“Chino, it?s Stick. Where the hell are you?”
“Outside one of these strip joints on Front,” he answered.
“What are you doing there?”
“Watching Silo Murphy, the one they call Weasel.”
“You got Murphy in sight right now?” the Stick said.
“Yeah. He didn?t go on the boat ride, so I stuck with him. Salvatore?s still trying to get a line on that
fuckhead Nance.”
“I?m on my way,” said the Stick. “If he leaves, follow him and keep me cued through central. What?s
your number?”
“Seventy-three. What?s goin? on?”
“Ten minutes. Tell you when I get there,” said Stick. He slammed down the phone and headed for the
door.
In Dutch?s office the rest of the SOB?s were also wrestling with the problem.
“How about the traffic chopper,” suggested Cowboy Lewis. “Maybe we can run down Costello?s
cruiser.”
“Good idea, get on it,” said Dutch. “So where do we stand right now?”
“Salvatore and Zapata are still on the street,” said Charlie One Ear. “Mufalatta?s on the range
rounding up the rest of the Graves gang. The rest of us are here.”
“Where?d the Stick go?” demanded Dutch.
“He?s checking on Chino,” said Charlie One Ear.
“Not anymore,” said Callahan. “He just went out the door like his underwear was on fire.”
“Sheiss, what next!” cried the Dutchman.
I came around with elephants thundering in one ear and out the other and the bitter-salty taste of blood
in my mouth. I was stretched out on a fairly comfortable Naugahyde sofa. Doe was sitting beside me,
bathing my aching head with a wet cloth.
“Oh, thank God!” she said as I opened my eyes.
“You okay?” I asked.
“I?m fine. It?s you they knocked out.”
“Where are we?”
“I?m not sure. They blindfolded me,” she said. “We?re near the water, though, I can smell it.”
