The Billy Club Bastard Case Files: The Case of the Smiling Smuggler, Part 4 of 5

This week, Mickey Malloy Monday reveals the terrifying true nature of the Smiling Man. Then, we see how the temptation of one easy score led to tragedy for Wally Sanders.

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 this is your first Case of the Smiling Smuggler story, go back and check out Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3 before reading further.

Content Warnings: Violence, Gun Violence, Mild Swearing, Alcohol Use, Nazis

MONDAY NIGHT, JUNE 23, 1941
WAREHOUSE EIGHT
THE COMMERCIAL PORT, TAMPA, FLORIDA

Mickey found infiltrating the port disturbingly simple. He snipped a fence here, dodged a guard station there, and did more than his share of crawling. He was a large man in his fifties, dressed in padded clothing like he was going to shovel snow, with aching joints and swollen knees, dragging a chair leg and a bad attitude while three bourbons deep. By the time he found warehouse eight, he felt like he'd been run through a paper mill. Still, no one had stopped him. It was no wonder amateurs like Brook Street could make a full time living moving booze and gear through this place.

As far as Mick could tell, the warehouse was unoccupied except for him and the rats. Mickey jimmied a side door open and stepped inside. It wasn't anything special, just a commercial warehouse stacked with crates. He didn't seen anything marked hazardous or flammable. The long building had large rolling doors at both ends, one where trucks could pull up, the other giving the porters access to the pier.

Mick figured that he'd have people coming in from both ends. The warehouse was long and narrow, and the crates were stacked in neat rows. It reminded him of the trenches; once a raider got in, all it would take was a little buckshot to sweep everyone up. He wouldn't be safe on the ground.

The crates were stacked up to the roof, so Mick clambered up them like a puppy climbing a staircase. He hauled himself into the rafters up next to the ceiling, batting aside cobwebs as he made his way into the darkest corner he could find. He clung to the joists like a monkey and flipped open the cover on his wristwatch. Its radium face glowed gently and its hands moved far too slow. The throb in his knees had worked its way into his whole body long before it was anywhere close to midnight.

The Smiling Man showing up was almost a relief.

Headlights traced their way through the warehouse at quarter 'til. Mick let out a stuttering breath. Finally. He'd been crammed into this corner for too long, every muscle and joint was on fire. The lights switched off and the engine cut out. Mick readied himself, flexing different muscle groups to get stagnant blood flowing.

Three car doors opened and closed. The big rolling door beneath Mick rattled open just high enough for a man to duck under. He wore a long coat and a hat pulled so low that Mick couldn't see his face. The man quickly cleared the aisles between the crates. He was satisfied after a moment and disappeared back out the door.

Another pair of men shuffled in, grunting as they carried a long wooden crate between them. They navigated the narrow central aisle and set it down in the middle of the warehouse. They went back and returned with identical loads twice more. The point man shut the roll-down door behind them after the third crate and joined them inside. The trio whispered for a few seconds then made their way to the dockside door and peered out the windows.

It was another ten minutes before they did anything else. A light blinked out on the water, far out there, prompting one to remove a large flashlight from his inner jacket pocket. He pressed the flashlight up against a window and blinked back at it.

Mick barely breathed. All it would take was one unsettled speck of dust to get the men suspicious. Between the flashlight and whatever irons these jokers were packing, he'd be lunch meat.

The boat took another ten minutes to pull up to the pier. The Wandering Egret was running dark, cutting the tide slowly and methodically. It was a small thing, an up-engined fishing scow good for maybe six or eight men, riding high in the surf. It was made to haul heavy loads discretely, tequila and rum by the barrel or case, but was running empty, ready to take on passengers and their cargo. Three crewmen were visible on deck, ready with ropes and calling back instructions to the helmsman in Spanish. They finally docked, barely brushing the bumpers.

Once the Egret was tied off, the three men in the warehouse hauled the loading door open. They walked slowly to meet the crew, hands out wide to their sides. The boat's captain stayed still, watching them hesitantly. Mick couldn't be sure he was the captain, but he did have the hat.

The lead man peeled back his fedora and greeted them in Spanish. Mick could see his face in the moonlight. That eerie grin was there, still splitting the space between his chin and his nose like a twisted wound with teeth.

The Smiling Man held out a hand and helped haul a couple of the crewmen up and onto the pier. They talked back and forth for a moment, no doubt laying out some explanation as to where the Brook Street boys were. The Egret was Brook Street's contact, so them being missing could be a sticking point. The Smiling Man handed the captain an envelope. The captain seemed to hesitate, so another envelope joined the first. This cured whatever reticence remained, and his men went to work.

Between the Egret's crew and the Smiling Man's goons, they got the first two long crates down the dock without incident. The humid night broke a sheen of sweat over every man out there. When the Egret crew went back for the last box, the weight was too much. The rope handle on one end snapped, loud as a gunshot. They jumped and dropped it at the same time, and it shattered against the concrete floor.

An avalanche of packing straw cascaded out, revealing two metal boxes inside. One settled where it landed, but the other tumbled. Its lid slipped off and clattered against the floor, ringing like a manhole cover. A small ball thunked on the concrete from inside and began to roll.

The Smiling Man shouted at the crew, who scrambled after it. One quickly chased it down and scooped it up. He held it above his head like he'd just reached over the fence to deny a grand slam.

They struggled to get the metal box upright so valiantly that it made Mickey think that it couldn't be anything other than solid lead. The ball fit perfectly into a little scooped-out cradle within, and the man who'd caught it grunted as he picked up its lid and set it back on top.

With the crate in pieces, the crewmen had no choice but to barehand it. They heaved and wheezed and lifted the lead boxes, clutching them and shuffling down the pier under the burden. The Smiling Man and his goons helped them lower them down to the Egret, where they were quickly squirreled away. The crewmen gasped and laughed after having that weight taken off of them.

The Smiling Man leaned over and whispered to one of his men. He opened his jacket to reveal an electronic panel strapped to his chest. Mickey didn't know a thing about that kind of stuff, but he watched as the dials on its glowed to life. The Smiling Man pulled the crewman who'd caught the ball aside. The goon with the gizmo had him hold his hands out and he passed some kind of nozzle over them. The device began emitting an angry crackling sound, like if a radio could snarl. Both goons and the Smiling Man took a big step away from the confused crewman.

The Smiling Man beckoned the rest of the Egret's crew to come back onto the dock to look at the device and its reaction to their man. They clambered out of the boat and looked on closely while the goon pointed out its various dials.

Mick heard the captain ask something, but the Smiling Man didn't answer. Instead, he flipped his coat aside and lunged at the captain. Silver flashed in the moonlight and the captain fell to his knees, his hands full of crimson. Another slash opened his throat. He crumpled over, still.

The Egret's crew tried to run, but the second goon slung a full-size Thompson machine gun out of his coat and fired it from the hip. Its suppressor covered up most of the noise, but it was as loud as a cranky typewriter as it shredded the panicked crewmen. They all fell in unison, forty-fives chewing up their backs. One managed to pull a pistol from somewhere and he fired it twice as he died. The shots echoed in the open warehouse.

Mick tucked himself into a tighter ball. He had not seen a man die since the Great War. Not since the trenches, or the skies, or the castle and depths beneath. He shook the memories out of his head, eager to leave this place. He suddenly wished he hadn't stopped himself at three drinks.

The Smiling Man clapped his gunner on the back in congratulations for work well done. It wasn't that hard of a blow, but the goon staggered, then fell to a knee, coughing. He wheezed and spat red onto the pier, then collapsed. The crewman's shot had flown true.

The Smiling Man stepped back, cursing. He barked orders at his surviving goon. Mick watched in silence. He could feel his bones trembling. He knew he was dealing with murderers, but this was something else. The Smiling Man and his thug each grabbed a dead man by his ankles. As they dragged the captain and their deceased comrade back toward the warehouse, they did not even bother with the envelopes of cash they'd handed over. This wasn't about money for them.

They dumped the bodies just inside the warehouse, then returned and began dragging the three dead crewmen inside. Mick understood why Brook Street had been expected to provide security for this drop: they had been expected to die as well. The Bastard knocking 'em silly had probably saved their lives.

The Smiling Man left the help to get the last corpse and made his way aboard the Egret. He began looking through its small cabin with his flashlight, checking for booby traps and learning the instruments. The goon grabbed the last crewman's wrists and pulled him along, then draped him over the other bodies. He brushed his hands off on his pants and strolled out of the warehouse, back to the car. Mick listened from his perch as he opened and closed the trunk. When he returned, he was carrying a red jerry can sloshing with gas.

The goon whistled a tune Mick didn't recognize and began splashing the gas over the pile of bodies. He poured generously, making sure each corpse was fully doused. He stopped whistling suddenly and set the can down.

Mick heard a cough.

The goon pulled a dead crewman off the pile to uncover his fallen comrade. The man was still alive, sputtering through blood and gasoline.

The unhurt thug jumped up in surprise. He looked back at the Smiling Man, then sighed, telling his dying comrade:

“Sorry, friend.”

He produced a matchbox from his pocket and rattled it.

The wounded man drew in air and summoned his last bit of strength:

“Nein!” he gasped. “Nein, nein, nein!”

The blood froze in Mickey's veins. These blood-thirsty twists weren't just any casual killers, they were Nazis. These were the folks who had gutted Europe, who had massacred millions, who had forced tens of millions more out of their homes, who had enslaved and euthanized and stolen and razed entire cultures. And they were in his home town.

A quake worked its way up his spine. Mickey had given everything he had and more to stop the krauts once before. This wasn't his fight any more. He had nothing left.

He drew in a deep breath and held it as he rolled his joints. He flexed his hands inside his weighted sap gloves and listened to the leather creak.

This was someone else's fight.

Mickey pulled his black bandanna up over his nose and mouth, then the Bastard exhaled.

THURSDAY AFTERNOON, JUNE 19, 1941
RECREATION YARD
SHELBY COUNTY JAIL, MEMPHIS, TENNESSEE

“Hey, pal,” somebody hissed at Wally's elbow. He nearly jumped off the bench he'd planted himself on. He caught himself before he could yelp. Wally'd managed not to appear weak for his whole month in jail, it would not do to start looking soft on his last day.

“What?” Wally snarled. He spun to glare at the man who'd snuck up on him. This joker had slicked back hair, with an eye almost swollen shut. His right arm was wrapped in a thick bandage and done up in a sling. Wally inched away. He couldn't let the other inmates see him buddying up to a target.

“Word is that you're getting out of here tomorrow,” the man said. It was a statement, not a question.

“Maybe I am, maybe I ain't,” Wally snapped. “What's it to you?”

“Thing is, I hear you're in pretty deep,” the man continued.

“Folks 'round here got real loose lips,” Wally said.

“I ain't trying to pull a fast one, pal. You're in deep, I'm in deeper, and I need help.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” Wally said. “Looks like somebody's got it for you bad, and I don't intend to get in between y'all.”

“Hear me out,” the man said. There was something desperate in his tone that turned Wally's spine to ice. “The name's Bill. Bill French.”

“Get away from me or I'll make you,” Wally hissed. He couldn't have the bulls hearing him yelling. His month had been rough, but they could extend it and make it Hell. The union rep he'd ripped off, Draymont, could arrange a couple more accidents if his stay was extended. All he wanted was to slip out of that gate the next morning and hightail it out of town. He'd send Alice Draymont some cash once she had the baby, once he was somewhere her father couldn't find him. Trouble was, cash didn't associate too closely with Wally these days.

“Folks around this town ain't especially hospitable,” Bill chuckled.

“This is Memphis, pal, good Samaritans are few and far between around here. People can't afford charity work.”

“Then how does twelve hundred dollars sound?” Bill whispered. Wally's jaw dropped.

“What?” he said.

“Twelve hundred dollars, in my name, waiting in Tampa,” Bill said. “You drive my car there and play it cool, it's yours, every cent. Hell, keep the car once it’s unloaded.”

Twelve hundred bucks would pay off what Wally'd done to Draymont's truck, get Alice settled, and more. The ice around his spine evaporated.

“Easy money,” Bill assured him.

Wally was desperate, but he wasn't dumb.

“What's the catch?” he asked. “Why can't one of your people do this?”

“They couldn't get it done fast enough. My brother's in Pittsburgh, my business partner's on delivery up north. And I ain't getting out of here any time soon, much less driving a day and a night. Not with this.” He waved his busted arm around for show. The couple fingertips he had sticking out of the end of the bandage were swollen and purple. He wasn't driving around the block, much less through the mountains and all the way to Florida.

“Twelve hundred dollars,” Wally said, trying out the sound of it in his mouth.

“Twelve hundred,” Bill confirmed.

“One thousand, two hundred.”

“Every cent.”

Wally sighed. He was tired of scraping by. He was tired of owing people. He was tired of getting snatched up every time he walked out the door. That kind of money would be a good way to get a blank slate. It would also be a good way to start over. He'd heard good things about Florida winters. Maybe he'd never come back.

“So I walk out of here tomorrow, I get in your car, I put the pedal to the metal and go straight to Tampa, and I get twelve hundred bucks for my trouble?”

“That's it,” Bill said.

“Sounds easy.”

“Simple, but not easy.”

Bill sat back and watching the men in the yard smoking cigarettes and tossing a baseball around. They didn't give a hoot that the two men were talking. It was the guards that were pretending not to look.

“There's a few folks who don't want this delivery made,” Bill said carefully.

“That who tuned you up?”

“I wouldn't be in here if they'd caught up with me,” Bill said. “No, this was some local mooks. They tried to roll me for some cash when I stopped here overnight. Cracked a bottle over one's head. Turns out he's a deputy's brother-in-law, cousin, deacon, somebody like that.”

“That's some rotten luck,” Wally said. He knew what he was talking about since 'rotten' was the only flavor his luck came in.

“You in or not?” Bill demanded.

“Hey, buddy, calm down,” Wally said. “You're making this job sound like it's worth more than a few hundred bucks to you.”

“Oh, it is, but that is all the money there is. You can't squeeze any more out of it because there is no more. And before you think of running off with this kind of cargo, know that you won't have any idea how to flip it, and neither does anyone you know, or anyone they know. All you can turn it into is a world a trouble. Let me tell you what can happen, though.”

Wally kept his trap shut. Bill was whispering, and his eyes darted around.

“If this job doesn't go as planned, on schedule, performed by a man named 'Bill French' for the contracted sum, this client will find me. He will gut me in front of my family, and leave me alive enough to watched them get cut open, too. I know because that is what he told me he'd do, and I believe him. And guess what? I'll tell him your name before I bleed out. If you take my car and disappear, or you get a flat tire and miss the delivery window, or you tell them you ain't me, or you try to bleed them for more money, they'll come for you when they're done with me.”

“Jesus,” Wally whispered. He was familiar with trouble, but that was something else. He knew folks in less-than-legal businesses loved to exaggerate, but gutting, Christ.

Still, one drive and everything he'd done would be gone. He'd be right again. He was already spending the money in his mind. Yeah, he'd start over, and once he had some irons in the fire and was settled down in Florida, he could take care of Alice and the baby. Her father wouldn't be any happier, but cash was cash.

“So what do you say, Wally?” Bill asked. “Want to earn more money than you've ever seen in your life? Or do you just want to wander out of here tomorrow, back into all your problems?”

---

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Copyright © 2022 Daniel Baldwin. All rights reserved.

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