The Billy Club Bastard Case Files: The Case of the Calcified Costumer, Part 4 of 6

Mickey Malloy and the officials have tracked down why murderer Deidre Daniels has come to DC, and they aren’t the only ones looking for her. Unfortunately, the hypnotist has had time to prepare, and if Mick isn’t careful, it’ll end up just like it has so many times before…

Until Only Roaches Remain is available as a Kindle ebook, in paperback, and as a DRM-free ebook.

This is Part 4 of The Case of the Calcified Costumer. To avoid spoilers, check out Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3 first.

Content warnings: violence, gun violence, death, alcohol use, tobacco use, sexual references, creeps.

SATURDAY MORNING, JULY 3, 1943
WARNER'S EARLE THEATER
PENN QUARTER, WASHINGTON, D.C.

“Get your thugs out of this building right this instant!” a little man screeched into the closest official's ear, louder even than the big band music blaring over the speakers around them. Mickey was standing ten yards away and even though his ears were damn-near cauliflowered shut, the man's voice was piercing. The howler was bald and red and practically hopping up and down to be face-level with one tall, very patient official.

The official grimaced, but he held it together in front of the red-faced man.

“I'm sorry, sir, but - !”

“Don't you 'sorry' me!” the man raged. His bald head was turning redder than the stripes on his wide tie, and he almost lost his tiny glasses when he shouted. The little guy was sweating through his starched collar. Mickey shook his head, took a third swig from his flask, then approached.

“And who's this big ape now?” the little man snapped when his saw Mickey looming over him. Mick looked even bigger than normal just then, with his gear stowed inside his heavy coat and his padded vest under his sweat-stained shirt.

“Sir, I'm - !” was all Mick could get out before the spitting man jumped down his throat.

“I don't give a good God damn who you are!” the man howled. “I am J. Courtney Haldeman, and this is my announcement ceremony!”

Mick stepped back and looked above Haldeman's gleaming head. The banner read 'Senator Connally's Fourth of July War Bond Drive.'

“Looks like you’re supposed to be selling war bonds,” Mick pointed out, to which Haldeman shot him a glare hot enough to melt through his little glasses.

“Don't be dense, you big galoot.”

Haldeman pulled a canary kerchief from his breast pocket and mopped down his sodden scalp, which seemed to calm him a bit.

“When Tom has everyone whipped into a patriotic frenzy, he'll pull me on stage. 'Here's your next representative from the great state of Ohio, Jimmy Haldeman!' And everyone will cheer and my nomination will be a sure thing.”

Haldeman held out his arms before the silent roar of an invisible crowd.

Mick squinted and peered at the day-dreaming political hopeful. The little man was too worked up to be one of Daniels' hypnosis victims. Haldeman seemed to be an all-natural jerk.

“Agent,” Mickey finally said over the jerk's head, “Let's get Mister Haldeman back to his party.”

Haldeman's jaw dropped. The very patient official took the dumbfounded man by the elbow and pulled him to the auditorium doors. Another official yanked them open and together they shoved him inside. It wasn't until the double doors slammed shut in Haldeman's face that he began shouting again, but by then he was just a buzzing gnat.

Mickey didn't recognize the pair of officials who were guarding the main lobby. They were both white and had the looks of experienced field agents: unflappable and endlessly vigilant. The first, the patient one, was a regular beanstalk. He looked practically aristocratic, with thick brown hair and high cheekbones. The second was short and thick with a Marine haircut and a fading tropical tan. His face was done up in a devil dog snarl. He glared at the civilians around him while sweating through his gray wool suit.

“Names?” Mick asked.

“Official First Class Rice, sir,” the tall official snapped in a stuffy New England accent. A graduate from the Hoover school, Mick surmised. Rice nodded toward his gruff partner and said, “And Official Second Class Gold.”

Gold just eyeballed Mickey and grunted by way of acknowledgment. Mick grunted back and returned his attention to Rice.

“Alright, Rice, kept it light. You got 'em all bottled up in there?”

“Yes, sir, all guests are being held inside the auditorium, all staff and performers are backstage. Officials First Class Fernandez and Ipswitch are setting up to evac the VIP's while Officials Second Class Malinowski, Bouchard, Freeman, and Hobbes are stationed at the other exits. You saw our outer perimeters on the way in, FBI up close and Capitol Police beyond them.”

“Good work. So what'd you tell 'em?”

“The VIP's? Gas leak outside, told them to sit tight until it's contained. The feds and locals accepted the 'need to know' order, they'll stay out so long as the building is still standing.”

“Good work,” Mick chuckled. “Any of them give you lip?”

“Haldeman was the loudest. There are a couple senators in there that had objections, but I flashed my Bureau badge and they had enough clout to shut the rest of them up.”

“Good, keep babysittin' 'em,” Mick said. “Ortíz?”

“He and a set of legs from Cataloging are questioning two suspicious individuals downstairs in the boiler room,” Rice answered. “Neither suspect was on the vendor or guest lists, but I determined they were not working with Miss Daniels.”

“Beasley's here, too?” Mick said.

“Who?”

“Official Second Class Beasley. Your comrade in arms, not 'a set of legs.'”

“Of course, sir, sorry.” Rice looked flustered for a second, eliciting a smirk from the tight-lipped Gold.

“And Daniels' status?” Mick asked

“No eyes on her yet, but the stage manager says she's holed up backstage. We might have arrived too late to stop her on the way in, but back there she has no access to any targets, and we've managed to avoid alerting her to anything beyond the curtain delay.”

“Perfect,” Mick said. Rice beamed at the praise. “Don’t do anything that’d get her hackles up, and be prepared for anything. No kill shots, remember your briefing: she might have civilians fronting for her.”

Rice nodded. Mick and Ortíz had one rule when they’d conducted the emergency briefing not ninety minutes before: no collateral damage.

“Anything you can do about the music?” Mick asked. The reverberating horns and crashing symbols coming through the theater's sound system ripped into Mickey's hangover like a band saw.

“We're using it to isolate the separate areas, sir,” Rice answered quickly. “And Official Second Class Beasley seemed to think that it might serve to disrupt aural hypnotism attempts on Miss Daniels’ part.”

“Yeah, yeah. Where are our party crashers? I want to check them out.”

“Gold will take you,” Rice said. Gold merely nodded.

“Perfect,” Mick said. “When I'm back we'll get the whole team together and storm this broad's barn.”

Mickey left Rice at the door and followed the silent official down a tight stairwell hidden behind the coat check. The walls were exposed brick and rasped against Mickey's broad shoulders. He didn't mind; it was a new coat he was scuffing, and in his experience a new coat didn't become a good coat until it had a few miles on it. Gold stopped suddenly in a tight hallway and jabbed a thumb at a thick door.

The boiler room door was closed. He leaned in, but couldn't hear any voices, much less a chugging boiler.

“In there?” Mick asked. Gold nodded. “Don't talk much do you, Gold?”

Gold pulled his collar down to show Mick his thick neck. A circular scar dimpled the left side of his adam's apple, while a jagged exit wound had healed to reshape the entire right side of his neck.

“Damn,” Mick said. He pulled out his flask and held it out, “To old battles and new.”

Gold nodded and took a quick nip, then handed it back. Mickey followed suit.

“You got the door?” Mickey asked. In reply, Gold posted up and unbuttoned his jacket, putting his holstered pistol within easy reach.

Mickey wrapped a gnarled mitt around the door handle, then paused. It was going to be hot and cramped in there, just like the brewery basement, just like the Queen Anne's engine room, the Grave, the Three Eye Man tunnels, just like those damn catacombs in Germany. The Office never sent him anywhere he liked, but he had a solution for that, and besides, his flask was already out.

The last few swigs of a flask were always warm and watery, and Mick swilled the raw bourbon backwash around in his mouth for a long moment before he swallowed. It burned like an insurance scam going down, and kicked in his old gut like a rankled donkey. After a second his head swam, and he was ready for whatever claustrophobic foolishness their party crashers had to offer.

Mick shoved the door open. His two suspects were seated in opposite corners, tied up and hooded with ear muffs thick enough to stifle the roar of a machine gun. Ortíz and Beasley stood between the bound pair, flirting quietly. Mickey grumbled and slammed the door behind him. The abysmally cheerful music cut off the instant the thick door closed. All four of them jumped.

“Who am I looking at?” Mick asked.

“A reporter from New York and a felon posing as a florist,” Beasley answered. “Neither is on the list. Both came armed, but not connected to our op.”

“I'll take a look at them in a minute. They can't hear us?” Ortíz shook his head, so Mickey continued: “How’d you find Daniels?”

Beasley jumped in and said: “I met with Irene McIntosh's boss at the dress shop. He handed over their client list easily enough. Gladys Florentine, the fake name Daniels gave to the Hamilton, was in there for a wedding dress fitting last night, but after that was as dead an end as you might expect. I spent hours going through the rest of the list, name by name.”

Mickey nodded. He'd figured the Florentine lead would fizzle out, but he'd also figured on Beasley's tenacious resolve. When she found a thread, she wouldn't let go. She continued:

“It wasn't ‘til Walter showed me his list of VIP events in town that I could cross-reference any of the names.”

“One of McIntosh's clients was the Capitol City Precision Dance Company who had been contracted by Senator Connally's office to perform at this event,” Ortíz explained. “The dance company had in turn contracted Miss McIntosh weeks ago for their dress fitting. The senator's office required very specific red, white, and blue dresses which they’d custom-ordered from Miss McIntosh's shop.”

“So 'McIntosh' showed up here to stitch the can-can line into their get-ups,” Mick concluded. The two investigators nodded and he continued: “Daniels has been backstage with a crowd and no interruptions for hours...”

“In that amount of time she could convince them to do about anything,” Ortíz said.

“I know it,” Mickey said. “We might run into folks she’s put the moves on. If that’s the case, kid gloves on for her 'volunteers,' do what you got to do with her.”

Ortíz and Beasley both nodded grimly. Mickey sauntered over to the bound trespassers. The man in the ugly blue wool suit was first. The garish outfit screamed 'journalist.' Mickey grunted. He couldn't stand reporters and he couldn't stand politicians, but he'd found himself in charge of saving all their cans once again. He jerked the ear muffs and hood off the seated man's head.

“Hello, Agent Malloy,” the reporter said. The young man sat back in his chair and smiled, studying Mickey with calculating familiarity.

“A bit off your beat, aren't you?” Mickey asked. He hadn't seen this particular reporter since the dust-up in New York with Sal Sigillito and Nikola Tesla.

“You know Mister Reed?” Beasley asked.

“Yes, I do, but what I don't know is what the hell he's doing here.”

“Like you said once, Malloy, crime is my beat,” Eric Reed said with a smirk. He was tied up and his blonde hair was rumpled, but he was still cocky

“The New York Post. New York crime, Reed.”

“I was

following a trail,” the reporter replied. Mickey grunted and rolled his eyes.

“Sure thing, kid.”

Mick turned around, took another slug from his flask, and walked to the other seated captive.

“You said this one's a felon?” he asked.

“Three-time loser with a laundry list,” Ortíz answered. “Racketeering, burglary, arson, fraud, assault, extortion, forgery.”

“The classics,” Mickey grunted. That last swig might have put him over the top. He shook his head to slosh his brain around a bit, then pulled off the second man's hood.

“Tommy Capano,” Reed declared from across the room. Mickey recognized the name from one of the thick organized crime dossiers that Marge kept in his seldom-occupied Baltimore office. Capano was as famous in the newspapers as he was in the Office's files, so Reed was quick to jump on the Chicago mobster. “What do the Montuosos want with this mess?”

“I'm on vacation over here, don't have a clue what you're talking about,” Capano grunted. The man was Italian through-and-through, from his graying black hair and his crooked aquiline nose to his thick mustache. He fit poorly into his flower delivery outfit, and Mick couldn't help but suspect that there was some black-eyed driver hand-cuffed to a pipe somewhere.

“Don't take me for a ride, Capano,” Reed growled.

“Like I said, not a clue,” the bound gangster insisted, though there was a hard edge in his gravelly voice.

“You were an enforcer for the Montuosos for a decade. Lorenzo's left hand,” Reed claimed. “Faustino send you to clear up loose ends?”

“I ain't got nothin' to do with that weasel Stino no more,” Capano growled. His face was turning red, starting from his tight collar and working its way past his ears. His voice was rising until he was almost yelling. “And Renzo? He's taken the big sleep, you see? I ain't here for nobody but me.”

Mick stepped between the two men.

“Alright, boys,” he said, “I was hoping to get a question or two in as well.”

“Suck an egg, G-man,” Capano spat. Mick wiped the spray off his shoe onto Capano's slacks.

“How about I talk instead?” Mick said. “I’ve skimmed your file, pal. Sounds to me like you ended up on the wrong side of the May Day Massacre. Faustino not as big a fan of you as his uncle was?”

“Stino is all about kissing jackboots,” Capano said. “Renzo never would’ve bowed to nobody, especially not some noseless circus freak. I got out while the getting was good.”

That piqued Mick's interest. His lumpy grin grew wide and he clapped Capano on his thick shoulder.

“I'm going to have you stick around, Tommy,” Mick said. “We have a lot to discuss, including your business in this building right now.”

“A man pays his debts,” Capano muttered, “And that's all I gots to say.”

“Not a lot got out about the change in management at your outfit, but it sounded hinky to me. What are you doing here? You hunting down the dame who bumped off your pals?” Mickey surmised. Capano's murderous glare was all the confirmation the big man needed. Mick turned back to Ortíz and Beasley and asked: “You say both of 'em were packing?”

“We found Reed's gear stashed under a catering table. Capano’s was in the flower delivery truck,” Beasley explained. Ortíz grunted and handed Mickey a heavy black duffel.

“Capano's,” Beasley said. Mick nearly tipped over when he took it. The bag clanked against the concrete floor. From his chair, Tommy found something interesting on the ceiling to study while Mick pawed through his stuff.

“Well how about that,” Mick said. He pulled a blackened steel mask out of the bag. It was quarter-inch plate, with a eye slit across the midde like a welder’s mask. Mickey immediately recognized the silver scrapes across its surface as bullet strikes. “You been busy, Capano.”

The mobster didn't make a peep.

“Keep looking, boss,” Ortíz said.

Mickey pulled a long baseball bat out of the bag. Regulation length white ash, Capano had cored out the bat and filled it with liquid lead. Mickey tested its weight. It was longer and heavier than Mickey's piano leg, but slower to swing. It would be like brawling with a lacquered sledge hammer. Beneath the bat, Mickey found a heavy diamond-plate shield, flat black as well, rectangular and big enough to cover Capano from chin to shins.

“Holy shit,” Reed mumbled. “The Chicago Slugger!”

“You've got to be kidding me,” Mick said. It sure as shit matched the descriptions from the papers. The Office had a whole write-up on the acts perpetrated by the man who carried that shield. For whatever reason, Marge thought Mick would find that kind of reading material interesting.

The Bastard’s sensationalized antics had spawned a whole batch of imitators, nutcases who were inspired by newspaper stories about his moonlighting, but he never thought he'd meet one.

The Chicago Slugger was one of the most famous of those nuts: a masked vigilante knocking over Montuoso operations in the Windy City, breaking kneecaps with a baseball bat while wearing a catcher's mask and an umpire's shield. The bat was right, the mask and shield were journalistic embellishments.

“I don't have time for this,” Mick sighed. He massaged his forehead with a knobby hand. He'd tied one on the night before and hadn’t wanted to risk a hangover by sobering up.

“Then you really won't have time for this,” Beasley said. She handed Ortíz a brown messenger bag.

“You don't need to look in there,” Reed said.

“It's his,” Ortíz explained. Reed had smuggled in a pair of matched Colt Peacemaker pistols wrapped up in a brown canvas duster, a red bandana, and a floppy cowboy hat.

Mick sighed and shook his head at the young reporter. The swiftly blossoming headache tap-dancing around the inner circumference of his skull suddenly reached a new peak.

“Really, Reed? You're the Big Apple Bandito?” Mick asked. He had never described himself as exasperated before, but it seemed like as good a time as any.

Some jackass had been running around New York in a Jesse James get-up, and in Mick's last trip to the city, he'd seen Reed shoot the guns out of other shooters' hands. It all fit.

“I called myself 'the Pacifist' in my articles,” Reed muttered. Mick hefted one of the old revolvers and looked down its sights. It was cleaned and oiled, with six angry lead bullets in its cylinder.

“The public prefers something with alliteration,” Capano said. Reed and the three officials turned to stare at the gangster who slammed his trap shut and resumed studying the intricacies of the floor.

“How'd you get yourself mixed up in this insanity?” Mick asked Reed.

“After running around with you, things changed for me,” Reed answered from his seat. “I couldn't just sit back and watch people get hurt anymore, not when I knew I could help. You do the crime, you better be comfortable with the results, even if you are a dame.”

“Oh, hell,” Mick groaned, “And now you're here for Daniels, too?”

“I've been tracking unusual reports in the papers since she brought down that plane over Long Island,” Reed said.

“The Mustang prototype wasn't in the papers,” Beasley chirped, “We blocked that story.”

“That plane crashed into my cousin's guest house: that's news where I'm from,” Reed said, “And when it gets covered up, well that should be news everywhere.”

“Got more damn cousins than an Appalachian whoreson,” Mick mumbled.

“Technically a source's friend's mistress' cousin, and it was a woodshed,” Reed said.

“Practically family,” Ortíz joked. Mick glared, wiping the smile off his face.

“Should've minded your own damn business, Reed,” Mick said. He pulled his flask again and took a long slug, dumping the last of his bottom-shelf hooch down his throat. The foul rye bubbled violently in his gut, though its poisonous boil quickly subsided into a numbing blanket over his brain. He shoved the flask into his pocket and made for the door.

“I can't listen to any more of this,” Mick growled, his voice gravely from the strong liquor. He waved one of his big paws in his officials' direction. “You two, keep both these loons locked down. I'll round up some of the other boys and we'll get Daniels muzzled.”

“Yes, sir,” Beasley answered.

“Tell her what I told you about that 'sir' thing,” Mick said to Ortìz, then shoved the heavy door open and lurched out of the cramped room. He caught his toe on the concrete lip, sending him stumbling out into the hallway. He recovered quick enough to snap around and see everyone looking elsewhere, biting their tongues.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh at the old guy,” he muttered, before realizing that the rye had hit him harder than he'd expected. When Mickey Malloy couldn't count his drinks anymore, there was a problem.

“Well,” he reasoned aloud, “Good bosses have good people.”

Mick slammed the boiler room door shut and shook himself out. His joints were tight and his swagger was out of whack. Couldn't go busting hypnotic dames stinking like a hobo.

“Gold,” he said as he patted down his pockets, “Holding any mints? I got to freshen up before the action starts.”

The mute official didn't even grunt a negative. The entire hallway was oddly quiet. The sounds of the big band had been replaced by a single, incessant wood block, tapping away to oblivion.

“I usually keep one of those tins on me, but it looks like I put it down somewhere,” Mick continued. Finally he looked up at Gold. The brutish official stood at rigid attention, staring through Mick.

“Oh well,” Mick said, “At least they cut off that damn music. They got Daniels in custody, then?”

Gold didn't react at all.

“You okay, son?” Mick asked. He knew Gold had been through the wringer. Sometimes a man could drift off after an experience like that. Couldn't blame the guy.

“Gold, I asked if - !”

Mick was interrupted by a crackling over the theater's house speakers. The soothing, soft purr of a woman's voice oozed down the stairwell, echoing from speakers upstairs.

A wood block's steady, calming beat bounced behind her words.

“Welcome home, child,” the voice said, “Everything is where you left it. Be calm, be happy, play, and rest. You are home.”

“What in the hell,” Mick mumbled. He looked over at Gold. The man's eyes were glazed over. The wood block continued its rhythm, pounding into Mickey's booze-dulled head like a chisel, piercing with each tick, cracking deeper with each tock.

“Protect your home, child,” the sinewy, alluring voice hissed, “Protect your home and your family. They are here, they are here to take it away.”

Gold was swaying on his feet. The words were wrapping around his mind like a snake, tightening its stranglehold with every passing second.

“Protect your home from them, child. Do everything you can to protect your home.”

Gold's beady eyes suddenly snapped into focus on Mick, and he reached for his pistol, still holstered inside his coat.

“Oh, hell,” Mick grunted. He flicked his wrist, loosening his sleeve just enough for his club to slide free.

Mick's club, the weapon the Tampa papers had so lauded when they named him the Billy Club Bastard, fell right into his hand like its grip was magnetized. What had once been a chair leg had transformed into something more. It was no longer just a piece of wood but an extension of Mickey's being. Its corners had been dented and dulled by violent impact, and its fine grain was soaked through with red as dark as wine. Its grip fit into Mick's hand like he’d been born holding it, and he brought its vicious weight around faster than Gold could aim his pistol.

Mick bashed the Colt .45 out of the mesmerized man's hand with an upswing, knocking the heavy pistol down the hallway. Without missing a beat, Gold lunged forward, tucking low and slamming a broad shoulder into Mickey's gut. Mick fell backwards and crashed into brick. Years of brawling and scrapping made him at home in such close quarters. His knee caught Gold in the stomach, forced him up and away from Mick.

Before he could come back at Mickey, the club whipped around again, colliding with Gold's cheekbone and sending him sprawling across the floor.

“Damn,” Mick growled. He patted down his pockets, only to find his flask empty and his cigarettes crushed. “This going to be some kind of day.”

SATURDAY, MAY 1, 1942
MONTUOSO GARBAGE MANAGEMENT
ST. DENIS PARISH, CHICAGO, IL

“You still make a hell of an Old Fashioned, Tommy,” Don Renzo said. He sipped his cocktail again and let out a loud, satisfied sigh. “You should see the swill that the boys down at the Hyblaean are slinging. Sorry excuses for drinks is what. What’ll it take to get you back behind that bar?”

Tommy Capano chuckled, then considered the don's question. He poured a glistening shot of vodka into a shaker, followed by a splash of dry vermouth.

“Behind that bar? A deed,” he answered with a snort.

Tommy clapped a pint glass into the shaker and began mixing the drink. The ice rattling around in the stainless steel was loud enough drown out the hubbub his statement had created among the seated capos and lieutenants. Down at the far end of the table, Carmine Giorgine choked on his drink. Don Renzo glared at him past all the other suddenly silent capos, then turned back to Tommy.

“And what is such a chore about the Hyblaean?” the don wondered. “It’s our biggest earner.”

“It is a big earner, all right,” Tommy agreed. He popped the glass out of the shaker, then tilted it to strain the ice from the martini. He plopped four olives and a trickle of brine into the drink, then set it up on the bar. “She's got good bones on her, but her guts are rough. ”

“That's my damn club you're talking about,” Chiclet Mancuso snapped. He stalked across the long boardroom and snatched his martini up.

“It's my club, you just run it,” the don reminded him. His tone alone was enough to sit the fuming Chiclet back down. The humbled gangster sipped his drink but otherwise kept his trap shut.

“So what's wrong with my club?” Don Renzo asked. Tommy wiped his hands with the bar towel and smoothed out his thick black mustache before answering.

“The way I see it, the Hyblaean is three things: a straight-up bar, a hop house, and a pick-up joint for our girls. It earns good. But each of those things detracts from the others. John and Joan Q. Public don't want to spend clean money at a club with heroin and call girls in the back room, no matter what acts we book. The waitresses are only there to pick up Johns, not to serve drinks. They know how they make their money, and it ain't by slinging G’s-and-T's.”

“I hear you.”

“And junkies think it's too crowded, too bright, too loud. They shy away from it. You could make more money in a quiet little shop or house. Plus, none of the people at the club want to mess around with hop heads anyhow. Not the guests, not the girls. I bet you we increase drink sales by thirty percent in the first month if we kick the junkies out. And another thirty percent if we hire real bartenders, waitresses, and cigarette girls instead of the working girls you got moon-lighting there now.”

“So what are you thinking? You know, in case I happen to take you up on this bet.”

“Split 'em up. Give me the club, give Chiclet the horse, let Carmine keep handling the girls. Instead of using the club as a front, use it as its own revenue generator. But you'll have me there, as a referral service, in case my guests need anything more exotic than what we keep behind the bar.”

“Two extra protected spots is a lot to ask. But if the money is good, that is fine.”

“That's what I'm thinking.”

“But I love a good wager. So what would you put up?”

“For the bet? When I win, I want a full stake in the club.”

“Sounds fair. Thirty percent jump in a month. And if things got to go to back to the way they are? I want your Gandil bat.”

That got the whole table murmuring again. Tommy was in the far corner of the long room, all the way at the end near the don at the head with only a window at his back, letting every eye in the joint rest on him while he considered the wager. They all knew that his favorite trophy was the last ashwood bat used by the infamous Chick Gandil, ringleader of the Black Sox. It was the one he'd swung in the thrown World Series, right before getting himself kicked out of baseball. Tommy'd picked it up from a reluctant memorabilia collector who'd found himself in arrears.

The bartender-turned-loanshark smirked. He rapped his knuckles on the solid steel wet bar, a garish but sturdy structure constructed from gleaming diamond plate and chromed tubing that had been donated to the don by a grateful welders' union. The engraving across its blued top read: 'Thanks for picking our scabs. - Hartley and Local 666'.

“I'm not afraid to put my money where my mouth is,” he replied.

“Don't I get a say in this?” Chiclet demanded. “Stino gave me that club.”

“My nephew gives what I let him give,” Don Renzo snapped. “I agree with Tommy, here. You are making money, kid, but you should be making more. You ran the hell out of that chop shop before all this and you're my best pusher now, but the Hyblaean is a different beast. And I have seen the way you run things there. No one in this town wants to buy a drink or a night from a dame with a shiner. And you always let creeps hang out there, foreigners and letches. You still got them Cubans hanging around?”

“Yeah, but - !” Chiclet tried, but the don cut him off.

“Get 'em gone. Their rum isn't worth the trouble, and they're too noisy to do business with.”

“But - !”

“Do what I say. Now, don't get worked up, you'll keep the heroin, and Carmine gets the girls. You play it right, you'll be making even more money that before. You got a problem with money?”

“No, Don Renzo,” Chiclet muttered.

“I didn't think so,” the don said. “You got anything to say, Carmine?”

“Sounds good to me, boss,” Carmine said. He already ran a few cat-houses, so taking on another wouldn't be too much of a stretch. He took care of his girls, too, from what Tommy had heard.

The don took a deep swig from his Old Fashioned and pounded his hand flat on the long table. The capos tried not to jump at the sound. Renzo was a big man, though he'd gotten fleshier in his later years. His fists were rough with callouses and scars. He'd used them to fight his way to the top, through the Selvaggios and every other two-bit gangster in the city. He'd made 'Montuoso' a name using just his willpower. All of his men feared and respected him, Tommy included.

“Speaking of my nephew, where is that sorry little shit?” the don asked. The capos looked at each other, wry smiles turning up the corners of their mouths. Tommy looked over his shoulder, out the big picture window. He had a commanding view of the whole street from the third floor, and he hadn't seen anyone drive up. Stino was going to be late, but that wasn't a surprise for anyone at the table.

“I'll look for him,” Chiclet said too quickly. He jumped out of his chair and left the board room.

“Kids,” Carmine said. The other capos chuckled. They were all old hands, a rare breed. Most gangsters didn't live to go gray. Tommy was ten years younger than most of the capos, and had a decade on the next generation, Stino and Chiclet's crew. He didn't have the name or connections, so it had taken him longer to earn his way up.

“You got another one of these in you, Tommy?” the don asked, rattling around the ice in his empty tumbler.

“Guess I'll have to get used to slinging drinks again,” Tommy said.

“And unruly lushes,” Carmine added.

The table burst into laughter about half-a-second after they were sure the don was laughing, too. Tommy shook his head and took the tumbler and slid back behind the steel bar. He lined up his bourbon, cherries, bitters, a fresh orange with a sharp zesting knife, a block of Michigan lake ice the size of his head, and an ice pick.

Tommy was hard at work peeling the orange zest into spirals when a group of men entered the room, four soldiers that Tommy recognized but couldn't name.

“Petey, what are you doing here? I told you to wait downstairs,” Carmine said.

“We'll meet you boys down there in a while, get the girls warmed up for us,” another capo said.

“Zio, you get into the product again? You look like a dead fish.”

“Petey, you deaf?”

The men didn't answer.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” the don demanded. His chair scraped against the floor. The commotion startled Tommy, and his knife slipped. Red beaded on his thumb, distracting him from what the don was doing.

The sound of a Thompson submachine-gun's bolt racking back was one that cold never be mistaken for something else. Tommy dropped to the floor as the first shots rang out.

The four men standing in the entrance to the long room unloaded their chattering machine-guns as one. The deafening barrage only lasted seconds. Bullets tore through men and wood, filling the air with misted blood and flying splinters. Tommy could hear bullets whipping over his head, he could hear them shattering the big window and disappearing down the street, he could hear them colliding with the steel bar, pinging off its welded surface just a half-inch away from splitting his head.

Whatever the don had done for the welders to make him a bulletproof bar, it had been worth it.

As quick as the barrage began, it was over. Gunsmoke choked the room. A few of the capos moaned with pain; most were silent.

Tommy risked a peak around the battered bar. The four men were still standing there, silent. They were holding their Thompsons from the hip, tracking back and forth with the barrels. Their fingers were clutched on the triggers even though each man had already emptied his hundred-round drum magazine. Their faces were blank, their eyes unfocused, their mouths hanging open.

“Petey, what the hell?” Carmine asked from the floor. The old pimp's face was covered in blood. The man on the far right blinked and shook his head. He groaned like someone had woken him up after a three-day bender.

“What?” Petey muttered. He noticed the smoking machine-gun in his hands and jumped, dropping it. Then he saw the carnage spread out before him. He stumbled backward then fell the floor. Tommy could hear him puking.

“That was pretty good,” a weaselly voice said from outside the door. Stino Montuoso poked his rodent-like head into the ravaged board room, followed by his gangly body wrapped in a tasteless but expensive suit. “Missed one, though.”

Aside from the Petey, none of the other men moved. They waved their guns back and forth, deaf and slack-jawed.

The don's nephew pulled a Colt 1911 out of his waistband and pointed it at the sputtering Carmine.

“Want to know why I did it, old man?” he asked.

“Because you're a little shit,” the fallen mafioso answered. He laughed, but it turned to a cough and a bloody gurgle. Stino's face twisted into a cruel sneer, and he fired four times into Carmine's chest. The old man went still.

The shots startled the three standing murderers out of their trances. They took in the scene the same way Petey had: shock, then horror. Each of them hurled as the realization of what they had done overwhelmed them. Stino stood nearby, watching.

“I don't know what you all did here, but you better run,” he said. They looked at each other in confusion. Stino screamed at them: “You just killed my uncle! You don't walk away from that, you run!”

Chiclet re-entered the room holding a chopped-down shotgun. He racked a shell into the chamber and surveyed the scene.

“What the hell happened?” he asked. There were men behind him in the hall, mumbling and staring into the bloody room.

“There traitors just killed everyone!” Stino screeched.

“Get them!” Chiclet yelled. He fired his shotgun, knocking Petey off his feet and splattering half of him across the wall. The men behind him shouted in anger and surged toward the three clueless assassins. Two managed to worm past Stino and dash down the hall. Most of the shocked bodyguards were hot on their tails.

The last assassin thought mercy might be an option. It was not, not when he had a made man's blood on his hands. He backed into the board room, trying not slip in anything or trip over anyone.

“Hey, I don't know what's going on here,” he pleaded.

Stino sneered again, then gave his orders:

“The rest of you, go track down those runners, Chiclet and I can handle Zio.”

The rest of the bodyguards took off down the hall. Tommy could hear yelling outside, followed by distant gunshots. At least one of the men had made it out. The hapless Zio continued trying to plead his case:

“Stino, you know me, I love the don, he took me in. I'd never backstab him, I'd never...”

He tripped over a capo's mangled remains and fell to the floor. He looked at the dead man in horror.

“I'd never do this,” he said.

“I know you wouldn't,” Stino told him. “That's why she had to make you.”

“She?” Zio asked. His face went red and a fresh film of sweat beaded out of his skin. His eyes rolled back and he hurled again.

“She said you wouldn't remember, and that's fine by me,” Stino told him. He was standing over Zio, just a few feet from the bar. Tommy didn't have his heaters; he'd left his shoulder rig slung over the back of his chair because it chaffed when he was mixing drinks. He felt around, finally finding his icepick and his zesting knife.

“You were always a brown-noser, Zio, laughing with the old farts when they talked about me,” Stino said.

“No, I didn't,” Zio tried to say.

“You did,” Stino snapped. “But it's okay, I would have laughed with the boss, too. But guess who's laughing now? The one without a chestful of lead, that's who. The one who is the boss now.”

“What?” Zio asked.

“Shut up,” Stino hissed. He fired three shots into Zio, silencing him.

“Chic, put out the word to everyone: Don Renzo's dead, killed by traitors under Selvaggio orders. If either of those other two get away, I want a price on their heads. We got to make it look like we're mad about this. Let Schmidt know it’s done. See if he’ll meet me at the club, I want to thank him. Then call up Cartula, too, I want the Cubans at the table. With the objectors out of the way, we can start moving their hardware and making real money. Are you listening? What are you looking for?”

“Capano,” Chiclet replied. He racked his shotgun again. An empty shell plunked off the bullet-perforated table.

Tommy jumped to his feet. He hauled back and launched the zesting knife as hard as he could. It cut deep into Chiclet's thigh. Chiclet squeezed his trigger, blasting a crater into the plaster wall as he fell.

“Capano?” was all Stino had time to ask before Tommy transferred the icepick to his throwing hand. He pulled back and heaved it. It wasn't designed for balanced flight, and it tumbled through the air, hitting handle-first against Stino's birdlike chest. Stino cursed and rubbed the imminent bruise: “Shit, ouch.”

He raised his Colt and settled its sights on Tommy's chest.

“You were always a brown-noser, too. Thought you worked harder than everyone else. Well, you made your bed, now sleep with the fishes.”

“That doesn't make sense,” Tommy said.

Stino sneered again and pulled the trigger. His pistol clicked empty. Chiclet ripped the knife out of his leg and tried to push himself up using his shotgun as a crutch. His blood was streaming to the floor.

Tommy snatched up the rock-hard ice block off the bar, lifted it over his head, then heaved it with all the strength he could muster. It cracked in two over Stino's forehead, opening a bloody split and sending him sprawling across the long table.

Before Chiclet could figure out whether to help his boss or shoot, Tommy was through the bullet-shattered window and gone.

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Copyright © 2024 Daniel Baldwin. All rights reserved.

Written and edited by Daniel Baldwin. Art by Bruce Connors.