The Billy Club Bastard Case Files: The Case of the Smiling Smuggler, Part 2 of 5
The Billy Club Bastard Case Files: The Case of the Smiling Smuggler, Part 2 of 5
This week, during your Mickey Malloy Monday, Mick goes looking for trouble and is somehow shocked when he finds it. Hot on the trail of a bootlegger with a secret, he stumbles upon something far bigger than he thought a town like Tampa could hide.
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.
If you haven’t read Part 1 yet, check it out now!
Content Warnings: Death, Mild Swearing, Alcohol Use, Creeps
MONDAY AFTERNOON, JUNE 23, 1941
SAINT BARTHOLOMEW'S GENERAL HOSPITAL
HYDE PARK, TAMPA, FLORIDA
“Mickey the Mug, did you bathe in bourbon today or just use it to brush your teeth?” officer Fred Haugen chuckled. He pushed himself up from his leaning post at the nurse's station, much to the young ladies' relief, and ambled on over to Mick, hand outstretched. Mick took it, despite the ribbing. With the chatty guard distracted, the nurses slipped away to do their rounds, or at least to be elsewhere.
“You know how it is, got to the back of the pantry and that's all there was left for breakfast.”
“I don't think it counts when that's all you started with,” Haugen said. He adjusted his gun belt and looked around. It wouldn't do to be caught jack-jawing with a disgraced detective in what was supposed to be the hospital's secure wing. “What brings you down here? Feeling nostalgic for shit-canned punks who got what's coming?”
“I just wanted to see which broke down blue hair got saddled with baby-sitting duty today.”
“Micky the Mug don't coming sniffing around for curiosity. There's a buck on the line here.”
“You got it. Caught me an adultery case and one of these gentlemen is some kind of lothario,” Mickey lied.
“You may have been a good cop, Mick, but you're a crap liar,” Haugen said. “Who are you looking for?”
Mickey had to think fast to make up a more believable lie. He knew his reputation around the station. No need to remake the wheel.
“Name's French. He owes me a bundle off the bolito rack. Took to staying indoors once he heard I meant to collect.”
“I knew it had to be something like that,” Haugen chuckled. He ran a hand through his gray hair. Mick was a couple years younger than Haugen, so his was still graying. It was in some strange transitional period where he wasn't sure how it was going to end up. Sometimes he envied the guys who'd just woke up one day and were who they were. Mick was caught in the middle.
“Want to let me see him, for old times' sake?”
“I'm glad you didn't say 'the good old days,' 'cause there weren't many of those,” Haugen said. He'd been on the force since before Mickey'd joined up, and he'd outlasted him, too. Those years had been the lean times, the bootlegger and heroin years, the riot years and the shanty town years.
“The man's a scumbag, let me put the fear of God in him,” Mick urged. “He coughs up any dough, I'll owe you a beer.”
“Last bed on the right, by the window,” Haugen said. “Hold back a minute, though, the doc's in there.”
“I hear you,” Mick said.
The two stood silent for a moment, examining the floor polish.
“Don't do me any favors on that beer,” Haugen eventually said.
“How's that?” Mick asked.
“I can't be going out with you,” Haugen told him. “It don't look good. You get what you need out of French, you can buy me a pop on your way out.”
Mick understood, but it still stung. Everyone behind a badge knew Mick had gotten a bum rap. Everyone. But bum or not, a rap it was.
“Be quick when you're in there, and keep your hands to yourself. They documented everything the Bastard did to him. Any wayward bruises are going to get people talking. And, if these suits from Tallahassee are on schedule, you got to be in the wind in the next ten minutes.”
“What does Tallahassee want with these guys?” he asked.
“Couldn't tell ya, Mick. An interstate boot-legging rap, maybe. You got to beat it before they get here.”
“Got it.”
It was another minute before they heard a knock against the door to the secure ward. Haugen ambled over and unlocked it. A slender man in a white coat and paper surgical mask slipped out and paused at the sight of the two old men waiting for him. He had immaculately sculpted brown hair and his eyes were crinkled up like he was happy to see them. Mick didn't recognize him.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “Those boys have been through quite an ordeal at the hands of that deviant. They'll need as much bed rest as they can get.”
Mick couldn't quite place the accent. Midwest, maybe.
“I don't think I caught your name, doc,” he said.
“I shouldn't think you did,” the doctor replied. He examined Mick once more, his blue eyes predatory. Mickey's spine tightened.
“As I said, please allow these boys the next few hours to sleep,” the doctor reiterated.
“Sure thing, doc,” Haugen interjected. He locked the door back up.
“If anything comes up, do not hesitate to find me, or to alert the nurses,” the doctor added.
“Of course,” Haugen replied.
The doctor threw his stethoscope over his shoulder and straightened his clip board. He eyeballed Mick, who had yet to do anything but glower.
“Very well, our patients' next check-in is...” he paused to examine the top page of his notes, “In four hours. Can I bring you anything when I come back? A paper, a coffee?”
“A cup of joe would be great, thanks,” Haugen said.
“And you, sir?” the doctor asked Mick.
“He was just leaving,” Haugen injected. “But thank you.”
“Not a problem. See you soon,” the doctor said, and headed back to Saint Bart's main wing. Mick watched him go.
“I don't recognize that one,” Mick whispered. It had been a while since the ward for hospitalized suspects had been his stomping grounds, but still. It seemed like they could at least keep sending him the newsletter, he'd put enough bodies in these beds.
“All the nuns retired last year, so they got a whole new crew in here,” Haugen explained. “The head doc's got a new face every time.”
“Yeah, yeah, things change,” Mick grumbled. He watched the doctor shove open the doors at the end of the hall. The man pulled off his paper mask and crumpled it, then turned to get a last look back.
“Gee-sus,” Mick muttered. He thought he had a mug.
The doctor stared for just a second, but his face almost knocked Mick on his ass. His mouth was twisted up in the most morbid jack-o-lantern grin he'd ever seen, pushing his cheeks up and back until his gums, his goddamn molars, were visible on each side. The doors closed and the doctor was gone.
“What?” Haugen asked.
“Nothing,” Mick grunted. He'd done some weird stuff himself when he knew he had eyes on him, but that smile was downright unsettling. It took him a second to shake it.
“You going in or what? We're on the clock.”
“I got it, I got it,” Mick said.
“You hear me knock, you get out of there,” Haugen told him.
“I got it, I said.”
“Okay,” Haugen said. He fished the key back out of his pocket and unlocked the door. Mickey went in and Haugen locked it behind him.
The ward was laid out just like Mickey remembered, a dozen beds, two unoccupied, all in a row, all separated by thin curtains. Mick bypassed the rows of groaning, grumbling gangsters and went to the very last bed on the right. It was occupied by a thin man with a mouthful of wires. The right half of his was face the color of an eggplant left on the vine too long. ‘French’ was asleep, whimpering under his thin sheet. A sweating water pitcher and glass had been left out on his side table, but his closer hand was 'cuffed to the bedrail, so it was more for show than for sipping.
Mick took a deep breath and exhaled slowly as he twitched his good hand into a fist. His joints were swollen and sore and objected to the activity. His breath shuddered, but he got his mitt how he wanted it. If 'French' here started wailing, Mick'd need to shut him up in a hurry. When his hands put up that might of a fight just to work right, Mick wanted to be ready. Once he was sure he had a good, solid fist capable of turning the imposter's face symmetrical, he removed his beat-up fedora and hung it on a bed knob.
“Hey,” he whispered. The man didn't respond. “Hey, dipstick, I'm talking to you.”
The man came to with a start, wincing. Mick grabbed the sweating glass pitcher and slid it away from the man's free hand.
“Hoo-ar-oo?” he asked through his wires. The water rippling in the pitcher caught his eye. What parts of his lips weren't swollen and purple were chapped and dry.
“A concerned citizen,” Mick grunted. “Now your turn, and let's skip the bullshit. Who are you?”
“Biew Fwensh,” the man blubbered. He looked around, but he could only see Mick. Mick played his part, rubbing his knuckles and glowering. If there was one thing he was better at than most, it was glowering.
“Now, you see, there's the problem. I know old Bill, and he knows me. Bill knows not to jerk me around. You trying to jerk me around?”
Mick grabbed the bed's rail so hard that the entire thing creaked. The man's eyes went wide. He had been through a lot in that past day or so, and he wasn't interested in any more. Mick watched his resolve melt like spilled soft serve on an August sidewalk.
“Wah-wee Shan-duss,” he attempted.
“This is not going to work,” Mick grunted. He patted down his pockets and found his little notepad and pencil. He flipped it to a blank page, asking:
“You write?”
The man nodded, but the motion cricked something in his neck because he winced again and teared up.
Mick put the notepad by his cuffed right hand and handed him the pencil. It was a bad angle with no leverage, but the man managed to scrawl something. Mick had his readers ready and peered at the pad.
“Wally Sanders, from Memphis. Well Wally Sanders, from Memphis, you here on a job?”
Wally nodded, gentler this time.
“And where is Bill?”
Wally pointed to the note, then rattled the handcuffs on his wrist.
“Locked up. In Memphis.”
Wally nodded, eliciting another groan.
“You a friend of his then?”
Wally nodded as enthusiastically as he could.
“This job what got him locked up?”
Wally hesitated before he shrugged. Could be.
“What'd you run for him?”
Wally shrugged again. His eyes darted to the water just out of his reach.
“Why'd you pretend to be him?”
Wally rubbed his fingers together. Cash.
“Thirsty, huh?”
Wally eyeballed the water again. Mick smirked, then poured him a tall, cool glass. He made as if to hand it to him, then pulled it back.
“Who were you delivering to, these guys?” he asked, nodding to the other beds.
Wally shook his head.
“Mih-do-meh,” he groaned.
“Middlemen, got it,” Mick said. Brook Street wasn't good at much, but they had connections with rum runners and destilerías that sold untaxed hooch around the Gulf. If he needed to get something to Mexico quick, Brook Street would be a good choice to line that up.
“Why'd you have to keep up the act? Delivery's a delivery,” Mick wondered.
“E'd fuh-in guh meh,” Wally said. He mimed dragging a blade across his stomach.
“Bill'd what? Gut you?” Mick asked.
A knock interrupted Wally as he was shaking his head.
“Mick, Tallahassee's here, time's up,” Haugen grunted from the door.
“Hold on a second,” Mick tried, but Haugen had already huffed his way across the ward and grabbed Mickey's arm to drag him out.
“Way!” Wally objected. The effort almost brought him to tears. “Wah-ah, peas.”
Mickey twisted out of Haugen's grip to scoop up the glass and hand it to Wally. Wally slurped it down like he'd just crawled out of the Sahara. Half of it ended up on his chest, but he didn't care.
“Who'd gut you?” Mick asked. Haugen grabbed his collar and hauled him toward the door.
Wally shook his head. He was too afraid to say more.
“Tell me!” Mick roared. Every man in the ward that could jumped up in their bed. Wally's eyes were red and he began to tremble.
“Smi-leh mah,” he called out.
“What?” Mick said. He ripped himself away from Haugen again and shoved the old cop away.
“Mickey! You get caught in here, it's my ass!” Haugen barked. Mick almost said something back, but pushed that instinct down. Haugen had already helped him more than he deserved.
“Sorry, Fred,” he said.
“It's okay, but your debt ain't worth the trouble state agents would stir up on me,” Haugen replied. “Get out of here.”
Behind them, glass shattered.
“What did you do, Mick?” Haugen demanded.
Mick rushed to Wally's side. His glass was on the floor, broken. Wally was still and froth was bubbling out of his mouth.
Haugen checked his pulse.
“God damn it, he's dead,” he swore.
Mick sniffed the water pitcher. The fumes coming off it were noxious and astringent. Wally'd been poisoned, and Mick had handed it to him. He looked around. Every man in there had a glass beaded with condensation sitting on their side table.
“Shit,” Mick whispered. He was re-hearing Wally's last words in his head.
Smi-leh mah.
Smiling Man.
Mick rushed past Haugen and stuck his head out into the hallway. The grinning doctor was long gone.
“Shit!” Mick shouted. He'd been standing feet from a killer who'd meant to off ten men.
What had he gotten himself into?
“I don't know what you're into, Malloy, but get the hell out of here, now,” Haugen snapped.
“They all have waters,” Mick told him.
“I'll take care of it,” Haugen grunted. He shoved Mick the rest of the way out of the ward and locked the door behind him.
Mick tried to say something, but Haugen cut him off.
“Go. Now. And pay me back for this by never seeing me again.”
Haugen didn't let him talk.
“Out the back.”
Mick gathered himself and left. He didn't look back. He had no idea what Haugen would tell the folks from the capital, but whatever it was would have to jive with what the nine men cuffed in the room with a dead Wally Sanders would say.
He took the familiar turns down the hallways, walking the long way around to his car.
Three men turned a corner before him. They had all the markings of feds. The one in the middle was a thin guy a couple years older than Mick, with close-cropped silver hair and a quickdraw holster on his hip. The automatic he carried was gleaming chrome with a pearl grip, expertly cleaned but well-worn. He was carrying his jacket folded over his arm and had loosened his tie. Florida heat was murder on out-of-towners. Mickey knew at a glance that these gents weren't with the state police.
The pair flanking him could have been twins. They were both solidly-built blonde men awkwardly stuffed into gray wool suits. Definitely not Floridians. They walked with a hitch in their step that Mick knew meant they were packing heat, too.
Mick hugged the right wall and kept walking. He suddenly found the pattern in the floor tiles very interesting. The trio passed by. Mick could smell menthol cigarettes and gun smoke wafting behind them. He got about ten paces further before one of them called out:
“Hey, pal.”
Mick stopped and turned to see all three of them looking at him.
“What?” Mick asked.
“Do I know you from somewhere?” the older of the three asked.
“Don't think so,” Mick grunted. He peered at the three for a second, but no memories found themselves jogged. He'd worked with plenty of investigators from the state, and feds for that matter, before, but none of these ones, if that's even who they were. He turned to leave, but the man spoke up again.
“Yeah, don't I know you from Jacksonville?” he asked.
“Jacksonville?” Mick said. “Haven't been there in years.”
He really hadn't, but what he did remember was a blur. He'd been on a bolito streak that week and came to in his office chair three days later and two hundred miles away.
“Fair enough,” the man said. The two other men nodded to him, like they'd confirmed something between them. The gray-haired man smiled and said: “Have a good one.”
Mick turned and hustled his way to the door in the most inconspicuous manner possible. He didn't look back to see if the three feds were watching him go.
SUNDAY EVENING, JUNE 22, 1941
PELICAN DRY CLEANERS
YBOR CITY, TAMPA, FLORIDA
The locals had not been especially welcoming. Wally'd done everything he was supposed to, said the code words, did the knock on the door, introduced himself as Bill, but they hadn't so much as shaken his hand, much less offered him a name, a drink, a smoke, or a seat. They'd helped him unload his truck, then they'd stepped back, waiting and watching.
Wally nearly drifted off where he stood, propped up against the back wall of the dry cleaners' back room. The men who'd received the cargo stole glances at him and it. They'd left it stacked on a bare spot on the concrete floor, away from the large grate that collected the steamers' condensation run-off. The only sounds in the place were the humming of the women working the steam presses, the hissing as they worked, and the whispers of the men he'd come to see. He noticed that one of them always lingered close by, within stabbing distance. It would be two hours before their contact arrived.
One guy, a weaselly goon in a cheap suit, eventually came in and announced that the client had showed. Wally's spine went rigid. He began eyeballing the nearest escape routes. The little windows at the top of the wall were two narrow and too high, the drainage grate in the middle of the floor looked like it weighed a hundred pounds. There were heavies between him and every door. Everything French had told him about the client rushed back at once.
Wally was frozen in the place when the client and his entourage came in the side door. The trio was decked out in long trench coats and low fedoras. They was no way they were locals, they had to be cooking in those get-ups. The client stepped forward and shrugged out of his long coat and removed his hat. He looked up at the circle of gangsters. Although his gaze never paused on Wally, when it passed over him he nearly pissed in his slacks.
“Gentlemen,” he said through a smile so wide that he should've split his lips, “Thank you for the warm welcome.”
“No problem,” the rodent-like Brook Street boss said. “You boys need anything? Musta been a long drive.”
“No, thank you. We prefer to see the cargo,” the Smiling Man replied.
“You're welcome to it,” the boss said, standing aside.
“Thank you,” the Smiling Man said. His expression never wavered. His cheeks were pressed so far back that they were piled next to his eyes, and he had to squint through a murder of crow's feet. Wally could count his molars from where he stood by the wall. No matter what the man was saying, his expression never changed. His contorted face was frozen in place.
He rolled up his sleeves and approached the three-high stack of crates like it was some ancient altar. Each one was about a yard long and foot deep. If Wally hadn't had to help lift them, he would've sworn they were dog coffins. He had no idea what was in there, but it was heavy enough that his back still ached, even after getting help to unload them.
The Smiling Man's grin remained. He unsheathed a long blade from the small of his back, a skinning knife, and began to pry at the top crate's lid. Its edge looked so sharp that Wally swore he heard air whistling across it. He imagined that his stomach wouldn't put up too much of a fight if the Smiling Man had an idea to dig around in him with it.
Wally had an itch in his in the back of his mouth like there was a rat trying to scuttle its way past his tongue, but he didn't dare clear his throat. He'd tried his best to stay silent and invisible. He hoped the Smiling Man's attention would stay on the cargo and he'd be able to slip out, but good luck was not something Wally'd kept stockpiled lately.
The lid quickly gave and the Smiling Man slid it aside. He kept grinning as he pawed through the packing straw. Despite his desire to remain innocuous, Wally stood on his toes to see what was inside.
The crate carried two cube-shaped containers made from dull, soft metal. 'U.S. ARMY' and 'U-235' were clearly stamped into their lids. Wally's breath caught up in his chest and suddenly he couldn't breathe. He'd helped steal something from the damn Army. If he walked out of here with his guts still in his body, he'd still be eligible for the noose as a traitor.
The Smiling Man sheathed his knife and opened one of the cubes. Its top was so heavy that he needed both hands to lift it. Inside, Wally could see that the cubes were six inches of solid metal in every direction, all cupped around a gray metal ball.
“Eddie,” the Smiling Man beckoned. One of his two goons stepped up and opened his long coat. He had some kind of mechanism strapped to his chest. Wally'd never seen anything like it outside the pictures. It was a Buck Rogers device with meters and dials and a pistol-gripped handheld piece connected by a long cable. Eddie flipped a switch on its face and it emitted a loud whine. He held out the hand piece over the sphere and suddenly the whine was replaced by a loud crackling, like someone was crumpling tin foil next to a bullhorn.
“Eddie?” the Smiling Man asked. Eddie listened to the crackle and examined the jumping dials for one long, tense moment. Wally wasn't sure what he was measuring, but he knew he'd be the first one the questions came at if something was off.
“Perfect,” Eddie said with a long exhalation. Whatever those dials were showing him, they excited him. His grin was almost as wide as the Smiling Man's. He replaced the heavy cover and opened up the second cube.
They repeated the process with the second cube. The metal ball inside was identical to the first and elicited the same response from Eddie's device.
“Dick,” the Smiling Man said, and his second thug stepped up. Together, Dick and Eddie lifted the top crate and set it on the ground. They barely made a sound. It seemed like they were moving slow because they were careful, not only because the crate was back-breakingly heavy. When Dick stepped back, his coat slipped open, revealing a flash of gunmetal. He was packing heat, and it wasn't some pistol or shotgun either. He was loaded for war.
Eddie, Dick, and the Smiling Man spent the next twenty minutes examining the other pair of crates. They each contained identical metal cubes, and each cube had another ball in it. Once the final cube had made Eddie's device jump and crackle, the Smiling Man was satisfied.
“Excellent work,” he said. Even with legitimate relief and delight in his voice, his smile was too much. It was mask-like, inhuman. Wally shuddered. The Brook Street boss smirked, showing off narrow buck teeth.
“Where do you want us to stash these?” he asked.
“My men and I will secure the cargo overnight,” the Smiling Man answered. “We will meet your boat with it tomorrow.”
“No skin off my neck,” the boss replied. “I got us warehouse eight down at the commercial docks. The security guard at the gates owes me a favor. Just mention 'Missy' when you get there. He'll blush, but he won't give you any guff.”
The Brook Street Gang chuckled a little at the mention of the dame's name.
“Twelve o'clock?” the Smiling Man asked. Despite his grin, he sounded annoyed at the gang's flippancy.
“Yes, sir, midnight. Our guy is never late,” the boss assured him.
“Good, we will see you then. Make sure everyone is present, this will be a very sensitive exchange and we prefer not to be interrupted.”
“That deal still works for me,” the boss said. “Although we haven't taken care of every detail yet.”
“Ah, yes,” the client said. “Dick.”
The thug opened his coat, showing off his Tommy gun. The drum magazine was just like the ones mobsters in the movies used. It had a huge can attached over its muzzle, making it look even longer and more dangerous. Wally held his breath, only to release it when he realized Dick wasn't drawing down. Instead of the gun, he pulled out two thick envelopes. The Smiling Man took them. He pocketed one and handed the other over to the boss.
“Half for securing the package, the other half upon departure, for travel arrangements and security,” he said.
“Like we agreed,” the boss said. The boss took a sheaf of bills out of the envelope and ambled over the Wally. He stared at him the whole way, looking through him. Wally took the cash as the boss said: “Good work, Bill. Stick around, we might have more work for you.”
“Thanks,” Wally managed to say. He didn't even count the money, he knew it was more than he'd ever held at once, and quickly pocketed it, hoping no one noticed his hands shaking.
“Time to move out,” the Smiling Man said. He stood stock still while Eddie and Dick picked up each box and carried them out. Wally couldn't even see him breathing. When the third crate was gone he came back to life, as if thawed from a deep freeze.
“We'll conclude this business tomorrow evening, then,” he said. His smile was so wide it looked like he could bite the head off a cat without trying. “Remember, on time is late. Thank you for your help with this matter.”
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Copyright © 2022 Daniel Baldwin. All rights reserved.
Written and edited by Daniel Baldwin. Art by Tyrelle Smith.