The Billy Club Bastard Case Files: The Case of Friendless and the Six-Toed Cat, Part 1 of 8

Mickey Malloy ain’t perfect, but he never claimed he was. Now he finds himself in something of a pickle. He joined up with the OCUO in a real hurry, what with the price on his and Marge’s heads. But he still had unfinished P.I. business: time’s come to close up shop. Paperwork, mostly, and drinking with the old barflies who hadn’t realized he’d left. So when a veritable carnival of spies comes knocking, what else could it be but the start of an incredible pain in his rear?

Crazy, Crazy, Crazy, All the Time is available as a Kindle ebook, in paperback, and as a DRM-free ebook.

The Case of Friendless and the Six-Toed Cat starts a few weeks after The Case of the Gray Man’s Grim Tidings and is the first story in the second Billy Club collection, Crazy, Crazy, Crazy, All the Time. If this is your first Billy Club case, we recommend (but don’t require) checking out the first collection, Bourbon, Bullets, Broads, and Bourbon, first.

Content Warnings: Violence, Mild Swearing, Alcohol Use

FRIDAY MORNING, JULY 26, 1942
MALLOY INVESTIGATIONS
YBOR CITY, TAMPA, FLORIDA

It was almost eleven A-M when Murphy O’Laughlin barged through the door of Malloy Investigations without knocking, startling Marge Queen so much that she spilled her tea all over the final notice invoices she'd been preparing for her boss' former clients. Her day had started with the absolute racket of atrocious Italian organ-grinding music and a dancing monkey. The trend of unpleasantness continued with uninvited company of the weirdest variety.

“What in the world?” she stammered, only for a wire-furred creature half the size of a grown bear to bowl past the unexpected Irishman and clatter across the foyer's linoleum tile. The Irish wolfhound went muzzle-first into her sopping paperwork, knocking it out of Marge's hands to slurp up the spilled tea and honey. The healthy mix of vodka in the drink didn't seem to bother the dog.

“Oy, Basil, quit it,” O'Laughlin said. Basil didn't listen, and it took all of Marge's strength to shove the lumbering dog off her papers. O'Laughlin grinned, his wide smile making his thick black mustache look even longer and crazier. The shock of unkempt black curls atop his head bounced as he surveyed the room. He looked young, but the weathered lines carved into his face and dredged deeper by his grin showed that he'd lived hard.

“Would you get this beast out of here?” she snapped.

“Bas's got a mind of his own, doesn't he?” the Irishman chuckled. He grabbed Basil by his scruff and hauled him away from Marge. The dog looked like it weighed as much as he did, but O'Laughlin dragged him away with ease. Satisfied that Basil wouldn't bother Marge anymore, he went right into his pitch: “Well, let's get to it then, is the man himself in? Me name's Murphy O'Laughlin and I have a beauty of a business proposition for him.”

“Unfortunately, we are closing the office down,” Marge said, gathering herself after the disruption. She pushed a wayward gray lock behind her ear and gathered the soaked, scattered papers off the floor. The shotgun Mick had hooked under her desk was one grab away, but she wasn't too worried about this pair of loons that had interrupted her morning cocktail. She'd run into too much strange in her years working with Mickey Malloy, so this blustering Irishman wasn't near at the top of her list. Especially taking into account Mickey's moonlighting and his new friends, Murphy O'Laughlin and Basil were nothing special. She slumped back into her chair, sighed, picked up her empty teacup, and poured just a nip in from the flask she kept in her desk. Straight to business, indeed.

“Even if Michael were accepting new clients, I wouldn't expect him here until well after noon,” she explained to the intruder, offering him nothing but severely tried patience. “Would you mind spelling your name? I'd be happy to take a message.”

“No message necessary, lass,” O'Laughlin said, careful not to mention his own name. “I have a competing offer to slide across his table for one of his active cases. If he don't think his existing clients are fattening his purse right, that is.”

“And how would he get in contact with you?” Marge asked.

“Any dick worth his britches can find an Irishman running around this town with a - ! Hey, quit it, you mangey flea-bag!” O'Laughlin had been distracted by Basil, who'd taken an amorous liking to the only good leather chair left in Mickey's office. He stalked across the foyer and snatched up Basil again. The dog yelped but listened, and ceased any further romantic advances directed at the furniture in the room. O'Laughlin shrugged, adding: “As I was saying, this a small town if ye looking for a man like me.”

“Hmm,” was all Marge had to say about that. The organ grinder outside was playing his music even louder, now. Why some monkey-trainer would busk on a near-abandoned street in a run-down industrial area at eleven-in-the-blessed-morning, Marge had no idea. All she knew was that between the glib Irishman, his foul dog, that horrible music, and her spilled drink, a real throbber of a headache had sprouted in the front of her brain. One of these things had to get resolved, if not all of them.

O'Laughlin checked his watch. Basil's ears perked, and for a moment Marge thought it might be Mick trudging up the stairs. She spied the clock behind the Irishman's head: still only eleven in the morning. The only way Mick would ever be there at eleven without an appointment was if he slept there.

“Speaking of looking for a man like me, lass, a pretty colleen like ye shouldn't have to put up with heat like this. I've been in jungle hot-boxes that were nicer than this,” O'Laughlin said.

“You should see August, then,” Marge replied. O'Laughlin's green eyes settled once again on Marge, twinkling. She just sipped her vodka, one hand inches away from the shotgun, the rest of her unimpressed. The damn organ music was piercing, now. Her headache was real, it was full grown, she'd named it Patrick, and it was here to stay.

O'Laughlin sauntered across the foyer and sat his can on the corner of her desk. When he spoke again, it was in that husky whisper that arrogant men think women find enticing. It sounded like he was trying to spit up a hairball during a play, but he committed to it:

“I'll tell ye what: how about ye and I stroll on down the block, give Mickey Malloy the old fly-by. I saw a few questionable haunts a pair of ne'er-do-wells could slip into for an afternoon.”

Then he winked.

“No, I'll tell you what, you leprechaun-looking lech,” Marge snarled, forgoing the shotgun for a good, old-fashioned umbrella that she shook in O'Laughlin's face, “Why don't you drag your rear out of here, and don't forget your randy mutt!”

Before Marge could make good on folding her umbrella over O'Laughlin's head, a crash sounded behind her, from Mickey's office. She spun around the see the closed blinds moving as someone of the other side shoved them. Marge threw the umbrella aside. Claws and boots squeaked against linoleum, and the odd pair that had so callously ruined her morning scrambled out the door before Marge could even rack a shell into her shotgun.

She slid her chair out of the way and flung open Mickey's office door. There she saw something that immediately topped her list of strangeness.

SUNDAY NIGHT, MARCH 15, 1942
CROWN PHARMACEUTICALS
THE BRONX, NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK

Carlo Sparacello crept between the rows of cages, staying as low and quiet as he could get. He knew security at this place was light on the weekend, but he'd also seen what those same guards had done to that hobo a few weeks back. Folks didn't wear the Pinkerton Review Services lantern and eye just to hang around. They wore it because they liked to beat the piss out of people with impunity. Carlo hoped this haul would be worth risking his tail.

So far, the only expensive stuff he'd found in this lab had been bolted to the floor. Some of the chemicals looked interesting, but he didn't speak enough Latin to price them. There were all kinds of tools and appliances, but he didn't know what they did. He'd found about forty bucks in petty cash in the secretary's desk and a sealed bottle of twenty-two-year single malt locked up in the fanciest office, but it was heavier in his pocket than it was probably worth. A couple egg heads had left their watches laying around, but that was it. The place was a bust.

He'd wandered by Crown a thousand times before he'd decided to take his little unguided tour. It was just a big lump of a building with nothing alluring on the outside. It was a fixture in the neighborhood, and nobody thought much about it any more. For Carlo, it was just the block that separated Shoddy's Tavern from the corner store that made his favorite hero. It may as well have been an empty lot. That short walk was where he did all his thinking. He'd get a few beers in him, work up an appetite, and start wandering, coming up with his next last job as he strolled.

Sometime a couple weeks back, he'd stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and actually noticed Crown.

“You ever been in there?” he'd asked Matty Amadori around a mouthful of beef and bread.

“There?” Matty'd asked around his own big bite. He leaned back and looked up and down the building's featureless face. “Why in the hell would I want to go in there? It probably stinks like sterco in there.”

“I bet they got money in there is all,” Carlo'd muttered. Every time he'd walked past this place recently, he felt like he could hear the jingle of falling coins. It could be a goldmine. They don't pay leg breakers to guard nothing, do they? And all those 'no trespassing' signs, and the government seals, and the fancy shoes the fancy folks who worked there wore? Come on.

Carlo's best attempt to list these points consisted of a loud, wet belch.

The pair were about nine beers deep between them at the time, and they stood there swaying and studying the facility. After a minute, Matty'd spoke up:

“Well, I got to get back to work.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Carlo'd muttered.

“Look at them signs, too. Federal shit. You's get caught in there, they ship you off like you's any other wop.”

“I hear you, Matty.”

Carlo had heard him. He didn't want to get packed away like the feds had done to all those other old boys from the old country. Though getting scooped up might solve his whole rent issue.

Still, a fella had to eat. The watches and petty cash and liquor would get him through the week, but he needed something big. He didn't want to have to risk his neck like this again for good long while.

Something dinged ahead of him, and he ducked low. He'd snuck in on the third floor, which meant that he hadn't gotten to see what was behind him, or below him. There were guards and night-owls roaming the whole place.

“Shit,” he whispered as he slid under a desk.

It had been an easy matter shimmying up a drain pipe and forcing a window. That was an old trick. Most places didn't put good locks on the higher floor windows. Crown Pharmaceuticals, the folks 'sowing our future,' weren't any smarter than the rest. Their window'd popped open so readily that Carlo would've sworn it was designed to. One jammed shim was all it took to render all those guards and signs moot.

After a moment peering out from under the desk, Carlo inched out of his hiding spot. There weren't any scientists around, no lights came on, no Pinks with their blackjacks and dogs.

The ding sounded again, but he didn't duck so far away this time. It was a gentle, curious, alluring sound. Carlo followed it slowly, his eyes dancing from side-to-side like he was watching a tennis match rather than looking out for the fuzz.

He picked his way between desks and lab table in the darkness. He was careful to tuck his elbows in close; the glassware all around him was just itching to come crashing down.

The sound started again, a quiet tapping of metal on metal. It was rhythmic, but not mechanical. Something alive was doing this. Carlo crept forward. He snatched a ruler off a desk as he passed. If there was someone here messing with him, they'd catch a hell of a smack across the mouth before he high-tailed it.

Carlo followed the sound to a door at the end of the hallway. He looked up at the little placard mounted on it.

“'Active Subjects?'” he wondered. “What the hell is that?”

The door was locked, but silly things like that wouldn't stop him. A wiggle and a twist and a shoulder were all it took.

The room was dark as a cave. He was in the middle of the building, so there weren't any windows to let outside light creep in. He felt around the wall for a switch, but encountered cold metal bars instead. He jerked his hand back in surprise, then reached out again. One whole wall was just cages.

“Like a damn sewer in here,” Carlo muttered. He squinted around, his eyes starved for light. The dinging had stopped. He couldn't see shit, couldn't hear a sound beyond the slam of his own heartbeat. The room stank like old turds. As far as he could tell, he was alone. He felt his way forward by running his hand along the cages.

“Got to be something worth my time in here,” Carlo whispered, though he didn't have any evidence to support this.

While he was fumbling around, a tiny hand reached out of the closest cage and grabbed his finger. Carlo nearly jumped out of his shoes.

“Ah!” he shrieked. He stumbled backward and banged into a table stacked with loose cages, scattering them across the floor. The racket was astounding in the small room.

“Who's there?” someone shouted from down the hall.

“Crap, crap, crap,” Carlo wheezed. He tried to bolt, but stuck his foot in a cage and tripped. A flashlight beam lit the room, blinding him where he lay sprawled.

“Stay still, god damn it!” the man with the flashlight yelled. Carlo could only see the glare and a nightstick. He raised his hands gingerly.

“I think I took a wrong turn,” Carlo offered.

“Get up, now!” the man barked. He circled around Carlo as best he could in the narrow room, setting himself up with his back flat against the wall of cages. “Slowly! Show me your - !”

A deafening screech cut him off, and the guard shrieked in pain. He dropped his flashlight and swung his nightstick wildly, smashing it against the cages. The screeching continued, and the man tripped and fell, hitting the ground hard. He and the screeching went silent together. His flashlight rolled to a halt by Carlo's shoe.

“Oh, crap,” Carlo whispered. His hand was shaking so violently that he could barely lift the light. When he did, he slowly drew its wobbling beam across the room. The Pinkerton was out could. He had a goose egg hatching on the back of his head from where he'd hit the ground. His gray uniform was stained red all the way down his chest. A chunk had been taken out of his right ear.

“Jesus,” Carlo muttered, crossing himself. He brought the beam up and around the cages. A pair of yellow eyes caught the light. Carlo dropped the flashlight and scrabbled backward like a crab. “Jesus!”

The dinging sound started up again, and no screeching. It was beckoning and cheerful. Carlo snatched the flashlight back up and raised it to fully illuminate the wall of cages.

In the second cage from the top he found a small monkey, no bigger than a thin cat, sitting cross-legged and playing with a nickel. It was looking at him as it flipped the coin between its two tiny hands. Carlo moved the beam around a bit. Every other cage was empty.

“You alone in here, buddy?” he asked. The little monkey grinned, showing off blood-stained teeth. “Whoah, okay.”

Carlo pushed himself to his feet and stepped over the groaning guard. This guy was going to get up soon and either beat his head in or get some friends so they all could get a turn. That is, if they hadn't heard all the commotion already. He went for the door, but the dinging started again.

The flashlight showed the little guy tapping the lock on its door with the nickel. Carlo stepped a little closer. The monkey was thin with dark brown on his body, golden hair around his neck and shoulders, and a white face. His swishing tail was as long as his whole body. But it was his head that caught Carlo's attention. It was shaved bald on top, with Frankenstein stitches holding his carved-up scalp together.

“What the hell?” Carlo stammered. This place was carving up monkeys? This was their future?

The monkey broke his shock by tapping his nickel again, right on the lock. He knew that's what was holding him in. Carlo patted down his pockets. He'd lost his shim somewhere.

“Can't do it, pal,” Carlo shrugged. The monkey frowned, then pointed over Carlo's shoulder. He turned around to find a little key board mounted to the wall like it was tiny hotel or something. The monkey dinged again, and Carlo turned to find him with his arm through the bars up to the elbow, tapping on his cage number with the nickel.

“Ten, got it,” Carlo said. He pulled the corresponding key and went to unlock the door. “Wait, you're not going to bite me too, are you?”

The little monkey shook his head.

Carlo stroke his mustache for a moment, then decided that the primate looked trustworthy. He unlocked the cage and stepped back. The monkey gently pushed the door open, then leapt onto Carlo's shoulder.

“Hey!” Carlo shouted. He made as if to swat the thing off of him, then realized it wasn't trying to choke him out. The little monkey was hugging his neck, nuzzling its bald head into his cheek. He reached up and stroked its knobby back like a kitten. “Okay, buddy, it's okay. What's your name?”

The cage the monkey'd been in had a short label pasted above, which Carlo read aloud:

“'Subject ten, dosage max.' Whatever that means. Max though? Not in this neighborhood, pal. We're giving you a proper Italian name.”

The little monkey grinned, then patted his fuzzy tummy.

“You hungry?” Carlo asked. The monkey nodded.

The guard groaned again, squirming on the floor, almost making words.

“Well I could use a beer, or something harder, and it's time to get a move on,” Carlo said. He stepped high over the KO'd Pinkerton. The monkey wrapped his tail around Carlo's neck like a scarf and held on for the ride. Carlo reached up and scratched his little back, saying: “I'm sure Shoddy's'll have something for you, too.”

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Copyright © 2023 Daniel Baldwin. All rights reserved.

Written and edited by Daniel Baldwin. Story by Bonnie Baldwin. Art by Bruce Conners.