Part 62 (1/2)
”They need a fall guy for the whole enchilada.”
”Who needs?”
”Maybe Chevos. Maybe Costello. Maybe even Bronicata, although I doubt it. Whoever knocked over twelve Taglianis so far this week. Somebody had to go down for it and they're setting you up to be the guy.”
He leaned back in his chair, made a church steeple of his fingertips, and stared up at the dark ceiling. There was a lot to sort through, most of it guesswork on my part, and very little of it, if any, could be substantiated.
Without looking down, Graves whispered: ”Also I didn't kill McGee. Man, I was gonna whack that little c.o.c.ksucker off but somebody else did the job for me.”
That one caught me by surprise, although I did my best not to show it.
”I've had my people killed in this thing,” he said. ”Hard to forget. ”
”So why get more killed? It'll just get harder to forget. I understand people went down on both sides.”
Pause.
”That's true,” he agreed. Then, still looking at the ceiling, ”I take the fifth on that cocaine s.h.i.+t. That's federal. Put that motherf.u.c.ker back in the file.”
”You're clean on that one too,” I said. ”If somebody else lifted the load, you're not guilty of violating anything. Whoever stole and brought it in, that's the guilty party.”
He looked down at me and smiled. ”You could be in the wrong game, dog lover,” he said. ”You oughta be a fixer.”
”I used to be,” I said.
”Well, s.h.i.+t, how about that.”
”Can we talk about Leadbetter?” I asked. I wanted to know about the dead police chief. That was another coincidence I didn't believe in. Mufalatta was staring at me, open-mouthed, as I pushed it as far as it would go.
”What about him?”
”Was he giving you any trouble?”
Graves shook his head very slowly. ”Him and Mr. Stoney,” he said, entwining two fingers, ”like that.”
”Do you know why he was killed?”
”I heard it was an accident,” he said.
”There's one other thing,” I said. ”Did Tony Lukatis ever do a job for you?”
”s.h.i.+t, don't be a jivea.s.s. I hardly knew the little motherf.u.c.ker.”
”You didn't like him, then?”
”I didn't think about him one way or the other.”
”So he wasn't working for you on the Colombia run?”
”If there was a Colombia run, he wouldn't have been workin' for me, nohow. Okay?”
”Okay.”
”So what the h.e.l.l's the plan, baby? Do we wait for you to tell us the truce is on or what?”
”I need a couple of hours,” I said.
”To do what?”
”Cool the situation down. Just stay low, that's all you got to do. ”
He stroked his jaw with a large, rawboned hand that sparkled with a diamond ring as big as the house I was born in. He started to chuckle in that whispery, gravel voice of his.
”I don't believe this, y'know. I mean, me trustin' a f.u.c.kin' honky Fed. What's your name, man?”
”Kilmer. Jake Kilmer.”
”Like the poet?”
”You read poetry?” I said.
”Why not,” he said. ”I got cla.s.s.”
66.
SHOOTOUT IN BACK O'TOWN.
”Okay, you got a deal,” Graves said, offering me his hand. ”We'll stay cool until you get Nance and the rest of them off the street. But they come lookin' for trouble, Kilmer, forget it. I ain't standing still for any motherf.u.c.ker.”
A phone rang somewhere in the darkness of the Church. It kept ringing persistently until it was finally answered. A voice in the darkness said, ”It's for somebody named Kilmer. Is that either one of you?”
I stood up, followed by Graves' hard glance.
”I hope this ain't some kind of stand-up, 'cause if it is, man, you go down first.”
”Probably my broker,” I said, and followed a vague form back to the cash register. The phone was on the wall, an old-fas.h.i.+oned black coin-eater.
”Kilmer,” I said.
It was Dutch. ”Get your a.s.s outta there now,” he told me.
”We're doing fine here,” I said.
”Kite Lange just called central from his car. He's following Nance and two carloads of Tagliani gunsels, and they're headed your way.”