The Billy Club Bastard Case Files: The Case of an Old Dead Guy, Part 4 of 6

With the mob giving him the run-around, Mickey Malloy must take his medicine and do what he hates most: compromise. Now, using reporter Eric Reed’s contacts, he continues his investigation into the murder of Nikola Tesla.

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 an Old Dead Guy. If you’d like to avoid spoilers, read Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3 first.

Content warnings: Mild swearing, alcohol use, drug use, tobacco use, death, gore.

FRIDAY MORNING, JANUARY 8, 1943
MALFI'S PAWN & TRADE
THE BRONX, NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK

“Egidio Malfi,” said the little man cautiously. His shaking hands were hidden behind his display case.

“Malloy,” Mickey replied, keeping an eye on the twitchy shopkeeper. His hand stayed inside his coat, fingertips on the worn grip of his .38 revolver. Mick could tell the fence had never been far from pulling a shotgun on him and Reed since they'd walked into his dingy pawn shop.

“Eggs, I told you to keep collected,” Reed warned him. Eggs Malfi raised his hands and stepped back from the counter, and only then did Mickey's hand come off his own gun.

“Well unless you two lovebirds are looking for engagement rings, I got nothin' for ya',” Malfi sneered. Snitches were always so indignant, at first.

“Got a couple nice rocks in there,” Mick grunted, noting the diamonds kept under the reinforced glass of the display case.

“Perfect for a summer couple like yourselves,” Malfi said, his little laugh more of a squirrel's chirp than anything else.

“Shop's looking good, Eggs,” Reed said before Mick could threaten the sneering snitch.

“Yeah, yeah, I been doing just fine,” Malfi replied dismissively. “What do you mooks want? I told you already, I got nothing new to say.”

“Just trying to get the lay of the land,” Mick said. He put one empty hand up and slowly slid the other into his pocket, drawing out a sawbuck that he'd gotten from Keaton. He moved slow: no sense spooking the little guy. It had barely touched the glass before Malfi snatched it up and stuffed it into his pocket.

“Ten dollars'll get you a good survey,” Malfi said. He was skinny and squirmy, like a weasel, with thinning brown hair greased flat to his spotted scalp. The kind of guy Mickey’d expect to be a stoolie running a pawn shop.

“What crews are running around town right now?” Reed asked.

“You know, the Profacis, Bonannos, and Reinas are all around, and the Lucianos and Gambinos are laying low after the Murder, Inc. trials,” Malfi answered. Mickey knew those names already. The Five Families were under the employ of the U.S. government for Operation Underworld and the Murder, Incorporated clowns had already been executed, so they were busier than ever.

“We ain't asking about your buddies from around the block, knucklehead,” Mickey said. “For ten bucks you better have something real for me.”

Malfi stepped back, clenching the ten dollar bill in his pocket like was afraid Mickey'd turn him upside-down and shake it back out.

“We need the wire on anybody new or notable in town, Eggs,” Reed soothed.

“Like who?” he stammered.

“Hitters, smugglers, anybody with a bad rap, anyone new sticking out like a sore thumb,” Reed said. Malfi thought for a second. He straightened his threadbare shirt.

“There's a few out there, yeah,” he said.

“And?” Reed asked impatiently.

“A few more than ten lousy bucks worth.”

Mickey's back creaked. He was still coming up with a good threat when when Reed dove across the display case. He grabbed Malfi by his collar and slammed his oily face down on the glass.

“Our money's not good enough for you, Eggs?” Reed yelled in the pawn broker's ear.

“These are bad guys!” Malfi pleaded, “Ten bucks ain't a lot to drop a dime on 'em! They're killers!”

“Names!” Reed demanded.

“The DiCarlos are in town to kowtow to the Gambinos, the Selvaggios came out of nowhere and set a Sicilian crew up against the Irish to get a piece of the port...” Eggs whimpered. He was on the verge of tears.

“Who else!” Reed shouted.

“Let him up,” said Mickey, unaccustomed to being the voice of reason.

“Who else!” Reed shouted again.

Mick grabbed the reporter's shoulder and shoved him away from the counter. Reed stumbled into a rack of suits that look liked they’d been peeled off stiffs. A glare from Mick shut down whatever Reed was about to say.

“That's a good start, Eggs,” Mick said, standing Malfi up and straightening his shirt. “Who else?”

Malfi took a second to compose himself while Reed did the same.

“You ripped my shirt!” he hissed at Reed over Mickey's shoulder, pointing at a split seam.

“This should cover it,” Mick said, sliding a finski onto the counter. Five more of Keaton's bucks'd buy Malfi a whole crate of those cheap sweatshop shirts.

“It’s getting there,” he grumbled, then slipped the five into his pocket next to the ten.

“Who else is around?” Mick asked again. The names he'd given, DiCarlo and Selvaggio, were good, they said that Malfi was connected enough to know what he was talking about, though they didn't help with this case. The DiCarlos were a crew out of Boston, and they had been infiltrated at the highest levels by Hoover's boys for months, whereas the Selvaggios were so closely affiliated with the Office that they organized supply and intelligence drops in the Mediterranean.

“Let me recall...” Malfi said, sliding the money between his fingers in his pocket. He was clearly considering how many more bills Mickey might have in his pocket.

“By all means,” replied Mick. He could be patient. This rat thinking for a couple extra minutes wouldn't make Tesla any more dead or Malfi any less of a rat.

“You see,” said Malfi finally, “Recollection ain't a poor man's pursuit.”

“You'll have plenty of time to think in jail,” Reed said, finally calm enough to speak.

“You're the ones who came in here and put your hands on!” Malfi said, his boney chest puffed out in confidence. “You’re trespassing, and I’m clean as a whistle.”

“Those engagement rings you're so proud of look an awful look like the ones stolen from the Van Dyne estate to me,” Reed replied. “And Detective Malloy, what kind of stint is somebody possessing stolen property in excess of a couple grand looking at?”

“Detective?” Malfi stammered.

“On a good day it's five to ten,” Mick riffed. “But you know the Van Dynes...”

“Good friends with the Mayor,” Reed said.

“Of New York?” Malfi asked.

“The very one. They contributed quite a bit to his re-election campaign. Probably won't go soft on this one,” Reed said, crossing his arms as he watched Malfi sweat.

“I didn't know anything, detective, I swear,” Malfi pleaded. He looked like he was about to fall to his knees. With something that seemed real hanging over his head, he folded like a bad poker hand.

“You remember what I want, I forget what you want. Sound fair?”

Malfi nodded, took a deep breath, then started spilling his guts like he'd had bad fish:

“Some rednecks just bought a truckload of rifles out on Long Island; the Westies and Profacis are gearing up to beef; Pip Bellomo’s been cutting his horse with chalk; the welterweight match Sunday is fixed for Quarryman Jones; Cousin Sal's been holed up with the Cleaners for a couple days; a pair of wise guys from Chicago came through rolling in cash last week; the Negoziatori are hiring security for a black auction; a bootlegging crew from Toronto is setting up some stills for the Gambinos in - !”

“Hold up,” Mick interrupted Malfi's information discharge, “You say Cousin Sal?”

“Yeah, he's holed up while running through on a job,” Malfi repeated.

Salvatore ‘Cousin Sal’ Sigillito was a button man that worked almost exclusively for the krauts, pulling triggers on anyone they paid him to: union bosses, recruiters, scientists, and military officers. His file was so thick that Mick had used it to fend off a saucer-sized roach that had challenged him for dominance at his rarely-frequented office in Baltimore.

“Where is Sal now?” Mick demanded.

“Staying at the Sweet Pearls Flophouse, last I heard,” Malfi answered.

“I know the place,” Reed interjected.

“Anything about it that I'd be happy to hear?” Mick asked him.

“Not a thing,” Reed replied.

“Well it wouldn't be right if it was easy,” Mick said. He fished the last five Keaton had given him out of his pocket and handed it to Malfi. “It goes unsaid that we weren't here. You didn't see us, we didn't see those rings.”

Malfi nodded, taking the money and stashing it with the rest. He looked relieved that he could stop talking and that these two were leaving.

“You're a smart guy, Eggs,” Mick said, “I might just come see you next time I'm town.”

With that, the relief on Malfi's face drained away. Mickey grinned and pushed open the door, jngling its little bell, then stepped into the cold wind. Reed was hot on his heels.

“So who is this Sigillito character?” the reporter asked once the door closed.

“He’s a New York boy, I’m surprised you don’t know. On the record, a common criminal, a bootlegger, and a murderer,” Mick answered.

“And off?”

“One of the most dangerous assassins the Nazis got this side of the Atlantic,” Mick said. Reed nodded.

“You glad you came crawling back?” Reed asked.

“I wouldn’t say ‘crawling,’” Mick retorted, shivering against the wind. “‘Strategically contrite,’ maybe.”

“Deal’s a deal, Malloy,” Reed said. “I burned that contact for you, so you owe me a front-pager. I don’t know if you could tell, but Eggs was good for damn-near anything I needed. You owe me big. Long-term stuff.”

“Oh, he was a regular font of information. I’ll get you square, like I said. So, where’s this flophouse?”

“Uptown. I suggest you lose that badge. Real or fake, if anybody sees it where we’re going, they’re going to feed it to you.”

“Sounds like people I’d like to talk to, then. Need to make any more stops?” Mick asked.

“Nah,” Reed replied, his smirk mischievous. “Let’s go knock on his door.”

WEDNESDAY NIGHT, DECEMBER 30, 1942
PECONIC BOG, THE PINE BARRENS
LONG ISLAND, NEW YORK

“What is this, a mixer?” Walter Ortíz whispered. He spied on the gathering of fascists from behind a raspy pine tree, doing his best to make sure his breath didn’t drift up and give him away.

“Might as well be,” George Keaton replied, quieter than a whisper.

The Tridente men had come first, in three trucks. They’d unloaded five long crates under the watchful eye of some well-dressed heavies, Montuoso lieutenants if Keaton had to guess. He snapped photos to send to the Library later. The heavies left in their truck and the Tridente built a fire and waited, grumbling while they warmed their hands. The Legion didn’t arrive ‘til after dark, their trio of unassuming sedans bouncing over every pothole on the little swamp road. After a few pleasantries, each group presented the other with a couple cases of booze. The New York men had fine blended Canadian whiskey, while the Legionnaires broke out a couple milk crates stacked with Mason jars sloshing crystal clear.

Keaton refocused his telephoto lens on the two groups of traitors that were laughing and grab-assing around a blazing bonfire. Both had on some real dumb outfits, more familiar to marching bands than to soldiers. “Those ones on the left, in the gray, can you identify them?”

“Silver Legion, Heirs to Dixie,” Ortíz identified. Their antique guns and Stars and Bars armbands made it pretty obvious.

“Good eye. And the ones with the red scarfs?”

“Tridente Cremisi, Empire State Cleaners. You can tell by the snapping turtle badges under their pitchforks,” Ortíz said. He set down his binoculars and slid further back behind behind their cover. “What are we waiting for? We got them all red-handed.”

“Aside from the fact that there’s twenty of them and two of us?”

“Yeah, besides that.”

“The Office has trailed these guns from the Montuosos to the Tridente, and now we’re seeing them give them up to the Legion. Illinois to New York to North Carolina. I’d like to see where they’re going next.”

“So we’re going to let Axis militias take five dozen military-grade rifles and see what happens?” Ortíz asked.

“Keep it down,” Keaton hissed. “I have a plan for that.”

He unbuckled his satchel and revealed an array of wide-bore syringes. Ortíz squinted so he could make out their labels by starlight.

“‘Cold weld,’” he read.

“We use this on those rifles, the Legion winds up with a load of lumber.”

“And a beef with the Tridente,” Ortíz pointed out. “But if we can get to the guns, we’d have to sabotage every rifle.”

“You trained with the Kar98k, didn’t you?”

“Chiron had us reassembling them in the dark,” Ortíz answered. His hands ached at the memory. The Office made sure all its recruits were familiar with the typical armaments they’d come across in the field: Kar98k’s, Lee-Enfield’s, Carcanos, Garands, Arisakas, Springfields, Mosins, and more.

“It only takes a few seconds to disable them if you know what you’re looking for. We’ll pop the crates, we’ll both work the rifles, we’ll be done in no time,” Keaton said.

"What about them?” Ortíz asked. He leaned back around the tree. The militiamen were whooping it up, clinking quarts together, chugging straight out of the bottles before passing them around. The two groups’ heavily ornamented leaders conferred and let their men cheers, challenge, and gamble. They knew that booze bonded men together. In Keaton’s experience, the only thing that worked faster was a common enemy, though he figured he’d keep his head down and let the spirits have their chance first.

“Those fools are playing make-believe. They’re as much soldiers as I’m a ballerina. Give it a few hours, every one of them will be sauced, guards and all.”

“A few hours?” Ortíz groaned. He was only twenty-four, so three hours might as well have been three years. The young official was from the Malloy school of investigation: kick in the door and pick up whatever evidence was left.

“You get some rest, I’ll take photos for a while,” Keaton said. Ortíz looked like he’d rather sleep on a cactus, but he was out like a light within ten minutes. Keaton was jealous: he couldn’t hardly fall sleep at all anymore. He picked up a stick and poked Ortíz whenever he started to snore, but stayed focused on the carousing men a hundred yards away.

The two groups were both Axis toadies, the Legion trained by Abwehr spies and the Tridente under the eye of the SIM’s Methodical Warfare group. The two agencies both ran their quislings as independent cells, and from what the Office could tell, cooperation was rare. For the Tridente to serve up arms to the Legion was a big deal and possibly the beginning of something worse.

Keaton changed the film in his camera nine times before he was ready to take a break. He got at least one catalogable photo of every man present, Tridente and Legion alike. The Library would be able to tell what order he’d taken the photos in because every person in them got sloppier and sloppier the deeper they got into the evening.

Ortíz startled himself awake two hours later. He yawned and checked his glowing watch face.

“Damn, sorry,” he groaned, rubbing out a knot in his back from a particularly prominent root. A pang of jealousy struck Keaton again; if he’d even stepped on a root like that, he’d have been feeling it for days.

“What do we got?” Ortíz asked. He found his binoculars and surveyed the gathered traitors. A wide grin split his face when he saw the carnage. “Those boys are toasted.”

“Some are still on their feet, and they can’t suspect a thing if we’re going to pull this off,” Keaton said.

“I got an idea,” Ortíz said, stroking his thin mustache. “But you’re going to have to make it work.”

“What is it and why me?” Keaton wondered.

“I’m a little more seasoned than they’d respond kindly to,” Ortíz said, tapping his darker skin. “And like you said, I’m better with a gun.”

“I don;t know that that’s exactly what I said,” Keaton replied. “So what do you want me to do?”

Ortíz explained his idea. Like most Office ab-libs, it all hinged on being precise with the work and more clever than the next guy, and having an unexpected gadget or two didn’t hurt. He’d been eager to try out the new datura cigarettes Zoo Base had whipped up anyway.

The plan wouldn’t have worked with real men from Department Three or the SIM, but then again they wouldn’t have let their gun exchange turn into a bonfire party in the first place. One must take victories where they can.

Keaton confirmed all the details once more then headed out. He left his gun with Ortíz, smeared some dirt on his slacks and hands, then circled to the north. He smirked as he slipped through the bog, skirting rimes of ice to avoid crunching them in. Once he found the little dirt road the traitors had come in by, he adopted a staggering limp and began breathing loud enough for even those few hammered traitors still standing to hear.

It took a few staggering minutes before the drunk goons noticed him. There were only two still standing, and they were arguing about something. If Keaton had been attempting violence, they would not have been able to stop him.

“Hey, who’s that?” the Tridente man grunted. His formerly slicked hair was hanging in limp disarray. He swung the his bottle of Canadian blend around with with each word, nearly clocking himself and his companion as he spoke.

“Who?” a Legionnaire groaned. He was wearing a saber on his hip and whiskers about a hundred years out of style.

“This guy, right here. Hey pal, you’re in the wrong neighborhood!” the Tridente man called. He pointed at Keaton with his sloshing bottle.

“‘Wrong neighborhood?’” Keaton slurred. He hoped that these boys were drunk enough to ignore how terrible his put-on accent was. “Buddy, I been drinking in this swamp since I was fourteen years old. This looks like a party to me.”

“It’s a private party,” the Tridente man said, puffing up like a rooster. Both men were reaching for their pieces.

“And you ain’t on the list,” the Legionnaire added.

Keaton spun around to take in the scene of passed out goons, nearly tripping over his own feet.

“That’s okay, my parties usually got more broads,” he said with a shrug. He pointed at a half-drained Mason jar that had nearly slipped out of a snoring man’s hand. “What is that, white lightning? Let me get a sniff of that, haven’t had any of the good stuff since I was on the job.”

The traitors brightened at that. There was too much crossover between Legion folks and law enforcement for Keaton’s taste, but it was an easy in.

“What kinda work you do, mister?” the Legionnaire wondered.

“That God damn snake Hoover fired me, but I used to bust up moonshiners. That’s how I got a taste of the stuff.”

“You a fed?” the Tridente man snapped.

“I was ‘til the damn bureau got soft, kowtowing to Roosevelt and his cronies and started locking up good American boys when we got of rats and commies running loose.” Keaton spat after his rant, he knew his audience would appreciate that touch.

“I’ll tell you what,” the Legionnaire said, stroking his whiskers. He ambled over and took the jar from the the drooling man. He didn’t miss it, he just groaned and rolled onto his other side. “You can’t stick around but, you know, have a drink on me.”

Keaton took the jar and tipped it back. The moonshine kicked him in the back of the throat like a wild donkey. He nearly coughed it up.

“Strong, huh?” the Legionnaire said with a grin. His teeth were stained with tobacco juice.

“Never get used to that first sip,” Keaton groaned. He blinked the stars out of his ears and reached in his pocket. The two traitors snatched at their pistols, but he had the pack of cigarettes out before either could draw down. Keaton smirked, saying: “Just some smokes. Need one after that.”

Keaton pulled one of the cigarettes with a red band out of the pack. His hand shook as he placed it between his lips. It wasn’t part of his drunk act, but it didn’t hurt. He’d quit six months back.

He took a deep breath. This was for work. He could keep it separate.

“You boys got a light?” he asked. Neither did, but both stared at his cigarette. He pulled out a pair from his pack, both with blue bands on them. “Here, one each, a man can’t smoke along, am I right? And look at this.”

Keaton stumbled over to the dying bonfire and pulled out a stick. He lit his own cigarette with it glowing tip then handed it over. The first inhale was warm, familiar. It calmed the nerves he had strangled down. Damn, he missed it. His mother would be furious, but it was only one.

While the two traitors were distracted lighting up, Keaton tossed six more blue-banded smokes onto the coals, enough to give all the unconscious goons a little extra nudge into slumberland.

“Well, thanks for the nip, boys. I gotta get back to bed, I gotta be in the city in the morning,” he said. He made a big show of nearly tripping as he wandered toward the little road.

“Hey, you said you’re sick of Hoover and Rosevelt and all that?” the Tridente man said between puffs, catching up and throwing his arm over Keaton’s shoulder. Acrid smoke drifted between them. Keaton made sure to lean away. He did not want to inhale even a whiff.

“Yeah, bureau’s a bunch of cowards and yes-men these days,” he said.

“Look me up when you’re back in the city, we got a little discussion group where we, uh, ruminate over the issues of the day,” the Tridente man said. He passed Keaton an Empire State Cleaners business card. Keaton pocketed it with a smile.

“Oh, you bet I will,” Keaton promised. The traitor clapped him on the back, saying:

“It’s real late buddy, and it’s a long back way to the city. Have a safe trip.”

“Hey, you boys, too.” Keaton stumbled away in the darkness. When he couldn’t see the flickers of the bonfire anymore, he cut back through the bog. He circled back around to Ortíz’s position and found the younger official drawing down on him.

“Sorry, it’s just me,” Keaton said. Ortíz holstered his pistol. Keaton ducked behind their tree and lit a fresh cigarette. He double-checked the color of its band before he took a second puff. Warmth filled his chest.

“You smoke?” Ortíz asked.

“No,” Keaton grumbled. He took another hit then flicked it into some standing water. “It’s been a bit, those idiots shouldn’t be any trouble now.”

They trudged back through the freezing mud. There wasn’t any conversation, songs, or arguing left in the weird little encampment. Ortíz figured this was just a drop spot, where the Tridente could leave the guns and the Legion could hod onto them ‘til they shipped ‘em south. The party was a spur-of-the-moment thing, something he expected from dumbass racists playing dress-up. The Axis only placed the tiniest kernel of confidence in these snoring ding-dongs, and they even messed that up.

Not that Ortíz was complaining.

The officials stepped over and between the laid-out traitors. The datura smoke had done its work: those already passed out were dead asleep. Ortíz could have curled up next to one and shared his blanket without waking him up.

“There’s my pals,” Keaton nodded. Ortíz spotted the whiskered Legionnaire staring directly upward, lost in the stars.

“So many…” he whispered.

“Too many,” the Tridente man snapped. He’d stripped himself naked and was hunched into a ball, staring at the ground. His whole body was covered in goosebumps and he was shivering wildly.

“That stuff is strong,” Ortíz noted.

“I read about someone who ate datura leaves in a salad and hallucinated for eleven days straight,” Keaton said. He found the Tridente man’s tossed jacket and draped it over his bare shoulders. He wasn’t trying to let anyone freeze to death, not even a traitor. The doped-up goon didn’t even notice.

“Nobody conscious?” Ortíz asked.

“They are all sawing logs,” Keaton confirmed. Even the commanders were passed out. Sloppy.

“Here we go then,” Ortíz said. He slipped a small cat’s paw pull bar out of his pocket and popped the first crate lid. None of the sleeping traitors so much as snorted. Ortíz shook his head. They were knocked all the way out. “Wow. Simply, wow.”

“Let’s get to work, the sun will be up soon,” Keaton replied. He pulled the first rifle out of the packing straw, flipped it over, and threaded the needle point of his cold weld syringe into the trigger assembly. One little squeeze sent a pea-sized bead of liquid metal inside. The ooze cooled quickly, melding the entire trigger into a solid mass connected to the breach and barrel. He replaced the rifle and started with the next one.

It took the officials an hour to inject all sixty rifles and pack them back up, good as new. They were long gone, on the hunt for coffee and cigarettes, when the drugged traitors came to. The bleary rubes shook hands, exchanged their little salutes, moaned about their headaches, cursed various groups, and made fun of their naked buddy. They split the haul of guns between them, then the Tridente went west and the Legion went south.

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Copyright © 2024 Daniel Baldwin. All rights reserved.

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

The Case of an Old Dead Guy is complete.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, and Part 6.