“Now listen t?me,” Dutch boomed. “I want Tagliani?s bunch covered like a strawberry sundae, and
now. I?m goin? up to Draganata?s. Chino, you come with me. The rest of you know your marks. Let?s
roll before the whole town gets snuffed.”
He rushed back to us.
“You two wanna join us?”
“We wouldn?t miss it for the world,” I said.
“Let?s roll,” the Dutchman roared, and moved faster than any big man I ever saw.
11
DEATH HOUSE ON FLORAL STREET
It was like Saturday afternoon at the county fair and the Stick was Joey Chitwood. He slapped the
blue light on the top of his black Firebird and took off, driving with one hand while he lit cigarettes,
tuned the police radio, and hit the siren with the other, cigarette bobbing in the corner of his mouth as
he talked. Pedestrians and traffic ran for cover before the screaming Pontiac. I hunkered down in my
seat and stiff-armed the console.
“You nervous?” he asked.
“Not a bit,” I lied.
He hit Azalea Boulevard sideways and straightened out doing seventy. I could feel the seat moving
out from under me.
I liked the Stick?s cavalier attitude, but his driving was downright hazardous. I knew he had to be a
good cop or he wouldn?t be in the Freeze. The Federal Racket Squad, which everybody called the
Freeze, was three years old, understaffed, underpublicized, underlobbied, and under the gun. The FBI
wanted to make it part of their dodge, but so far we had maintained our integrity because our job was
mainly gathering information, not strict law enforcement. At least, that?s what it was supposed to be.
Sometimes it didn?t work out just that way. Cisco Mazzola, who had formed the outfit, was an exstreet cop and he hired only street cops. As far as I could tell, the Stick fit in perfectly.
He seemed to know the town. His course took us down a few alleys and past an impressive row of old
homes, restored to Revolutionary grandeur, their lights blurring into a single streak as we vaulted
down the street.
“How long you been here?”
“Coupla months,” he said around the cigarette dangling from his lips.
“So you were here for the Graves-McGee showdown?”
“Just after it happened.”
“I knew a Philly shooter who operated out of Pittsburgh named McGee,” I said, still making small talk
“But he called himself Ipswich.”
