Not jaded yet?
“I‟m Parver,” he said. “Everybody calls me Stick.”
We moved away from the rest of the bunch, back toward the coffeepot.
“You a pool shooter?” I asked, to get the conversation off the ground.
“Not really, why?”
“The moniker.”
“It‟s short for Redstick. Everybody thinks I look like a damn Indian,” he said with disgust. “Truth is,
I‟m Jewish and I‟m from Boston.”
“I‟m Jake Kilmer,” I said. “That‟s all I ever was.”
We shook hands.
“This about the Tagliani chill?” he asked. He said it casually, as though murder in Dunetown were as
common as sand fleas on the beach.
I nodded.
“It looks like two gunners,” I said. “They killed a couple of guard dogs, got by a couple of armed
guards, and killed all three of them.”
“Three?” Stick said. “When Cowboy raised me, he said Tagliani and Stinetto got it.”
“After wasting Tagliani and Stinetto, they dropped off a bomb to finish the job. Tagliani‟s wife
walked in. She died in the hospita1.”
“Too bad,” he said. “Though I can‟t say as I‟m too upset over the two goons.” So much for sympathy.
“How do you figure there were two shooters?”
“The house was wired. Dutch has the whole scene on tape, what there was of it. It was all over in
about thirty seconds.”
“Not so great for you. In town for an hour and your mark gets snuffed out from under you.”
“That‟s the breaks.”
“Guns and bombs,” he mused. “Sounds like the Lincoln County war.”
I said I hoped not.
“The boys giving you a hard time?” he asked.
“How‟d you guess it?”
“I got some jazz when I first came on. Kind of like an initiation. But they think Dutch hired me, so
they weren‟t as suspicious as they will be toward you. You‟re a Fed, man. That makes you a badass.
Don‟t let it get you down; they‟ll come around.”
“So as far as they‟re concerned, you‟re just another one of the boys, that it?”
“You got it.”
“What‟s your angle in all this?” I asked.
“Dutch‟s had me playing the field, kind of getting my feet wet. One day this guy, the next somebody
else. But the last week, since .Mazzola made the Tagliani gang, I‟ve been hawking Costello and that
little fink, Cohen.”
“And...
“Hell, you know the outfit better than any of us,” he said.
Then, smiling, Stick added, “Don‟t you ever do reports? I didn‟t know shit about Tagliani until Cisco
filled me in. I mean, there‟s some chicken-shit stuff in the box about them, but nothing with any meat
on it.”
“Yeah, I know. I‟m bad about reports. I‟m like Dutch. Anybody can read them.”
“In answer to your question, Costello keeps away from the rest of the players.”
“How about Cohen?”
“The same. A mousy bookkeeper.”
“Don‟t undersell him. He‟s got more tricks than a gypsy magician.”
“I‟ll keep that in mind. Have you seen Cisco yet?”
“Talked to him on the phone. I‟m meeting him for breakfast. Maybe you ought to join us.”
“I think I‟ll pass. If any of these guys spot me with you this soon they could get antsy. Right now they
trust me. I‟d like to keep it that way.”
“Whatever,” I said as Dutch joined us.
“That was a nice job,” he said to me. “I liked the little heart tug at the end.” And then to Stick: “What
have you been up to?”
“Hound-dogging Costello. He and Cohen spent the day on his yacht, talking business.”
“Great. That‟s two more we can alibi.” Then back at me: “You talk to Cisco yet?”
“Just before the meeting. He suggested maybe Stick and I should team up. is that a problem?”
“I guess not. It‟s a pretty loose operation. I‟ll move you around a little bit, just so‟s the rest of the boys
don‟t wonder why I‟ve put the two newcomers together. So what can I tell you, you don‟t know
already?”
“Anybody on the local scene I ought to know about?” I asked, not really expecting an answer.
“Just Longnose Graves,” Dutch said.
“Longnose Graves?” I said, chuckling at the moniker. Dutch stared at me through his hooded eyes.
“He ain‟t a laughing matter,” the big man said.
“Oh? Who is he?”
Dutch scratched the edge of his jaw with a thumb. “The local bandit,” he said. “Not a local bandit, the
local bandit.” He tossed a sideways glance at the Stick. “This business tonight, I hope it doesn‟t blow
up like the Cherry McGee thing.”
“Cherry McGee?” I said. “Would that be the McGee from up in Pittsburgh?”
“The McGee I‟m talking about is planted in the local cemetery,” said Dutch. “Compliments of Nose.”
The Stick drew himself a cup of coffee and poured me one. It was strong enough to swim the English
Channel.
“So what‟s the story on Graves? What‟s he called? Longnose?”
“Not to his face,” Dutch said. Then he ran down the pedigree:
“Graves once had a beak, made Durante look like he had a nose job. He had an inch or so shaved off
it in a fight, but the name sticks. He‟s black, a dandy, but not pimp-dandy, know what I mean? Sports
jackets, shirt and tie, likes sports cars—that‟s more his style. Long before I got here, Graves
controlled whatever underworld Dunetown had in the old days. Ladies, sharking, the book. He doesn‟t
deal iii hard drugs; in fact, he probably kept them out of Doomstown.”
“That‟s a switch,” I said.
“Moral fiber,” said the Stick.
“Sure,” Dutch snickered, and went on. “About two years ago this outsider, Cherry McGee, moved into
town with a bunch of roughnecks and decided to take some of the action. First he tried easing Nose
out. When that didn‟t work, he tried buying Nose out. Still no dice. So then McGee decides to burn
down one of Graves‟ clubs, to show Nose he was serious. A mistake.”
Stick chimed in with a character observation.
“Graves has great comeback talent,” he volunteered. “Going against him was no different than McGee
jumping off the Bay Bridge and thinking he could fly.”
Dutch continued, “McGee did something uncharacteristic. He dropped a frame on Graves. Extortion.
And it washed. Graves did a deuce off a nickel in Little Q.”
“Little Q?”
“Felony Disneyworld,” said the Stick. “A very hard-time joint in this state—or any other for that
matter.”
“When Nose comes out, he comes out like a Brahman bull comin‟ out of the chute,” said Dutch.
“Did he keep the business while he was gone?” I asked.
“It was nip and tuck. The trip cost everybody. In the end it was a trade-off—three of Graves‟ boys
vent down in the street; a couple of McGee‟s shooters ended up in the swamp.”
“Is it still going on?”
“Not since McGee and his top gun got their brains handed to them, wham, bam, just like that,” said
Dutch.
“Hey, Chief, it‟s the phone for you,” Chino yelled from across the room. “It‟s Kite Lange, babblin‟
like Niagara Falls.”
“Excuse me,” Dutch said, and dashed for the phone.
“Who‟s this Mufalatta Kid?” I asked the Stick.
“Black cop, out from New Orleans. He‟s very good. Moves easy on the range. A real cool operator,
but make him mad, you got a ton of bad nigger on a hundred-and-fifty-pound frame.”
Dutch‟s “Schmerz!” could be heard for miles. The room got as quiet as a prayer meeting. Then he
said it again, this time louder and, to everyone‟s shock, in English. “Holy shit!”
He slammed down the phone.