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

Mickey Malloy has stumbled into the weapons deal and uncovered the identity of the infamous Head Hunter all in one fell swoop. Does he have what it takes to stand up to an army of fascists and rescue Hampton Sinclair from the mind-melting Psycho-Acoustic Oscillator?

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 6 of The Case of the Holy City Head Hunter. If you hadn’t had a chance to read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, or Part 6 yet, stop now and check them out first.

Content Warnings: Violence, Reference to Sexual Assault, Gun Violence, Death, Gore, Mild Swearing, Tobacco Use, Alcohol Use, Creeps, Nazis

TUESDAY NIGHT, MAY 5, 1942
OFFICES OF L.H. CALHOUN, M.D.
ANSONBOROUGH, CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

When the man in black leaped down the stairs and collided with the knot of gangsters like a meteor, Hampton Sinclair burst into action. He had been staring into the glowing eye sockets of a gore-pinked skull, feeling his scalp wrinkle. He only had an instant before the old man behind the macabre device's trigger melted his brain in his head.

The Legionnaires' handcuffs were solid, police issue, and were impossible to remove. Impossible without practice, at least. Sinclair'd perfected the technique long ago, between takes, after learning it from an old stagehand who'd claimed to have worked for Houdini himself.

One pop and a twist was all it took to slide one 'cuff off. Though his whole body was cramped and weak, beaten soft like raw clay, he had more than enough juice in the tank to surge forward and knock over some geezer with a ray gun.

“My back!” the doctor shouted. He'd landed funny, and the oscillator contraption had clattered to the floor.

Behind Sinclair, the man in black reeled and back and smashed downward with his club, over and over, felling men with each swing. The scum around him swirled into chaos. Gunshots rattled the warehouse, men and women shouted, and the bidders set upon each other.

“Diamond!” the head Legionnaire, Grace maybe, shouted in rage.

“Er ist frei!” Suzanne shrieked. In the madness, she'd seen him shed his 'cuffs.

“Stay back!” a woman in a crimson cocktail dressed shrieked at him. Between the dress, her raven hair, and her ruby lips, she could've passed for a bride of Dracula. Sinclair huffed. A lady in stilettos was the least his concerns right then and he bolted away from her.

Grace stepped up and produced a short-barreled shotgun. Sinclair rolled out of the way, but the Legionnaire's attention was not on him. Grace fired while advancing. Buckshot clanged off an armored woman's chest, knocking her down but but leaving her unbloodied. Her bearded comrade emptied his pistol, forcing Grace back. The hail of gunfire flew wildly, missing it target but perforating another Legionnaire. The rest of Grace's toadies unloaded their weapons. Two of the armored guests scuttled away to cover, but the third, a Black man, lay where he'd fallen, bleeding and still.

“Flank, flank, flank!” Grace was shouting. His forces split while he provided covering fire. He was a scant few feet from Sinclair and seemed to have forgotten all about him.

The Abwehr had not.

Mary Beth, Suzanne, and Harmony converged on Sinclair, blades in hand. It was all he could do to scrabble away, running shoeless on all fours like an ape. He bolted into the rows of crates, throwing stacks over as he ran. One big one beaned Harmony, and another tripped Suzanne up. He hadn't been trying to take them out, only to get a little separation. He'd get time for a few good swings in on Mary Beth before the other pair recovered.

“We should have thrown you overboard,” Mary Beth hissed. She swung her knife down on him like it was a cleaver. Sinclair snatched up his loose handcuffs and held its chain taut, catching the edge of the blade. He locked it in around her knife, pulling and twisting with his weakened body just enough to hip-check her into a the side of a large box. She wheezed, desperately trying to catch the breath he'd knocked out of her.

Suzanne arrived next, with Harmony close on her heels. Sinclair ducked under Suzanne's thrust and she slipped past him. He hooked her ankle as she went by, sending her tumbling, but he instantly realized his mistake.

“Bloody hell,” Sinclair grunted. He had let his attackers get in front and behind. The wall of crates on either side hemmed him in, taller than he could climb and narrow as a trench. He was in a meat grinder. If he'd had two working eyes and hadn't been locked in a trunk for half-a-fortnight, he'd have avoided it.

Harmony came at him in a fury, slashing like she was threshing wheat. She had a madness in her eyes, and Sinclair couldn't blame her. The spider mitten had embedded itself in her flesh and have taken awful, grotesque effort to remove. The disfigurement left from its thousands of hooks and barbs might never heal right. He'd heard her through the trunk, arguing that they should have skinned him alive. As an actor, he knew that one's face was their CV. Spies followed the same rules. He had branded her for life, and ruined her career. If the shoe had been on the other, he could've come up with more than a few convincing arguments to retaliate in kind.

Sinclair backpedaled under Harmony's assault. He grabbed his loose 'cuff like a set of brass knuckles and listened for Suzanne to scramble to her feet behind him. When she'd recovered enough to come for him again, he swung his arm around in a vicious backhand. The hit impacted her knife hand with dislocating force, sending her weapon tumbling and leaving her grip limp like an empty glove.

Harmony's knife was centimeters away from Sinclair's chest when the crates to her left tumbled over like bowling pins. She barely had time to yelp before an avalanche of boxes pinned her to the floor. She groaned in unison with the Black Dragon agent that was splayed atop the pile. He didn't move from where he'd landed. Crimson trickled from a goose egg already growing on his forehead. One of the crate lids had popped free and dozens of black candlesticks lay strewn about.

Sinclair peaked around this new hole in the wall of crates. On the warehouse floor, the man in black continued to spar with the other yajirushi. The Japanese man's dagger flashed in the lamplight, drawing deadly arcs that the huge intruder fended off with swats of his club. The yajirushi danced between the big man's swings, edging ever closer to landing a slash.

“Careful, it's poison!” Sinclair called out.

“Don't I know it!” the man shouted back between strikes. American. The Black Dragon Society was infamous for their deadly venoms. Even surviving their attacks could kill. If this oddball knew that as well, he must certainly be a fellow official.

The Legionnaires had advanced on the armored pair. The woman was bleeding from her arm. The bearded man's shotgun clicked empty, and he threw it aside and drew a pair of pistols and blasted wildly around his cover. Bullets stitched every wall, piercing the crates like they were paper. Splinters, straw, and sprays of half-melted black wax rained down around Sinclair, forcing him onto his belly to avoid the lead. A second Legionnaire fell with a scream.

Suzanne groaned, catching Sinclair's attention. Beyond her, Mary Beth was struggling to her feet.

“Not now, Suzy,” he grunted. He dragged himself toward Suzanne on his belly, staying safely below the flying bullets, then kicked out with his legs, launching himself forward like a toad. He grabbed her shoulders with both hands then flopped down flat, bouncing her head off the concrete floor.

Mary Beth hissed and scuttled at him, knife in hand.

“Grenade!” someone shouted. Both Sinclair and Mary Beth froze in place. The gunfire ceased, and boots pounded the floor as men bolted for cover.

The blast shook the room like it had been struck by lightning. Crates shattered around Sinclair, sweeping up him and Suzanne both and throwing them across the room. Sinclair's ears rang, and a gray smoke and brick dust clung to the air like a pea fog. He pushed himself off the floor, shrugging broken wooden slats and crumbled wax off his back.

Across the room, the last yajirushi stood stock still, perforated by red-hot shrapnel that smoked in his wounds. A larger shape grew behind him, then the body crumpled. The man in black drew himself to his full height. He'd used the assassin as a blast shield. He grunted and pulled at the Japanese dagger embedded deep in the shaft of his club.

No one else around them was able or dared to move. Sinclair stood his full height and called out loud enough to be heard over his ringing ears:

“You with the Office, partner?”

“Yeah,” the hulking man called back, waving his gloved hand to clear the smoke out of his face. “You Sinclair?”

“Indeed I am,” was all he said. Very cool, all business.

“Good,” the man grunted. “Don't go getting yourself killed now, you're almost home free.”

“I'll endeavor not to.”

“Schmidt over there?”

“Schmidt?” Sinclair asked.

“The blonde with the bad attitude.”

“Oh, Mary Beth,” Sinclair realized. She hadn't gotten far crawling on her belly. A long sliver of plank had pierced her right thigh and she was leaving a scarlet trail behind her, like a snail. Sinclair tutted, then popped his thumb out and slipped the handcuffs the rest of the way off. He half-limped over to her and knelt on her back, then shackled her arms behind her. She wheezed and cursed in German but Sinclair paid her no mind. If she was going to try to wriggle any further any, she'd have to do it with only her chin and one working leg.

“Mary Beth, er, Schmidt, is secure,” Sinclair called.

“Good, heh, work,” the man in black said between swings of his club. The thunk of hardwood against numbskull punctuated every sentence. He was cleaning up the Legionnaires. Three were still breathing, including Grace. The trio of silk-suited goons he'd jumped initially were dragging themselves to their feet. Each had more than his fair share of split scalps and bent arms.

“Don't even think about it,” the man in black warned them. He hefted his club and pointed it at the lot of them. “I swear, I'll - !”

Before he could finish his threat, the three men turned around and high-tailed as fast as gents who'd recently been beaten senseless could. The far door of the warehouse was wide open, and Sinclair realized just then that the armored bidders were long gone. They'd used the blast to cover their retreat, even going so far as to take their dead with them.

“You come back here!” the man in black roared at the retreating criminals. He scooped a pistol off the ground and tried to aim down its sights but found its barrel hopelessly bent. He hauled back and chucked it, missing wide but hitting the floor close enough to make the men jump as they ran. Sinclair hobbled after them, his legs half of what they had been. Dozens of beatings and days upon days crammed in a box had done him no favors. He gave up quickly, cramped and wheezing.

“What'd I say about dying this late in the game?” the man in black asked.

It was no use anyway. Sinclair stopped, bent over with his hands on his knees. His muscles were on fire. His best hope was that it was simply confinement atrophy. He had no idea what the Nazis had been feeding him. If it was poison, it was too late to worry about it.

“You sons of bitches!” a woman cried out.

“Wait,” Mulholland Grace pleaded at the man in black's feet, “Don't.”

The Legionnaire wasn't looking at the heavy club his attacker had reeled back over him, he was looking at one very bonkers woman in red. Her hair was wild, one of her heels was broken, and her once-glamorous dress was blackened with smoke and dirt. She stood before them, trembling and struggling to hold a psycho-acoustic oscillator off the ground as she adjusted its controls.

“Starling,” the man in black snarled. He voice rumbled like a distant artillery barrage. “Don't even - !”

She sneered and pulled the trigger. A piercing whine cut him off as the embedded skull glowed from the inside, blue light beaming out of its wide, haunted sockets.

Sinclair tried to yell. He might have, he couldn't tell. The sound was so loud that he could barely think. Starling threw her head back and swept the oscillator across the room, her cackle muted by the sound of her awful weapon.

The hair on the back of Sinclair's neck stood at full attention and a spectral ripple traced it way up his spine. An alien terror rose from deep in the back of Sinclair's brain. Starling was ranting, frothing at the mouth, totally silenced by her own device. Sinclair could see the fury on her face. She was going to crack his head open like an over-boiled egg.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. The man in black stood next to him. He leaned in, yelling as loud as he could an inch from Sinclair's ear:

“I think it's just loud!”

It took Sinclair a moment to process the words through the din. He looked at the masked man, who just tapped his own ear and shrugged.

Sinclair tried ignored the shrieking whine and thought about the rest of his body. The fear was from anticipation. The standing hair and flush was from the shear volume of sound. There wasn't much else going on. No boiling of his cerebellum, no overwhelming pain, nothing. Aside from his abused eardrums, it wasn't affecting him in any way.

The pair of them waved at Starling in confusion.

“Turn it off!” the man in black shouted, but his voice was washed out. He dropped his shoulders with a sigh, then hefted his club and advanced on the raving woman.

Starling's eyes went wide as he approached. She fumbled with the glowing device, turning every knob on it she could reach. The glow behind the skull brightened. Ripples ran through the warehouse's sheet metal roof, and its windows rattled in their frames. He struggled and brought the oscillator to her shoulder like a rifle, aimed down its length, and settled the now-twin-spotlight beams from the skull's eyes on the man in black's face. She smirked, then pressed one last button.

The psycho-acoustic oscillator exploded in Starling's hands. Flame washed over her, its orange claws digging into her dress and hair. The alien shriek cut out in an instant, leaving the warehouse hauntingly silent, save for Starling's screams. The man in black dropped his club and shrugged out of his trench coat then rushed to her. He threw the coat over her and swatted her until the flames went out. He looked up from the smoking woman to see Doctor Calhoun dragging himself across the floor, grunting and groaning with the effort.

“Not so fast, buddy,” the man in black grunted.

After a minute, the old doctor found himself trussed up next to his flash-friend assistant, her hair steaming and short a pair of eyebrows. She stayed silent, and bloody pissed, but the doctor wouldn't stop moaning about his back.

“You got bracelets enough for all of them?” Sinclair asked. The man in black held up a half-dozen sets of 'cuffs, silver and shiny.

“The only thing Mulholland's boys liked playing dress up at more than Nazis was cops,” he grunted. “Their costumes come with all the accessories.”

Sinclair helped him shackle the Legionnaires along with Suzanne, Harmony, and the yajirushi. When they were done and had all their ducks in a row, they sat down. The man in black pulled down his bandana and fished around in his pocket until he came up with a pack of smokes.

The man was older than he'd expected, gnarled and worn. He looked like he'd been through the wringer, over and over again. More than anything, he looked tired.

“Do you mind?” Sinclair asked. He'd given up the habit when he'd left Hollywood, but the mood was striking him now.

“Sure thing,” the man replied. Sinclair took a cigarette and watched the man struggle with a paper matchbook. He huge hands trembled and he fumbled with the tiny matches, growing more and more frustrated with each failed attempt to light one.

“Damn it,” he grunted. He tossed the book to Sinclair, who struck one on the first try. He lit the man's cigarette first, then his own. The man took and couple puffs, then said: “Thanks. Name's Malloy.”

Sinclair's posture snapped up a little straighter at the name. Malloy's eyebrows ticked upward. Of course Sinclair knew the name. Michael Malloy: one of the First Eleven, a legend of the Office. But Sinclair was also a Hollywood man. He knew how to avoid acting starstruck.

“A pleasure, sir,” he said.

“Hey I'm just glad I found you in time,” Malloy said.

“The oscillator didn't work,” Sinclair pointed out.

“But everyone's guns sure did,” Malloy said. “Besides, I only found you by accident.”

Sinclair inhaled so sharply that he coughed up smoke for the next couple minutes. When he was finally able to speak again, he gasped:

“You what?”

MONDAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER 10, 1934
FOURTH PRECINCT POLICE STATION
YBOR CITY, TAMPA, FLORIDA

“Holy hell, my back,” Mick grumbled as he shuffled out of his cell. “We got to do something about those cots.”

“Oh, you're worried about cons now,” Captain Cross said.

“I mean, getting locked up is the punishment, ain't it? Not torture.”

“You're lucky that door got unlocked at all,” Cross told him.

“Bob, you know I didn't lay a finger on that little shit,” Mick objected.

“No one was in there, Mick, and you getting rough questioning perps isn't exactly unprecedented.”

“Did you see what he did to the girl?” Mick demanded. He stopped in his tracks. Bob wasn't just letting him out of lock-up, he was leading him out the back door.

“I spoke to Rosemary,” Bob said quietly.

“And?”

“Keep walking, Mick,” Bob urged him. Mick stepped back and looked him up and down.

“What did you do?” he demanded.

“I saved your sorry rear,” Bob snapped. “Now walk.”

“I don't care who Lohmann's got on her side, her kid is a God damn animal,” Mick said. “He can't walk away from this.”

“You and I both know that boy wasn't ever seeing the inside of a cell,” Bob said.

“What he did - !” Mick tried, but the captain cut him off.

“The girl retracted her claims.”

The blood in flowing through Mickey's veins went ice cold and slowed to a crawl.

“The state attorney talked to her,” Bob explained. “It didn't take two minutes.”

“Let me talk to her,” Mick said.

“This was yesterday,” Bob told him. “She's long gone. I'd be shocked if she was still in the state.”

“Jesus,” Mick grunted. He looked around. No one was waiting for him. The captain was his only escort. “Where are you taking me?”

“We're going out the back,” Bob said. Mick realized with a start that the captain was not wearing his badge.

“What did you do?” he asked, almost whispering.

“I had to make a deal,” Bob said. “Lyle's mother has a lot of sway in this town, you know that. Her money builds prisons. She 'bout gets to pick who goes in 'em.”

“And who doesn't,” Mick said.

“Look, you and me know what Lyle did. Rosemary does, too. And now his mother does,” Bob said. “He ain't going to jail because you aren't going to jail. That was the deal.”

“I don't need you batting for me!” Mickey roared.

“Yes, Mick, you do,” Bob said. He barely flinched when the larger man yelled. He was used to Mick's moods. “You always have.”

“I'll go to lock-up if it mean that little shit doesn't walk, I don't care,” Mick said. “He can't walk.”

Bob suddenly looked pale.

“Has anyone talked to you since you went to the cell? The state attorney, Lyle's lawyers, Missus Lohmann?” Mick shook his head. Bob took a long breath, then said slowly: “Mick, you paralyzed the kid. He ain't ever going to walk again.”

“Jesus,” Mick muttered. “I'm not saying Lyle didn't have it coming, but I swear to you, I did not touch him.”

“I believe you, I do,” Bob said. “That's why I stood up for you.”

“You can't do that for me,” Mick said.

“It ain't up to you, it's done,” Bob told him. “They're taking your badge, they're putting a black mark in your jacket. You won't be able to work for any city, county, or state agency anywhere in Florida. Won't be able to get a carry permit, either. With a list like that, I got off easy.”

“You earned that badge,” Mick said.

“I was getting ready to retire,” Bob replied. “That'll wait, I guess.”

“They're going to take your pension? Don't do this, I'll take the hit.”

“Detective Malloy?” a woman called out.

Mick turned to find Lyla Lohmann herself standing at the end of the hall. She was done up in a blue-green dress, with feathers on the collar and her little hat. She was clutching her alligator bag and staring at him, her iron-gray hair done in waves. A little bespectacled man in a tan suit leaned in and whispered in her ear.

“Oh, of course, I apologize,” she said. Her voice was gentle, but raspy, and a wry smile never left her face. “Mister Malloy. Do you know me?”

“I do,” Mick said. Bob was whispering something but Mick didn't listen. He pushed past the captain and squared up with Lyla. His frame damn-near filled the breadth of the hallway. “You are the lady with all the land, money, and friends in the world who still managed to raise herself a rapist.”

Lyla took a quick breath, but her little smile never wavered.

“You have lost quite a bit today,” she said. “I can understand your frustration. But you most assuredly do not want to add to your troubles with a slander charge.”

“Ma'am, Mick said, “If you'd seen this girl...”

“You think I haven't seen them?” Lyla hissed through her teeth. “I have sent my son to psychotherapists, priests, and shamans. Cold water treatments, electro-shock, belts, morphine, whatever I could do to get him to stop. But it wasn't me that cured him, who made it so he could never hurt a woman again. That was you, Mister Malloy.”

“I did not - !” Mick tried, but she cut him off.

“The reason you are walking out of here and not snapped in half like my child is because you have ended my nightmare,” she said. “But, you have created another. Hurry home. The fire department might have put it out now.”

“The fire department?” Bob wondered aloud.

“If I hear one whisper of your spurious accusations against my poor, invalid child, from anyone, it will not be just the two of you who see their lives go up in flames,” she promised. “I have the time, the resources, and the desire to make your ruin spread through this miserable city like gonorrhea.”

“Lady - !” Mick objected. She wouldn't hear it.

“One word of this incident, Mister Malloy, to anyone, and you'll beg to be allowed back in that cell.”

With that, Lyla Lohmann marched away, leaving Mick and Bob alone in the hallway.

“What the hell?” Mick asked himself. He'd been threatened by the best of them, but that smile, he'd never seen anything like it. She had a certainty to her. Lyla Lohmann had shattered better men than him. She could grind him out as easily as a cigarette butt beneath her heel. She wouldn't even break a sweat cutting that check.

“Did she say she burned your house down?” Bob asked. “What about Candace?”

“Well, I figure the fire chief'll note my bad wiring,” Mickey sighed. His wife, wherever she was, wouldn't have to be disappointed in him, she couldn't handle any more of that. “And Candy left back in July, Bob. That house didn't have a thing in it.”

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, MAY 6, 1942
FULLER'S TEN TO TWO
FRENCH QUARTER, CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

“So how many trucks did they bring?” Mick asked over his third bourbon.

“I traveled on at least six,” Ifa replied. His second sweet tea was down to ice. “Mister Pharaoh referred to several additional convoys, however.”

“That's a hell of an operation,” Mick mused.

“They knew what they were doing,” Ifa said. “Every evacuation stayed well ahead of the police. They knew which routes were safe, who would accept a bribe, when to move. The police came with dogs, guns drawn, water cannons, but they found no one. Their frustration burned a few houses, but the Bank offered recompense.”

“I can't believe I never ran up on these characters, moving whole towns in the sly,” Mick said. “This Pharaoh guy, you said he was the...”

“Chief Security Officer,” Ifa reminded him. “I believe he uses a pseudonym. He is military minded, confident, and radical. No one questioned his orders, and he knew they would not.”

“That's mighty formal,” Mick said. “And they were all...”

“Black, to a man,” Ifa said. “Though whenever they encountered whites, they were treated with great deference. Some via greed, the rest through fear.”

“Sounds like Agrarian Mutual Bank might need some looking into,” Mick mused. He drained his drink.

“The only actions I witnessed were non-violent, on behalf of oppressed and exploited people,” Ifa objected. “I have worked with guerrilla tacticians before, Mister Malloy. I have no doubt that if his hand were forced by the police, Mister Pharaoh would not have shied away from confrontation.”

“Exactly,” Mick said. “We can't have an organized force running around behind our backs Folks like that need to man the lines shoulder-to-shoulder with us. The krauts'll exploit any division they can.”

“Bloody hell, you yanks keep it complicated on this side of the pond,” Sinclair groaned. He had ordered a cold pop and kept the sweating glass pressed against his swollen eye.

“Okay pal, don't make me start listing off all your unions of fascists, communist agitators, and die-hard monarchists,” Mick pointed.

“I could match you one-for-one there, mate,” Sinclair retorted.

“”Cept for the monarchists, maybe,” Mick said.

“You got me there,” Sinclair said. Mick held up his glass to clink the Brit's but to his horror found it empty.

“Bobby!”

The underage bartender-concierge-line cook scampered over with a ready tumbler of rye in one hand and a sweating sweet tea in the other.

“Here you go, Agent Malloy, Doctor Abebe,” he piped.

“Thank you, Bobby,” Ifa said.

“Yeah, thanks, pal,” Mick added.

“Anything to do my part,” Bobby replied with a smile. He turned on his heel and marched back to the kitchen.

“No salute?” Sinclair said.

“Ah, we'll get him there,” Mickey chucked.

“So you lads were sent after me, huh?” Sinclair asked.

“Well, it would have been easy but what they did was put you in a box,” Mick said.

“Ah yes, of course, that old Nazi ruse,” Sinclair ruminated. “You never think to look in a box.”

“The crew and an Office boarding team searched that ship top to bottom,” Mick assured him.

“I know, I know,” Sinclair said. He set his drink down. His face looked half-mashed. It would get better, but it would take some time. Luckily, he'd never been a leading man. “It is dangerous, deadly perhaps, to ever think the enemy is any less able and determined than we are. The Abwehr does not recruit fools.”

“No, they recruit fiends,” Mick said. “Their leader, the one you called 'Mary Beth,' the Legion knew her as 'Schmidt.' We have an actual I.D. on her yet?”

“She refused to speak to me before Keaton took her away,” Sinclair said.

“They'll have a lot of time to ask her now,” Mick said.

“Everyone's going to have a lot of talking to do,” Sinclair said. “The mercenaries chirped like a flock of wrens, though the Acerbos sought legal council immediately.”

“Our boys work fast, and Klavin doesn't play. He hit this city like a freight train,” Mick said. “He had the bridges, trains, buses, and docks all shut down before we had Calhoun cuffed. He ruffled a few local feathers, but he got the job done.”

“Seems we have the decryption department to thank again,” Ifa said. “They alerted your bureau to the larger-than-expected enemy presence.”

“They're doing a great job up there,” Mick agreed. “I especially like the press release they sent with Klavin. Wrapped up everything with a neat little bow. No Nazis, no homegrown traitors, no Japanese spies, just a couple insane killer perverts who offed themselves and burned all their files rather than be arrested. Maybe this city won't go nuts after all.”

“Perhaps it already is,” Ifa said.

“Treason and murder,” Sinclair said. “I believe they use 'Old Sparky' in this part of your country,” Sinclair said.

“That they do,” Mick said. “Sounds like they're going straight to Hell. What about you boys?”

“I've been ordered to the hospital at Camp X for observation,” Sinclair said. “They'll put me through my paces, then I plan on getting back in the field. I had been developing relationships with Parisian partisans before all this mess. A lively bunch. Alas, Chiron's been trying to recruit me to teach an infiltration course at the school, so I am concerned that he will not allow me to leave, regardless of my prognosis.”

“Pal, from the sound of it you bullshitted three first-class bullshitters in close quarters for days. They could find worse for the rookies,” Mick said. “How about you, doc?”

“I am unsure,” Ifa replied. “I have been requested by the Western European bureau to examine documents recovered from a possible Department Three defector. The Curator General had also sent for me to come to Calparock Manor and determine the veracity of the journal of someone called the Reichsündenträger.”

“The Reich's sin-eater?” Sinclair translated, unsure how the words fit together.

“And I thought 'forensic entomologist' was a mouthful,” Mick said.

“'Forensic etymologist,'” Ifa said.

“What did I say?” Mick asked.

“An 'entomologist' studies insects and other arthropods,” Ifa replied.

“Bugs? Jesus,” Mick said. A shiver scuttled its way up his spine. He almost gagged at the thought of creepy-crawlies. “Can you imagine?”

The front door creaked and the three officials turned to find Regional Inspector Wailey Earp approaching. He was thin but strong, with a Colt 1911 strapped to his hip in a quick-draw holster. His gray hair was longer than Mick had last seen, and his chin was frosted with stubble.

“Gentlemen,” he said. He'd been up all night, first coordinating the logistics of freezing a whole city in place, then processing the prisoners Mick and Sinclair had come by. He snatched a chair from another table and hauled it over between Mick and Ifa.

“Hey there, boss,” Mick said. “We were wondering, when are our two malpractitioners getting the chair?”

“First of all, summary execution is what our enemies do, not us. Calhoun and Starling are getting locked up alongside the Nazis and the rest,” Earp said.

“Summary imprisonment is not much of an improvement,” Ifa pointed out.

“You advocating for those two?” Mick asked.

“Of course not, but it is a treacherous path. I have just been on the run with entire towns worth of people under threat from the lawful authorities simply because they resemble what a prejudiced police force wrongly thought a killer looks like,” Ifa said. “In these last two days, people lost their homes, their businesses, their livelihoods and health were put at risk. They live in fear every day because they know that this could happen any time, for any reason, and their oppressors will face no repercussions. I fought in open, bloody warfare against Italians for similar transgressions.”

“This ain't Ethiopia,” Mick said.

“No, in Ethiopia the Italians learned their lesson,” Ifa said. He took a sip of tea to break up his thoughts and catch a breath. “But your arrival did help, inspector. The police withdrew from the islands immediately upon hearing of Calhoun's 'death.' They left without offering apologies, confident their acts of terror had been the right action.”

“Calhoun used that as sure as any weapon,” Mick pointed out.

“He doesn't have the chair waiting for him, I'll tell you that much,” Earp said. “We need to learn how his network is set up. How'd some private practitioner end up with a Nazi's phone number.”

“Ask the dame,” Mick said. “He made the gizmo, but she made the sale.”

“Noted,” Earp said.

“There is one thing I'm wondering,” Sinclair said.

“What's that?” Mick asked.

“So Ifa's here to interpret any HYDRA intercepts on the fly,” Sinclair said.

“Yes,” Ifa replied.

“And you're here to find Mulholland Grace.”

“Right again,” Mick said.

“But you couldn't sniff out Grace and HYDRA never detected anything new,” Sinclair said.

“Sounds correct.”

“So instead, you boys get bored and start tracking down a serial killer from, what was it, illustrations in a comic book?” Sinclair asked. Mick and Ifa looked and each other, then sipped their drinks in unison. Sinclair shook his head, saying: “Okay, a couple jokers here.”

“Is that right?” Earp asked.

“Well, you see, all local intel was getting washed out by this Head Hunter garbage, and I wasn't getting any leads from HYDRA. Or Baltimore,” Mick pointed out.

“And it was not a comic book, it was a novel,” Ifa clarified.

“Yeah, I figured Calhoun read it as a kid, then came across it again when he was a prisoner in Austria during the last war. It must've stuck in his craw. He used the symbols because they were just weird enough to spook the locals,” Mick added.

“But you found him 'cause...” Sinclair prodded.

“Soles on the sidewalk,” Mick declared.

“Asking around led you to a family doctor who moonlighted in selling experimental weapons to Nazis?” Earp wondered.

“I was chasing a theory,” Mick grumbled.

“Which was?” Earp asked.

“I ran across a few strange characters...” Mick offered.

“The operating theory was that a prominent Lothario was eliminating the love children he made with his rich married mistresses twenty years ago in order to no lose donors for his future acting school.”

“Okay, it sounds crazy when you just say it out loud,” Mick objected.

The four men had a good laugh about that.

“Whatever your theory, Mick, you clung to it like a terrier and followed it wherever it led,” Earp said. “You may have a weird brain, but you got good instincts. Final tally was Sinclair here found alive, plus your two murderers, three Silver Legionnaires, three Abwehr agents, and one yajirushi headed to the Grave. That's our first Black Dragon captured alive in the last sixteen months.”

“Here, here,” Sinclair said. He lifted his glass. Ifa and Mick returned the gesture, only to discover that Earp's hand was empty.

“Bobby!” Mick shouted. The little line cook's head popped up like a gopher's. “Get this man a beer!”

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Copyright © 2023 Daniel Baldwin. All rights reserved.

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