Hooligans

“You sure got a one-track mind,” he said, drifting off to talk to the Kid and Zapata. I checked the

time. It was half past twelve. I sought out Stick.

“How about a nightcap?” I suggested.

“Sure. Want to meet at the hotel?”

“Ever been to a place called Casablanca?” I asked.

His eyes widened. “I?ve been to almost every place in town at least once,” he said. “Once was enough

for that place.”

“We?ll take my car,” I said, ignoring his comment.

“Done,” he said with a shrug. As we headed for my rented Ford, Stick tossed his car keys to Zapata.

“Take my heap back to the Warehouse, will you, Chino?” he asked. “And keep it in second under

forty, otherwise it?ll stall out on you” And then to me, “Let?s go to the zoo.”

I was about to find out what he meant.

50

CASABLANCA

I didn?t talk a lot on the way to the place. I was thinking about the Kid?s itching-foot story, which led

me to murder, which led me back to the Kid.

Maybe I was wrong about Nance. Maybe the killer was closer to home. Could it have been Salvatore?

or Charlie One Ear? Callahan?

Almost any one of the hooligans could have done the jobs, except Dutch, who was with me when

Draganata was slain, and Mufalatta and Zapata, who were at Uncle Jolly?s when Stizano got his.

Of the group, Salvatore might have a reason, perhaps something related to his Mafioso father and

Philadelphia. I was thinking about the why, not the motive. The itching foot.

I let it pass. I didn?t like the idea.

Casablanca was on the downtown waterfront, a scant fifteen minutes from the scene of the crime. I

parked on the promenade overlooking the river and we walked down a circular iron staircase to the

river level. The Stick and I were quite a pair, me in my narc Windbreaker and boots, Stick in a suit

that looked at least a decade old, a tie that defied time, and his felt hat balanced on the back of his

head.

The nightclub was perched on the edge of a pier. The windows had been taken out for the summer and

replaced by shutters, all of which were open. A rush of music and heat hit us as we entered

“Welcome to Mondo Bizarro,” said the Stick.

The place looked like it had been designed by an interior decorator on LSD.