And that‟s all any of us will have to say on the matter.”
“That‟s hardly what we call cooperation, counsellor,” Dutch said. Then he piped up, “Right now, I got
you down as an A-number-one client for a hit and an A-number-one suspect. You could be in a lot of
trouble, Mr. Costello. I could book you as a material witness for starters.”
“I‟d be out before the desk sergeant cleared his throat,” Costello said.
“Where‟s Turk Nance?” I asked.
“I barely know Turk Nance. „Why, is he missing?” Costello hissed, then, turning to Dutch, added,
“I‟m leaving now and I‟m taking my people with me.”
“I‟m booking that bunch of muggers of yours for disorderly conduct,” Dutch said. “Seventy-five
bucks apiece.”
“Don‟t be silly
“Disorderly conduct, period,” Dutch said. “You want to argue, we‟ll see you all in court. Otherwise
you can pay the night judge on your way out. It‟ll fix the holes in the ceiling.” He jabbed a thumb
toward the two bullet holes.
Costello turned back to me. “You, I know about. Your name came down from Cincy. I hear you‟re on
the list, buddy boy. Way up. My wife‟s uncle Skeet had a lot of friends.”
“I‟m all torn up over your wife‟s uncle Skeet,” I said. “I‟ll make you a promise, wimp. I‟m going to
send you up there with him. A Christmas present, so he doesn‟t get lonely.”
“You know, you could work yourself to death, Kilmer.”
“I doubt even you‟re stupid enough to knock over a Fed,” the Stick said to Costello.
“Sure he is,” I said. “He‟s real stupid.”
“Maybe you ought to be on the list too,” Costello said to Stick.
“Love it,” said the Stick, and started laughing.
“You‟ve been a flea bite to my family for a long time, Kilmer,” Costello said.
“Sure, that‟s why you all ran out of Cincinnati,” I said with a leer. “You couldn‟t stand the itch.”
“I suggest you back off,” he said coldly. “We‟ve done nothing illegal here. This is none of your
business.”
“Everything you do‟s my business,” I snarled. “I‟ve made you my favourite charity.”
There was one of those tense moments when nobody says anything. I decided to fill in the blanks.
“There‟s an African proverb, goes like this,” I said. “When the skunk saw the lion run from him, he
thought he was king of the jungle. And then he met a dog with a bad cold.‟ That‟s me, Costello, I‟m
your dog with a bad cold. I know all about your lily-white record and I don‟t care. I‟m going to turn
you up. Sooner or later this dog is going to bite. That‟s if you‟re still around.”
“Oh, I‟ll be around,” he said, and turned to leave. He hesitated at the door. “This is a family affair,” he
said. “Resolving it is a mailer of honour to us.”
“That explains the problem,” I said. “If honour‟s concerned in this, you‟re dead already.”
Costello turned and left. I followed him back out and went up to Chevos, standing so I was a few
inches from his face. He looked like one of those Russian assassins that usually get elected to the
Politburo.
I put on my toughest voice, almost a whisper with an edge like a carving knife.
“Where‟s Nance, old man?”
He stared at rue, snake-eyed, his jaws shivering. He didn‟t answer and he couldn‟t look me in the eye;
he just kept staring over my shoulder.
“Where‟s Nance, old man?” I snarled again, with as much menace as I could put in it.
Blood filled his face at the insult but he still didn‟t answer.
“Give him a message from me,” I hissed angrily. “You tell that gutless back-shooter he fucked up
when he missed me in Cincinnati that night. Tell him the next time he tries, I‟m gonna take his gun
away from him, stick it up his ass, and blow his brains out. Do you think you can remember that, or
are you too senile?”
He was so angry his eyes started to water. His Adam‟s apple was bobbing like a bubble in the surf as
he swallowed his spit.
“1 know all about you, you disgusting freak,” I went on, getting all the venom I could out of my
system. “You make junkies out of children. You kill women. You‟re scum, Chevos, and you‟re on my
list too.”
It felt good. Damn, did it feel good. I may not have had ball bearings in my sneakers or a sawed-off
pool cue in my holster, but I felt good.
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