Part 9 (1/2)
”The boys giving you a hard time?” he asked.
”How'd you guess it?”
”I got some jazz when I first came on. Kind of like an initiation. But they think Dutch hired me, so they weren't as suspicious as they will be toward you. You're a Fed, man. That makes you a bada.s.s. Don't let it get you down; they'll come around.”
”So as far as they're concerned, you're just another one of the boys, that it?”
”You got it.”
”What's your angle in all this?” I asked.
”Dutch's had me playing the field, kind of getting my feet wet. One day this guy, the next somebody else. But the last week, since Mazzola made the Tagliani gang, I've been hawking Costello and that little fink, Cohen.”
”And . . . ?”
”h.e.l.l, you know the outfit better than any of us,” he said. Then, smiling, Stick added, ”Don't you ever do reports? I didn't know s.h.i.+t about Tagliani until Cisco filled me in. I mean, there's some chicken-s.h.i.+t stuff in the box about them, but nothing with any meat on it.”
”Yeah, I know. I'm bad about reports. I'm like Dutch. Anybody can read them.”
”In answer to your question, Costello keeps away from the rest of the players.”
”How about Cohen?”
”The same. A mousy bookkeeper.”
”Don't undersell him. He's got more tricks than a gypsy magician.”
”I'll keep that in mind. Have you seen Cisco yet?”
”Talked to him on the phone. I'm meeting him for breakfast. Maybe you ought to join us.”
”I think I'll pa.s.s. If any of these guys spot me with you this soon they could get antsy. Right now they trust me. I'd like to keep it that way.”
”Whatever,” I said as Dutch joined us.
”That was a nice job,” he said to me. ”I liked the little heart tug at the end.” And then to Stick: ”What have you been up to?”
”Houndd.o.g.g.i.ng Costello. He and Cohen spent the day on his yacht, talking business.”
”Great. That's two more we can alibi.” Then back at me: ”You talk to Cisco yet?”
”Just before the meeting. He suggested maybe Stick and I should team up. Is that a problem?”
”I guess not. It's a pretty loose operation. I'll move you around a little bit, just so's the rest of the boys don't wonder why I've put the two newcomers together. So what can I tell you, you don't know already?”
”Anybody on the local scene I ought to know about?” I asked, not really expecting an answer.
”Just Longnose Graves,” Dutch said.
”Longnose Graves?” I said, chuckling at the moniker.
Dutch stared at me through his hooded eyes. ”He ain't a laughing matter,” the big man said.
”Oh? Who is he?”
Dutch scratched the edge of his jaw with a thumb. ”The local bandit,” he said. ”Not a local bandit, the local bandit.” He tossed a sideways glance at the Stick. ”This business tonight, I hope it doesn't blow up like the Cherry McGee thing.”
”Cherry McGee?” I said. ”Would that be the McGee from up in Pittsburgh?”
”The McGee I'm talking about is planted in the local cemetery,” said Dutch. ”Compliments of Nose.”
The Stick drew himself a cup of coffee and poured me one. It was strong enough to swim the English Channel.
”So what's the story on Graves? What's he called? Longnose?”
”Not to his face,” Dutch said. Then he ran down the pedigree: ”Graves once had a beak, made Durante look like he had a nose job. He had an inch or so shaved off it in a fight, but the name sticks. He's black, a dandy, but not pimp-dandy, know what I mean? Sports jackets, s.h.i.+rt and tie, likes sports cars-that's more his style. Long before I got here, Graves controlled whatever underworld Dunetown had in the old days. Ladies, sharking, the book. He doesn't deal in hard drugs; in fact, he probably kept them out of Doomstown.”
”That's a switch,” I said.
”Moral fiber,” said the Stick.
”Sure,” Dutch snickered, and went on. ”About two years ago this outsider, Cherry McGee, moved into town with a bunch of roughnecks and decided to take some of the action. First he tried easing Nose out. When that didn't work, he tried buying Nose out. Still no dice. So then McGee decides to burn down one of Graves' clubs, to show Nose he was serious. A mistake.”
Stick chimed in with a character observation.
”Graves has great comeback talent,” he volunteered. ”Going against him was no different than McGee jumping off the Bay Bridge and thinking he could fly.”
Dutch continued, ”McGee did something uncharacteristic. He dropped a frame on Graves. Extortion. And it washed. Graves did a deuce off a nickel in Little Q.”
”Little Q?”
”Felony Disneyworld,” said the Stick. ”A very hard-time joint in this state-or any other for that matter.”
”When Nose comes out, he comes out like a Brahman bull comin' out of the chute,” said Dutch.
”Did he keep the business while he was gone?” I asked.
”It was nip and tuck. The trip cost everybody. In the end it was a trade-off-three of Graves' boys went down in the street; a couple of McGee's shooters ended up in the swamp.”
”Is it still going on?”
”Not since McGee and his top gun got their brains handed to them, wham, bam, just like that,” said Dutch.
”Hey, Chief, it's the phone for you,” Chino yelled from across the room. ”It's Kite Lange, babblin' like Niagara Falls.”
”Excuse me,” Dutch said, and dashed for the phone.