“Okay, let‟s hear the theory,” I said.
The way Dutch had it figured, Longnose Graves was bringing several kilos of coke by boat from
Colombia to Doomstown. Graves bragged the information to Della Norman and she bragged it to her
new boyfriend, Tony Logeto, who, in turn, passed it on to the rest of the Taglianis. Somewhere east of
Jacksonville Beach, someone from the Tagliani clan hijacked the shipment, killed the crew, and
burned the boat. If that‟s the way it happened, it was a clever scheme. It did Graves out of several
million dollars‟ worth of snow and at the same time made him a loser to his people.
“I think,” Dutch concluded, “that Craves is on the warpath. Add to all this his old lady gettin‟ snuffed
in bed with Logeto, you got to have one angry mobster on your hands.”
The idea had a lot of merit and I told him so. If Dutch‟s theory was true, the most likely person to
have pulled off the hijacking was Turk Nance, which could account for Nance‟s whereabouts for the
past few days.
“The way I see it,” Dutch said, “it‟s either Costello or Craves who‟s behind all the killing. And right
now Graves is the only one with a motive.”
“We don‟t have anything to move on,” Stick said.
It was true—it was all ifs and maybes. I decided to play devil‟s advocate.
“Supposing that Costello is real greedy,” I said. “Maybe he decided to scratch out everybody except
the ones he needed, which would be Tuna Chevos, who controls the waterways, Lou Cohen, his
financial wizard, and Bronicata, who‟s the narcotics pipeline to the street. Maybe they got together,
made a front-end deal to waste all the rest of the family, ruin Graves‟ credibility, and split the town up
three ways.”
“It‟s not as strong as the case against Graves,” Dutch said. “He‟s fighting for his life and he‟s got a
revenge motive to hoot.”
“Either way, we need that dope,” the Stick said, “Without the coke, all we got is speculation.”
One thing we all agreed on: If the dead black man wasn‟t Stitch Harper, or somebody from Graves‟
gang, Dutch‟s hunch would be colder than an Alaskan picnic. We decided to table all further
discussion until the pictures arrived.
While we were waiting, I went looking for Charlie One Ear. He was sitting in his cubicle, dressed in
his best with a cigarette bobbing at the end of a fancy holder, touch-typing a report at about a hundred
and twenty words a minute.
“You do that like you know what you‟re doing,” I said.
“My mother believed in the broadest kind of education,” he said.
“Do me a favour, will you?” I asked. “I‟m trying to get a line on a Tony Lukatis, thirty years old,
dark...”
“I know Lukatis,” he said. “Did time in Little Q. Pot smuggling.”
“That‟s him.”
“Is he in trouble again?” Charlie One Ear asked.
“His sister‟s a friend of mine,” I said. “She thinks he may be involved in another—”
I stopped in midsentence. My stomach was doing slow rolls.
“My God,” I said, and ran back to the telex room with Charlie a few steps behind me. Dutch was
sitting beside the machine, leafing through some reports.
“These things are embarrassing,” he said as we entered the room. “If anybody else read them, they‟d
swear Salvatore and Zapata were illiterate.” Then he looked up at me and said, “What‟s wrong with
you?”
I handed him the Polaroid of Tony Lukatis.
“Know him?” I asked.
He took a look. “Sure, that‟s Tony Lukatis. He did a deuce for smuggling grass. Titan nailed him.”
“Titan? I got the impression he more or less tolerated pot.”
“Smoking, not smuggling,” Charlie One Ear said. “What‟s this all about?”
“The white guy that floated up with Stitch Harper, it could be Lukatis,” I said.
“Why?” asked Dutch.
“Hunch,” I said. “He‟s been missing since Sunday. His sister thinks he may have been involved in
smuggling.”
The first photo rolled off the tube twenty minutes later.
“Stitch,” Dutch said, “or what‟s left of him.”
Crabs or sharks or both had done a lot of damage to the black man‟s face but there was enough left to
tell who he was. The white man was not as lucky. He was missing a foot, his face was nibbled to bits,
and he was badly bloated. I hoped the dead man would be someone else, anybody else. I remembered
DeeDee‟s picture of Tony, pleasant, dark, good—looking kid. And I was thinking about DeeDee, to
whom life so far had been one bottom deal after another. First her father, now the brother she adored,
warts and all. I didn‟t hope for long.
“It‟s Lukatis,” Dutch said.
“You‟re sure?” I asked.
He nodded. “There isn‟t much, but there‟s enough.”
I turned away from the photo. I knew I would be the one to tell DeeDee. And now something new „as
gnawing at me.
Who had „Tony Lukatis been working for? Longnose Graves or the hijackers?
55
OBIT
The Quadrangle was a grassy square formed on three sides by old brick warehouses that dated back to
the Federalist period, and bordered on the fourth by the river. Cobblestone walks crisscrossed the
park; a sundial at its center gleamed under a broiling, bronze sky. In one corner of the green oasis was
a large oak tree, knobby with age, that shed what little shade there was, although nobody had sought
it‟s comforting shadows yet. There was hardly a breath of wind.
It was five to twelve when I got there. The park was beginning to fill up with pretty young girls in
cotton summer dresses and men who looked awkward and uncomfortable in their business suits, most
of them with their jackets tossed over their shoulders, A hot dog stand was doing record business. It
was a pleasant enough place to enjoy lunch, despite the heat.
The Seacoast National was on the ground floor of one of the buildings. Facing it on the other side of
the Quadrangle was Warehouse Three, where I was to break bread with Sam Donleavy the next day.
The third building, which ran lengthwise between them, facing park and river, turned out to be an old,
one-story counting house that was now a maritime museum.
I sat on a concrete bench near the corner of the bank, so I could watch both entrances, and waited for
DeeDee. I didn‟t have to wait long. At about five after, she and Lark came out, a striking pair that
turned heads like waves as they walked by.
She eyed me uncertainly as they came toward me, as if she wasn‟t sure whether we were still
speaking. I broke the ice.
“1 thought maybe we could get back to being friends and forget business,” I said.
Lark took the hint.
“Hot dogs and Cokes, anybody?” she asked brightly. “I‟m buy-lug.‟
DeeDee and I both ordered one of each and Lark slithered off toward the hot dog stand, stopping
conversation all along the way.
“You were right this morning,” I said. “It would‟ve been a dishonest thing for you to do and I‟m sorry
I asked.”
“What‟s the difference,” she said, still edgy. “You got the numbers anyway. Your friend convinced
Lark it was the patriotic thing to do.”
“Obviously he has more of a way with women than I do,” I said jokingly.
“Oh, I wouldn‟t say that,” she said, without looking at me.
We started walking and I took her by the arm and guided her under the large oak, away from the
noonday sun worshippers. She turned suddenly and faced me, looking rip straight into my eyes and
sensing my anxiety.