The Billy Club Bastard Case Files: The Case of the Candy-Coated Dynamite, Part 5 of 6
The Billy Club Bastard Case Files: The Case of the Candy-Coated Dynamite, Part 5 of 6
Mickey Malloy has a habit of getting into messes and not knowing how to get himself out. First, we take a look back on how he became the man he is today, then we return to the Empress, where the Nazis’ plan is finally uncovered.
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 5 of The Case of the Candy-Coated Dynamite. If you’re just starting out, check out Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, and Part 4 before reading any further.
Content Warnings: Violence, Gun Violence, Death, Threats Against Children, Mild Swearing, Drug Use, Nazis
FRIDAY NIGHT, APRIL 1, 1938
NORTH FONTENADA AVENUE
SEMINOLE HEIGHTS, TAMPA, FLORIDA
“Eighty clams is more than I made in a week on the job,” Mickey whispered.
“It was all the boys could pool together this quick,” Bob said. Mick's former captain's hands were shaking as he tried to count out the bills. It wasn't from fear, Bob Cross had no compunctions about knocking a knuckle-dragger around. No, it was from age. Mickey was feeling every one of his hard earned years. He was old. That meant Bob was ancient.
“How 'bout you just hold onto that cash for me?” Mick suggested. Bob nodded and slid it back into his pocket. “You shouldn't even be out here, old man. This is the crap end of town and you got a fistful of cabbage there. Some rabbit's going to come sniffing after that salad.”
“Shut your trap,” Cross grunted. He lifted his shirt to show off a pair of Colt Automatics tucked into his waistband. “I been out on these streets my whole life. I can handle a few bunnies. Thumper isn't going to roll me.”
“Sure, sure,” Mick conceded. Even before Mick got canned from the department, Bob Cross had been sweeping up gangs and muggers and dope pushers with the best of them. Mick felt a pang of regret there. There were cops and there were good cops. Sometimes they were few and far between. Bob had been one of the rare good ones, one that the bunch had never spoiled. Mick, well he'd been about at worm-ridden and mushy as they come.
“Besides, who's going to pull your can out of the fire if this thing takes a hard left?” Bob asked.
He was used to bailing out Mickey Malloy. After the thing with the Lohmann kid, it had been Bob who'd taken the fall. Sure, Mick got drummed out of the force, but he should've gone to jail. Instead, he was out on the street and Bob Cross, the upstanding captain who'd let a rich family's rapist scion get crippled on his watch, he got retired. His gig as the union president was something of a consolation prize. But Bob had never been one for salary negotiations and fundraising and whatever other droll bullshit a union president does. He solved crimes, he put away bad guys, he helped people and made a difference in his city. Mick, the surly son of a bitch who lost his temper one too many times, had taken that away from him.
Mick pushed those thoughts aside, there wasn't time to get misty. He stood up straighter, towering over old Bob. The layered canvas and stuffing he'd jammed under his shirt made him look even bigger than he normally was. He'd bought a pair of second-hand steel worker's boots, he kind with the metal shell around the toe. He was getting too far on in years to take too many more concussions, so he'd found an old leather-head football helmet at a pawn shop. The lead-weighted sap gloves he wore, well those were from the good old days. For a good few years, those gloves had become very familiar to every punk trying to run funny business on Mickey's beat.
In this get-up, even in the deep shadows of the alley, Mickey Malloy looked like a monster.
“You look like a damn monster,” Bob chuckled, but Mick was all business. He needed to know where the dirt was if he was going to sweep it up.
“Tell me again about this guy,” Mick said.
“You read his sheet,” Bob told him.
“I know, but that's just ink. I want to earn that money.”
Bob didn't have to ask what that meant. He rifled through his pockets and extracted a mug shot photo and showed it to Mick for the fourth time.
“Last year, June, Jim McDougall from the eleventh precinct pulled over this character, Sydney Papadillo, for a busted headlight. When he got to the window, he could smell booze on Papadillo's breath. When Jim tried to arrest him, he fought back. Gave Jim a nasty shiner. He got worse than he gave though, let's say that. He was booked for driving under the influence. He paid a fine, lost his license, and spent a week in the clink. Everything else that happened after that, that's on him.”
Mick nodded. If a goon gave a cop a black eye and that cop did him dirty enough that he thought they were even without an additional assaulting an officer charge, that goon had gotten it bad.
“Last week, Jim gets jumped on his beat. He doesn't see the guy, but he gets knocked senseless and winds up nearly drowning when the assailant pins him and pours a gallon of rum down his throat. They had to pump his stomach at Saint Bart's.”
“Damn.”
“When his wife jumps in the car to come downtown and see him, a man, stinking of booze, comes out of nowhere and bashes in all her car windows while she was sitting in it. Her and the kids get glass cuts everywhere. Her car still runs, so she floors it to Saint Bart's. Now she's about as stitched up as the Bride of Frankenstein right now, but she'll be fine. The kids took a nick or two, but nothing serious. Their house is another story. Soon as she peeled out, the whole place goes up in flames. Insurance'll cover most and the union's got the rest, but they lost everything.”
Mick tried his best to control his breathing. It's one thing to be pissed at a cop. Family's got nothing to do with it.
“Of course they pulled in Papadillo immediately. When they interview him, they get the whole story. Losing his license lost him his car. The limp Jim left him with meant he couldn't walk to work, and he lost his job. Losing his job lost him his house. Losing his house lost him his wife and kids. He didn't see fit to mention where being a violent drunk and an asshole in general fit into the picture. Regardless, he blames Jim for all of it.”
“So why's he in there?” Mick said, nodding the broke-down flophouse catty-corner to the alleyway.
“Because his alibi is airtight and his cousin is a hotshot lawyer married to a hotshot reporter. There's too many eyes on this, so the D.A. won't charge him unless it's a sure thing, and his alibi's so good that the detectives are second-guessing. He's got receipts, time cards, and witnesses. But Jim is sure. He says he recognized Papadillo's voice. He told me told him the guy was yelling 'this'll teach you' when he was dumped the rum on him.”
“Why's that important?”
“It sounds like that what Jim told Papadillo when he took his nightstick to his knee.”
“Damn,” Mick grunted.
“Even so, with the alibis and the lawyer and the press, cops can't touch him. We know he did it, but he is off limits to the department. If any officer got recognized hassling Papadillo, they'd all be in shit up to their arm pits. Jail's not going to happen, and neither is any other kind of justice they could get.”
“So you need someone else to get it.”
“That's right,” Bob said.
“I didn't bring a heater.”
“Jesus, Mick,” Bob said.
“Not to kill him, but if things get hairy,” Mick snapped.
“Just put the fear of God, and the Tampa Police Department, in him, then go,” Bob advised. He looked at Mick, at his tired eyes and unique scars. “You going to cover that mug?”
“Probably should.” Mick patted down his pockets but came up empty.
“Here.” Bob handed him a folded black handkerchief. Mick tied it over his nose and mouth like some kind of Wild West outlaw. He felt something come over him. Apprehension washed away. Masked, he was focused. His money, his business, his sore back and wrecked hands, taking care of Marge, all of that was pushed to the wayside. Masked, he had a mission. Masked, he was already beyond the pale.
“Ten minutes,” he told Bob. His voice no longer sounded like his own.
“Ten minutes, then I'll bring the cavalry,” Bob replied.
Masked, Mickey melted into shadow. He crossed the street between flickers of the failing street lamp. His boots didn't so much as skid on gravel, and the boards of the flophouse's front door did not squeak beneath them. Its door was locked, but he simply wrapped one hand around it and turned so hard that the lock snapped inside. The knob came free in his hand and the way was clear. He pocketed it and entered the house.
There was human detritus everywhere. One small bulb lit the large front room, illuminating soiled clothes and dirty dishes in every corner. It was a sitting room that extended into the kitchen, with three dark doorways that yawned into it from the back. Piled trash prevented any of them from closing all the way. Cockroaches crawled over everything, trained by apathy into arrogance. Rat shit speckled the table and counter.
Masked, Mickey ignored it all. He couldn't smell the rotting oranges that had melted and sunken in on themselves, the ashtrays packed with stubbed-out butts, the clogged sink full of brown water and floating masses. There was one cushioned chair in the middle of the room with a large burn in the middle, but no Sid Papadillo.
Mick crossed to the next room. It was dark as well, a befouled bathroom that looked like it would do more harm than good. He could hear things moving in there. The smell drove Mickey off, even masked.
Sid was in the master bedroom. His radio was tuned to static and the lamp in the corner had no shade, just a dusty yellow bulb. The wallpaper had gotten to peeling, and it hung from the walls like the house was being flayed from the inside-out. Sid sat upright on the floor, shirtless, propped up against the foot of his bed. His chin was on his chest, and drool oozed out of his mouth, mingling with sweat in his chest hair. A little candle, almost sputtered out, flickered up at Mick from the floor between Sid's legs. The spoon and needle were where Sid had dropped them. His baggie was within reach.
“God damn, Sid,” Mick muttered. The words could have been shock or condemnation, not even Mick was sure.
Sid did not react to the man in black looming over him. He was thin and limp, mottled with black, green, and yellow bruises. His arm still had the belt around it. He stank of piss, sweat, and vinegar.
Masked, Mick hadn't realized that his hands were twisted into fists. He let them loose and felt an immense pressure leave his body. There wasn't any point in beating this man: he was already in hell. Mick squatted and stared at Sid. He was lost in there. What he did to Jim and his wife, that was the last ounce of anything he had in him.
Still, you couldn't just try to kill a cop and get away with it. Mick pinched out the candle then picked up Sid's baggie and left him where he lay. When he woke up from his stupor, he'd be hurting like hell without his next fix. That would be more punishment than Mick could dish out with his fists.
Mick walked to kitchen and dumped the white powder into the chunky, milky liquid that lived in the sink. He gave it one stir with a wooden spoon then turned to leave when he noticed three men standing in the open front door.
“The hell are you?” the first man squawked. The trio as sallow as Sid. He reached behind a pile of broken record players and hefted a crow bar. The other two slinked around him. One produced a box cutter, the other found a bourbon bottle. “You one of them Cubans? I told you, we're getting the money. Gene's on it.”
Masked, Mick didn't have to say anything. These were the kind of scum that talked themselves into trouble. They stirred their own pots.
“The hell do you want, man?” one of the other men yelped. They were all unshaven and sweat-stained, shaking as they stood.
“I'm getting the cash from my daughter,” the one with the bottle stammered. Gene. “She's working on it, couple more good tricks and we got it.”
Behind the mask, Mickey seethed. These guys were worse than fiends, worse than bottom-feeders. They were leeches. Lampreys. Ticks.
“We're getting the money, I said,” crowbar snapped. His voice wavered and the heavy tool shook in his hand.
“Yeah, she's good for it,” Gene added.
“Tell her to keep it for herself.” Masked, Mickey's voice shook the rotten house like an earthquake.
The men cowered away, but the one with the crowbar had enough lights on upstairs to put two and two together.
“You ain't no Cuban,” he hissed.
“You trying to flip us?” box cutter said. The glaze over his eyes was clearing up. Now that they knew their supply wasn't in jeopardy, they were growing some backbones.
“Hey! I'm talking to you!” crowbar shouted.
“You don't leave right now, we'll make you,” Gene said.
“Trying to get a breathing hole in the back of your head, buddy?” box cutter chirped.
Mick squared up to them. Masked, he felt like a titan, a knight, a legend. He could swat hurricanes out of the sky and tear trees out of the ground. He absorbed all of the air and light in the room until the three dope fiends before him could only see him, until they shrank and gasped and squirmed at his feet.
The one with the crowbar managed to squeak first:
“Time to go.”
Mick grabbed the door knob out of his pocket. He reeled back and chucked it like a fastball. It collided with the crowbar carrier's head, bloodily bypassing his scalp and dinging straight off his skull. He crumpled to the floor and the crowbar clanged down next to him. Before the Gene could react, Mick was halfway across the room. He scooped up the burnt chair with one hand and smashed it across him. The bottle and chair shattered together and the skeletal little man flew across the room and smashed through the moldy sheet rock. Gene slid down into the little space inside the wall and went still.
The one with the box cutter had a little more gumption.
“You bastard!” he squealed. He rushed in before Mickey was done with the chair. He still held its dismembered leg in his hand. The man slashed with his little blade, dragging it across Mick's gut in a way that seemed practiced. With any other man, his stomach would've open wide and puked a steaming pile of eely intestines and one bloated, abused liver onto his boots. Instead, Mick stayed standing. The dope fiend's eyes went wide and he tripped over his own feet scrambling away. He held up the box cutter to keep Mick back while he attempted to skitter out of the house like a three-legged crab. It didn't work.
“If any of you ever go near that man's daughter again, I will be back, you hear me?”
The man stammered but did not manage a single coherent word. The box cutter shook in his outstretched hand.
Mick sighed through the mask. It sounded like a primeval snort, of a predator from the distant edge of human instinct preparing pounce.
“I said, never speak to Gene's daughter ever again. You or him. You tell him. Or. I. Come. Back.”
Mick swatted the fiend's hand with the chair leg. He felt some of the smaller bones snap with the impact. The blade flipped across the room and stuck straight into the wall, wobbling. The fiend rolled into a ball, clutching his pulped hand against his chest and yelping. Mick stood over him and shoved him onto his back with his boot so he could look down into his face.
“You hear me?” he rumbled.
“I won't, not her, not ever,” the man gasped, rocking back and forth.
“Then you won't ever have to worry about me again,” Mick grunted. He stepped over the crying fiend and walked away, melting into the night.
Bob was waiting for him in the alley, a Colt 1911 in each hand.
“That the cavalry?” Mick asked. He pulled the bandana down and was immediately assaulted with a cacophony of stink. His back felt like it was twisted in a knot and he could feel his heartbeat like a speed bag in his knees.
“Couple of gray horses,” Bob said. He holstered the Colts and looked Mick over. He saw the slash in his shirt and the stuffing hanging out. “Papadillo try to stick you?”
“One of his friends,” Mick grunted. His fingers were starting to swell, and the gloves felt like sausage casings. “Let's shake. Tell Jim that Sid's going to remember what this feels like for a long, long time. Meantime, help me look up somebody. Daughter of a dope fiend by the name of Gene.”
SATURDAY NIGHT, FEBRUARY 21, 1942
THE ELYSIAN EMPRESS RIVERBOAT CASINO
LAKE PONTCHARTRAIN, NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
“They are going to be back soon,” Corbeau was saying. “What's this lug going to do for us?”
“He's big. We can duck behind him when the shooting starts,” Roberts suggested.
The Bastard glared down at the pair of smart-mouthed pirates. He didn't have time for their nonsense.
“Do you know who you're working for?” he grunted.
“A real son of a bitch,” Corbeau replied.
“You have no idea,” the Bastard replied. “You are doing the dirty work for God-damn goose-stepping Nazis.”
Both men lost their swagger in that instant.
“I just thought they were assholes,” Corbeau whispered.
“Biggest you ever seen,” the Bastard agreed. “They're coming up here now. None of them have seen me. I hide, you let them in on your little pressure valve accident. Stall.”
“Stall? That's your plan?” Roberts snapped.
“There are people who handle this on the way. We are not prepared to deal with this kind of heat. So we stall,” the Bastard told him. His voice brokered no questions. Or it should have.
“You know they're going to blow this boat up, right? They ain't fixing to return any hostages, they're taking their money and high-tailing it,” Corbeau said.
“They ain't doing that either,” the Bastard said. “They got that TNT you stole rigged to blow on impact.”
“Impact?” Roberts asked.
“Yeah, impact. What's he got you sailing toward?”
“East, all that's over there is more lake,” Roberts said.
“Used to be,” Corbeau said. “Now the Industrial Canal is up and running. You run a ton of dynamite into one of those levees...”
“You wash half of New Orleans into the Gulf,” the Bastard concluded.
“Call Jeff, get him to - !” Corbeau started, but the Bastard cut him off.
“Those your people in the engine room? They'll have guards on 'em. Doing something drastic will get your people shot.”
“So what do we do?” Roberts demanded.
“Exactly what I said. You stall. You get ahead of this...” the Bastard pointed at Henry and his bent-in head, “And slow this tub down. Technical problems. Old pipes, I don't know.”
“Do it,” Corbeau said. Roberts pulled back on the throttle, slowing the ship to quarter-speed.
“Now what?” Roberts asked.
“I assume that if one of the guests hasn't found a loose rivet in their cocktail yet, those Aryan goons down will be coming knocking because of the slowdown. Have a good excuse for their boss, and at least pretend that you're concerned about this gorilla.”
“I'm on it. Go keep your head down,” Corbeau said. He pulled his bar towel out of his pocket and began sopping the blood off Henry's face. He'd gone down hard; the crick in his neck and the dent in his dome were sickening. He wouldn't be getting back up.
The Bastard slipped past the pair and opened a small door off to the side of the helm. It was stuffed to the brim with rain jackets and life preservers. He kicked them in deeper in then stepped inside.
“Remember: stall. You got a Nazi infestation. There are exterminators incoming. Just stall. If they don't go for it, I'll think of something.”
With that, he shut door behind him.
The closet was stuffy and claustrophobic, and all his clothes were suffocating. The Bastard clawed at his face, dragging his bandana down.
Mick sucked in a quick breath. There was a small sliver of light that snuck in between the door's warped frame and its hinges. He could see the two pirates conspiring through it.
“You're going to trust some gigantic cracker running around with a mask right now?” Roberts hissed.
“I trust that loon further than I trust the grinning ghoul with his errand boys, one of whom we just killed,” Corbeau whispered.
“We got Hank's gun,” Roberts pointed out. He hefted the military-grade shotgun and waved it around.
“We start blasting, who knows what could happen. Most of us wouldn't leave this boat, that's for sure.”
“Could just jump overboard and leave 'em,” Roberts said. That shut Corbeau up tight as a snare drum.
“I was half blind,” Corbeau said a minute later. “Bleeding out of my throat. The side of the river I washed up on, they had dogs after me. I couldn't catch a breath if I wanted to, not for weeks.”
“You don't have a thing to explain,” Roberts snapped.
“I couldn't do a thing but survive for a long time, brother,” Corbeau said. He sighed and leaned with his back against the wall. The bar rag he'd been holding against Henry's head was soaked in scarlet. The trickle of blood had stopped. “Still all I can do. Can't break even, I just keep digging my hole deeper.”
“Yeah, you do.”
The door to the bridge creaked open.
“Gentlemen,” Eizhürst purred. Mick's blood pressure shot through the roof. Every joint in his body throbbed at once. “What happened to poor Henry?”
“Pipe burst,” Roberts said.
“We cut the pressure as quick as we could, but he'd already taken a header,” Corbeau explained.
“She is an old ship, atrophied with disuse,” Eizhürst said. “This is understandable. It makes sense that you would ease back. We don't want to push her too far, too fast.”
“Exactly,” Corbeau said, mimicking Eizhürst's nod.
“Unfortunately, these are not ordinary circumstances,” Eizhürst said. “Is Henry dead?”
Corbeau tossed the blood-soaked rag aside and wiped his hands on his apron, saying:
“Steam got him good, and he went down hard. I tried, but...”
“And I trust you have secured his firearm?”
“Yes, but...” Roberts started.
“Give it to me.”
The silence was palpable. After a few seconds that dragged like sandpaper, Roberts handed Eizhürst the shotgun. The smiling man spoke while he worked its action, ejecting each shell one by one and pocketing them:
“A shame, but inevitable in this line of work. One must be prepared for anything. Even the random over-pressurization of a steam pipe. Is this event likely to occur again?”
“If we push her, maybe,” Roberts said. He shrugged.
“We are going to push her, Mister Roberts. I trust that you'll mitigate these kinds of... accidents. And the friendly people in Harmony, Mississippi trust that you will, too.”
Eizhürst's smile looked ten more kinds of evil than it usually did. He stood the empty long gun in the corner of the room, not a foot from Mickey's closet door.
“Wait, Harmony? That's where you been holed up?” Corbeau interjected.
“Matter of fact, I have,” Roberts answered.
“That's where that waitress - !”
“Indeed it is, indeed it is.”
“You've been shacked up with - !”
“Indeed I have, indeed I have.”
“Well, well, well, Mister Banjo Tony Roberts. A kept man. I didn't think I'd ever see the day.”
“I got got, what can I say?”
“So while I've been waist deep crawdad mud, you've been waist deep in - !”
“Watch it there, skip.”
Eizhürst about popped. He stepped in between them, a gleaming skinning knife appearing in his hand from nowhere.
“If this ship is not moving at full speed immediately, I will begin cutting off Mister Corbeau's limbs until it is.”
“You know, you sound exactly like that guy,” Roberts said, nodding at Henry's corpse.
“Throttle, Mister Roberts.”
“Sure thing, boss,” Roberts said. “We got to take her easy, though. She's been neglected for a long time. Like I said, after that I can't be sure about any of these pipes.”
“It would take more than burning my face off to stop me, Mister Roberts. Just as I trust you to get this vessel moving, you can trust that about me.”
Roberts eased the throttle forward. He adjusted a couple dials here and there. The deck began groaning and shaking. They may as well have been inside a pipe organ during an earthquake.
“She doesn't like it, but we'll get back up to speed,” Roberts shouted over the ruckus.
“Continue south east. The police will keep our lane clear,” Eizhürst yelled. The edges of his fake skin were peeling away from his face as he spoke. He'd been in the wild too long.
“We're going to run out of lake real quick,” Corbeau advised.
“Aim for the red lights,” Eizhürst yelled.
Mickey did what he could keep from swearing.
“The canal?” Roberts shouted back. The Empress was howling. Whatever adjustments Roberts had done to slow her down were tearing her apart.
“We'll scrape the police off our sides,” Eizhürst replied. He was all but confirming their suspicions.
Mick could hear a sharp crackle over the roaring engine. Eizhürst's men had opened fire on something. He hoped it was the police boats: distance and wariness would give them a chance. Otherwise, they'd be shooting up the clustered, drunken guests and he'd emerge from his hidey-hole to find a massacre on on the gambling floor. What a damn thing to hope.
Eizhürst left Roberts' side and went to look out the port-side window. He'd heard the shots, too.
“Stay on course,” he ordered. “I will return in two minutes. He stepped over Henry's cold body and left the bridge.
Mick surged out of the closet as soon as the Nazi was clear.
“Shut this rig down,” he said.
“Can't do it,” Roberts replied. “If I did anything big enough to break the engine, I'd cook my guys down below. Warning 'em would get them shot, doing anything big will get 'em roasted.”
“Crap,” Mick grunted.
“What?” Corbeau shouted.
“Turn her around!” Mick shouted back.
“Going off course is going to get me shot,” Corbeau replied.
“Not if it ain't your fault,” Mick said.
“I can jam the rudder,” Roberts suggested.
“Do it,” Corbeau replied.
Roberts spun the wheel hard to the left then pulled two knobs and twisted a couple dials. A high-pressure keening rose above the engine noise then popped with a reverberation that shook the whole ship. The Empress lurched hard to the left. The chandeliers swung wildly over the gambling floor, drinks spilled into the carpet, hostages screamed, and the trails of Henry's blood inches across the deck took a ninety-degree turn.
“He'll be coming,” Roberts said.
“I know you're packing,” Mick told Corbeau. “When that Nazi twist comes back up here, take him hostage. His men won't hear a thing. That's how we stall.”
“What are you going to do?” Roberts demanded.
“Fix it when you boys mess that up,” Mick replied. He ducked back into the closet. When Eizhürst came busting through the door to the bridge, he'd find a big surprise waiting on his flank.
“I ain't planning on missing,” Corbeau grumbled. He reached beneath his apron came up with a beat automatic so rusted that he'd be lucky if it didn't blow up in his hand.
“Did you fish it off the bottom of a lake?” Roberts asked.
“No,” Corbeau muttered.
The pair stayed quiet for a moment.
“We don't think lighting up Schmidt's going to put up a fight?” Roberts asked.
“You and me took out six state troopers at that bar in Mobile,” Corbeau pointed out.
“Eight years ago,” Roberts grunted. “And they were drunk.”
“So were we!”
Mick grated. Fighting Nazis head-to-head was not the plan. If they thought the Emerald Peacock had been bad, he was in for a lesson. Nazis wouldn't stop once Corbeau or Roberts were dead, preferably tortured then dead, they'd kill every single member of their crew, present or imprisoned, and they'd follow through on whatever threats they'd made to drag them out of their exiles.
He didn't have time to correct their misconceptions. The bridge door creaked open. It was not Eizhürst standing there, but Max. He stood silently over Henry's corpse. Mick watched his eyes bounce from the body to the pistol in Corbeau's hand and back. The Nazi goon twisted around, bringing his shotgun up as he retreated off the bridge. Corbeau started blasting.
He fired four times. Mick tucked back; he wasn't running out of cover while lead was in the air. He heard Max stumble and fall, hitting the wall as glass shattered.
Roberts' gun was stuck inside his vest, but as he tugged at it he was yelling:
“Get him again! Get him! Shit!”
Boots pounded wood. Max was alive, and gone.
“Jammed,” Corbeau was saying.
“God damn lake gun,” Roberts snapped. Mick lurched out of the closet and followed him to the door. They both looked out but Max was long gone. Splashes of red marked his trail.
“I thought you were here to fix it,” Roberts snarled.
“Wasn't trying to catch a bullet,” Mick grunted.
“I'm rusty, okay?” Corbeau yelled. He was trying to free his pistol's slide, but the beat-up piece was locked in place. It wouldn't be firing again any time soon.
“Rusty as that damn gun,” Roberts said.
“No time to argue, they know that course change is on purpose now,” Mick said. “What we got to do is - !”
A broadside erupted from the gambling floor, blasting the mirrored window in the back of the bridge inward. Buckshot and bullets lanced upward, spraying glass over all three men. The overhead light went next, then the ceiling itself. Mick fell to his belly. The fusillade continued unabated. Painted wood fell away. He could see stars through the roof. The shooting continued, but the volume of fire slacked off.
“They're coming around!” Mick shouted. He slithered across the deck and pressed himself against the wall next to the door. The Nazis were going to flank them. He snatched up a jagged wood sliver in one hand and hefted the butt stock in the other. Corbeau and Roberts were tucked up under the control console, keeping the captain's chair between them and the door.
The Nazis did not keep them waiting.
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Copyright © 2022 Daniel Baldwin. All rights reserved.
Written and edited by Daniel Baldwin. Art by Tyrelle Smith.