“You want to listen?” I said bluntly.
He put his leg back on the floor and leaned over the table toward me. “Okay,” he said, “we‟ve come
this far. Just don‟t piss me off.”
“They need a fall guy for the whole enchilada.”
“Who needs?”
“Maybe Chevos. Maybe Costello. 4aybe even Bronicata, although I doubt it. Whoever knocked aver
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, making 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 cocksucker 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 shit. That‟s
federal. Put that motherfucker 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, shit, how about that.”
“Can we talk about Leadbetter?” 1 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 angers., “like
that.”
“Do you know why he was killed?”
“1 heard it was an accident,” he said.
“There‟s one other thing,” I said. “Did Tony Lukatis ever do a job for you?”
“Shit, don‟t be a jive-ass. I hardly knew the little motherfucker.”
“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 hell‟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
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 fuckin‟ honky Fed. What‟s your name, man?”
“Kilmer. Jake Kilmer.”
“Like the poet?”
“You read poetry?” I said.
“Why not,” he said. “1 got class.”
66
SHOOTOUT IN BACK O’TOWN
“Okay, you got a deal,” Graves said, offering roe 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 motherfucker.”
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-fashioned black coin-eater.
“Kilmer,” I said.
It was Dutch. “Get your ass 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.”
“Call in some blue and whites.”
“I‟ve done that but you got maybe a minute to get out of there before shooting‟s likely to start.”
“Goddamn it,” I said, “Nose has agreed to a cease-fire!”
“Then you better get your ass out here and tell that to your buddy Nance, „cause he‟s about to come
around the corner.”
I slammed down the phone and stumbled through the darkness back to Graves‟ table.
“We got a problem,” I said as calmly s I could. “Nance is on his way with two cars.”
An S&W .38 appeared in Graves‟ fist. There was a lot of movement around us. The gun was a beauty,
a Model 19 with a four-inch barrel, Pachmar grip, the cocking spur shaved off. Not fancy, all pro.
“What the fuck‟s goin‟ down here?” he hissed.
“That was our partner. One of our people spotted Nance and his bunch heading this way. Police cars
are coming. Just stay inside, keep your heads down. Let us handle it.”
“You ain‟t goin‟ nowhere till this gets unwound, dog lover.”
An explosion ended the conversation. The front door erupted and yellow flames lashed up the
stairwell, followed by bits and pieces of wood and glass that seemed to float lazily in the updraft.
The place shook like an earthquake had hit us.
The Kid dove sideways, out of Graves‟ line of fire, and pulled me with him. Graves couldn‟t have
cared less about us, though. He dashed toward the door.
Handguns started popping down on the street. Then a shotgun bellowed and somebody screamed.
The Kid turned a service table on its side, smacked a leg off with his elbow, grabbed it like a club, and
motioned me to follow him to a side door.
Another explosion. I looked back and saw a gaping hole in the side of the room. Light slashed through
smoke and fire, showing me several men with guns, heading toward the front stairs, fire be damned.
More gunfire. Another scream. Handguns were popping off all over the place. I could hear several
sirens shrieking out on the street.
Heavy artillery boomed behind the door lust as we got to it. The Kid kicked it open and came face to
face with one of Turk Nance‟s goons. His Remington twelve-gauge had lust blown a hole through one
of Graves‟ men, who was tumbling down the stairs behind him. The Kid jumped back inside as the
hoodlum swung the shotgun up. Mufalatta pulled the door shut, and dragged me to my knees beside
him as the riot gun blew a six-inch plug out of the centre of the door. The Kid counted to three and
then slammed the door open again, right into the gunman‟s face. The shotgun barrel slid through the
hole it had just made in the door. The Kid grabbed the barrel with one hand, pulled the door shut
again, and wrenched the weapon from the gunman‟s hands. He reached through the hole, grabbed a
handful of the hoodlum‟s shirt, pulled him against the shattered door, and slammed the butt end of the
table leg into his chest. The gangster fell away from the front door, gagging, and the Kid charged out,
swinging the table leg like Lou Gehrig, and almost took off the goon‟s head. The gunman hit the stairs
halfway down, bounced once, and piled up in the doorway.
We followed him down the stairs. The shotgun was an 870P police riot gun loaded with pellets, an