The Billy Club Bastard Case Files: The Case of Friendless and the Six-Toed Cat, Part 2 of 8

Mickey Malloy’s office is under attack! At least, if you ask Marge it is. Strange intruders, including but not limited to giant dogs and whiskey-chugging monkeys, have broken in and they’ve gained access to Mick’s files. How much trouble could that cause?

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

This is Part 2 of The Case of Friendless and the Six-Toed Cat. If you haven’t read Part 1 yet, check it out first.

Content Warnings: Violence, Mild Swearing, Alcohol Use, Crass Humor

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

Marge had been cleaning for two hours before Mickey came lurching in. She didn't know which groan was louder, the one from the door's unoiled hinge or the one emanating from deep in Mick's arthritic body. A waft of bourbon followed the groan, telling a tale of a long night spent poorly.

“It's about time, Michael,” Marge snapped. She dumped a dustpan full of mess into a wastebasket, then took a sip from her teacup. She looked frazzled, and Mick told her as much.

“You'd be frazzled, too, if you'd had the morning I have,” she snapped.

“My morning wasn't any cake-walk, believe me,” Mick objected. The sun was streaming in bright through those familiar blinds. He squinted and looked around. He hadn't been back to his old office since he'd thrown in with the upper-case-O Office full time. Everything was as he'd left it, save for six pounds of dust and a hell of a mess in his office. He peered through the open door. It had been a few months, but he was relatively sure that he hadn't left it in the state he was seeing it now.

“Did we have squatters?” he asked.

“Worse,” Marge replied. “Two goons, a dog, and a monkey.”

“...Walk into a bar?” Mick ventured.

“No, they broke into your files,” Marge. “And then the monkey broke into your desk.”

“You are telling me that the monkey already had my files, then it broke into my desk? Why?”

“I think you should look for yourself.”

“Marge,” Mick groaned, pinching the misaligned bridge of his nose, “You're going to have to start at the beginning.”

Marge dropped the entire dustpan into the wastebasket, slumped into her chair, and topped off her cup with the rest of her flask. Mick's belch was still thirty proof, so he didn't have much room to say anything. Once she was settled, Marge started her strange tale. As soon as she got to the part where she heard a crash from his office that sent the Irishman and his dog running and inspired her to snatch up the shotgun, he had to interject.

“I told you that thing would come in handy,” Mick said.

“Yes, thank the Billy Club Buffoon for stealing a shotgun from a criminal for me,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Bastard,” Mick corrected.

“Michael!” she gasped.

“Sorry,” he muttered. She shook her head at him, then continued:

“Once the Irish goon and the dog high-tailed it, I went in your office. And that's when I saw him.”

“Him who?”

“That horrible little organ grinder's monkey. Taking photos of your files,” she told him.

“You mean Massimo?” Mick asked.

“Who?”

“The monkey, Massimo. His owner had him doing tricks down at Pearlie's last night. That monkey'll do a backflip for a nickel, and can take a shot of rye like an Alabama grandma. You're saying Massimo was in my office?”

“If you know any other cheeky monkeys on this block, dancing around in little vests, please refrain from introducing me.”

“Okay, okay, so you say Massimo the monkey was in here taking photos of my files...”

“Don't say it like that! You think I threw documents all over your office myself? Do you think I knocked everything over? Do you think I mounted our good chair so vigorously that it fell over? Clap your trap and listen.”

Mickey did as he was told. The stink coming from his office was awful. He didn't think a little old lady could produce anything that horrible, but he wasn't about to ask, either.

“So I come in after the pair of hooligans bolt and Massimo's in there, squatting on your desk, taking pictures of the green folders with a tiny camera. The cheeky little runt screeched when he saw my shotgun and dove out the window he came in.”

Mick clamped one of his special bandannas over his nose and mouth and ventured into his wrecked office. Whatever had paid him a visit, it left an inhuman stink despite the open window. The treated hankie fabric filtered the animal odor that was hanging in the air. He tip-toed through the mess. His deer head had been ripped out of the drywall, his cabinets were open, and files, photos, and folders were strewn around the room like parade confetti.

“The little guy must have shimmied up a drain pipe,” Mickey said.

“That's what I figured. He went out the same way, too. And when I looked out the window, I saw that little critter piling into the back of a sedan, late model, Buick, seafoam, with his owner and the Irishman and the dog.”

“Good eyes,” Mick said. His desk caught his eye: one of his drawers was ajar. He flung it open and slammed his fist in the desktop, furious. “That son of a bitch!”

“What is it, the files?” Marge asked, horrified.

“Worse,” Mick grated. “Those papers are just old Office junk, out-of-date to say the least. But what he did...”

“What is it already!”

Mick grimaced as he reached under his desk. He picked up a gleaming bourbon bottle, dry on the inside and wet with monkey slobber around the mouth.

“I knew Massimo could put 'em away, but that damn dirty ape drank all my good stuff! I could rip his tail out by the roots and wind it around his scrawny neck!”

All his yelling got Mickey's hangover to throbbing, and he collapsed back into his familiar desk chair, sending a cloud of dust billowing. Its cracked leather and abused springs protested but held.

“Michael, I don't think a monkey spy broke into your office just to drink your bourbon.”

“It's pretty good bourbon,” Mickey muttered. Marge rolled her eyes and began sifting through the mess the shutterbug primate had left on the desk.

“All of the files he was snapping have the Office seal,” Marge said.

“All of 'em are old,” Mick said.

“That doesn't mean they're not important,” Marge said.

“What are you saying, call this in?”

Her eyes answered his question.

“Marge, we were three days away selling this dump. Three days, Marge!”

“Crazier things have happened in three days, Michael.”

“Three days without a monkey or a dog or an Irishman or an Italian busker, that's all I wanted,” Mick groaned. He massaged his sore, gnarled face. It was damp with the booze he was sweating out. He looked over his shoulder at the blazing Florida sun. He grumbled to himself: “Man, it's a hot one.”

“They all are,” Marge agreed. She left Mickey in his office with the empty bottle and the shuffled papers and the monkey stink and settled herself back at her desk to sip her 'tea.' She picked up the phone and started dialing, telling Mick: “I'll speak to Paul.”

“Great, Baltimore,” Mick said. He reached up with his bandanna to mop the beading sweat off his forehead and was hit full force with the lingering ape odor that had permeated his office. His brain howled thundering protestations. He leaned back in his old chair, testing its structure with his bulk. Something snapped inside, dropping him a few inches further back than he intended. He waved his arms and legs in the air like a flipped turtle for a second before he regained his balance and hauled himself forward again. From his new angle, he could see a special present that Massimo had left under his desk, the source of the lingering odor.

“I thought waking up would be my biggest headache of the day,” he muttered.

FRIDAY AFTERNOON, JULY 26, 1942
THE TAMPA THEATER
UPTOWN, TAMPA, FLORIDA

“What are we doing here?” Mick wondered aloud. The theater was closed, the projector shut down, and only the sunlight pouring through the front doors lit the huge auditorium. George Keaton was lounging in a plush seat in the front row, fanning himself with a folded newspaper.

“I'm going to catch the matinee later,” Keaton replied. “And your office does not have air conditioning.”

“I've never been in this joint,” Mick told him. He pushed the seat next to Keaton down and flopped into it. The theater was fancy, with a tall, vaulted ceiling, scroll molding, gold-painted accents, a million other expensive details no one would be able to see once the lights went down. It was also the first theater in the state with air conditioning. He preferred the drive-in: no ushers to give him grief about outside beverages. Still, he could see the appeal on not melting like a beeswax candle while taking in a feature.

“It's my first time as well,” Keaton told him. Mick knew that already. Keaton was a Boston boy, one of Hoover's hand picks who’d gotten scooped from the Bureau. He was shorter than Mick, and slighter, with a noticeable paunch that had nothing on Mickey's gut. Keaton could pass for anywhere from twenty-eight to forty-five, with thin brown hair combed back from a forehead that looked a little larger every time Mick saw him. All in all, Keaton had a face you wouldn't look twice at and a demeanor engineered to make you forget him. Still though, Keaton was wearing dark sunglasses inside a movie theater. He was an odd bird.

“So I assume you're not taking me on a date, and you don't have a raft of officials scouring my office right now, so what are you roping me in on?” Mick asked.

“Have you heard of Operation Friendless?” Keaton asked.

“Not a word.”

“Well, you would have if you had read your files. And now the Nazis have, too.”

“Hey, I am not even supposed to be in the state. I happened to have some free time to shut down the old place and send bills for the last few cases I handled. It was just a coincidence they broke in while Marge was there.”

“So those Most Secret files were stored in an unoccupied office? When was the last time you were here?”

“You know, George, it's no use pointing fingers here,” Mick replied. “We can get them back. You see, I know what that monkey's poison of choice is, and there's only so many bars in this town that cater to apes.”

“Regional Inspector Earp thought you might suggest a bar crawl. Instead, he has offered to let you make up for it with your other skill-set. Perhaps you can remedy the situation before Inspector General Klavin has to hear about it.”

Mick could only grunt. Danny Earp had given him a loose leash when he'd come back to the Office, and now Mick had wound himself around a tree. The Bureau's inspector general, Chip Klavin, would jump down his throat for this if his reputation for Red-hunting nitpickery was anywhere close to accurate. The penalty for mishandling classified documents was steep at best.

“Sounds like you got my help,” Mick grunted.

“I know,” Keaton said. “An official is already waiting for you.”

“I am not going ten feet without some explanation. You know that monkey drank all my good bourbon.”

“This is me keeping your feet out of the fire, Malloy.”

“And I appreciate that, but I'm not going on some buddy-buddy road trip with you - !”

“Oh, I'm not going,” Keaton interrupted.

“You're what?”

“You really should've read the files,” Keaton said, like that answered any questions. He sighed, then took off his sunglasses, revealing a swollen shiner under his right eye.

“You keep talking circles around me and I'll complete your set,” Mick grunted.

“You and the contact should get along, he's impatient and prefers tactile communication as well.”

“Tactile communication, I like that. Who is this joker?”

“Our contact in charge of Operation Friendless goes by Agent Papa, or Agent Oh-Eight. Don't say a word, he picked it himself. Hoover picked ‘Friendless.’ Oh-Eight has something of an issue with Bureau men. Calls them fascists, and doesn't give much deference as to whether they’re with the Bureau or not. Hoover hates this guy, and pawned him off on us.”

“You you think I can keep this bozo in line when J. Edgar couldn't?”

“No, I want you to keep him alive. The Office and the Bureau do not often cooperate, so we need it to go well. You may have Bureau representatives present, but I have assurances from the Inspector General that you will have jurisdiction there. Now, the files your burglar photographed - !” It was Mick's turn to interrupt Keaton, and he did.

“The files a monkey photographed,” he clarified.

“Yes, the monkey. Those files contained the radio frequencies Operation Friendless uses. With those, the krauts will be able to eavesdrop on them anywhere they sail.”

“Damn it, a boat, are you yanking my chain?” Mick said. He'd had enough of boats since the whole Empress thing.

“Oh-Eight's boat that is usually occupied with U-boat hunting, but has taken a detour to receive a pair of assets stolen from a Department Three vault ship. We requested that he allow us handle the exchange, but he would neither surrender his source nor his involvement. He is not prepared. The Nazis would kill everyone he knows to see these items returned.”

“Why don't you just...”

“Contact the boat? Operation Friendless operates under strict radio silence, and Oh-Eight neglects to file his charts. We can't reach him until he wants us to. We have no way to warn him that he will be overheard and ambushed the instant he uses his radio to arrange a drop-off point with us.”

“Don't we use codes?”

“Yes, we do. You had them. So the monkey has them.”

Mickey coughed, eliciting a burp that stung like old rye. He hurried to change the subject to something that wasn't his fault.

“So the organ grinder and the Irishman are krauts?”

“Hardly. Simple soldiers of fortune, out for a payday. The monkey trainer is Carlo Sparacello, a two-bit burglar until around half-a-year back. Since then, he's been responsible for a rash of ape-related thefts from New York to Saint Louis.”

“'Ape-related thefts?'” Mick wondered, chuckling.

“It's that same attitude that has allowed these crimes to go under-reported and under-investigated. At some point, Sparacello acquired this monkey, and his M.O. changed overnight. We don't know how he got it, but it’s responsible for the theft of military orders, blueprints, contact lists, and more.”

“Massimo,” Mick said.

“What's that?” Keaton wondered.

“The monkey's name is Massimo.”

“Whatever it is, it is smarter than your average primate and under contract with the Abwehr right now, stealing documents from under the noses of officials.”

“And closing down bars,” Mick added.

“You were serious? It drinks?”

“Massimo can go shot for shot with the best of 'em,” Mick said. He neglected to mention that he was the 'them' in question. He smirked through his headache and clapped Keaton on the shoulder, saying: “The monkey's no lightweight. Write that down, any little observation has the chance of breaking a case. Write that down, too. It's just good advice.”

“Well from what you're telling me, you'll need all the good advice you can get. The Irishman working with Sparacello is Murphy O'Laughlin, a dangerous mercenary who will kill for the highest bidder before immediately turning around to take the second highest's bid as well.”

“Sounds like trouble,” Mick said.

“You have no idea. He has worked for us as often as he's worked for Department Three, and always sees his contract through. If he's here, he will be racing you to Oh-Eight, doing what it takes to find him first. You must take extraordinary precautions in order to prevent him from tailing you all the way to the ship.”

“I know how to cover my tracks.”

“So you'll know that the best way to prevent your plan from being uncovered is to reveal it to no one.”

“The fewer folks that know it, the better,” Mick huffed.

“So by your logic, it would be even more effective if not even you knew it,” Keaton said, smirking.

“It would certainly be hard to let it slip then,” Mick considered.

“I agree!” Keaton said. He slipped his sunglasses back on. “If you reach under your seat, you'll find a black hood...”

It didn't take to much digging around the find the rough cloth. He pulled it out. The hood didn't have any eyeholes.

Three pairs of men appeared from behind the silver screen. Each one was a hulking bruiser in a brown suit accompanied by a smaller, paunchy man who guided him by the elbow. Each of the bruisers had a black hood over his head, each of the smaller men was balding and wearing sunglasses. Mick looked down at his own sleeve: it was his rattiest brown suit.

“Come on,” he objected.

“Missus Queen was kind enough to pack your, ahem, overnight bag. It is already in the truck. Please, get dressed for travel.”

As he spoke, the three sets of lookalikes lined up in the aisle by Mick. He shook his head, then hefted himself out of the seat. His knees popped with the sudden motion, eliciting another grunt from him. They were making theater seating lower and lower every year. He took his spot at the head of the conga line of doppelgangers and threw the hood over his head. What little sunlight that had invaded the theater was cut off completely. The rough fabric rasped against his lumpy nose.

“You know, you, me, and the boss got to have a long talk after this one,” Mick said.

“Sure thing, big guy,” Keaton said. He took his spot to Mick's right. Keaton grabbed Mick by the shoulder and led him up the aisle and out of the theater to an idling truck. Mick could hear at least three other rumbling engines. He smiled beneath the hood. Anyone trying to follow him would have choose which of the four rides was the real deal, or else end up on a wild goose chase.

“All right, hop up in there,” Keaton said. Mickey grasped around until he found the tailgate, then hefted himself up.

“Keaton,” he asked.

“What's that?” the official said, shouting over the rumbling engine.

“This is just a pick-up, right? No funny business? I am too hungover for funny business.”

“Just a pick-up,” Keaton assured him, “Easy-peasy.”

Keaton slammed the tailgate shut and smacked the bumped twice. The truck lurched forward, sending Mick stumbling into sharp, unseen corners. He took a seat among stacks of cardboard boxes and pulled off his hood. It was pitch black, hot, and boring already.

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

Copyright © 2023 Daniel Baldwin. All rights reserved.

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