball-bearinged floor and hitting any
and all targets of opportunity.
The Stick picked Drack Moreno and they went at it, Moreno outweighing him by twenty pounds and
outreaching him by three inches, a condition Stick quickly remedied by first kicking Moreno in the
kneecap, then pulling a handkerchief loaded with silver dollars from his pocket and swinging it
around and around like a bob. It caught Moreno more than once. Moreno‟s face bunched up in pain.
„The Stick hit him in the throat. Moreno‟s tongue almost hit the far wall. His eyes crossed. He gasped
for air. Zapata stepped in and flattened Moreno with a lovely one-two, a short jab to the face, followed
by a gorgeous right uppercut to the jaw.
The Stick‟s silver dollars and Salvatore‟s pool cue finished off Weasel Murphy, who made the
mistake of trying to get up off the floor.
Charlie One Ear gave another of his brief karate demonstrations and put another one away.
Salvatore held the last of Costello‟s strongarms by the collar of his shirt at arm‟s length and was
socking him, almost casually, in the face, over and over again, with his pool cue.
Dutch ended the melee with two shots into the ceiling.
All motion was suspended.
“Verdammt, Salvatore, drop that guy!” he boomed.
Salvatore opened his hand and let him go, the tough dropping face first into a typewriter that lay on
the floor.
Weasel Murphy groaned and slid down the wall.
The asshole with the mouse now had a pair of mice and no front teeth.
Drack Moreno‟s face looked like Omaha Beach on June seventh.
To my knowledge, not one of the hooligans had suffered so much as a bruise, except for Cowboy
Lewis‟ fat lip.
The entire gala had lasted maybe a full minute, no more.
Dutch stood in front of the room, gun in hand, dust drizzling down on his shoulders from two holes in
the ceiling.
“What‟s the matter with everybody? You all comin‟ unwired? Book these punks here for resisting
arrest.”
The door opened cautiously and three uniformed cops peered in nervously before entering the room.
There were a lot of clinking handcuffs and groans as they cleared out the Tagliani goons.
Lewis and the others helped Callahan clean up his ball bearings.
“Brand-new sneakers,” he complained, surveying the split toe of his Nikes.
All clubs and other weapons had magically vanished back to their nesting places.
The Stick returned to my solitary corner. He was smiling. “I feel much better,” he said.
“I thought maybe one of them stole your hat,” I said.
43
DOG WITH A BAD COLD
With things back under control, we left the war room and went back to the front of the Warehouse.
Costello remained in his corner, still tense, like a big cat waiting to spring. He looked back at me and
stared for a few seconds, as though not quite sure who I was, and then recognition swept over his
features. I could feel the hatred across the room. I smiled at him and stared back. My turn was
coming.
Our group had narrowed down to the Stick, Dutch, and me. Most of the aggravated tension moved
into the other room with us.
“Excuse me,” Costello said in a voice that was flat, harsh, and no less venomous than the bite of an
asp. “Do you mind reading us our rights and telling us what we‟re charged with?”
Dutch said, “The rest of them I‟m gonna charge with, let‟s see, how about assaulting an officer,
resisting arrest, creating a riot, destroying city property—”
“All right, let‟s make it simple,” Costello interrupted. “What the hell are we doing here?”
“Things were a little too quiet, we only had one murder so far today,” Dutch said. “So I thought we‟d
have us all a little picnic.”
“Look,” Costello said to Dutch, “I realize you‟re a well-respected police officer, Morehouse, but
you‟re pushing—”
Now it was Dutch‟s turn to do the interrupting.
“Morehead,” Dutch said in a growl. “Lieutenant Morehead.”
“All right, Morehead—”
“Lieutenant.”
Costello glared a moment or two more. “Lieutenant Morehead, what the hell do you want from us?
Why are we here?”
Dutch said, “Maybe you haven‟t noticed, but a lot of your relatives have dropped suddenly dead in the
last couple of days.”
“is that why that bunch of beach bums of yours has been harassing us for the past few weeks?”
“Oh, I would hardly call that harassment, Mr. Costello,” Dutch said. “I‟ll be glad to show you real
harassment, if you‟d like.”
Throughout the exchange, Chevos never took his eyes off me. They glittered like the eyes of a night
predator. It had suddenly occurred to him who I was, a man whose assassination he had once ordered.
I looked back and for a moment we were eye to eye. A lot went on in that face in a couple of seconds:
hate, fear, annoyance, curiosity, anger, frustration. He finally looked away.
I finally cut into the conversation. “So you‟re representing all these people, right, Costello?”
“That‟s right. I‟m glad somebody finally remembered I‟m an attorney.”
“Then let‟s just you and us talk,” I said, and I stepped back into the war room. Dutch ushered Costello
in and the Stick followed.
I slammed the door and said, “Look, let‟s stop fucking around. You‟re just a mobster, Costello. We all
know it, so let‟s stop the bullshit. Uncle Franco is dead and that makes you primo candidate for capo
di capi—that‟s if you don‟t join the rest of your worthless ancestors, which wouldn‟t hurt my feelings
at all.”
He started to say something but I held my hand up and kept talking. “Now we figure two things,
Costello; either some mob from up country has decided to muscle you out of Dunetown and take over,
or somebody inside your clan has got a real beef going
on.
“Are you implying that I engineered these killings?” he said angrily.
“You haven‟t got the guts,” I said, letting my feelings hang out. “I‟m telling you what we know and
what we‟re guessing.”
“It‟s our problem.”
“Wrong again, asshole,” I said. “We just made it our problem.”
“Not likely,” he said, very slowly and deliberately. “Whatever the problem is, it‟s our problem arid
we‟ll take care of it.”
“Yeah,” I said with a smile. “Just like you have so far?”
His face turned red. Dutch said, “Wrong, anyway. We‟re talking about homicide, lots of it. It‟s out of
your hands, Costello. It‟s officially a police matter. As such, what we‟re suggesting is your
cooperation.”
“I‟ll tell it one more time,” he said, holding up a forefinger. “I don‟t know who is doing this, or why.