Hooligans

“Our feet are already in the fire, make no mistake.”

“Who else is on this Committee?”

“Charles Seaborn. He?s president of the Seacoast National Bank chain, largest in these parts. He?s old

money. His father was chairman of the board when he died last year. Then there?s Arthur Logan,

who?ll be president of the town?s most prestigious and successful law firm in another year or two,

soon?s his old man dies or quits. Next, Roger Sutter, he?s utter Communications. That?s the

newspaper and the television station. Between them, they own most of the ground with grass or it in

the county. That?s power.”

“That covers all the bases but one,” I said. “You said there were five members on the Committee.”

“Before I answer that,” he said, “I got one more question to ask you.”

“Shoot.”

“It?s personal, Jake. You can tell me to suck eggs if you want to.”

I guess I knew what the question was going to be before he asked it.

“Were you in love with Doe Findley twenty years ago?” he asked.

I was ready for him. I smiled a big fifty-dollar smile. “Hell, I?m just like you, Dutch. I always end up

kissing the horse at the finish. Who?s number five?”

“Who else?” he said. “Stonewall Titan.”

15

DOE

I finished my drink and said good night. My room on the third floor had a dormer window with a

chintz loveseat and coffee table in front of it, a vintage TV set, a double ted, and ceilings so high you

could fly a kite in it. Everything—the drapes, walls, carpeting, sills, and baseboards—was a

combination of green and white. The room looked like it had been designed by a rampant garden club.

I got out a bottle of amaretto and poured myself a couple of fingers.

Burned out, my bones aching with jet lag, I couldn?t erase the images of the night from my mind.

Tagliani and Stinetto in the icebox. Mrs. Tagliani?s monitor going deeeeeeee right in front of my eyes.

The haunting tape of two killers delivering their coup de grace and the bloody back wall of

Draganata?s house. I had seen worse, but never in any civilized place I could remember.

Then I looked at the note I had picked up at the desk. The handwriting was so precise it could have

been calligraphy. I recognized it immediately and the old electricity streaked from my stomach to my

throat.

“I know you are here,” it said. I?ll be in the boathouse at Windsong, tomorrow night, 9 p.m. Please.