Part 38 (2/2)

”f.u.c.k him,” I growled.

Mufalatta moved his hand. ”Okay,” he said, ”but you're on his turf, man. No place to start trouble.”

I thought about that for a minute. What Mufalatta was telling me was that it wasn't just Graves' turf, it was the Kid's too.

”I didn't know you had something going,” I said. ”Sorry.”

”Don't be. It's the way things happen. You'll get the hang of it. ”

”Okay,” I said, ”so we do it your way.”

”That's cool,” he said. ”For now, the Kid's way is to hang loose, don't splash the water, don't wave your face around a lot, lay back, see what comes along.”

”Is there gonna be trouble here?”

”Anyplace Elroy Luther is, there could be trouble. It comes to him like flies to a two-holer.”

”Well, are you expecting trouble?”

”I just answered that,” the Kid said, and shut up.

”I'm going to mosey around,” I said.

I followed the silver chariot a hundred yards down the road until it ended at an old frame roadhouse, a big place with a cone-shaped roof, boarded-up windows, and a lot of noise inside.

And there were the dogs. Mean dogs. Not yipping dogs. These were angry, snarling, growling, scarred, teeth-snapping, gum-showing, s...o...b..ring dogs, biting at their cages with yellow teeth. I could feel the gooseflesh on my arms rising like biscuits in a stove.

In all, I estimated three hundred fifty to four hundred people were packed inside, all of whom had paid ten dollars a head, man, woman, and child, to the giant at the door. He was bald and black-bearded, wore overalls and no s.h.i.+rt, had arms like a truck tire and curly hair on his shoulders. For those who were not impressed by his size, there was a .38 police special hanging haphazardly from his rear pocket.

When the crowd outside the arena had thinned to half a dozen, a tall, pole-thin black man got out of the front seat of the Lincoln. The rear window glided silently down and he reached in and drew out a wad of bills big enough to strangle Dumbo. I got a quick look at a handsome black face at the window. I had imagined Nose Graves to be ugly. If that was Nose Graves, and I was fairly sure it was, he was the lady-killer type. Older than I'd thought, probably forty-five or so, give or take a couple of years either way. His bushy hair was graying at the temples and he had a deep scar almost the width of one eyebrow, another over his ear that carried a gray streak with it. His nose was straight and no larger than mine. He was wearing gold-rimmed sungla.s.ses. My guess was, Nose Graves probably wore those gla.s.ses to bed.

The window went back up without a sound and the skinny man headed for the rear door of Uncle Jolly's. So that was the pitch, then. Longnose Graves was the banker. It was his house.

I sauntered up to the gate. My sawbuck vanished into the keeper's fist. He cut me about six ways with his black eyes before jerking his head for me to go in.

Noise, heat, odor, hit me like a bucket of hot water. Tiers had been built up and away from a pit in the middle of the room. Fruit jars of moons.h.i.+ne were being pa.s.sed back and forth. Some of the families had brought picnics and were wolfing down dinner, waiting for the tournament to start. Smoke swirled around half a dozen green-shaded two-hundred-watt bulbs that hung from the ceiling over the plywood rink.

Most of the crowd could have been dirt farmers living on food stamps-until the betting started. That's when the U.S. Grants and Ben Franklins appeared.

The place suddenly sounded like a tobacco auction. Graves' man stood in the ring and handled it with the bored finesse of a maitre d'. A wizened, mean-looking little creep, with a flimsy white beard, whom I took to be Uncle Jolly, stood behind him with a large roll of movie tickets over one wrist, handing out chits as the bets were made, after scribbling what I a.s.sumed to be the size of the bet and the number of the dog on the back.

A lot of money was going down, big money. And this was only the first fight. Clyde Barrow could have knocked over this soiree and retired.

45.

DOUBLE FEATURE.

It had seen better days, the South Longbeach Cinema, a movie palace once long ago, when Garbo and Taylor were the stars and glamour and double features eased the pain of the Depression. Its flamingo-painted walls were chipped and faded now, and the art deco curves around its marquee were terminally spattered by pigeons and sea birds.

It stood alone, consuming, with its adjacent parking lot, an entire block, facing a small park. Behind it, looming up like some extinct prehistoric creature, was the tattered skeleton of a roller coaster, stirring bleak memories of a time when the world was a little more innocent and South Longbeach was the playground of the city's middle cla.s.s.

Now the theater was an ethnic showplace, specializing in foreign flms shown in their original language. It attracted enough trade to stay open, but not enough to be cared for properly. The park across the street was rundown too. Its nests of palm trees dry and dusty, the small lake polluted, most of its lights broken or burned out. At night n.o.body went near the place but drunks, hoboes, and predators.

The ocean was hidden from the area by an abutment, the foot of one of the many towering dunes from which the city had taken its name. The road that wound around it to the beach was pockmarked by weather and strewn with broken bottles and beer cans.

A long black limousine was parked in the ”no stand' zone in front of the theater. The double feature was Roma and La Strada. Stizano and his bunch had come only for the last feature, La Strada. Stizano, an inveterate movie buff, had dropped his wife off, and come back to the movies with his number one b.u.t.ton and two other gunsels. It was his way of relaxing.

They were still dressed in black. First came the shooters, both of whom looked like beach b.u.ms in mourning, their necks bulging over tight collars. They studied the street, then one of them stepped back and opened the theater doors and the number one b.u.t.ton exited, a thin, sickly-looking man, the color of wet cement. He shrugged and summoned his boss.

Stizano was portly, with white hair that flowed down over his ears, and looked more like the town poet than a mobster. He walked with an ebony cane, his fingers glittering with rings.

The chauffeur walked around the back of the car to open the door.

Suddenly they were marionettes, dancing to the tune of a silent drummer. Tufts flew from their clothes; popcorn boxes were tossed in the air.

The only sound was the thunk of bullets tearing into the five of them, then the shattering of gla.s.s as bullets ripped into the show windows of the theater and an explosion of shards as the box office was obliterated, then the popping of the bulbs in the marquee.

Poppoppoppop . . . poppoppoppop . . .

Poppoppoppoppoppop . . .

Broken bulbs showered down on the street.

Five people lay in the outer lobby, on the sidewalk, in the gutter.

It had happened so fast there were no screams.

Nor the sound of gunfire.

Nor the flash from a weapon.

Nothing.

Nothing but five puppets dancing on the string of death.

Then, just like that, it was all over. Silence descended over the park.

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