grenade in and forget it, they pop up fifty feet away and your ass is in a bucket. These fuckers can run
into a village and vanish. We don‟t get heroic, okay, we call in some air, let the Black Ponies burn it
out. We move on. „That‟s our mission, search and destroy. What it is not is search and be destroyed.”
I remember thinking, this is for real. Jesus, in five minutes we could be doing it for real.
“Any questions?” he says.
I shake my head no.
“Welcome to the war,” he says.
13
STONEWALL TITAN
We drove across town to a bluff overlooking the Dunetown River. The rain had stopped and the river
steamed in the warm southern wind that had brought it. Ancient brick buildings, shrouded in fog and
dating back to God knows when, lined the bluff, like sentinels guarding the waterfront from Frit Street
and the Strip, and history swirled around us in the fog as we edged down a narrow cobblestone alley
from Bay Street to the river‟s edge.
I felt the cold breath of ghosts on my neck. Unseen signs, hidden in the mist, creaked before the wind.
The dim shape of a freighter drifted eerily down the river, not twenty yards from us, its foghorn
bleating a path to the sea.
This was the Dunetown I remembered.
Doomstown seemed a Saturn ride away.
The Feed Mill was a long, narrow place on River Street facing the waterfront. The menu was written
out on a green chalkboard at one end and between it and the front door there were maybe twenty
tables and booths. We sat near the front. Dutch squinted through his glasses at the bill of fare.
“The chicken fried steak is great; so‟s the mulligan stew. All the vegetables are good,” he said as he
studied the menu.
He ordered the steak, three vegetables, a side dish of mashed potatoes and gravy, another side of stew,
and two orders of tapioca pudding. I got heartburn listening to him -
„The Stick and I ordered a normal meal and coffee.
“I think I‟m ruling out Nose,” Dutch said, diving into his banquet.
“How‟s that?” I asked.
“It‟s just not his style. When Nose came out of Little Q after doing that stretch, he went straight after
Cherry McGee, blew him away in broad daylight as McGee was comin‟ out of a bank on Bay Street.
People were all over the place but he didn‟t take out anybody but McGee and one of his strongarms.
We got a woman kayoed here.”
“Could have been a mistake,” the Stick argued.
“Why‟s Graves still on the street?” I asked.
“No proof. I had twenty people who were standin‟ right there when it went down, couldn‟t identify
him in the stand-up.”
“Twenty-two,” the Stick corrected.
“He was wearing a stocking cap, and the car he did the trick from was boosted from a downtown park
in‟ lot half an hour earlier. We couldn‟t prove doodly-shit. He walked. And he was laughing as he
went out the door.”
“Nevertheless, I kind of like Nose,” the Stick said.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because he‟s not afraid of anybody. One spook against the lot.”
“I give him credit for still being alive,” Dutch said between mouthfuls.
“So where does that leave us?” I said.
“No-fuckin‟-where,” said Stick.
“Tell you the truth,” Dutch added, “I think about it, we got about a hundred good suspects we could
hassle on this score so far.”
“I thought homicide was out of your league,” I said.
“Wel-l-l, you can‟t stop a man from thinking. Besides, we‟ll be in wheelchairs before Lundy and his
bunch come up with anything. He needs a road map to find his ass when it itches.”
“I got explicit orders,” I said. “Cisco says he‟ll hang me higher than the Washington Monument ill
stick my nose in a homicide investigation.”
“Well, nobody can stop us from thinking.”
“You can blow a circuit trying to separate all the suspects,” I said. “You‟ve got the whole Tagliani
outfit, what‟s left of them. Stizano, Logeto, Bronicata, Chevos—”
“If he‟s here,” Dutch interrupted.
“Yeah, if he‟s here. Then there‟s Leo Costello. He‟s not only Tagliani‟s son-in-law, he‟s consigliere
for the whole outfit.”
“You may as well throw in Cohen,” Stick said.
“He‟s afraid of his own shadow,” I said, and then after thinking it over, I tossed in: “On the other
hand, if he burned the books, they‟d all end up doing the clock. They‟ve all got a motive. „That‟s
assuming it‟s in the family.”
“Even if it isn‟t, there‟s got to be lots of nervous Taglianis out there tonight.”
“With Tagliani, Stinetto, and Draganata out of the way, that just about takes out all the old line.
Except for the Barber,” I said.
“They gotta figure it‟s Nose,” said the Stick. “Some hothead Tagliani torpedo will take a pop at one of
Graves‟ boys and we‟ll have a three-way war on our hands.”
“That‟s if they don‟t start shootin‟ each other,” said Dutch.
“Hell,” the Stick said. “It‟s probably a coupla Philly shooters on their way home already.”
“Or a coupla China soldiers with nothing to do right now,” Dutch said.
“Shit, it could be anybody,” the Stick sighed.
“Which is why I‟m finishing my meal and going home,” I said. “We can sit here all night speculating
on who shot who. Let‟s hit it fresh in the morning.”
We paid the check; the Stick said good night and left. Dutch and I drove the ten minutes back to the
hotel in silence.
The black limo was still parked under the marquee of the Ponce when we got back. As I got out of the
car I noticed the tag:
Shit. I told Dutch I would check my messages and meet him in the bar for a nightcap.
There was a phone call from Cisco and a hotel envelope, sealed, with my name printed meticulously
across the front.
I called Cisco, gave him the latest body count, and told him I‟d give him the details over breakfast.
As I started toward the bar I finally saw him, the first of several spectres from the past. 1 was tired and
getting irritable and I wasn‟t ready to face up yet, but there he was in his three-piece dark blue suit
and a gray homburg, leaning on a gold-handled ebony cane, his snowy hair clipped neatly above the
ears, his sapphire eyes twinkling fiercely under thick white brows.
Stonewall Titan, sheriff and kingmaker of Oglethorpe County, Mr. Stoney to everything that walked
on two feet in the town, was standing under the marquee wiggling a short, thick finger under the nose
of a tall and uncomfortable-looking guy in a tweed jacket and gray flannels. Titan had made or
destroyed more than one political dream with a wave of that finger. The man in tweeds went back into
the bar.
Finished, Titan turned and, leaning on the cane, limped toward his car, where a tall and ugly bird in a
tan and black county policeman‟s uniform held the door for him. As he was about to enter the car, he
saw me and hesitated for an instant. His bright blue eyes glittered in brief recognition, then his hard
law tightened and he climbed into the limousine and was gone.
Then I saw her.
I moved behind a fern, watching her through its slender leaves, like a high school swain eyeing his
first crush. I don‟t know what made me think I could have avoided seeing her. It had to happen sooner
or later. Later would have been better.
Doe Findley still looked eighteen, still had the long blond silky hair, the caramel tan, eyes as gray as
ever. A flash of memories tumbled through my mind: Doe on water skis, her silken hair twisting in