Part 44 (2/2)

”Charlie, all canaries sing alike. Does he know who the distributor is or not?”

”He only knows his own street connection.”

”Want a guess?” I said. ”Bronicata. It's his game.”

”That makes sense,” Stick said. ”Unless maybe it's Longnose Graves.”

The Mufalatta Kid broke his silence. ”Nose don't touch hard stuff,” he said.

”Times are changing,” I countered. ”This place is ripe for toot; it's wallowing in heavy rollers.”

”I ain't stickin' up for the dinge,” the Kid said. ”On the line, he ain't nothin' but a shanty-a.s.s, nickel-dime n.i.g.g.e.r, say. He just don't f.u.c.k with heavy drugs, man. Ain't his style.”

Dutch stepped in. ”Any idea how much c.o.ke we're talking about here?”

”Rumors vary. I would say fifty kilos, pure.”

”Gemtlich!” Dutch rumbled under his breath.

Salvatore whistled softly through his teeth. ”We're talking bucks here,” he said.

Charlie One Ear took a thin, flat calculator from his s.h.i.+rt pocket and started adding it up.

”Let's see. A hundred and ten pounds of stuff, which they'll likely kick at least six, perhaps eight, to one. Let's say roughly eight hundred pounds, which is roughly thirteen thousand ounces, which is roughly three hundred thousand grams. At eighty dollars a gram, that would come to twenty-four million dollars along the Strand. Roughly.”

That stopped conversation for almost a minute. Stick broke the silence.

”Well, that'll cover the old car payment,” he said.

Dutch turned to me again. ”You're the one knows these people,” he said. ”Do you think they'd snuff each other over twenty-four million bucks?”

”h.e.l.l, I might kill them for twenty-four million bucks, Dutch. The question is, does it make sense? My answer is no, it doesn't. They deal in bigger numbers than that every week.”

Salvatore added his thoughts: ”I agree. It could happen if there was some rhubarb over territory, somebody in the family got his feelings jacked off, personal s.h.i.+t like that. Then, maybe. I don't see them cuttin' each other up over some dope deal either.” He shook his head vigorously. ”That don't come across as a possibility.”

”So we're back to square one, and we got five more corpus delictis on our hands,” Dutch said.

”I'll keep digging, of course,” Charlie One Ear said, and went off to the other side of the park with Salvatore and Callahan to look for car tracks.

They returned ten minutes later. Charlie stood with his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, rocking on his heels. After a proper dramatic pause he said, ”It's highly likely the damage was done from the other end of the park. We found what could be tire tracks. Actually it looks like someone may have wrapped burlap or some other heavy material around the wheels so they wouldn't leave any identifying tracks.”

”How far is it from back there to the theater?” Dutch asked.

”About a furlong,” Callahan said, and when we all stared dumbly at him, he added, ”Two hundred yards, give or take a few feet.”

”An M-16 with a good scope could handle that,” said the Stick.

”Isn't that comforting,” Dutch said.

I took Callahan aside and told him about the game at the Breakers Hotel and Thibideau dropping over fifteen grand.

”Interesting,” said Callahan. ”Disaway'll go off, twenty, thirty to one tomorrow. It rains, pony wins, Thibideau can buy the Breakers.”

”Maybe I'll come to the races tomorrow afternoon,” I said.

”Back gate, one o'clock. I'll wait ten minutes.” And he drifted back with the gang.

Dutch walked over and joined me.

”Twelve people blown out from under us,” he said, ”and all we've done so far is provide airtight alibis for every good suspect we got . . . at least the ones that are still alive.”

”All but one,” I said.

”Who's that?” Dutch asked.

”Turk Nance.”

”You sure got a one-track mind,” he said, drifting off to talk to the Kid and Zapata. I checked the time. It was half past twelve. I sought out Stick.

”How about a nightcap?” I suggested.

”Sure. Want to meet at the hotel?”

”Ever been to a place called Casablanca?” I asked.

His eyes widened. ”I've been to almost every place in town at least once,” he said. ”Once was enough for that place.”

”We'll take my car,” I said, ignoring his comment.

”Done,” he said with a shrug. As we headed for my rented Ford, Stick tossed his car keys to Zapata.

”Take my heap back to the Warehouse, will you, Chino?” he asked. ”And keep it in second under forty, otherwise it'll stall out on you.” And then to me, ”Let's go to the zoo.”

I was about to find out what he meant.

50.

CASABLANCA.

I didn't talk a lot on the way to the place. I was thinking about the Kid's itching-foot story, which led me to murder, which led me back to the Kid.

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