paused and looked at me for the blink of an eye, then added, “All of a sudden.”
Dutch said, “Kilmer was on the plane when Tagliani got wasted. I picked him up myself at the
airport.”
The Kid shrugged. “No offense,” he said. “My mother sold me for six bucks to a Canal Street
vegetable man when I was four years old. I ain‟t trusted anybody since.”
“How the hell did you keep him in sight for thirty-six hours?” Dutch asked.
“Nose don‟t know me from a brick shithouse, so I bribed the bellhop who‟s got the room, give him a
Franklin and all the tips I took in, he let me take the 1ob. I handled the room, mixed drinks, kept the
place tidy. Kept the ladies in the other room happy. Let me tell you, the only time that nigger left the
table was to go to the growler. He didn‟t do so much as a Ma Bell the whole time.”
“Was he by himself?” Dutch asked.
“Just him and his bodyguard. A Chinee called Song. Big Chinee,” the Kid said, giving it a little
vibrato for emphasis. 1 mean, that flicker makes King Kong look like an organ grinder‟s monkey.”
“Graves probably wouldn‟t be doing the dirty work himself, anyway,” I offered.
“I‟d want long odds if I made that bet,” the Kid said, glaring at me.
“You think he would?” I asked.
“He did Cherry McGee in, personally. And in broad fuckin‟ daylight. We couldn‟t bend him for
disturbing the peace. And he disturbed the hell out of McGee‟s peace.”
“What do you know about McGee?” I asked.
“He‟s a dead fuckin‟ honky,” the Kid said.
I had a wild hunch and I threw it at the Kid. “That Louisiana horse breeder that came in the game late,
his name wasn‟t Thibideau, was it?”
He looked surprised. “Thibideau? Yeah, I think that was the name. Short guy, dark hair, built like a
crate?”
“Close enough. How much did he drop?”
“Fifteen and change. How you know he was in the game?”
“I‟m psychic,” I said.
“No shit?” he said. “Maybe you should read my palm. I been told I got a life line shorter than a
lovebird‟s pecker.”
“I wouldn‟t know,” I said, “I‟ve never seen a lovebird‟s pecker.”
“See what I mean,” he said. Then he turned back to Dutch. “What the hell‟s goin‟ on here? Who are
all these people fuckin‟ up the place?”
“Kid, it‟s a long, long story,” Dutch said wearily. “You‟re about three days behind. I‟ll buy you a
sandwich; maybe Kilmer here can fill you in.”
He looked back at me. “A fuckin‟ Fed, huh,” he said. “We ain‟t got enough trouble.”
“You‟ll learn to love me,” I said, and begged off dinner with some vague excuse. I had to meet Harry
Nesbitt at Uncle Jolly‟s and this time I decided to keep the meeting to myself.
I headed back to the hotel to take a quick shower.
There were four phone messages in my box. Three of them were from Doe Findley. The fourth was
from DeeDee Lukatis.
44
UNCLE JOLLY’S
I put on my oldest jeans, a faded cotton shirt, clodhopper boots, a nasty old Windbreaker from my
flare days, put my 357 under my arm, and slipped a bob-nosed .22 into my boot. It was about eight
o‟clock when I headed out Highway 35 south.
I was thinking about Doe, and I was also thinking about DeeDee Lukatis. She had obviously left the
message at the desk. It was handwritten.
Dear Jake:
You probably don‟t remember me. The last time I saw you I was barely 15. I need to talk to you about
a matter of some urgency. My phone number is below, if we miss each other I‟ll be at Casablanca
after ten tonight.
An old friend,
DEEDEE LUKATIS.
It was followed by a P.S. with her phone number. I had tried it but there was no answer. I might have
ignored the message except for two things. DeeDee Lukatis was Tony Lukatis‟ sister, and Tony
Lukatis had once been Doe‟s lover. That would have been enough to warrant a phone call. But Babs
Thomas had also told me that DeeDee Lukatis was the personal secretary of my favorite Dunetown
banker, Charles Seaborn. That made it very important. She might know a lot about Lou Cohen‟s
relationship with Seaborn.
Then I started thinking about Doe. Her first two phone messages had been simple and to the point:
“Please call Mrs. Raines about the stud fee.” Nice and subtle. The last message informed me that she
was out for the evening but I could call her after ten in the morning. That was to let me know Harry
was back in town.
I felt a sudden urgency to see her, knowing I couldn‟t, and I felt some sense of guilt at not calling her
earlier in the day.
Uncle Jolly‟s Fillup ended that reverie. The place wasn‟t hard to find. It would have been harder not
to find.
It looked like a Friday night football game. A country cop was directing traffic, most of which was
going down the same dirt road I went down. I followed the crowd about two miles through pine trees
and palmetto bushes to the parking lot. Through the cracks and peeling paint I could just make out the
sign: PARK HERE FOR
UNCLE JOLLY‟S FILLUP.
A hundred cars in the space, at least.
I parked among dusty Chevys and Dodges, Pontiacs with high-lift rear ends, and pickup trucks with
shotguns in the rear window gun racks, and drifted with the crowd. As I passed one of those bigwheel pickups, the kind with wheels about six feet high, the door opened and the Mufalatta Kid stuck
his caramel-coloured face out.
“You take a wrong turn someplace?” he asked.
“What‟re you doing here?” I asked.
“Just checkin‟ out the territory.”
“Me too.”
“Glide easy, babes. Strangers make these people real nervous.”
“What‟s this all about, anyway?” I asked him.
“You mean you don‟t know why you came all the way out here?” he said incredulously. “Shit, man, I
guess you are psychic. This is the dog fights, babes.”
It jolted me.
Dog fighting was the last thing I expected. Bare-knuckle boxing,
a porno show, a carnival, a lot of things had occurred to me when
I saw the traffic jam, but dog fighting was the farthest thing horn
my mind.
“Dog fighting,” he repeated. “Not your thing, huh?”
“Jesus, dog fighting. I didn‟t know they still did that kind of thing.”
“Well, you do now, man, „cause that‟s what it‟s all about.”
“You going to bust this little picnic?”
“Me? All by myself? Shit. If I was that fucked up I wouldn‟t have my life line. These people take
their sports real serious. You wanna die in a backwoods swamp in south fuckin‟ Georgia? If I was
you, what I would do is, I would hightail my ass back up the road and be glad you‟re gone.”
“I don‟t want to start a thing,” I said lamely.
“So how the hick did you wind up here?”
“I was invited,” I said.
“You are a piece of work, all right. Stick was tellin‟ me about you. „He‟s a real piece of work,‟ he
said. He left off that you‟re nuts.”
“Well, that‟s what happens when you‟re in a strange town,” I said. “You‟ll do anything for a laugh.”
We watched a lot of coming and going, a lot of lean men in felt hats, overalls, and galluses, a lot of
weary women in Salvation Army duds dragging four-and five-year olds with them, a few friendly
arguments over the merits of the dogs, two freckle-bellied high school kids wandering off into the
brush to settle a dispute over a cheerleader who looked thirteen years old except for a bosom you