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

Nikola Tesla’s murderer is on the run, but that’s not who Mickey Malloy is worried about. An even more dangerous Axis agent is on the loose in New York City, and he must do everything he can to prevent the Smiling Man from killing again.

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

This is the finale of The Case of an Old Dead Guy. If you’d like to avoid spoilers, read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, and Part 5 first.

Content warnings: Mild swearing, alcohol use, tobacco use, violence, gun violence, death.

FRIDAY NIGHT, JANUARY 8, 1943
THE FIVE STAR VILLAS ON SIXTH
MANHATTAN, NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK

Earp's town car rumbled south on Sixth with two trucks behind, one with Keaton and his field team, another for cataloging. Mickey shifted in his seat next to Earp while the silver-haired inspector looked over the contents of Sigillito's attaché case.

“Five G's is consistent with the up-front half of Sal's fee. The picture and address are consistent with his contract style, and the syringe is the same bore used in the hotel,” Earp said. Mick was impatient.

“Yeah, I already knew all that, what's the pickle?”

“The pickle, deputy, is how Sigillito pulled this singular address from... his victim's notes.” Earp's secretiveness made Mick remember that Reed was up in the front seat with Keaton, listening along.

“The kid's sharp, boss, he knows something's up,” Mick said. Earp leaned forward and gripped the reporter's shoulder.

“Mister Reed, you are aware that many elements of this case are and will remain classified Most Secret?” Earp asked. Reed twisted around to look him in the eye.

“What exactly does 'Most Secret' mean?” the reporter asked.

“It is a level of clearance so high that you are not allowed to know that such a level exists,” Earp replied.

“And what does that do to my story?”

“Mister Malloy promised you a story, just not this one. There’s a lot on the line here, whether you have picked that up or not. Understand?”

“I understand that you’re suppressing my freedom of speech” Reed said.

“Let’s not throw that one around all willy-nilly,” Mick said.

“Secret police, suppressed information, threats against reporters?” Reed listed.

“Kid - !” Mick started, but Earp cut him off:

“I don’t appreciate being compared to a fascist, Mister Reed.”

“You’re the one walking and quacking, pal,” Reed snorted. “Or should I say ‘stepping’ and ‘honking'?’”

“You ever hear the one about yelling ‘fire’ in a crowded theater?” Mick asked.

“Yes, but - !” Reed tried, but it was Mick’s turn to interject:

“We’re trying to solve a murder, and you want to tell a city of seven-and-a-half-million people that their neighbors are traitors and killers hired by Nazis?”

“Best you’re going to do is start a panic, lynchings in the streets and worse,” Earp said. “We’re not secret police, we’re stage hands, we work behind the scenes to make sure this all plays out smooth. When this news is ready to drop, we’ll make sure it goes to you first.”

“That’s a hell of a deal if I ever heard one,” Mick chirped.

Don’t see as I have much choice,” Reed mumbled and turned back around in his seat, momentarily defeated. There was no doubt in his mind that he'd totally burned Eggs, his best Italian contact, for a fat stack of nothing.

“Don't worry, kid,” Mick assured him, “You'll get a page-turner out of this yet. In fact, we might be able to two-bird this thing.”

“How’s that?”

“Let me marinate on that” Mick said. “But I'll have something for you, I promise.”

Reed set his face and found the buildings passing by suddenly interesting, but Mick could tell he was mentally recording every word said in the car. Earp pulled the page of Tesla's notes that Sigillito had stolen and decrypted.

“Near as we can tell, Sigillito pulled this page from the top of a series relating to tissue cultures that later segues into a geographical survey,” Earp said.

“‘Near as you can tell?’” Mick asked.

“I would need four translators who are also biologists, chemists, and cartographers to loosely interpret a single paragraph of his work. Right now we're just making guesses based on his diagrams.”

“So how would Eizhürst and Sigillito figure 'em out?”

“The Abwehr. And Reed, you're not writing a word about the Abwehr either. They were probably observing the victim for weeks. They must've seen a pattern in his writing or something. Remember, the krauts have as many advanced minds working for them as we do, they could have found it in any number of ways.”

The town car slowed to a halt in front of a four-story brick building with a grocer on the bottom floor and apartments in the top three.

“This is it,” Keaton said. He pulled his 1911 and stepped outside to direct his field team to form a perimeter. Ortíz flashed oncoming traffic to a stop with a flashlight. New Yorkers were not shy about honking at him but he didn’t budge. This block was getting shut down.

“Let's go,” Mick said. He took Sigillito's photo of Tesla and rushed into the building following his revolver with Earp and Reed close behind. He was immediately confronted with stairs. His knees groaned in protest. They weren't yet done processing the abuse he'd put them through in Sweet Pearls. Mick sighed, then hauled himself up the first flight.

“Damn,” he said. He wiped the sweat from his face with his tie. He trudged up to the first apartment door and pounded on it with a meaty fist. “Hey!”

“What do you want?” a woman shouted from inside.

“Police, open up!” Two locks clacked open and the door creaked open. A haggard broad with her hair in curlers peered out under the chain. Mick flashed his fake and badge and asked: “Seen anything suspicious in the building?”

“Other than a fat goombah and a pair of dandies banging on my door?” she asked, then blew acrid smoke in Mickey's eyes. She peered past him, trying ascertain where the commotion was coming from outside. There had to be a dozen cars honking at Ortíz just then.

“Nice, lady,” he said. He put the photo of Tesla up to her face. “How about this guy?”

“Never seen 'im,” she said, then tried to push the door shut, but Mick shoved it back open, straining its brass chain.

“Take another look,” he growled. She scowled and him and snatched the picture out of his hand.

“Nobody like that in this building, but the guy upstairs, on four, looks like 'im. Could be his son,” she looked at the picture for another minute, then threw it past Mick into the hallway. “Now get out of my face.”

The old broad slammed the door in Mick's face and cranked four locks shut. Mick turned around and looked at Earp.

“Son?” he asked. Earp shrugged. He looked just as confused as Mick was.

“He claimed he was celibate,” Earp said. He snatched up the photo before Reed could get a peek.

“Once my mom got a look at me she claimed the same thing. Let's figure this out,” Mick said, though his curiosity was sated by the time he got to the fourth floor. He took one shuddering breath and leaned up against the wall to catch his breath.

His knees would never forgive Tesla for dying.

“Only one door has a number,” Reed whispered. “Must've bought out the whole floor.”

“Good catch,” said Earp. He leveled his nickel-plated 1911 at the door marked 401. “Ready, Malloy?”

Mickey took one more pained breath, wiped his face down again, and readied his snubnose. He nodded, then leaned back to put a boot on the door. Reed jumped in front of him and jiggled the handle. He smirked; it was unlocked. Mickey pushed Reed aside and rushed in with Earp.

The main room was clear, clean but sparse. There was a plush chair with end table and reading lamp in the center of the room. Some academic text was open under the light. There was a vanity mirror in one corner, complete with full Hollywood makeup kit and gray wig. The kitchen was spotless, save for the row of crystal-clear vodka bottles on the counter. Mick spotted something moving near the ice box.

“Kitchen, kitchen!” he shouted. He stormed across the room with Earp hot on his heels.

A single white pigeon burst into the air, panicked by Mick's heavy-footed charge. Feathers went everywhere, and Mick almost tripped backwards over his own feet in shock. The bird had been sleeping in a tiny bed next to what looked like a miniature doggy door set in the window.

“Ambrozija!” a man shouted from the next room. He opened the door only to come face-to-face with Mick and Earp's pistols. Both of them immediately dropped their heaters away from the man.

“Wailey?” the man asked. Earp's mouth hung open. “Wailey, why are you and this man scaring Ambrozija?”

The white pigeon calmed down and fluttered across the room to land on his open palm. He was tall and thin, wearing powder blue pyjamas and matching slippers. He had jet black hair that was parted in the center and a thin mustache. The familiar man smiled when he saw Earp's confusion.

“Nik?” Earp finally managed.

“Of course, Daniel,” he man replied. Mick finally realized who he was looking at.

“You're Nikola Tesla,” Reed said. It was, but he was at least fifty years younger than the corpse they’d seen the morning before.

“Just what in the hell is this?” Mick demanded.

“What do you mean?” Tesla asked.

“We found you yesterday morning, in your hotel, and now you're alive, and young,” Earp said. He still couldn't believe his eyes.

“What?” Reed stammered. He reached for him notepad but Mickey grabbed his arm. Reed looked at him pleadingly. Mickey shook his lumpy head.

“Found? You surely cannot mean that Golub is dead?” Tesla asked. The sparkle in his brown eyes seemed to dim. He wandered to the center of the room and sat in his arm chair.

“Golub?” Mick said.

“Yes,” he said. “Oh, Golub.”

“Who is Golub?” Earp asked.

“Your examiners would have found out soon enough,” Tesla said. “He was my last invention, my auto-sapien.”

“Your what?” Reed interjected.

“A biological automaton. Structurally identical to me, but without will or original thought. Simply the assemblage of pieces that make up the body of a human being, programmed to take my public place.”

“You built yourself a scab?” Mick asked.

“No, no, no. Golub was not a human being, he was not alive. He is merely a computing device made of flesh, programmed to eat crackers, feed my birds, transcribe my notes, and enter a sleep-like state. When any complicated meetings arose, I took my place back in makeup.” He indicated the gray wig and old-age makeup on the vanity.

“What happened to you? You look forty.” Earp had fallen back into his Office training. He had accepted the impossible before him and begun to analyze its implications.

“Three years ago I discovered a rejuvenation technique based on the combination of Thomas Alva's research into life-extension as well as my own geno-therapies. The technique restored my body as if by God's own hand. This second chance at life I was given led me to realize what I'd missed in the solitary existence of research and rivalry I'd followed. I chose to step away and let the world think me irrelevant.”

“You have a lot to offer, Nik, especially now,” Earp offered.

“Everything I can offer is in Golub's notes. His work is mine, I programmed it into him completely. It will take you years to read it and decades to put it into practice. My contribution to the world is secure. I only wish to retire and spend my days with my wife.”

“A wife?” Earp asked.

“Life is change, my friend,” Nikola said. He smiled, and put a slender hand on Earp's shoulder. “Golub gave you everything you need. I can go.”

“We're not the first ones to find this address, buddy,” Mick said, breaking up the weird reunion.

“Malloy's right, Nikola,” Earp said. “The assassin who got Golub knew about this place and has likely given it to the folks that want you dead.”

“The Abwehr, I assume. They approached me years ago and were quite perturbed when I turned them away,” Tesla surmised. “My denial was not taken well, it seems.”

Tesla put his hands out and displayed the unadorned room.

“Had they wanted my work more than to make an example of me, they would have had it. All my research only exists in two places, you see: my mind, and copied into Golub’s. So long as you have secured his transcriptions, you have the only physical copies of my work. If they come here, all they will find would be Golub's agglomeration tub in the next apartment.” Nikola smiled again. “You have everything I am going to give. Good luck, my friends.”

“Where are you going to go?” Earp asked.

“I wish my wife could see my birthplace, but that is impossible now. For now, I have found what could be closest in America. I lived a full life for others, it is time for me to be selfish. Please do not look for me, my friend.” Tesla looked like he was ready to tear up, but he fought it back. He’d been working this plan for years: its culmination was overwhelming.

“I understand,” Earp said. “But we're not who you have to worry about.”

“I know how to reach you,” Tesla replied.

“You should have protection,” Mick started, but Tesla put up a hand and silenced him.

“I have lived one full life and have built another. I created life and delayed death and I have created weapons that you cannot begin to comprehend. I will be safe.” Even as Tesla spoke, a salvo of gunshots sounded out front. Mick and Earp rushed to the small kitchen window, guns drawn.

Down on the street, Keaton and the field team were engaged in a fierce gun battle with two men in trench coats. A third attacker was dead on the ground. Bullets pinged off cars as they whipped up and down Sixth. Civilians were sprinting away, abandoning their vehicles and screaming in terror at the sudden violence.

The attackers fired indiscriminately, not caring whether they hit an official or anyone else.

Keaton was taking cover behind a taxi, taking careful shots across its hood with a BAR that he'd pulled from the trunk of his car. His subordinates were pinned. The attackers withered their cover with automatic fire.

Two officials were down, including Ortíz. He with bleeding from his leg in the middle of the street. A woman lay curled up around a gutshot right next to him.

Tesla jumped when Mick punched out the kitchen window and cleared the shards.

“Don’t,” Tesla tried, but his plea was drowned out as Mick leaned out the window and emptied his .38 at the attackers. His shots went wide, but the two men ducked away, letting Keaton's men try a flanking maneuver.

While Mick reloaded, Earp unloaded his 1911, choosing his shots methodically.

“One,” he whispered. He stepped back so Mick could fire again.

Earp had bullseyed one of them but the other had managed to scramble behind a delivery truck.

Mick watched the man remove something from his coat. He lined up the shot, but his arthritic tremble threw it off. His bullet struck the pavement to the attacker’s left. Before Mick could fire again, the man had pulled the string on a stick grenade and chucked it.

“Grenade!” Mick yelled, but it wouldn’t help. Ortíz’s eyes went wide. The stick grenade bounced to a halt a yard away from him on the asphalt. He cried out and tried to push himself off the pavement, but he couldn’t put any weight on his mangled leg.

“No,” Earp whispered.

Keaton vaulted over the cab’s hood, grabbed Ortíz by his shirt and heaved him like he was full of feathers. Ortíz landed hard on the sidewalk, two tires and an engine block between him and the explosive.

Once Ortíz was safe, Keaton didn't think twice: he fell flat on the grenade.

Mickey ducked back from the window.

The grenade exploded beneath Keaton, shredding his body and killing him instantly.

The blast rumbled up and down Sixth and every nearby window burst inward, but the blast itself was contained. No one else on the street was hurt by the blast, civilian or official.

Mick pulled himself back up to the window in time to catch a single glimpse of the man who'd thrown the explosive. He saw the rictus grin, a familiar smile so wide that it seemed like the Nazi’s face has been split with an ax.

Eizhürst.

In the chaos and smoke, he melted away like an ice sculpture in July.

Mick fell back from the window.

Down on the street, Keaton's men rushed to his side but there was nothing to be done.

Earp stepped past Mickey and surveyed the frenzied block. Smoke and blood choked the roadway. His tired eyes settled on the corpse. Ortíz was dragging himself over to Keaton, his bloody leg splayed at an angle.

“I promised Keaton’s mother,” Earp started, but shut himself up. Greasy smoke drifted past the window, and he watched it for a moment before he spoke to the shocked silent room. “This is why we need to protect you, Nik.”

There was no response from the scientist.

“Nikola?” Earp turned away from the window. He, Mick, and Reed were alone. Tesla and his pigeon were gone. “Damn it, Nikola.”

“He left this,” said Reed, and he handed a small photo to Earp from the reading table. A picture of Nikola in a tux and a short, stout woman with an ear-to-ear smile in a wedding gown. Nikola's grin was just as big.

Mick felt hollowed, numb and scraped out. He could care less about some nut’s happily ever after.

George Keaton was dead.

Mickey didn’t know if he was crying or not. It wasn’t fair. That was why there was a Bastard; Mickey Malloy had seen far more than his fair share of loss and horror long before. It was someone else’s turn, someone who could set aside that pain and guilt as easily as removing a bandana.

“We going to go catch Tesla or what?” he asked after a moment.

“No,” Earp said, leaning out the open window. Glass shards were cutting into his palms where he leaned on the sill. An ambulance was coming down Sixth, but the abandoned cars blocked its way. There was no hurry for Keaton. “No, let’s let him go. I’m not going to begrudge a man his second chance.”

MONDAY MORNING, JANUARY 11, 1943
“CHURCH,” B.W.H.A. REGIONAL COORDINATION CENTER
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND

Mick had gotten to sleep on Sunday, aboard the train south to Baltimore. He’d taken the slow rail on a civilian ticket, well after the rest of the Office had cleared out. He could have taken the Minerva with them, but the ride would’ve taken a third of the time. He needed a spell to himself after that nonsense.

He and Reed had been there when the Office’s propellor train zoomed out of the station with George Keaton’s body, Golub’s remains, and Tesla’s boxed papers and machinery aboard. As they watched the coffins get loaded up, he’d made the kid promise to hold off on publishing ‘til clean-up and cataloging were done. According to Mick’s watch, they were right about there.

He groaned. The last thing he wanted to do was strong-arm a good kid.

“You alright, Inspector Malloy?” a younger man asked from the door. It was Paul, so good-natured but always on his case. “You got something… yeah, there it is.”

Mickey sat up and brushed crumbs off his chest. Marge had made him a sandwich with two fried eggs, a slice of cheddar, a splash of tabasco, and four strips of greasy bacon on buttered toast. It was a miracle that he’d only gotten crumbs on himself.

“Yeah, I’m good, thanks,” he grumbled.

“Okay, I’ll leave you to it,” Paul said. Mick could hear him slink to the the next office over. He was whispering something to Marge. After a moment, Paul poked his head back in: “Did you want a fresh coffee?”

Mick looked down at his mug: half-cold and half-empty.

“No, this is perfect,” he said. “I got to make a call.”

Paul took the hint, conspired with Marge again, then beat it.

Once he was sure he was alone, Mick took a fifth out of his drawer, unscrewed the cap, and filled his mug to the brim. He could smell the bourbon while sitting back. It wasn’t anything to write home about but it would do the trick.

The first sip burned. No like flame, but like an old coal, about fizzled out. He let the cheap booze’s sweetness mingle with the acrid coffee’s bitterness. It evened out to about the flavor of unsweet tea mixed with silt mud.

He stared contemptuously at the phone on his desk. It sat there, inert and challenging him. He reached for it, but thought better of it. The Office had given him the kind of unfettered access that could get him in trouble. He didn’t want to call Moscow or Berlin by mistake.

“Marge!” he grunted. “Marge!”

“I don’t work for you any more, Michael,” she called from the next room. It was true enough after they’d dissolved Malloy Investigations.

“Help me get this phone working!” he called back.

“Paul handles the phones, Michael,” she replied.

“Paul,” Mick grumbled. Of course Paul would be happy to help, all polite and smiles and advice. “He’s busy. And this isn’t business.”

That got Marge out of her seat. She appeared in his doorway in an instant, like she’d always been there.

“Who in the world would you be making a personal call to, Michael?” she demanded. “I’m right next door. You don’t have a date, do you? That professor?”

“Fine, it’s business,” Mick grunted. He didn’t want to get into his dating life or Birdie Ogden or anything else right then. “I need to make a call to New York.”

“Oh, dear,” Marge said. “We were all terribly fond of George here.”

“He went down fighting,” Mick offered, knowing it was exactly the wrong to say. And to her of all people. But it was what people said.

“Does that matter?” she asked.

“It did to Ortíz,” Mick muttered.

“How about to Fredericks?” Marge snapped. She snatched the telephone off Mickey’s desk and began dialing.

“I never got to meet her,” Mick said. Eizhürst had gunned down Deputy Regional Inspector Persephone Fredericks before he’d thrown that grenade.

“We all loved Percie, too,” Marge replied. “When is it too much?”

“You’ve seen that reel the Printmaster put together, didn’t you?” Mick asked. Every official had watched the footage of the Nazis’ horrors. It was bracing.

“I couldn’t bring myself to finish it,” Marge said.

“We’re done when that’s history instead of news,” Mick said.

“It will be news for the rest of our lives, Michael,” she told him. “Walter will never walk right again. He’ll remember what we’re doing every day.”

She held up a finger to shush him as she listened on the line. She offered a few codes words and challenges then held the receiver out to Mickey. He reached for it but she pulled it back and looked him in the eyes.

“That reel was made as a weapon, Michael,” she said. “To rile up our people and to disgust theirs. Officials will see red armband or a silver ‘L’ and shoot first. Seeing others as unapproachable monsters instead of people is how this whole thing started.”

Mick didn’t know what to tell her. The air between them was so quiet that he could hear whoever was on the other end of the call asking if anyone was there. He picked up the phone and gave the impatient operator Eric Reed’s work number. Marge looked sad, but left without another word.

It was good she did: Mick didn’t know what he would’ve said. He drained his mug. The spiked java was cold, and he had decades of practice with chugging foul concoctions. The phone trilled three times before before someone picked up.

“Reed.”

“Mister Reed, it’s your old buddy Mickey.”

“Old, yeah, but buddy?” Reed quipped.

“Okay, wise guy,” Mick grunted. Marge looked disappointed and left.

“You calling to threaten me over a story?” Reed asked. “Because I’ve been threatened by the best of them.”

“I was hoping not to,” Mick offered.

“I’m listening,” Reed said. Mick could almost hear his smirk when he added: “It wouldn’t be wise to turn down a giant man in black who hails from Tampa, would it?”

“You got your pencil sharp?” Mick asked, ignoring the jibe.

“Always,” Reed said. His professional tone slid over as easy as a mask.

“Then write this down: former F.B.I. agents George Keaton and Percie Fredericks were shot and killed on Sixth Street in connection with a private investigation into stolen firearms. Two of the men suspected in the murders are deceased, awaiting identification. A third suspect is on the lam, considered armed and highly dangerous.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s not enough?”

“This story is about traitors, the murder of a scientist by the Nazi government, hitmen, and the Goddamn fountain of youth,” Reed snapped.

“I hope you didn’t yell that out in the bullpen, Eric,” Mick grunted.

“I’m not writing some bullshit fluff piece to sweep this under the rug.”

“Buddy, if you think I want this ignored, you got another thing coming,” Mick told him. “We got a whole line-up of witnesses for you to talk to, reports you can read, whatever else you need, you let me know. I want this thing plastered above the fold. People need to know that two people died to keep them safe.”

“And then what?” Reed asked. “After I play out this drivel you’re concocting?”

“Well hopefully the right folks read your rag and it stirs up some scum. It’s always easier to skim scum than to dive for it, don’t you think?”

“Your story’s going to force somebody’s hand?”

“That’s the plan. The guns in our story exist, but they’re disabled, welded inoperative from the inside out. Keaton saw to that. The folks who got the rest of the lemons will take what you write and run with it. If it goes according to plan, you and me are going to disrupt weapon shipments up and down the east coast. That’s what’s called a ‘tangible result,’ a paper-jockey probably ain’t familiar with that kind of thing.”

“By lying.”

“The truth is something you can prove, kid. You can prove our version, not a lick of the rest. We made sure of it.”

“I said it before, but you need to hear it again,” Reed said, “You sound like them.”

“Who?”

“The krauts. Twisting the truth, manipulating. I won’t do it.”

“We’d appreciate it if you did,” Mick replied. “But our story’s going out regardless, with your name on it.”

That shut Reed up.

Mick stretched his sore neck, then stood. Every inch of him was battered into mush. He'd need days of rest and bottles in rows to get back to even.

Reed cleared his throat after a long silence. When he spoke, he sounded beat:

“You keep saying 'we', who are you and Earp really? The military?”

Mick let Reed’s question hang for a few seconds.

“Just citizens,” he finally answered.

“What about Tesla, what are you going to do about him?”

Mick splashed another shot’s worth into his empty mug and took a sip before he answered.

“I'm going to read his obituary.”

Like what you read? Buy me a beer or @ me about it.

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.