“Everybody in the business has heard of Charlie One Ear,” I said.
“What?ve you heard?” he asked.
Charlie One Ear was a legend in the business. It was said that he had the best string of snitches in the
country, had a computer for a brain, was part Indian, and was one of the best trackers alive. If rumor
was correct, Flowers could find a footprint in a jar of honey, and I told Dutch that.
“Ever meet him?”
“No,” I said, “I?ve never met a living legend.”
“What have you heard lately?”
He asked it the way people who already know the answers ask questions.
I hesitated for a moment, then said, „Word is, he got on the sauce and had to retire.”
“You been listening to a bunch of
that?s Charlie One Ear. He?s never had a drink in his life.”
I looked at him. He was short and squat, a barrel of a man, impeccably dressed in a tweed suit, tan
suede vest, and a perfectly matched tie. His mustache was trimmed to perfection, his nails
immaculately manicured. He had no right ear, just a little bunch of balled-up flesh where it should
have been. I had heard that story too. When Flowers was a young patrolman in St. Louis, a mugger bit
his ear off.
He was chatting with a middling, wiry tiger of a man who was dressed on the opposite end of the
sartorial scale: Hell?s Angels? leather and denim. His face looked like it had been sculpted with a
waffle iron.
“Flowers remembers every face, rap sheet, stiff he?s ever seen or met,” said Dutch. “Photographic
men-wry, total recall—whatever you call it—he?s got it. Anyway, h e didn?t make Tagliani, but he
made a couple of Tagliani?s out-of-town pals. A lot of heavyweights from out of state spent time with
Tagliani at the track, none of them exactly movie-star material. Tagliani was also a very private kind,
but he flashed lots of money. Big money. So Charlie One Ear got nosy, shot some pictures one day
out at the track. Stick sends the photos up to D.C. to Mazzola and tells him Turner, which is how we
knew him then, is keeping fast company and spending money like he owns the Bank of England.
Cisco takes one look and bingo, we got a Tagliani instead of a Turner on our hands. That was last
week.”
“Great timing,” I said.
“Ain?t it though,” Dutch said woefully.
“Who?s that he?s talking to?” I asked.
“You mean the dude in black tie and tails?” Dutch said with a snicker. “That?s Chino Zapata. He
