bastard about twelve years old, he jumps out, says, “Where‟s the lieutenant?” and I tell him there
ain‟t any lieutenant, I‟m a sergeant and I‟m in charge and what‟s his problem, and he says the cease-
fire is tonight and it‟s official, all that shit, and he wants to call the whole thing off. “What the hell,”
he says, “it‟s only a few more hours,” and I say, “Listen, you fuckin‟ wimp, we been following this
little bastard for days and we‟re goin‟ in there and get the motherfucker, so let‟s get on with it.” He
gets the color of a goddamn beet and he says, “I‟m putting you on report. What‟s your name,
mister?” and I say, “Just tell them Monsieur Morte insulted you, that a Pall Mall‟ll get you a kick in
the ass and that‟s all it‟ll get you,” and he says, “Don‟t give me any of that Wild West shit, what‟s
your name?” and I say, “Parver, P-a-r-v-e-r,” and I spell it for him and then I say, “And either
you‟re gonna fly that fuckin‟ bird or one of us will. We‟re goin‟ over that hump and my people ain‟t
wadin‟ through a lot of fuckin‟ Mace to get there.”
Anyway, before it was over, we were in the chopper and we go over the hump and the pool‟s down
there, like the gook says, and there‟s little gray wisps of Mace, still hanging in there, like stringy
strands of cotton. So we drop a string down and three of us drop into the pit there, we beat it over to
the cave and we look in and this fuckin‟ Nim is sitting maybe twenty feet from the cave entrance. What
a mess! His legs are crossed at the ankles, he‟s naked as a fuckin‟ flounder. His body is covered with
these scorched sores, his eyes are swollen shut, and he‟s foaming at the fuckin‟ mouth from all the
Mace, like a goddamn mad dog. Fuckin‟ forty-five-year-old schoolteacher thinks he‟s Fidel Castro or
something, and the fucker‟s still breathing but blind as a bridegroom. All of a sudden he starts
reaching around for his weapon, which is an M-16 and you know where he got that, the little bastard,
so I step in behind him and
Brrttttt.
Lights out, spook. Then, and I don‟t know why I did it, maybe it was because, you know, it‟s the last
day of the fuckin‟ war, you want to try to get in as much as you can, I take Fineman‟s machete and
lop that slope‟s head off, swock, just like that, pretty as you please. Fineman almost pukes, can you
believe that? All he‟s seen, for Christ sake. I throw the trophy in this ammo bag, take it back for the
rest of them to see. What the hell, they have a right. Call it spoils of war.
The last day: This time the scuttlebutt‟s true. We get back to the river and it‟s all over. Everybody‟s
cheering, singing songs, drinking, and the black market man is giving away booze. I never thought I‟d
live to see the day. They‟re settin‟ off rockets and flares, shooting up shit, like the Fourth of Fuckin‟
July, and all I‟m doin‟, I‟m sittin‟ there thinkin‟ about what that lieutenant said, about bowling. Only
he didn‟t talk about what happens when it‟s over, maybe none of us thought it ever would be. Thing is,
we‟re gain‟ back to the World, man, whether we like it or not. It‟s all over. No more grace.
73
ZAPATA SAVES THE DAY
The call came in at 8:04.
The Warehouse was already babbling with activity. Dutch was quizzing Lange, Cowboy Lewis, and
Pancho Callahan. Charlie One Ear took the call.
Callahan was doing most of the talking.
“We all showed up at city pier together, no more than thirty minutes ago,” he told Dutch. “Kite there
was following Bronicata, and Cowboy was on Chevos. I had Costello. Zapata was there, too, doing
something, I don‟t know what. All of a sudden all four of us are watching each other and the three of
them are tooting out into the bay on Costello‟s boat.”
“Cute. So right now we‟re standing on empty, that it?” Dutch said.
“Well, Zapata powdered. I don‟t know where he went. One minute he was there, the next minute he
wasn‟t.”
“We woulda followed Costello and them but we couldn‟t find a rowboat to rent,” Kite Lange said.
“Hilarious,” said Dutch. “You auditioning for the Comedy Hour?”
Charlie One Ear burst through the door.
“What‟s bugging you?” Dutch asked.
“A security guard over at the Breezes just called. That‟s where Harry Raines and his wife lived. He
says lake Kilmer and the Raines woman were attacked leaving the place and were shoved in a car at
gunpoint.”
“When?” Dutch roared.
“About two minutes ago.”
“Jake Khmer was with Doe Raines?” Dutch said.
“That‟s what the man said. It‟s a late Eldorado, cinnamon-colored, too far off to get a license. They
headed east on Palm.”
“Did you get an APB out on that?” Dutch demanded.
“You want to stop every Cadillac in town?” Charlie One Ear asked with surprise.
“How the hell many cinnamon Eldorados do you think we got in town?” Dutch yelled, snatching up
the phone and calling central radio.
The Stick was next to appear in the doorway.
“What the hell‟s going on?” he asked.
“It appears that Nance and his bunch have lifted fake Kilmer and Harry Raines‟ widow,” Pancho
Callahan said.
“Nance kidnapped them?”
“It don‟t sound like no scavenger hunt,” said Lange.
Charlie One Ear said, “It sounds straight. Jake‟s car is still out there. Apparently it‟s permanently
embedded in the security fence. The security man checked the license for me. I‟ve got a blue and white
on the way to make sure somebody isn‟t giving us the finger.”
“Speaking of fingers, right now we ain‟t got a finger on anybody in the mob, that right?” Stick
exclaimed.
“Chino and Salvatore are still on the range somewhere. Shall we try to raise them?” Charlie One Ear
replied.
Dutch slammed down the phone. “Okay,” he said. “There‟s gonna be a lot of pissed-off Cadillac