Part 26 (1/2)
”What's this bit about them getting Burked?” Dutch asked. ”What's that all about?”
Stick said. ”I saw this once downcountry. The CRIPS used it. Silent and quick.”
”What's a CRIP?”
”Combined Recon and Intelligence Platoons. They were kind of the army's on-the-spot Green Berets. Only they didn't have the training. They recruited everybody. Guys in the brig, misfits, old French Legionnaires, mercenaries, people who didn't want to come back after their tour was up. Basically they were a.s.sa.s.sination squads. Send 'em out, kill a village leader or a tax collector, some rebel leader who's getting a little muscle. Like that.”
Morehead shook his head. ”Different kind of army,” he said.
”You were in the army?” said Stick.
”Korea. Foot soldier. Sixteen months,” the big German said. ”You remember Korea, boys? Nowadays most people think Korea's the name of an all-night grocery stand.”
”Poor old Della,” the Stick said. ”Why would anybody want to ice her?”
”What about her?” I asked.
He shrugged. ”Della and I got along. I had occasion to bust her once. A pot charge. It was just a fis.h.i.+ng expedition, see if maybe we could turn up something on Nose. She figured it out and took it like a sport.”
”Wonder what Logeto was doing with her.”
”Maybe she was just a good piece of a.s.s,” the Stick conjectured. ”Wasn't he supposed to be the Taglianis' resident c.o.c.ksman?”
”That's a simple enough explanation,” Dutch said.
I was barely listening. I was too busy wondering how Logeto and Della Norman had been killed without being seen or heard by four goons at the foot of the stairs.
”I can think of one reason Della was killed,” I said.
”We're holding our breath,” said Dutch.
I did some verbal logic, to hear what the ideas sounded like: ”Logeto came here every Monday night. Whoever killed him knew that, knew what time he usually came, and he or she also knew that there was a lot of heat on. Getting past Logeto's bodyguards wouldn't be easy. So what's the answer? Come in first and kill the girl. Killer knew Logeto would come in alone; he's too macho to have his boys sweep the place first. So he or she killed the girl and then waited. When Logeto came in, the killer Burked him. Logeto never made a sound.”
”Then he or she dusted off through the bathroom using a dropline,” Stick finished.
”Except they went up, not down,” I said. ”And got away across to the roof next door so they wouldn't be seen from the ground.”
”That's probably how he got in,” Stick said. ”Went down the line, killed them both, then went back up.”
”Beautiful planning,” I said.
Dutch chewed that over for a moment or two. ”Yeah, I don't have a problem with that. Got a lot of guts, acing out a mobster with four of his handymen pitching coins in the hallway below.”
”Yeah. Or desperate,” I said.
”Desperate?”
”Yeah. Either somebody with more guts than Moses or somebody who can't afford not to get it done.”
Dutch said, ”In that case, if it's Nance doing this number for Chevos, that leaves only Costello, Bronicata, Stizano, O'Brian, and Cohen left.”
”Five to go,” said Stick.
Dutch was leaning against the wall of the apartment with his hands stuffed deep in his pockets.
”It's the full moon,” he said woefully. ”Pregnant women have babies, men go apes.h.i.+t. What can I tell yuh.”
”That's good,” the Stick said. ”That's what we'll tell the papers, that it was the full moon.”
29.
DISAWAY.
I went back to the hotel and went to bed.
The phone rang several times during the night. How many times, I couldn't tell you. Finally I put it on the floor, threw a pillow over it, and died. The next thing I knew, someone was trying to knock down my door. I flicked on the lamp, struggled into a pair of pants, and found Pancho Callahan standing on the threshold.
”Change in plans” was all he said.
”Huh?” was all I could muster.
”Tried to call,” he said.
”Appreciate it,” I mumbled, and started back to bed.
”Going out to the track,” he said in his abbreviated patois.
”What, now?”
”Yep.”
”What time is it?”
”Five.”
”In the morning!”
”Yep.”
”Tuesday morning?”
”Tuesday morning.”
I stared bleakly at him. He looked like a page out of GQ magazine. Gray cotton trousers, a tattersall vest under a blue linen blazer, pale blue skirt, a wine tie with delicate gray horses galloping aimlessly down its length, and a checkered cap, c.o.c.ked jauntily over one eye.
He didn't look any more like a cop than John Dillinger looked like the Prince of Wales.