The Billy Club Bastard Case Files: The Case of the Holy City Head Hunter, Part 3 of 7

Mickey Malloy is known for his thick skin and thicker skull. That’s why when he goes looking for acquaintances of the Head Hunter’s affluent victims, he’s bound to butt that melon up against anyone who gets in his way.

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 3 of The Case of the Holy City Head Hunter. If you hadn’t had a chance to read Part 1 or Part 2 yet, stop now and check them out first.

Content Warnings: Violence, Reference to Sexual Assault, Mild Swearing, Tobacco Use, Alcohol Use, Creeps

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MONDAY AFTERNOON, MAY 4, 1942
THE SADDLETRIM CLUB
SOUTH OF BROAD, CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

“Holy shit,” Mick muttered to himself. The expansive foyer around him was draped in more finery than he'd ever cared to see. Every surface was gilded or rhinestoned or velveted. The oriental rug under his boots was from England, the labels on the wine and whiskey bottles were pasted over. Everything here stank of some feeble desperation to hold onto a lifestyle that had never existed. These last shreds of plantation aristocracy constituted a species Mick wouldn't mind going extinct.

“Sir,” the head waiter gasped.

“Sorry 'bout the language, pal,” Mick said. He flashed his fake Bureau shield at the man, who recoiled at the sight of it. He could've only been more disturbed if Mick had pulled out a health inspector's badge. “I need to ask a few questions to some of your guests.”

“Sir, this is a private - !” the waiter stammered.

“So I'll be quick, thanks,” Mick said, pushing past the smaller man to stride into the lavish dining room. This was the third restaurant he'd been to that afternoon. Both previous locales had prominently featured a coven of chattering dames that dominated the room. The Saddletrim was no different.

Mick slid into the only unused chair in the circle, sidling up between two particularly aghast ladies. Each occupant of this table was a married women in her forties, studded in diamonds, with a sour look permanently plastered on her face.

“Can we help you, sir?” the sternest-looking of the bunch asked him, her voice frosted as thick with ice as her ring finger. Her platinum blonde ringlets didn't so much as wiggle when she spoke; they'd been dyed 'til they died, then fossilized with enough sprays and chemicals to warrant a hazmat team.

“Thanks for the offer, but I'll let one of them get me,” Mick said. He leaned back in his chair, letting his shirt come untucked and giving the ladies a healthy view of his hairy belly button. They recoiled in mock horror while he waved down the nearest waiter. The confused young man trotted over, distracted from dropping his tray of drinks off with their intended recipients. Mick smiled, telling him: “Hey buddy, let me get a, uh, well that looks pretty darn good right there.”

The mortified women let their jaws drop even further open as Mick snatched some kind of bourbon drink off the tray and took a loud slurp. The waiter scuttled away before Mick could steal any more drinks.

“Sir, what is the meaning of this?” the stern lady hissed, her eyes darting side to side, noting which other tables were whispering about her new table mate.

“You know, I been to a few other places just like this today, and just my luck, the drinks get better at each stop,” Mick told her.

“That chair is taken, I must insist that you leave, now,” she snapped.

“Hey, I'm just here to talk,” Mick said. He leaned forward in his seat and stared at the confrontational woman across the table. “The name's Malloy. Special Agent Malloy, here on behalf of your federal government. I had a question or two, and I can't leave 'til I hear an answer.”

That really got the other tables' whisper mills churning.

“What's your name, doll?” Mick asked. He was laying his blue-collar fed act on thick, but sometimes that's what it took.

“Veronica Beaufort Lovelace, if it pleases my federal government,” she said. Mick made a big show of taking his notebook out of his coat and scratching her name down.

“Thank you, Miss Ronnie,” he grunted.

“Missus,” she corrected.

“Got it,” Mick said. He looked around the table at the rest of Ronnie's quivering coven. “And the rest of you?”

Each had as pompous a name or worse. Mick wrote 'em all down.

“So I assume y'all are familiar with the barber in town?” he asked. “You know, the one that's taking a little too much off the top?”

The circled woman, save for Ronnie, gasped and grimaced.

“Of course we are, Agent Malloy,” she said. Her face had turned to granite.

“I got some inquiries,” Mick asked.

“I suggest you direct them to the families, then,” Ronnie said.

“A fine suggestion,” Mick said, taking another loud slurp. “But they're a little indisposed, and they might not be inclined to be forthcoming.”

“And why would we be?” she asked.

“Because you ladies are loyal patriots, and y'all know the pulse of this community, maybe some things that wouldn't make the papers,” Mick replied.

“You think us idle gossips and prattlers, I take it,” Ronnie said, her eyes narrowed.

“No, no, of course not,” Mick chuckled. “I never meant to imply 'idle.'”

“Agent Malloy, I wasn't aware that murders fell under federal purview,” Ronnie said.

“Ma'am, Veronica, Ronnie, I'm just here to help stop these crimes,” Mick explained. Ronnie bristled at the nicknames but maintained her composure.

Mick had experience dealing with rich folks, with getting them to talk. His method was one of constant, unyielding pricks. People who paid a premium for comfort and absolute control broke hard when they lost it. They could withstand a lot, but someone constantly needling them that did not respect their status was something none of them could handle. The ladies at the last two dining clubs he'd visited shattered like glass, but none of those shards had gotten him anything.

“As do we all,” Ronnie grated. She was smiling wide, but she spoke through a clenched jaw. “So what can we help you with?”

“You friendly with the Exleys, Marions, or Garnettes?” he asked. The circle of women all looked to Ronnie, deferring to their queen.

“Friendly enough, they were donors to the museum as well, and ticket-holders at the theatre.”

“Have anything to say about them?”

“We are all terribly sorry for their loss,” Ronnie said.

“I asked for stuff that didn't make the paper,” Mick grunted.

“Is there a problem here?” a man with a faint European accent asked. Mick spun in his seat to find a tall man in an exquisite suit standing over him. Everything about his outfit, from the pale yellow pocket square and bow tie to his scaly shoes, threw Mick for a loop.

“Oh, Donovan, Agent Malloy was just leaving,” Ronnie said, fluttering her eyelashes.

“Was I?” Mick asked.

“I should hope so, sir, that's my seat you're sweating in,” Donovan replied. Mick grunted as he stood, pushing the chair out. He newcomer stood an inch shorter than Mick, with tan skin and a pencil-thin mustache. His dark, wavy hair was expertly parted with a floral pomade. But it was his wide forehead that caught Mickey's eye.

A big old melon was a feature he'd been running across far too often in this investigation. Donovan's dome looked awfully close to what the three dead kids had been working with before theirs were taken. With this man's timely arrival, whatever interest Mickey'd had in anything Missus Veronica Beaufort Lovelace had to say evaporated.

“Agent Michael Malloy,” Mick said, extending his hand.

“Donovan Damascus,” he said, taking Mickey's hand. His palm was soft and powdered, but muscles like steel cables laced through it. He slipped past Mick and took his chair.

“Mister Damascus, I was just discussing some local crimes with your pals here,” Mick said.

“Over supper? How distasteful,” Damascus said, casually dismissing the whole conversation hook. He waved to the closest waiter, who evidently knew his usual.

“Is that an accent I hear?” Mick asked.

“Possibly many,” Damascus said.

“Donovan is an actor,” one of the formerly silent women peeped. A glare from Ronnie shrunk her into a dried pea.

“Been in anything I would've seen?” Mick asked.

“Are you an aficionado of the theatre, agent?” Damascus asked.

“Yeah, big Keaton fan,” Mick replied.

“Donovan performs exclusively on the stage,” Ronnie sneered. “Not that someone like you would know anything about that.”

“Now, now, Veronica, the stage is the venue of the people. I got my start, oh, too may years ago, on the Kiotto stage for the Helsinki Workers' Theatre, then I had the honor to perform in Paris, London, New York, before I came here. Perhaps you've seen me there?”

“Must have missed those dates,” Mick grunted.

“Don't waste your breath, Donovan, you cannot reason with people who find 'culture' to be a pejorative term.”

“Lady, I got culture coming out of my ears,” Mick said. “Paris and London are a long way from Charleston, pal.”

“Only on a map,” Damascus quipped. His drink, a pink concoction with fruit and bubbles, appeared at his elbow. He called after the waiter: “Thank you, Harold.”

He took one long sip, luxuriated in it, then continued:

“When I found this place, Charleston was a town desperate for uplifting, stuck in the past. It had no idea of the drought of creativity it was experiencing until it had a taste of it. Now, I daresay our humble city is the art capitol of the entire southeast.”

“Donovan founded our theatre company,” Ronnie said.

“Well how 'bout that?” Mick wondered. A town stuffed with unearned money and frivolous, fawning broads desperate for a taste of the worldly would've been a paradise to any huckster, especially one that they loved because he was classically trained to lie.

“The twentieth anniversary was just this year, actually,” another of Ronnie's coven chirped.

“With the best yet to come,” Damascus added. “With these ladies' help, the Damascus Thespian Repertory School of Charleston should see its first round of fund-raising completed this afternoon, and the first bricks laid by summer's end. It will be glorious!”

“To you, Donovan, and the school,” another woman said. She raised her wine glass, and everyone save Mick followed suit. The coven toasted to Damascus and his legacy.

“Twenty years, that's something all right,” Mick said. That number stuck with him, and the math added up. An exciting, primped pretty boy coming to town, then, just a year later, a crop of babies with melons to match his start popping out. “And you got your start in...”

“Helsinki,” Damascus answered.

“That's in Finland,” Ronnie hissed with a sneer.

“Finland, huh?” Mick said. The gray just starting to bloom around Damascus' temples put him at a forty, fifty years old.

“Yes, a wonderful country,” Damascus said, beaming. “Have you been?”

“Haven't have the pleasure,” Mick replied.

“Oh, you must visit,” Damascus insisted. “After this silly war, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” Mick said. He flashed the irritated ladies a lop-sided grin, slammed the rest of his drink, then wiped his arm on his sleeve. The whole process elicited another set of matching grimaces from them. “Well, don't want to overstay my welcome. I'll check out this Finland place and let y'all know. Have a great afternoon. Good to meet y'all. Have a great one, Ronnie.”

Mick didn't wait to hear what any of them had to say, he marched out of the Saddletrim at a serious clip. If that tingle in his brain was half-right, he'd need some real ammo before he started blasting accusations at Charleston's elite. If he wanted the real dirt behind what kind of babies were getting delivered two decades ago, he'd have to go straight to the source.

SATURDAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER 8, 1934
FOURTH PRECINCT POLICE STATION
YBOR CITY, TAMPA, FLORIDA

“I never even talked to that bitch,” the little shit snapped. It took all Mick had in him not to take those two steps across the interrogation room and bounce the sneering rapist's head off the table.

Instead, Mick took a deep breath and pushed that quick anger back.

“Watch your mouth,” Mick grunted.

“No, you watch it,” the little shit said. He pointed at his flapping jaw and said slowly and deliberately: “I never spoke to her.”

“Nobody's saying you said a word to her, Lyle,” he said. “We're saying you attacked her.”

“Bullshit,” the little shit hissed. “A bitch like that isn't worth it. You know who I am. If I wanted that, all I'd have to do is tell her.”

Mick could feel something old and hot rising in him. He clenched his jaw and rocked back on his heels. He could either smash this punk into a million pieces on the spot, or he could walk out of the room. He was careful not to slam the door. The little shit didn't deserve to know how pissed Mick was getting.

“What do you got?” the captain asked. Bob Cross had sat in on more of these interrogations than he cared to count. This one, though, was something else. For this one, the captain needed to wait by the front door. He'd need to play interference when the big shit arrived.

“A headache,” Mick grunted. He patted down his pockets, but the only things he'd brought into the interrogation room were a pencil and his badge. “Can I bum a smoke?”

“Sure,” Bob said. He tossed Mick his deck. Mick plucked a cigarette out then lit it and took a long drag.

“That little shit is talking a lot, but he ain't saying a damn word,” Mick said after a minute.

“He's sharp, knows to wait for mommy's lawyer,” Bob said.

“He's about as sharp as a bag of wet mice,” Mick said. “He may have been trained, but it didn't take.”

“You think you can break him?” Bob asked.

“How long 'til the prosecutor gets here?”

“D.A.'s not coming, this got kicked up to the state attorney. He caught a ride with Lyle's mother, coming from uptown,” Bob said. “I'd give them about fifteen minutes.”

Mick checked his wristwatch.

“So I got a quarter-hour to get him to talk himself into staying?” Mick asked.

“Otherwise he's walking,” Bob confirmed.

“He ain't taking one step outside these doors, boss.”

“Good. I talked to that girl...”

“Rosemary,” Mick said.

“I talked to Rosemary. He sounds like an animal,” Bob said.

“So we put him in the zoo,” Mick concluded.

“Get back in there, shake him up so we can lock him up,” Bob ordered.

“Will do.” Mick stubbed out his cigarette in an ash tray and stepped back into the interrogation room. The little shit was sitting back in his seat, arms across his chest, smirking and watching Mick in silence.

“Lyle, your mom's on the way to bail you out. Nothing I can do, really.”

That didn't get any reaction out of the little shit.

“My boss wants me to get you to confess.”

“To what?”

“Whatever you feel like?” The little shit shrugged at that. “Had to ask, you know. Once your mommy gets here, this is all over anyway, right?”

Didn't get any response out of that one, either. Mick paced around the room a couple times, silent. Finally, he sighed then sat on the corner of the table, looking down at the smug little shit.

“Lyle, settle a debate for me,” Mick said.

“What can I do for you, officer?”

“Detective, actually,” Mick said.

“Whatever floats your boat.”

“Now, I say they named you Lyle after your mom,” Mick said. “But the other guys, they think you started out as a Lyla, just like her. What happened was, and I find this far-fetched, was that they panicked and gave you the first boy's name they could think of after the doctor found his microscope.”

“His microscope?” the little shit asked, bewildered.

“Well, it's what he needed to make sure you were a boy after all.”

The little shit's mouth snapped shut. His face turned red. He wasn't used to getting talked to like that. Not from the help, at least.

“Hey, that's just what the guys around here are saying. I think it's bullshit,” Mick said. “I'm sure he didn't need a microscope. I'm sure it's fine down there. I bet some good money that it's normal.”

The little shit opened his mouth to object, but Mick interrupted.

“Hey, it's none of my business, you don't have to tell me. I'm just a cop, not trying to recruit you to the freak show. I make my money honestly, not by making children cry and ladies faint with some unnatural, sideshow stuff. Keep it in your pants, junior.”

“Sideshow?” the little shit stammered.

“Well, yeah. Thats where they put folks with your type of malady, ain't it? Plus, I figure if you were auditioning for the strong man act, you wouldn't do it by beating up little girls.”

“I don't have - !”

“Hey, buddy, you don't have to convince me all right. It's just folks flapping gums. I'm on your side. I bet you can't even tell there's anything wrong with it.”

“There's nothing - !”

“Lyle, best to stop talking about it. That's what keeps rumors going.”

“You're the one - !”

“You got to stop. This obsession with it is getting a little suspicious, frankly,” Mick said. He stood up and peeked out the small window set in the door, watching the other detectives mill around their desks. “I'm depending on this pool, I already spent the winnings. If, you know, it, is weird, I don't want to know.”

There was a vein throbbing in the little shit's forehead now.

“Hey, pal, I know your family, I know y'all're set. I know any girl's going to be falling head over hind end for you,” Mick told him. “Whether you got a little problem or not.”

“That's right,” the little shit said.

“Your mom owns half this county and most of the next one over, right? You must have townies like Rosemary fawning all over you.”

“So you get what I'm saying: that's why this is bullshit,” the little shit replied.

“I get it,” Mick said, nodding thoughtfully. “Everyone wants a piece of the prince. But those guys out there? The ones betting against you? I got to convince them.”

“So do it.”

“It ain't that easy. They're saying she saw your, uh, condition, and ran her mouth, that's what made you do it,” Mick said.

“I didn't - !”

“What I think is that it didn't get near that far. What I think is that she heard one foul word out of your sour mouth and left your sorry ass in the dirt,” Mick said.

“She what?”

“I think she wouldn't let some nasty, soft, spoiled punk like you anywhere near her, and that got your goat. A little shit like you doesn't know how to act when he hears 'no,' does he? Never had to before, then some cane cutter's daughter tells you off?”

“What?”

“Pathetic, if you ask me,” Mick muttered. “You get all big and bad when there's just a little girl around, but when the shit starts coming down, and that's what's happening Lyle, I am a God damn avalanche of shit burying you up to your neck. So when the effects of what you caused hit, then you cry and wait for mommy to start digging you out. That sound about right, Lyle?”

“Stop it,” the little shit snapped.

“One little girl says something you don't like, and you're a big man, acting how men act, right?” Mick said. He grabbed the table between them and shoved it aside. He leaned in to the little shit's seething face.

“You can't talk to me like this,” the little shit hissed. He was trembling. He looked ready to pop.

“Yes, I can, Lyle,” Mick said. His crooked snout was an inch from the little shit's aquiline nose. He stared deep into those hollow, predatory, panicked eyes. “I can talk to you however I want. I couldn't talk to your mommy like this. It's her everyone fears, respects, ain't it? She's the one with the important friends and the wads of cash. You? You're just a little shit. Twenty-one years old, still stuck on mommy's teat.”

“Shut up,” the little shit whispered.

“Or what, Lyle? What can you do? Call mommy? You can't make me do anything yourself, 'cause I ain't five-foot-nothing, nineteen-year-old, hundred-pounds-soaking-wet Rosemary, am I?”

Mick took a step back. The little shit stayed still, only glaring at the big man towering over him.

“You're a sorry, empty little shell pretending to be a man. A little puppet who don't know how to dance if mommy's not pulling your strings,” Mick said. He smiled wide and spread his hands, opening himself up to the little shit. “This is going to be fun. I can say whatever I want, can't I? You can't buy me unless mommy opens her purse, can you? Don't know what to do if someone ain't afraid. You're pathetic, a - !”

The little shit lunged out of his chair, fists clenched, already swinging at Mick's face. Mick had taken enough knocks to the head to see one coming and ducked to the side. He smirked when the haymaker whiffed wide. Assaulting an officer was enough to keep the little shit behind bars for at least another night. The little shit pivoted, trying to swing on Mick again, but he was off-balance. His toe caught the floor and he went down.

Lyle Lohmann hit the tiles, hard. His chin bounced, then he went limp, and silent.

The door creaked open, and Mick looked up to find Captain Cross and the state attorney standing stock still. Lyla Lohmann and her legal team stood behind them. Her eyes went wide when she saw the crumpled little shit. She screamed, a piercing cry that chilled the spine of every person in the police station. Still, Lyle Lohmann didn't move.

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Copyright © 2022 Daniel Baldwin. All rights reserved.

Written and edited by Daniel Baldwin. Art by Tyrelle Smith.