The Billy Club Bastard Case Files: The Case of Friendless and the Six-Toed Cat, Part 5 of 8

Mickey and his rapidly growing gang finally join up with Friendless and see what all the fuss is about. Their R and R is quickly and very rudely interrupted with the arrival of several uninvited guests. Then, weeks earlier in the Mediterranean, a skilled thief pulls off a dangerous heist.

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

This is Part 5 of The Case of Friendless and the Six-Toed Cat. If you haven’t read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, or Part 4 yet, check them out first.

Content Warnings: Mild Swearing, Violence, Gun Violence, Animal Violence, Alcohol Use, Tobacco Use, Drug Use, Nazis

SATURDAY NIGHT, JULY 27, 1942
SLOPPY JOE'S
KEY WEST, FLORIDA

“What's your poison, Mickey?” Hemingway asked, but he slapped the hardwood bar and answered his own question before Mick could get a word in. “I'm betting you're a bourbon man. Good man! You always trust a bourbon man.”

Hemingway spun on his bar stool and called to the barkeep. The bar was large and unexpectedly vacant for a Saturday night. It had high ceilings held by sturdy but weathered posts, and a bandstand that stood unoccupied. Lazy fans swirled the thunderheads of tobacco and reefer smoke, but did little to cool the room. Old tin-tackers and buzzing neons were the only decorations in the place.

“Fernando, let's get the good bourbon down, the top shelf stuff,” Hemingway was telling the bartender. The short Hispanic man hopped up on a stool to grab an oft-ignored bottle that he rarely had to reach. “There you go, dust it off then. Perfect, leave the bottle.”

“Cash or...” Fernando asked.

“Add it to the tab,” Hemingway said.

“Your tab, of course, Papa,” Fernando said. He scribbled an addition to the bottom of a long scroll that fluttered in the weak breeze created by the lolling fans.

“You a boxer, Mickey? A pugilist?” Hemingway wondered.

“Never really appealed to me,” Mick replied.

“You have the build for it. I've been a student of the sport for years now. I've organized bouts in this very bar, in fact. Boxing really takes the measure of a man,” Hemingway mused. He waved vaguely at his assembled crew, gathered with Marge, Gator, and Cypress around a couple of big tables while they ate and drank, and said: “Kid Tunero, right over there, he's a champion in the making. Some can talk with their hands. The Kid can write sonnets.”

“Impressive,” Mick said. He looked around. Other than the bartender and the cooks, the huge bar was deserted, save for their motley gathering. “Where is everyone?”

“The locals tend to find other watering holes when Pilar is in port. They've been on the sorry end of too many skirmishes with my boys to do much other than crawl under a rock when we sail in.”

Fernando finished wiping the dust off the bottle of rye and slid it down the bar. He moved fast and worked with a smile; he was clearly used to the boisterous man's ways.

Hemingway snatched it off the bar and ripped the cork out with his teeth. He spit it into a pile of peanut shells on the floor, then poured Mick three fingers of some Kentucky brown gold.

“Let me ask you something, Ernie,” Mick said. He sniffed the bourbon; it was the good stuff.

“Everyone calls me Papa,” Hemingway said. Mick ignored that. He sure as hell wasn't calling anyone 'Papa' to their face.

“How'd you know the Legion didn't have back-up coming when you rescued us?” Mick asked. “We all would have been in a tough spot if there were krauts or reinforcements sneaking up on us from behind.”

“I'll have to introduce you to Saxon,” Hemingway replied. “Used to run the radios for the embassy in Havana, and was in the Army before all that. He has a system, I can't explain it. But once those fascist bootlickers were in range, all they heard out of their radios was some jumping swing tunes.”

“That is interesting,” Mick said.

“It's a little prank he cooked up to annoy spies near the embassy, but it’s good for rattling Nazis, too,” Hemingway said. He pointed to Mickey's glass, saying: “Are you going to drink that, or let it age a few more years?”

Mick tipped back the tumbler on cue and let it slosh down his gullet. It was smooth, with smoke and caramel and vanilla.

“Straight to it, then,” Hemingway said. “I've seen that vintage sipped on before, but that never sat right with me. So it seems you are I have the same philosophy: why delay?”

Another splash refilled the glass, but Mick was a little more judicious with this one, just taking half in a quick gulp rather than downing it outright.

“And what are you drinking tonight, miss?” Hemingway asked Marge. The old bird was flustered, but no matter what else was happening she’d never stumbled over a drink order in her life.

“Vodka with a splash of grapefruit, a splash of cranberry, and two lime wedges,” she croaked. Mick could hear the cigars she'd been puffing away on.

“Coming right up, ma'am,” Fernando said, and he began assembling the drink.

Hemingway twisted around and leaned back against the bar, studying the people assembled before him. His men was lounging, drinking beer and cocktails, circled around the long galley table in the middle of the floor. They were a motley crew, ranging in age from seventeen to seventy: Cubans, republicanos, Basques, Brits, Portuguese, and Americans. Cypress and Gator were talking with them, shaking hands, exchanging stories, and clinking pint glasses. Marge got her cocktail and rejoined the raucous table, where a wizened sailor pulled out a chair for her.

“Looks like you're building your own Crook Factory, Malloy,” Hemingway said. He took a slurp of his drink, a custom concoction that was mostly rum and grenadine.

“I just met these boys,” Mick said.

“Yet still they risk their necks for you,” Hemingway told him. “It is a sign of respect.”

“It's a sign of having the same enemies, and the same bosses.”

“I have had plenty of enemies in my time, and some of them are fine fellows. But it is the bosses I could never abide.”

“I know what you mean,” Mick said. The phone rang behind the bar. Hemingway whipped around to glare at Fernando.

The bartender cradled the receiver in the crook of his neck and continued mixing drinks as he answered.

“Sloppy Joe's.” He listened for a few seconds, then said: “Lo siento, Miss Gelhorn, I have not seen Papa today. He is still hunting submarines, I think. Yes, ma'am. Yes, ma'am. Hasta luego.”

A look of relief washed over Hemingway's face as soon as Fernando dropped the phone back into its cradle.

“It was your wife, Papa,” Fernando said.

“I know, I can hear, Fernando,” Hemingway said, chuckling. “Last I knew she was at the villa, in Cuba.”

“She is here, on the island, and she said there were federales looking for you.”

“Hell,” Hemingway muttered. He sloshed his whole drink back, downing it all. “Okay boys, time to head out.”

“Y'all ain't going anywhere,” a man shouted from the front door. He was a thick fellow with a thin head of blonde hair and a sunburn that radiated off the back of his neck. His face, which probably hadn't ever been any kind of a peach, was bruised, peeling, and puffy from bug bites. His arms were covered in scratches and the oozing needle marks left by snakes. He gestured at the whole gang with his shotgun.

“Why don't y'all just take your seats,” he said. Mickey recognized the voice: it was the Silver Legionnaire that O'Laughlin and Sparacello had been sailing with. No one moved, and the Nazi's eyes went wide and crazy. His face contorted and he shouted: “I said sit down!”

The Crook Factory turned as one to look at their captain.

“Sounds reasonable,” Hemingway said. He slid onto a bar stool and his crew eased down onto their own chairs. Mick nodded at his people as well, and everyone from the Office did the same.

“Oi, I could use a proper drink,” O'Laughlin called from outside. He and a huge dog eased around the seething Nazi and strolled into the bar. Basil shoved one of Hemingway's crewmen over and snatched the cheeseburger out of his hand, wolfing it down in one bite. He growled at the next man, who handed over his own sandwich without hesitation.

“Make that one for me too, pal,” Sparacello agreed. He followed O'Laughlin in. Massimo was perched atop his head, chittering with excitement at the prospect of knocking back a few shots.

“Ye lot put up a hell of a chase,” O'Laughlin said. He bellied up to the bar one stool down from Mick. Basil popped up and put his front feet on the rail, standing as tall as a man. The scruffy dog stared at Fernando, tongue dripping. The Irishman placed his order: “Two Irish whiskies please, whatever ye have.”

“One bourbon, one rum,” Sparacello said.

Hemingway gave Fernando as surreptitious thumb's up, and the bartender went to work.

“Do I know ye?” O'Laughlin asked Mickey when he noticed the big man giving him a death stare.

“You shot me,” Mick said.

“Believe me, lad, that doesn't narrow it down too much,” O'Laughlin said. He squinted at Mick, leaned back as far as he could, then grinned. “The blighter on the beach! Ye 'have to appreciate, that was a hell of a shot. Had to skip it across the water. Ye a lucky sod, all right, I've hollowed out elephants with that rifle.”

“You hit my gun first,” Mick said. He could feel his wrecking ball fist trembling, but he willed it calm. The huge bruise on his chest throbbed with his furious heartbeat.

“Well I was shooting from a boat. Maybe next time, mate,” O'Laughlin said, and winked.

“Hey! We ain't here to socialize,” the Legionnaire snapped, interrupting the whole exchange. Mick let himself calm down. They were outgunned, and socking a mouthy mercenary wouldn't help the situation one bit. Especially when all he'd get out of it was getting bit by a dog.

“Lad, I just made a wad of cash pulling your sorry can out of the drink, I believe I have earned a tip or two,” O'Laughlin said.

A phalanx of Legionnaires filtered through the doorway, flanking their leader. Each had a pistol or rifle, all civilian models. Some even had the grapes to wear their silver uniforms, with the little German short pants and the gleaming 'L' patch on the chest.

“Hemingway, is it?” O'Laughlin asked, “I've seen ye books at news stands from here to Hong Kong. Good stuff, I hear. A bit of advice?”

“What's that?” Hemingway wondered, with the kind of tone that seemed to indicate that he wasn't often receptive to offered advice.

“When ye on the lam, don't go to ye favorite pub,” O'Laughlin told him. He tipped back one of his shots, smiling and patting him belly as it went down. Massimo snatched up the waiting bourbon with his tail and slugged it as well. Sparacello sipped gently on his brown rum. The man from the Legion seethed and turned away from the irreverent mercenaries.

“You... thieves, have been caught. I'd be within my rights to shoot each and every one of y’all in the head right now,” he told the assembled officials and Pilar crewmen. “But if you don't put up a fight, I'd be willing to walk on out of here with the items you stole and leave y'all breathing.”

Hemingway's crew whispered among themselves for a furious second in Spanish, English, and another language or two that Mick didn't recognize until their captain's voice boomed through the bar.

“Everyone, can it! ¡Cállate!” Hemingway shouted. He was standing now, stogie clenched between his teeth, cocktail in hand, ankle-deep in peanut shells but still commanding. He had his free hand on his hip, ready to draw down with some imaginary six-shooter. He squared up to the Legion man and strode forward, each crunching step sending a shudder through the fascist’s yellow spine. When he was about two feet away, looming over the smaller, sweaty, bug-bitten man, he blew a cloud of smoke into his face and grunted: “I counted about three things wrong with what you just said, traitor.”

The Legionnaire took a stiff step back and leveled his tiny Walther pistol at Hemingway's gut.

“One: that was a cat, not some pilfered item, and we left it far away, locked up tight,” Hemingway snarled.

The Legion man eased back the hammer on his pistol. His men were watching him now. Sweat was running down his face, inking pink lines down his cheeks where it trickled across his oozing wasp stings. Hemingway continued, booming:

“Second: I don't intend of getting killed by some pissant who doesn't have the backbone to give me his name.”

The Legionnaire took another step back and raised his arm, leveling the pistol and Hemingway's grinning face. The man's pained grimace twisted into a cruel sneer.

“”You want to know who I am, Hollywood?” he asked. “My name is Chamberlain Polk, Grand Sage of the Southern Cross Society, and they are going to carve that name into your gravestone.”

Polk's men shouted, hooting some sort of chant at the mention of their group's name. They all adopted Polk's smirk and readied their weapons.

“Don't be carving yer own name into a gravestone 'til it's time, Chambie,” O'Laughlin piped up from the bar, “'Tis bad luck.”

“Can it, you,” Polk snapped. He turned his attention back to the swaggering author: “My boys are tearing apart your boat right now. And there's no sign of what I'm here for. Why don't you tell me where you hid them and I'll leave you and your wetbacks to your drinks.”

Hemingway's wide grin melted away like ice on a hit griddle. He said something terse in Spanish, and his crew tensed up as well. The Legionnaires readied their weapons.

A high-pitched squeak made the entire room's jump. Every eye went the big central table that the whole crew, Gator, and Cypress had gathered around. Polk's pistol whipped back and forth.

“Back off!” he shouted. The Crooks hesitated, and Polk's men surged forward, dragging them off and flipping the table. There were two crates underneath, covered in sailor blankets.

“There are our prizes,” Polk shouted.

Massimo snatched the rum out of Sparacello's hand, tipped it back, then hopped off the bar and bounded across the room, Basil close behind. They slowed when they neared the covered crates, then inched forward, Massimo's tail was whipping anxiously. The monkey reached out with a hairy paw and lifted the corner of the blanket covering the closest box and Basil stuck his snout under for a sniff. A vicious hiss emanated from inside.

The sound activated something primeval the reptilian depths of Mickey's brain, sending him recoiling away from whatever was inside. It had the same affect on every person in Sloppy Joe's, and shades of terror, confusion, disgust, and panic flickered across their faces.

Massimo screeched in a way that Mick had never heard before and leaped back to climb up Sparacello and chatter in his ear, baring his yellow teeth at the box. Basil yelped and bolted, bowling over two Legionnaires as he ran out the door. Every hair between the crown of his skull and the base of his tail was standing at attention.

“Oi, Bas!” O'Laughlin shouted. He threw back his second whiskey shot then vaulted over the sprawling Legionnaires and ran out after his dog.

“Damn micks,” Polk grumbled under his breath. He advanced on the covered crates and peered under the blankets. His bite-swollen joints caused him wince with each movement. “This is what Schmidt wanted. We'll be kings after the war.”

“You'll be rotting,” Mick snarled.

“Can it, you,” Polk snapped back, swinging his pistol around carelessly.

“Those aren't - !” Hemingway tried, but Polk cut him off.

“If you thought you could fool us, you're either a complete moron or the worst flim-flammer this side of New Orleans, Hemingway,” Polk chuckled. He grinned, pinching his reddened face tight. “Boys, grab those - !”

Glass shattered, and Polk dropped to the floor, limp as a wet noodle. A blonde was standing over him, the neck of a broken tequila bottle dripping in her hand. A pair of gray-suited G-men bum-rushed the front door, throwing Oxford-style boxing punches at the Legionnaires closest to them.

“Have at 'em, boys!” Hemingway shouted. His crew transformed in an instant, from prisoners to bar brawlers. Uppercuts, haymakers, pint glasses, and bar stools flew. A younger Cuban man was decking Nazis left and right, landing hooks and jabs that could knock a deuce-and-a-half's transmission out of gear. Others were hurling beer bottles with devastating accuracy, shattering glass on every Legionnaire who attempted to raise a firearm.

“Ai, mierda,” Fernando groaned.

Mickey lurched off his bar stool and collided with the melee at full speed, sending Legionnaires tumbling like bowling pins. He swung his fists like they were made of rolled steel; when Nazis were in play, he forgot his swollen joints and aching bones.

“Move it, Malloy!” Hemingway shouted. The big man was standing in a busted window, ushering his crew out. More Legion men were streaming in the front door, rifles and shotguns at the ready. Mick scooped up Marge, pulling her off the Nazi she was clobbering with a pepper grinder. The man could've shrugged off the blows if she hadn't ground a fistful of fresh peppercorns into his eyes first. She was light, and only hit Mick a few times before she realized who he was.

Hemingway's men retrieved the hissing boxes and bolted, escaping through the window their captain had smashed open.

“Martha!” Hemingway shouted, “Time to go, dear! Fernando, you too! Bring the rum!”

Martha, the blonde, buried her boot in Polk's gut one last time then bolted. The G-men followed close. Mick lurched through the window and set Marge down. Hemingway, Martha, the feds, Fernando, and the rum brought up the end of the line.

SATURDAY NIGHT, JULY 27, 1942
DOWNTOWN KEY WEST
KEY WEST, FLORIDA

“What are we going?” Mick huffed.

“Take a left at the next street and put some motor on it!” Hemingway shouted as he snatched the bottle of overproof rum out of Fernando's hands. His crew already knew where they were going. Mickey tugged on Marge's hand and the pair ran as fast as they could.

Behind them, Hemingway took a quick slug of rum and long drag on his cigar until the cherry glowed bright orange, then plugged up the neck of the bottle with it. He sent it tumbling end over end and when it crashed against the street top it shattered and sent up a wall of yellow flame, forcing the furious Legionnaires back for a few crucial seconds. The fire spread fast and slipped under the cars they'd parked haphazardly in the street. Gas tanks went up with horrible eagerness, lighting downtown Key West up in orange for a few seconds.

“Two blocks, then a left and eight more blocks!” Hemingway shouted. “Hermanos, you man the walls when we get there.”

“Ten blocks?” Mick wheezed.

“I made this trek a thousand and a half times, Malloy, and in a state far worse than being chased by Nazis,” Hemingway replied. “Besides we have more trouble ahead of us.”

“He's right,” Martha said. “Let's rush the Pilar, we can take 'em.”

Rifle fire erupted behind them. Lead puckered pastel-painted stucco and parked cars. Fascists cursed at them and swatted impotently at the flames with their jackets.

“Just keep running, dear,” Hemingway shouted. “I'll handle Pauline.”

Pauline Pfeiffer answered her door with a pistol in hand when they came knocking.

“Just what in the hell do you think you're doing?” she demanded. “The boys are here, Ernest, and you come here, unannounced, stinking of alcohol and ranting about Nazis. With her.”

The slender brunette was blocking the gate of her home, a two story yellow building surrounded by a ten-foot wall. Inside that wall, tall, lush greenery gave the illusion of a rain forest, and Mick could hear running water tumbling down a porcelain fountain, and the gentle slosh of a swimming pool. A fat tabby lounged atop the wall, swishing its tail. The house’s second floor had a wrap-around balcony, which would give anyone manning it a commanding view of the block. Trouble was, the entire crew of the Pilar, the officials, and the G-men were all stuck outside as Hemingway pleaded with his ex-wife.

“Everything I've told you is true, Paulie,” he told her.

“Fat chance,” she said. “If you've woken Patrick or Gigi, they'll be awful to rouse in the morning. Now go sleep it off somewhere else, you're giving me a headache.”

“Paulie, believe me, there are - !” Hemingway started, only for Pauline to shut him up with a glare.

“I believed you for far too long,” she snapped.

“Pauline, I - !” Martha tried, but she was shut down in an instant.

“Not one word from you.”

“Ma'am,” one of the G-men stepped up, this one older than the other with a handkerchief pressed over a split eyebrow. He flipped open his badge and said: “I am Assistant Director Tamm, from the Bureau of Investigation - !”

Pauline Pfeiffer wasn't having any of his nonsense either.

“I don't care if you're J. Edgar Hoover himself,” she told him. Instead she looked into the crowd of Crooks, surprised to recognize a few faces. “Winston, is that you?”

“I'm afraid so, my dear,” a British man in the back replied. He was tall and broad, handsome and athletic, but still soft in the way that aristocrats can be.

“And Evelio?”

“Sí, Miss Pauline,” a young Cuban man answered, the lithe boxer who'd been throwing brain-erasing right hooks back at the bar. The way he'd fought, he must have been Kid Tunero. Pauline stood on her toes and looked over the whole crowd. Beyond the officials and the agents, she recognized everyone.

“Gregorio and Siskie, Don Monstruo, Padre Andrés, Paxchi, Fernando, Mister Saxon, even Juan? You dragged Juan into your mess?”

“I had to help, Señora Pauline,” presumably Juan, a middle-aged Cuban man, explained. “Es la verdad, todo. Everything true.”

“If he,” she said, pointing her finger in Hemingway's face, “Really thinks a handful of boxers and polo players, fishermen, and a bartender? Fernando, you're a bartender, and Juan, you are a chauffeur. If he's convinced you that you can beat the krauts, there's a whole new circle of Hell waiting for him for when he gets you all killed.”

“Paulie - !” Hemingway tried to objected, pushing up only for her to stop him.

“No! You don't get to speak. Your stories of magic cats are about enough for me. Go sleep it off somewhere, boys,” It was then that she noticed Marge. Her expression went from furious to confused. She shoved a couple men aside until she stood before Mick and Marge. She ignored the looming official and spoke to Marge in a half-whisper: “Are you okay, ma'am?”

“I'd be okay if you weren't leaving us in the lurch with a load of fascists on our tails,” Marge snapped. Pauline's jaw dropped in shock. She looked at Hemingway and hissed: “Show her the koo-tat already.”

“She's not cleared!” Cypress and Assistant Director Tamm objected in unison.

“We're going to have bullets clear through the back of our heads in a minute,” Mickey growled. “Show her, I want to see what I been risking my can for, too.”

“Show her,” Hemingway assented.

Two of his crewmen shuffled to the front of the crowd, holding the crates.

“What's this?” Pauline asked.

Hemingway didn't say a word, he just pulled the tarp off the first. It was a pine box with holes punched in it to allow airflow. The crooked cross had been burned into its side. A weak, pained wheezing could be heard from inside.

“What's that supposed to be?” Pauline demanded.

“It's dying,” Hemingway said, suddenly solemn. He unwrapped the second crate. It was the same size as the first. For a moment it was silent, but then a low purr emanated from within. Mick could have sworn he felt the sound rather than heard it, a low buzz that eased the tightness in his muscles and the dull pain that permeated his joints. Everyone seemed to deflate just a bit, and they all stayed silent for what seemed like a while.

Pauline approached the man holding the crate, each step slow and deliberate. When she was close enough, she leaned down and peered inside, one eye closed as she looked through an air hole.

“This is insane,” she said after a moment. She stood and stared down her ex-husband.

“What does it look like?” Marge wondered.

“A cat, we have a dozen of them just like it,” she snapped. The purring continued, and Mick felt calm spreading through his body like warm whiskey. A shiver ran up Pauline's spine. She shook her head and stood back up straight. She wasn't as certain as before when she said: “It's just a cat, Ernest.”

Hemingway leaned to the side and looked past her, into the house's open gate.

“Tell that to them.”

He was pointing behind her. Pauline turned around to find every one of her dozen cats sitting silently to stare at the strange box. Up and down the street, cats had appeared from alleys and hideaways to watch in silence. A fluttering drew Mickey's eyes upward: birds not usually awake in the middle of the night were gathering. Every roof, eave, and telephone wire was sagging under the weight as hundreds of pigeons, parrots, sparrows, and gulls landed close by, one after the other. Hesitant roosters stalked the shadowed streets. They too stayed silent, and their beady eyes never left the purring crate either.

Pauline sighed, gave Hemingway a venomous glare, then said:

“Well, you might as well come in.”

THURSDAY NIGHT, JUNE 18, 1942
ABOARD THE Z68 TORSTEN BRANDT
37°18'31.6" N, 20°53'30.0" E

//translated from the speaker’s original Italian//

Isotta Fortati smiled down at the convulsing kriegsmarine when she stepped over him.

“Breathe, breathe,” she whispered to him. If he had noticed her arrive astride her Ippocampo hydrofoil, the alarm would've already sounded. The myriad guns aboard the Brandt would have chewed her and her gleaming black ride to scrap. No, this Nazi's dumb luck had placed him right at the rail when she'd hauled herself aboard.

Despite his current, seizing state, he would recover soon enough, with nothing but a blur in his memory and a headache that felt like broken glass. So long as he hadn't bitten his own tongue off he'd wake up soon, good as new. Still a Nazi, but alive.

She whisked her cloak aside as she walked, flicking her eyes upward as she'd trained to do. Even a small glimpse of its pattern would leave her sick. A full look at it would leave her crumpled and drooling like the guard at her feet.

Boarding the Brandt had been nearly as easy as tracking it. Her cousins had distributed a few marks here, they'd found good homes for some lonely lira there. Those logicians that organized sea journeys across the Mediterranean were as hungry as anyone else, no matter their flags. War is a time of survival, and ethics do not exist in a survival situation.

They had called the Brandt Hitler's treasure ship. The Nazis' many looters and facilities all over the world had been called to present their findings in Berlin. Those concentrated around the Mediterranean had secreted their loot and creations aboard a single vessel, one they thought to be the most secure in Europe.

The Negoziatori were beyond such naivety. Her guild had trained her from birth. If it can be locked, it can be unlocked. If it can be carried, it can be stolen. If it has worth, it can be sold.

Isotta clung to the darkness as she made her way to the bow. The stacked turrets and cluttered launchers, tubes, and rails left her many pools of shadow to slip between. Her shoes made no sound against the deck. The tools of her trade were wrapped and strapped in the traditional Negoziatori fashion: no sound would escape from them, either.

A pair of smoking guards strolled past, never seeing her. She did not breathe until they were ten meters away. They'd find their comrade soon enough and their doors would open for her.

The main hatch was located at the base of the ship's forecastle. The Nazis had installed a camera over their door, no doubt tirelessly monitored. While the designs painted on her cloak might render anyone who saw it helpless, it could only do that in person. The resolution on a shipborne closed circuit system would be too low to achieve its typical results. Isotta ducked around the corner from the door and woke her climbing shoes and gloves.

They were a stolen tool, called 'spider socks' by their designers, an amalgam of amputated, half-living creatures and electric circuits. They were foul but effective. The innumerable tiny barbs carpeting her soles and palms wriggled and stretched, ready to cling to any surface. Her masters claimed they were disgusting, which was true, and unreliable, a falsehood. The elders still climbed with hooks and ropes, but it was rare that they did the work themselves any more. It was hard for them to accept that new methods might yield greater results.

She tied up her cloak without looking at it, then, hand-over-hand, she crawled up the ship's bare skin. This model of destroyer had an overhang over its access hatch, perfect for keeping sailors out of the rain and dangling, upside-down guildswomen out of sight. She slithered up and around the camera, then waited. Her body was nearly shaking from the effort of holding herself flat by the time the alarm went up.

When the kriegsmarine surged through the hatch, they came in force. The two stretcher bearers and a doctor were escorted by a half-dozen riflemen, armed to the teeth. They rushed aft, and Isotta nearly dropped headlong into their backup in her haste to slip through the closing door.

A quaking bark sent shivers through the hull and Isotta's spine alike. Claws scraped the deck and a dog larger than any she'd ever seen came barreling out of the hatch, three handlers hauling back on it with heavy chains.

The beast was the size of a motorcycle, with course brown and gray fur carved into patches by surgical scars. Its eyes were completely covered by a metal plate bolted onto its skull, but its nose and steel-capped fangs were exposed. Tiny, cropped ears flicked the night air and it drew in a lungful of air through its wet snout.

“Jagst, Nudel, jagst!” its handlers shouted at it. The creature surged forward, then paused beneath Isotta, sniffing furiously. She pressed herself as flat onto the ceiling as she could get. The oils she'd worked into her skin eliminated any lingering trace of scent, and her sweat glands had been burned away with acid long ago. She was confident in this. All she had to do was stay quiet.

Another Nazi appeared in the hatch, smirking while he watching the twisted dog sniff. He had three stripes and single oak cluster on his sleeves, an officer. His uniform was crisp, and his wavy auburn hair was slicked back as straight as it would go. He let the dog work itself up for a few more seconds before he spoke:

“Nudel, bitte,” he said quietly. The creature calmed the instant it heard his voice. It lolled its pink tongue out of its mouth and wagged its cropped tail. The Nazi smiled wider, then said: “Jecht jagst.“

The dog surged aft, dragging its handlers behind it. The officer stood in the hatch and lit a pipe. He puffed it for a moment, letting its acrid smoke drift up and tickle Isotta's nostrils. She scrunched her face tight and forced herself to hold in a cough. He strolled out of the hatch after a moment. Its automated hinges groaned, and it began to close on its own.

Isotta cursed silently, then deactivated her spider socks. She swung over the Nazi's head before letting go with her palms. Her masters had trained her in acrobatics as a child; flips and somersaults were as familiar to her as walking. She landed like a cat behind him, her shoes absorbing any sound of the impact. He was absorbed with nursing the orange glow in his pipe, and didn't so much as twitch at the movement. She slipped through the closing hatch and was inside.

She moved quickly, finding the stairs into the destroyer's hold in seconds. She'd studied its blueprints for a week before the job. She could dance blindfolded through the Brandt. The first vault door had a combination dial. Normal procedure would see its code changed weekly. She attached her numeral forcer to the dial and began cranking its handle. The gears within it began turning, spinning the dial in random combinations at an absurd rate. After around sixteen rotations, nearly eight-thousand permutations, it landed on the right code. The door opened up like a Christmas present.

The second chamber was rigged to fill with some foul gas if the outer door was ajar when the inner door opened. She stuck an old spring in its striker plate to depress the button inside. She wore her gas mask when she picked the double locks on the inner door, just in case. After a moment's work with a set of picks in each hand, it clicked and unlocked.

The last chamber before the ship's main hold laid open before her. She imagined that she could hear the electricity coursing through its floor. Only a telephone call to the bridge would see its deadly currents shut off. Of course the Nazis had arranged for enough lightning to run through the deck to kill a man twenty times over, but they'd neglected to rig the walls or ceiling.

Isotta checked her boot laces then leapt up and snagged the conduits above with her unbreakable insectile grip. She flipped herself up and let her feet latch on. When she let go with her hands, she was dangling. She carefully turned and walked along the length of the pipe like it was an inverted balance beam. This last lock was non-standard: her picks would not fit. The key must have been the size of a spatula, possibly three or more pieces that individuals would have to fit together to use. A quick spray of liquid nitrogen rendered its workings brittle, and a jam and twist of her file gutted it. This door welcomed her as eagerly as the others had, upside-down or not.

The hold yawned open, revealing rows and rows of Nazi treasures stacked and crated like cabbage. It was only half-lit, with soft golden bulbs that glowed in the bulkheads. She dropped to the deck and strolled down the aisles, running her gloved fingertips over each of the objects. When she found something interested her, she stopped.

She drew her cloak aside and exposed her webbing. Isotta began looking over the cargo. She snapped up a document case and hooked it to her hip. She hefted a small bindle that contained two, no, three gold bars and clipped it on the small of her back. She found a satchel packed with straw and bullets made of rippled steel, each stamped with Japanese characters. It fit right into her pocket. She attached item after item to her body, until she looked like a store display.

The yellow lights flared to full, searing brightness around her. She threw her cloak over her face and crouched low.

“Eindringling!” a Nazi shouted from the vault door.

“Nudel!” the red-haired officer called. The freakish dog's panting filled the hold. Its claws scraped at the steel deck. “Jagst!”

The monstrous hound bounded into the ship's open belly, slavering, sniffing.

Isotta bolted. Her cloak could disable any person that looked at her, but an eyeless dog would simply use it as a napkin after it tore her to shreds. Her loot clattered as she ran. The thing chased after her, closer with each step. She could smell its breath.

She only had one chance. Her Ippocampo was still docked at the Brandt's waterline. If she'd counted her steps right, it should be...

“There,” she wheezed. She smacked the pocket over her heart with her right hand, smashing the single button on the radio transmitter that was sewn into it.

The Brandt lurched as the thirty pounds of plastic explosive stashed in her hydrofoil punched a hole in its port side big enough to park a horse in. Isotta went flying. She hit a row of crates hard, then got bowled over by a rush of seawater an instant later. Her ears rang and her bones flexed. She could feel bruises forming in the exact shape of the objects hooked to her left side.

The Nazis were yelling, and water was pouring into the hold. Isotta cleared her eyes and stared at the smoking hole. She could see water and sky through it. Her boat, her sleek black hydrofoil and her means of escape into the sea, was sinking to the bottom in a thousand pieces.

Nudel snarled, drawing her attention back inside. The huge dog was limping, but still coming toward her. His fangs looked as large as butcher knives, sheathed in the same steel.

Isotta backed away from the creature, toward the gaping hole. She had her fugaflote, her reverse-parachute. She'd never had to use it before, and it would take a few seconds to inflate. In that time, Nudel would have disemboweled her.

Nudel lunged forward, then yelped and drew back. Its leg had been injured by the blast. She could see that creature wasn't putting any weight on it. Isotta backed away further, patting herself down in a desperate search to find anything that might draw him off. She had bullets but no gun, her liquid nitrogen canister was empty, her flashbombs were soaked.

Her foot came down funny and she fell, knocking hard into a small wooden box with holes punched in the side. Whatever was inside hissed at her. Her joints drew tight at the sound and a wave of nausea nearly doubled her over.

Nudel snarled at the hiss and scrambled backward, flattening his ears and tucking his cropped tail as far down as it could go. Whatever was in that box, the dog hated it.

Isotta worked past the bile in the mouth and snatched up the crate. She held it arm's length between herself and Nudel. For every step she took forward, he took two back.

“What are you?” she asked it. As she walked, she bumped into another holed box, eliciting a mousey chittering from within. She ignored it, only for the first box to start rumbling with a purr. “A cat?”

Calm washed over her. The rodent sounds suddenly took on a pitiable tone, and she realized it would drown if she left it. It was only a baby. She stacked it atop the cat's crate.

Isotta kept both boxes between herself and the backpedalling Nudel, then waded through the rushing water, to the hole. The night air whisked around her. She strapped the crates tight to her chest, one atop the other. She could feel the cat's bone-deep purr, and the other thing's infantile chirps. She'd protect them, whatever they were.

“Stoppen Sie diesen Dieb!” the officer shouted. His men rushed the vault, chasing her down through the flooded aisles, past the panicking dog. They had truncheons and knives bared; they unwilling to fire their weapons among their Fuhrer's treasure. She untied her cloak with one hand and threw it across her chest. The closest Nazis' eyes went wide as they took in its horrible designs. Their legs failed them and they fell face-first into the churning seawater around their knees.

The men behind them drew back, dragging their convulsing comrades out of the water before they drowned. Isotta smiled. The strange and profane patterns painted across the fabric worked like a charm. She smiled wide, fixed a stray raven lock that had slipped out from behind her ear, then waved to the retreating, horrified men.

“Goodbye, Nazis,” she called out, blowing them a kiss. She gripped onto the hull's newly ragged edge, then leaned out over the water, her back to the open sea. The wound in the ship's hull bled light across the water, drawing her silhouette out in black fifty meters long.

One dramatic flip of her cloak uncovered the small pack Isotta wore across her back. She tightened its shoulder straps and waist band, and made sure the harness around her thighs and under her rear was secure.

Isotta tugged on the 'flote's pull cord. Combustable fluids began mixing and churning inside. She thought she could feel the reactions' chemical warmth against her back. She braced herself and leaned further out of the gaping hole.

After a few seconds, a blue sphere burst through the top of her pack and launched itself skyward, expanding as it rose. The volatile chemicals inflating it were just getting started. Isotta braced herself. She watched the long line that connected it to her unravel.

The balloon reached its full diameter an instant before the rope ran out. Isotta Fortati was jerked skyward with such force that she lost consciousness.

She came to dangling above the clouds. The fugaflote's exfiltration balloon had reached its apex. Up there, only the moon stood between her and the heavens. She had gold and blueprints, experimental weapons, artifacts, schematics, and cash. She activated her distress transponder. Any guildperson that could hear it was obligated to come to her aid. No Negoziatori had ever been denied help from another. Still, she had no clue when that pickup would arrive to hook her out of the sky, or if it even could arrive before the Luftwaffe.

All she could do was dangle and wait. She listened to the little creature's curious chirps. It was poking a little moon-drenched snout and whiskers from the holes in its box. It seemed happy to be aloft.

The cat simply purred and slept. Isotta felt the vibrations through the box and deep into her chest. She had just robbed the most dangerous people in the world and was helpless, soaked and freezing, swinging two thousand meters above an empty sea. Still, as she felt the rhythm of the purring cat against her breastbone, she felt fine.

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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.