later the door buzzed open. Inside, a black, uniformed cop sat in a darkened cubicle, watching the
entrance. An Uzi submachine gun was leaning on the wall beside him. I nodded and got a blank stare
back.
“Looks like you‟re expecting an invasion,” I said.
“Security. Nobody gets in here without one of us saying so. That includes everybody from the chief of
police and the mayor to the President of the United States.”
“Nice weapon,” I said, with a nod toward the Uzi.
“We liberated it. My bunch is pretty good at dog-robbing,” Dutch said, then added, almost as an
afterthought, “among other things.”
Inside, the front of the place had been divided into half a dozen office cubicles. Behind them, in the
centre of the building, was a fairly sophisticated computer system and a telephone switchboard.
Behind that was what appeared to be a large meeting room, walled with chalk-and corkboards. A
six—foot television screen was mounted in the wall at the front of the room and twenty or so oldfashioned movable chairs were scattered about, the kind with writing platforms attached, like they had
in school when I was a kid—arid still do, for all I know.
The big room in back was affectionately known as the Kindergarten.
Two rooms filled the back end of the old supermarket. One was a holding cell that looked big enough
to accommodate the entire D-Day invasion force, and the other was behind a door marked simply
VIDEO OPERATIONS. I counted three uniformed cops on duty, including the man on the door and a
black woman who was operating the switchboard.
A pretty classy setup: Morehead‟s war room.
“Are the uniform people part of your gang or on loan—out?
“Probation. If they can hack the everyday stuff, they maybe can work their way into the gang. Also
find out pretty quick whether they can keep their mouths shut”
I decided to take one last shot at my immediate problem. “Before the rest of your guys show up,” I
said, “can we settle this Fed problem?”
“It‟s settled. We don‟t have a problem,” he said, trying to brush it off.
“Right,” I said with more than a little acid. I decided to let him blow off a little steam.
“Okay,” he snapped, “let‟s put it this way. At first we tried workin‟ with the IRS, but cooperating with
the Leper Colony is no different than loanin‟ your watch to Jesse James. They‟re either young turks
just out of college, in it so they can learn how to beat the system and get rich, or they‟re misfits none
of the other agencies‟ll touch. Either way, it‟s every man For himself. Like workin‟ in a patch of
skunk cabbage.”
“No argument,” I said.
“A bunch of pfutzlukers!” he bellowed.
“Absolutely,” I agreed. “Whatever that means.”
“If I broke half the laws they do, I‟d be doing time.”
“Life plus twenty, at least.” Now it his turn and I let him rage on.
He leaned over me, jabbing his chest with his thumb. “1 wouldn‟t let one of „em in here, not if he
showed up with a court order and the entire Marine Corps to back „em up!” he roared. “And the
Feebies aren‟t much better! All they wanna do is make nickels in Washington. If it looks good on the
daily report and they can get a press conference out of it, that‟s all they care about. Ask them for a
little help, you get senile waitin‟ for the phone to ring.”
“I‟ve had the same experience,” I said with sympathy.
“Dipshits and robots!” he said. Now his arms were in the act. He was waving them around like a
symphony conductor. “Bastards steal our information, make deals that sown our cases, violate civil
rights, and we get the enema. They always ride off with the chick in the end.”
I nodded agreement. He was running out of steam.
“All my boys get is to kiss the horse at the fadeout, know what I mean?”
“Sure.” Pause. “How about you?”
“How about me what?”
“You feel all you get out of them is to kiss the horse?”
He stopped and stared me up and down and then he figured it all out and started to laugh.
“Aw, hell, pal,” he said, “I been around so long I‟m glad for all the kissin‟ I can get, even if it‟s a
horse‟s ass.”
“Okay, Dutch,” I said quietly. “I‟m not looking for any fadeout kisses. If these people are looting your
town, I‟ll help you put them away. All the Freeze wants out of it is information. Connections. How
they operate. How did they infiltrate the town? Who did they have to buy? How are they connected
with the other mobs? No conflict, okay?”
“We‟ll just play it by ear,” he said, still coy. It was like kicking a brick wall.
“Shit, if that‟s the play, that‟s the play,” I said with a shrug.
“You‟ll do fine. You got a hair up your ass just like the rest of
“I just do the best I can,” I said, throwing in a little humility.
“According to your boss, that‟s pretty damn good,” he said.
“Far as I‟m concerned, if we get enough to make a case against somebody, it can go state or federal,”
I said. “My style is give it to whoever has the strongest case—and the best prosecutor. I get a little
crazy when somebody walks on me”
“That‟s fair enough,” he said. “Who doesn‟t?”
“What kind of DA do you have?”
“A woman. Her name‟s Galavanti and she‟s meaner than a three-day hangover.”
“On us or them?”
He smiled. “On everybody. You put a case on her with holes in it, you‟ll hear language would turn a
lifer purple.”
“Good. Maybe we can help each other.”
“Thing of it is, I never heard of your bunch until a couple months ago. This guy Mazzola shows up
one day outta the blue, buys me lunch, gives me the same buck and wing you‟re givin‟ me.”
Mazzola was Cisco Mazzola, my boss in the Freeze. He had told roe Dutch Morehead was a man who
said his piece and I was beginning to believe him.
“Which you sneezed off,” I said.
“Not exactly. For starters, be put something in the pot.”
“Like what?”
“Like the Stick.”
“The Stick? What‟s the Stick?”
He looked at me kind of funny, one of those “what year were you born” looks.
“Not what, who. You know... the Stick. Parver. So far he fits right in.”
I didn‟t have the foggiest idea what he was talking about and before I could pursue it any further, he
picked up a bright red bullhorn, turned up the volume, and summoned his men to the back room.
I took the opportunity to step into an empty office and call the hotel. They patched me through to
Cisco, who was in the restaurant, eating. He had flown in from Washington to brief me on the local
situation. Since it had changed radically in the last couple of hours, I didn‟t know what to expect.
Cisco and I were friends in a remote kind of way. He was one of several shadows that wove in and out
of my life, altering its course without ever touching me directly, our main connection provided by the
telephone company. Iii the seven or so years I had known him, I had never seen the inside of his
house, never met his family, and knew little about his personal tastes other than that he had a penchant
for vitamins and health food. He also had an obsession about saving his hair, most of which was gone.
It took him a minute to get to the phone.
“Sorry to take you away from dinner,” I said. “1 would have called sooner but I‟ve been busy.
„There‟s been a takeout. Tagliani, Stinetto, and Tagliani‟s wife.”
“Yes, I‟ve heard,” he said in his flat, no-nonsense voice. “Any details yet?”