The Billy Club Bastard Case Files: The Case of the Candy-Coated Dynamite, Part 4 of 6
The Billy Club Bastard Case Files: The Case of the Candy-Coated Dynamite, Part 4 of 6
After discovering an old enemy, Mickey Malloy must do everything he can to thwart a deadly plot. But, does he have allies he hadn’t even considered?
This story is featured in the anthology Bourbon, Bullets, Broads, and Bourbon, which is now available as a Kindle ebook, in paperback, or as a DRM-free ePub.
This is Part 4 of The Case of the Candy-Coated Dynamite. If you’re just starting out, check out Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3 before reading any further.
Content Warnings: Violence, Gun Violence, Death, Mild Swearing, Alcohol Use, Tobacco Use, Nazis
SATURDAY EVENING, FEBRUARY 21, 1942
THE ELYSIAN EMPRESS RIVERBOAT CASINO
LAKE PONTCHARTRAIN, NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
Captain Corbeau just so happened to be looking at the pier when Schmidt's men struck. Two teams of two descended the Empress' ramp, pantomiming drunkenness. When the ticket takers at the bottom of the ramp tried to give them a hand, the reward for their offered assistance was brutality. The goons left them where they lay, bleeding out on the dock, then went to work on the moorings.
“God damn,” Corbeau muttered.
“Ah, yes, William,” Schmidt said, suddenly over Corbeau's shoulder. “He does not dawdle. Nor should you.”
“Y'all setting a perimeter?” Banjo asked.
“Not setting, widening,” Schmidt replied. “Come along, we have business with the captain.”
“Widening?” Banjo wondered.
“Come along now, we'll need you momentarily, Mister Roberts.”
“Why me?” Banjo demanded, stopping in his tracks. Corbeau watched Schmidt's men work. They ignored the people running away from them, even though they were all likely going for the nearest phone. Instead, they took off the heavy packs they were wearing and strapped them tight to the concrete pilings that kept the Empress chained to the pier.
“I understand you used to work on a ship not unlike this one.”
“All I did was drive it, and fat lot of good that'll do with this tub. Took me three years to quit. Got sick of seeing my work turn into white money. That's an old story and I'd already heard it too many times,” Banjo said.
“I suggest you stay away from the windows,” Schmidt advised.
“I've had about enough of - !” Banjo started, but Corbeau yanked back on his collar, throwing him down to the deck. He'd seen the wires leading from the back packs to the plunger in William's hands.
The blast came an instant later, turning every window on the Empress' starboard side into a gale of high-velocity crystal razors. Shards sliced inches above their heads. Those that didn't embed in the wall next to them shattering furthers and rained down on their backs. The ship lurched as the pitted chains slipped off the pier and crashed into the lake. Then the screams started. The deck rolled gently beneath their feet.
“Holy shit, we're floating,” Corbeau realized.
“And that is why we need a helmsman,” Schmidt said. His face sparkled. There were countless little diamonds of glass embedded deep in his skin. The screams from the gambling deck continued. A look of annoyance edged in behind his grin. “Where is Max?”
Gunshots sounded from around the ship. Max and his men had the whole party surrounded. Corbeau pressed himself and Banjo closer to the deck. Many of those screaming went quiet after the first salvo, but a few got even louder. A second series of shots silenced them.
“Come along, come along,” Schmidt said.
Corbeau shoved himself off the deck, then helped Banjo up.
“Thanks, Skip,” Banjo said as he brushed glass off of his bandstand get-up. Corbeau knew the nickname was from habit more than forgiveness, but he was glad to hear it nonetheless.
Schmidt's unrepeated threats got them moving. They hurried along the beltline of the drifting ship and took the stairs to the bridge. When they pushed open the unlocked door, they found the captain half-drunk, stammering in terror. He held a useless phone in his hand. When the pilings had gone, so too had the telephone connection and fresh water pipes.
“Who're you?” he managed. He was a fat old white man, more red than white really, sweating like a hog. He wore a stage-show version of captain's livery that was near dripping with perspiration.
“Your relief,” Schmidt answered. He cocked his head in an odd way and stared at the panicking man.
“What in the Sam Hill are you smiling about? We got robbers and the damn boat is loose!” he sputtered. A generous mix of sweat and spit sprayed from his wormy lips as he leaned over the gambling floor. The bridge was perched high on the ship, with one bank of windows looking out over the bow, while a second set faced aft and let them monitor the action inside from above. Corbeau could see Schmidt's men down there, penning a knot of terrified gamblers amongst the card tables. Three bodies were splayed out on the thick carpet, mouthy politicians or body guards, it was impossible to say. Their blood soaked into the maroon fibers.
“Sir, will you give us the helm?” Schmidt asked, ignoring the death and chaos below. His voice was calm and level.
“The helm is the least of our...” the captain started, then realized who Schmidt was, and why he was there. His glare bounced between the smiling stranger and the two men with him, one dressed as a bartender, the other the band leader. He turned another two shades pinker and roared as veins spider-webbed his gleaming scalp: “You sons of - !”
Schmidt crossed the bridge in two large strides and buried a wide buck knife in the captain's chest. His hat slipped from his head. Schmidt slid his blade out of the man then reburied it, over and over, until the captain collapsed to the deck. Red began spreading spreading beneath him. Schmidt sheathed his knife then scooped the hat off the floor, slapped it across his thigh to knock the dust off, then offered it to Corbeau.
“Boys, the helm is yours,” he said.
Corbeau took the hat. He did not put it on, but he took it.
“Come on,” he said quietly. Banjo knew what was at stake. The two of them stepped over the dead man and examined the controls.
“She's old, but she'll run,” Banjo confirmed after a moment eyeballing the countless dials, wheels, and controls. Beneath the gleaming gilded console, about a million pipes snaked up underneath, like a writhing knot of brass snakes.
“Your men have been work on that engine for weeks, I should hope so,” Schmidt snapped.
“So where to, boss?” Corbeau asked. Getting control of the boat was where his knowledge of the plan ended. He'd seen what the stolen dynamite could do to concrete pilings, but that sure as hell wasn't two thousands pounds of it. He was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Take us out to the middle of the lake, then start heading east. I want as much distance between us and the police as we can get,” Schmidt answered. “We're almost done here, boys. Then, you'll be rid of me for good. Get this boat moving, put in a few more hours of work, and you're home free.”
One of the heavies appeared in the bridge's doorway. Dried blood freckled his face. He handed Schmidt a bulky canvas bag.
“Thank you, Henry,” Schmidt said. He peeked inside the bag. The twinkle in his eye almost made his grin seem real. “Henry, would you remove this please?”
The bruiser grabbed the captain by his hands and dragged him out, leaving a red smear behind.
“Henry will be right back, and he will stay here in case you have any questions. I'll be back for you shortly, Mister Corbeau.”
With that, the smiling man strolled out.
Henry returned after a moment and took a seat between Corbeau, Banjo, and the door. He laid his shotgun across his knees. There was red staining around its muzzle. Corbeau got the distinct feeling that Henry was not there to conversate.
“I'm going to need you to watch this piston pressure here,” Banjo said to Corbeau, tapping a small dial on the far side of the massive console. “Let me know the second it goes red. Like Perry used to do, remember?”
“Got it,” Corbeau replied.
Banjo picked up the in-ship phone and dialed down to engineering. Alderman, Jefferson, and Gator were down there.
“We're doing it,” was all Banjo said before he hung up the phone.
Corbeau watched the quivering needles closely. A shiver ran through the Empress' bones as her heart started pumping, like a coma victim waking from the abyss. Her giant paddle wheel began churning water for the first time in a dozen years and the needles jumped with glee.
Henry settled in. He didn't care about the jumping needles, or the blood slick drying gummy on the deck, or the sobbing folks held hostage below. He hardly noticed the receding pier, or the blue lights that had just appeared dockside. The little rattle of distant gunfire, it didn't even give him a start. William and his sappers had opened up on the first cops to show and the cops were firing back.
Henry didn't care about any of that. His blue eyes stayed on Corbeau and Banjo, and so did his scattergun.
SATURDAY NIGHT, FEBRUARY 21, 1942
THE ELYSIAN EMPRESS RIVERBOAT CASINO
LAKE PONTCHARTRAIN, NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
The Elysian Empress was adrift.
The Bastard moved with its rhythm. He felt like he was part of the ship. He anticipated and moved with each undulation of the lake, each adjustment to its rudder.
His progress was slow, slower than the urgency dictated. He was missing parts of himself: his weighted sap gloves, his padded vest, his steel-wrapped boots, his well-used club. All he had was the bandana, and all he carried was a broken butt stock.
Against a dozen men toting shotguns, it wasn't much.
The Bastard was used to being a wrecking ball, a force of nature, a battering ram. In this world he had to adapt. He needed to become a slithering terror, a shadow so faint it could have nothing, a whisper in the wind.
He skirted the perimeter of the gambling floor, sticking to the outer hallways. He ducked beneath the wide gallery windows and slithered like a cottonmouth. Where Eizhürst's goons were posted up, he clung to a rail and shimmied along the outside of the hull. He felt like one of those little green anoles, avoiding children and hawks. He grunted at the thought while he hung there. He was no lizard: if these hellbound Nazis caught him, whatever they snapped off wouldn't grow back.
The Bastard watched the last drips of orange in the western sky fade to purple and black. The Empress was eastbound, maybe southeast, slow for sure, but headed toward the city proper.
All her running lights were cut off. Any other day the boat would be lit bright enough to double as a small town's Fourth of July show. On this night, she wasn't much more than a black void churning the water, her heading unknown and her progress inexorable.
Blue and red lights came up fast behind them, little police boats swinging their spotlights around wildly. These boys were used to busting drunken revelers and gill netters. The Empress was more than they were ready for.
The Bastard ducked back inside the ship and behind a window frame. He needed heavier firepower to deal with the kraut than even a squadron of police officers could bring. Cops arrested criminals, but Eizhürst was a soldier, and he was at war. The Nazi may be carrying a knife, but it wasn't to whittle. If the New Orleans Police Department showed up with paint and pine blocks, they'd get themselves stuck.
So the Bastard slunk along, jiggling door handles until he found one unlocked.
It was dark inside, but the sweeping spotlights lit it up at regular intervals. It was a former guest suite haphazardly converted into a storage closet. Crates of pint glasses and tumblers leaned every direction, pancaking the mattress and choking the bathroom. Some of the boxes on the bed had been hastily shoved aside, telling the Bastard that he wasn't the first to hide out and make bone-headed moves in this room.
The Bastard squeezed past the junk and found the nightstand. There was a Bible in there, and a little golf pencil next to the lamp. They'd be perfect. He snatched up both and returned to the window.
The patrol boats were alongside the Empress now, illuminating her as best they could. They looked like lightning bugs swarming a bull. Even the her wake was enough to send them sprawling if the waves hit them wrong.
“Elysian Empress, this is the New Orleans Police Department! Cut your engines immediately!” one of the patrolmen shouted though a bullhorn. He was doing his level best to stand while his boat dealt with the chop, though he wasn't able to keep from losing his hat. He waited another minute, then repeated his demand.
The darkened ship offer no response. The Bastard stayed hidden. He was one deck below the gambling floor and could hear the boards creaking above his head. Eizhürst's goons were waiting for something. The patrolman stepped down and chattered into a radio set, then lifted his bullhorn and tried again.
“Elysian Empress, we are here to assist you! Cut your engines now!”
“We don't need any help, pig!” an amplified voice shouted back. The Bastard pressed himself up against the window and peered up. Eizhürst was leaning over the top rail on the roof of the bridge, hollering back at the patrol boats with a bullhorn of his own. He was yelling with a New England accent so cartoonish it bordered on offensive. “This vessel is under the command of Sergeant Willis Moore of the Integrated Socialistic Revolutionary Front, and we have commandeered it to return its ill-gotten wealth to the proletariat and make the scum aboard face trial for corruption!”
“Damn,” the Bastard whispered in wonder. Eizhürst was pushing every button that could possibly set off a Southern cop: Yankees, integration, anti-corruption, and Commies. Those patrolmen would be about spinning in circles down there. He could already see the one with the megaphone squawking into his radio.
Eizhürst started up again:
“You pigs best take some notes, because if our demands are not met, we start shooting hostages, including but not limited to everyone on this boat. Our demands are as follows: posthumous pardons for Sacco and Vanzetti, lifetime veterans’ benefits for all heroes of the Lincoln Brigade and widows' benefits for the families of those who died, unconditional amnesty for...”
The Bastard only listened for a moment. None of the things Eizhürst was asking for helped his aims in any way, nor were they within the purview of the City of New Orleans to grant, and they were all cross-factional and nonsensical, even for commies. What they would do was bog those hapless officers down long enough to give the Empress some breathing room to accomplish Eizhürst's real mission, which was to ram his sailing bomb into something that wouldn't enjoy being blown up.
Eizhürst was still rattling off demands from the roof, firing his shotgun into the air to punctuate his sentences and keep the responding officers' heads down. The Bastard took a second to scrawl one name on the inner cover of the borrowed Bible: Patrick India.
With that, the Bastard opened the window as quietly as he could. Its ancient hinge threatened to squeal but it held its lip. The Empress must've known the gravity of her situation. It was all well and good to get off the leash every now and then, but if a dog runs around too much it can get in trouble. The Bastard ended his clunky metaphor before he had to figure out how to fit fifty long boxes of TNT inside a dog.
The nearest patrol boat wasn't more than twenty feet away. The Bastard reeled back and heaved the Bible. He watched it spin through the air and land with a thunk on the boat's deck. If any of the officers had a lick of sense and half a clue who they were dealing with, they would've assumed it was a hand grenade landing next to them and not the good book. Instead, they looked at each other then picked it up. The Bastard ducked back and let the window close behind him. The officers' spotlight washed over the ship again, passing its white beam above his head. He didn't want their attentions alerting Eizhürst or his boys.
After a moment, the Bastard risked another peek. The officers were doing exactly what he'd hoped: yammering into their radio with the Bible in hand. The Bastard knew the station on the other end of that transmission wouldn't be the only ones listening in.
SATURDAY NIGHT, FEBRUARY 21, 1942
THE ELYSIAN EMPRESS RIVERBOAT CASINO
LAKE PONTCHARTRAIN, NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
“This ain't the kind of heat we're used to,” Banjo told Corbeau. They watched the circle of patrol boats edge in around the lumbering casino boat.
“No, it is not. Let's nudge 'em out,” Corbeau said.
“Got it.”
Banjo rocked the wheel hard starboard. The Empress groaned but complied. The late captain's tumbler of whiskey shifted on the side rail where he'd left it. Henry nearly tripped, but recovered and lifted his long gun. He wasn't expecting anyone to be ab-libbing.
“Just getting up some breathing room, Hank,” Corbeau told him.
On the water, the closest patrol boats skittered off. They couldn't have been more than six or eight yards off. The cops inside had never dealt with a scow this big. At full speed, the Empress' wake could've swallowed their little mosquito boats whole if they stayed that close. Sending cops scrambling was was a good kind of fun, the old kind of fun Corbeau and Banjo used to have on the river. In this case though, Banjo might've been saving their lives, too.
Schmidt had finished rattling off his list a few minutes back. From their observation deck on the bridge, he'd watched the Smiling Man amble among the cowering hostages. Schmidt had a list, and he was checking it against the guests. He paused over the corpses that Max's men had made and was satisfied when he discovered that they were bodyguards and mistresses, no one notable. He nodded his approval to his goon. Max's composure broke and he beamed wide as a school boy as soon as Schmidt turned his back.
“Where are we heading?” Banjo asked.
Corbeau turned back toward the helm, saying:
“Chuckles didn't tell me, just east. Got any direction for us, Hank?”
“Keep driving, quit yapping,” the goon grunted.
“Holy hell, he does talk,” Banjo chuckled. Henry's face flushed red.
“Okay, friend, where are Hanks made these days?” Corbeau asked him.
“What?” Henry snapped.
Corbeau mimed a stretch to peek down at the gambling floor. Schmidt wasn't down there any more, which meant he might be returning to the bridge. Corbeau had until the Smiling Man was back to get any whatever information he could from Henry.
“I mean, where you from, son? Look at them shoulders, Banjo, Hank looks positively cornfed.”
“That is not my name,” Henry growled. His jaw muscles were flexing inside his chiseled face.
“I figure it wasn't. But let me guess where they make boys like you... Munich, Berlin? Frankfurt?” Corbeau prodded. “Help me out here, I'm running out of kraut towns.”
“Vienna,” Banjo said.
“That is not...” Henry objected, but Corbreau kept talking.
“This turkey looks like one of them Hamburg boys.”
“You know, I can see that. You a Hamburger, Hank?”
“You should quit yapping,” Henry said. He hefted his shotgun and settled his finger on its trigger guard.
“You going to blast us, Hank?” Banjo asked.
“Not you, Mister Schmidt needs you to drive,” Henry replied. He leveled his shotgun, settling its barrel on Corbeau. The captain raised his hands, telling Banjo:
“Looks like you're the star of the show.”
“Well, he can only blast you once, then he'd have to find something else to threaten me with,” Banjo said.
“Fair enough,” Corbeau replied.
“I could shoot off your feet,” Henry said. “Then your hands. I figure I can keep you alive for three or four threatenings.”
“Another good point,” Corbeau said.
“You've really thought this one through, Hank,” Banjo added. He looked at something on the console and scowled. “Okay boys, back to business. That there don't look right.”
He leaned forward, squinting to read one of the dials in front of him. Its needle was bouncing like a kangaroo. Not even the tried-and-true method of tapping the glass with his finger stabilized it. He picked up the ship telephone. It only took a moment to get through to the engine room.
“Jeff, I need y'all to divert a little to the third inlet valve. My gauge is dancing up here, and the rudder feels squishy.” He listened to Jefferson Crépuscule's response, then said: “Thanks, bo.”
He hung up the phone and stood stock still, watching the pressure gauge and its wavering needle. After a moment its twitching slowed, then stopped.
“This old girl runs like an Olympian,” he declared.
“She got enough in her to get us to Russia?” Corbeau asked. Both Banjo and Henry looked at him funny. Corbeau shrugged, saying: “Sounds to me like your boss is a regular pinko, figured we might be going to see Uncle Joe.”
“Cram it, spook,” Henry grunted.
“Hey, turns out he ain't just a lunk. He's a piece of trash, too,” Banjo chuckled.
“Hey, you remind me of a guy we used to do jobs with,” Corbeau said before Henry could react.
“If I'm trash, figures I'd remind you of everyone you used to do jobs with,” Henry grunted.
“No, no, that one guy, the white boy, pink as a piglet,” Corbeau said. He leaned back and studied Henry. The goon squirmed uncomfortably under his gaze.
“Yeah, I remember that guy. Harry, right?” Banjo said.
“No, something like that though,” Corbeau said. Banjo leaned on the console and scratched his chin.
“Shut up, the both of you. And keep goddamn sailing,” Henry said. He took a step toward the pair of pirates.
“Perry was his name,” Corbeau finally said, smacking himself in the forehead.
“I see it now, Medium-Rare Perry, you look just like him,” Banjo chuckled.
“Except for that one thing,” Corbeau pointed out.
“Yeah, except for that one thing,” Banjo conceded.
“What thing?” Henry asked, caution on the edge of his voice.
Corbeau ignored him and snarled:
“Let's make 'em twins.”
Before Henry could lift his gun, Banjo slammed one lever all the way forward, then flipped two release valves. The dial he'd been concerned about immediately jumped to blood red and a pipe burst underneath the console. A rivet shot across the bridge and punched a hole through the mirrored glass overlooking the gambling floor, missing Henry's nose by an inch. That was all the luck Henry'd banked that day. The jet of flesh-scalding steam that followed the rivet caught him full bore.
Banjo and Corbeau recoiled away, covering their eyes with their arms. Henry never had the chance. He screamed and flailed as the high-pressure steam melted his cheek and temple, sending him staggering away. He dropped his gun as one last blind stumble sent him ass over elbows. His head hit a rail, hard, and he dropped like an anchor.
Corbeau snatched up the scatter gun while Banjo closed the valves, cutting off the hissing steam. Banjo wiped the sheen of sweat from his forehead and slumped into the captain's chair.
“The dynamite, right?” Banjo asked.
“The damn dynamite,” Corbeau confirmed. They'd held up enough ships to know that if you were threatening to blow up a ship in order to get your demands met, you let the cops know you could blow it up. If they didn't know there was a bomb, that bomb had a different use entirely.
“Now what?” Banjo asked.
Corbeau pulled the pistol out of his waistband and checked its magazine while he spoke:
“Well, I figure that smiling son of a bitch will kill us about two seconds after he sees the state Hank here is in. He needs the bridge intact enough to get wherever he's going, so he won't mow us down. He's going to have to do it up close, nose-to-nose. We might could handle that. Then, on the off chance we don't die, we can figure out what that TNT was actually for.”
A shadow crossed the doorway. Banjo snatched up the gun and aimed it at the largest man he'd ever seen.
“You trying to get your people out of here alive?” the man asked. His shoulders nearly filled the doorframe. The voice coming from behind the man's black bandana rolled like thunder. His eyes were dark as hurricane clouds. His hands were scarred and gnarled, and he clutched a piece of lacquered wood in a grip that threatened to shatter it into splinters. He looked all too happy to bury it in someone's melon and Banjo couldn’t tell whether he cared that a shotgun was in his face or not.
“Who the hell do you think you are, you big bastard?” Corbeau demanded. The big man stepped over Henry's still form and shut the door behind him.
“I'm the bastard who's going to save your sorry hides,” he said.
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Copyright © 2022 Daniel Baldwin. All rights reserved.
Written and edited by Daniel Baldwin. Art by Tyrelle Smith.