The Billy Club Bastard Case Files: The Case of the Man from Tomorrow, Parts 7 and 8

Mickey and the gang have their targets on the hook, but the mystery only deepens. The Abwehr have sent some of their heaviest hitters to Chicago, but no one knows what for. Only the Man from Tomorrow can answer that question, and Mick’s got to get down in the dirt to get one step ahead.

This is the fifth installment of The Case of the Man from Tomorrow. It is the sixth and final story in The Billy Club Bastard Case Files: Old Dogs Still Got Teeth. To avoid spoilers, read Parts 1 and 2, 3 and 4, 5, and 6 first.

Content warnings: violence, gore, death, tobacco use, mild swearing, Nazis.

WEDNESDAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER 15, 1943
WELSH ARMS APARTMENTS, GRAND CROSSING
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

Karina was going crazy, tugging hard against the line tied around her waist.

“She certainly seems sure of herself,” Mickey said. He leaned forward in the driver's seat and studied the apartment building that the little lady was desperately lurching toward. From two blocks out, it looked nothing but typical. The place didn’t gave any indication of what inside was driving her so wild.

“Karina never makes mistake,” Artyom assured him. The Russian analyst was sitting shotgun. He pulled hard on the line, but Karina surged back forward as soon as she got some slack.

“We're just trusting her nose?” Ford asked from the back seat. “How would she know where Chiclet went?”

“I told you at the hotel, kid, I bugged him,” Mick said.

“The queen jelly Mister Mickey applied to the target’s skin emits strong pheromone for three days, maybe four if he do not wash,” Artyom assured Ford. “Any worker would be able to follow it for a mile, and Karina has sensitive antennae. To be so close is quite frustrating for her.”

Ford studied Karina. Artyom was right: the little hovering bee was tugging furiously against the string tied around her thorax. She'd been pointing like a compass needle at one exact point, no matter which side streets they took or dead ends they ran down. It took most of the evening to circle the city before they narrowed in on this unassuming building, two blocks away, dead center of Montuoso turf.

“Know anything about the place?” Ford asked Mick.

“I'm a tourist, too,” Mickey grumbled.

“The Slugger would know,” Ford said quietly.

“Capano would already be through the front door, caving in skulls,” Mick said. “We need to be subtle. If Eizhürst knows we're onto the meet, he'll vanish.”

“They got lookouts, we can't exactly walk up and put our ears on the door,” Ford noted.

The kid was right. Two goons were standing in the building's entrance, smoking cigarettes and passing a flask. Another cherry glowed orange in a second story window, pulsing in the shadows. Mick figured there were probably another couple around back. Stino's boys weren't cutting any corners. Eizhürst, their own personal Schmidt, was in town and their club had gotten torched not twelve hours earlier.

Only three windows were lit in the whole building, the central apartment on the top floor, but the packed parking lot told Mick that there had be at least thirty Montuoso soldiers inside.

“Open that thing next to you,” Mick told Ford. Ford was sharing the bench seat with a black violin case.

“I can't play,” the kid replied dryly.

“It's not...” Mick looked in the rear-view mirror to see Ford smirking at him. “Just open it up, wiseacre. Nea checked it out special for us.”

Ford undid the clasps and opened the black leather case. The oddest gun he hard ever seen was laid out before him. It was the length of a carbine, with a polished hardwood stock and forward grip. In place of a breech and barrel, it was instead made up of chrome reverberation chambers, pulsing dials, faintly glowing vacuum tubes, and a silver blunderbuss bell in place of the muzzle. A powerful brass scope rode its cluttered spine. Ford turned the device over in his hands.

Mick could tell the kid recognized the device from his time studying the Bastard's misadventures in Charleston. All it was missing was a adolescent aristocrat’s sculpted skull.

“A psycho-acoustic oscillating impactor?” Ford asked. He picked it up. It was heavier than he'd anticipated. Moving parts rattled and shifted within it.

“Almost,” Mick confirmed. “Calhoun designed it from the Grave, Motorola built it. Roll down your window.”

Ford complied.

“Now aim down the sights at that top middle apartment, right at the glass,” Mick advised. Ford settled the stock into his shoulder, braced the device on the car's door frame, and aimed.

“What now?” he asked, careful to keep it steady.

“Hold it,” Mick said. He twisted around in his seat, eliciting a series of pops from his back. He groaned, but stretched and plugged a set of headphones into a jack on the side of the device.

“Motorola calls this an Earshot,” Mick said. He adjusted the headphones over his ears. “I know, terrible name. Flip that switch, kid.”

Ford glared at 'kid' but followed Mickey's directions. The Earshot came to life. It hummed and grew warm in Ford's hands.

“Start turning those dials, I'll tell you when,” Mick said, one hand clamped over his ear. Ford twisted the first dial, eliciting a warbling whisper of voices in the headphones. “Good, good, next one. It's clearing up. That's it. Next dial, and stop. Perfect. Now just hold it steady.”

Conspiratorial voices came in clear as spring water in Mickey's ear.

“A fat man and a little boy, was it?” a cruel voice with a thick German accent hissed. Mick knew the voice right away. Eizhürst, that sick twist, was a only block away. Mick felt his spine tense at the proximity.

“Hell,” Mick whispered. Ford tried to say something but Mick silenced him with a raised fist.

“Fat, yeah. But no boy. Young, twenty maybe, not a boy,” another man gasped. A nasally American, in great pain. He whimpered after he spoke.

“I know a fat man,” Eizhürst said thoughtfully. “And that fat man is a federal agent. You gave him my name. Did he torture you?”

“There was a third guy,” the pained American muttered.

“Your Chicago Slugger,” Eizhürst said coyly. A dozen voices murmured around them.

“That lunatic busted my nose and cracked Frankie's head open,” Eizhürst's victim snapped. Mickey realized that it was Chiclet doing the talking.

“Was his bat was worse than this?” the Nazi hissed. A floorboard creaked, and Chiclet screamed. Mickey pulled the headphones from his ears as feedback screeched through them. The reverb died away and Mick put them back over his ears. Eizhürst asked his weeping victim: “Is his bat worse than my knife?”

The men observing up in the penthouse whispered to themselves. One retched.

“Criminals should have stronger stomachs,” Eizhürst said. The man around him started grumbling, but were cut off.

“Can it, you mooks,” a third voice said. “Look, Schmidt, I get it. Chiclet's a rat, and it's your right to fix him. Does it have to be so messy?”

“What use is a lesson unless public?” the Nazi asked.

“I am thorry,” Chiclet lisped. His speech was sloppy and whimpering. The piercing sound of a solid slap across the face echoed through Mick's headphones, and Chiclet went silent again.

“This man has incurred a debt to me, Faustino,” Eizhürst hissed. “A debt you must pay.”

“His fat mouth earned him what he's getting,” Stino Montuoso snapped. The don was young, and angered easily. “But he's my man, I accept that. How can I make this right?”

“The Silver Legionnaires that your man compromised were security for my final meet with the procurer,” Eizhürst stated. “The rest of my men are preparing for the operation. You will need to secure a new area for tomorrow night and keep it clear of interlopers.”

“Easier than a round-heel,” Stino replied. The don sounded as cocky as Mick expected. He’d been born into one of Chicago crime’s royal families and had known only free cash, available women, expensive booze, trivial violence, and constant yes-men. Entitlement had been drilled into his brain since day one. Mick could see how little twisting it would have taken the Smiling Man to get him to flip on his uncle, the old don.

“Somewhere we will not be heard, or seen,” Eizhürst continued. “With open air.”

“Open air,” Mickey muttered. Ford gave him a look again, but Mick waved him quiet. Spark and his rocket-pack would need a clear sky. That was it.

“I got just the place. The Union yard. My boys got it locked up tight,” Stino replied.

“Write this down, ‘the Union yard,’” Mick muttered. Artyom scrambled for a pen.

“Where's that?” Ford asked out of the corner of his mouth, careful not to budge the Earshot.

“Hush,” Mick muttered.

“Very well. I will see you gentlemen there at midnight. Come ready for war,” Eizhürst said up in the apartment. “And please, I never leave work for my friends.”

“Wait, wait!” Chiclet shouted, only to be cut off with a gurgling yelp. Liquid splashed on the floor. Mick could hear Chiclet's death rattle clear as day and it struck him like a fist to the gut. He'd spared the thug as bait only for a Nazi to slaughter him for his trouble.

Chiclet Mancuso was dead and it was on him.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Eizhürst hissed. A door creaked open and banged shut.

“Midnight, write it,” Mick grunted. It took everything in him not to jam on the gas and try to run Eizhürst down. He needed the Smiling Man and Spark, and just an ounce of patience would net him both. Artyom’s pencil scratched on his pad while Mick seethed. Karina buzzed as she tugged on her string.

With Eizhürst gone, the Montuosos began grumbling:

“That god damn animal,” one soldier growled.

“Holy shit, Chick,” another said.

“Shut it, all of you!” Stino barked. “We owe the kraut everything. And Chiclet was a rat. Schmidt did us a favor with that knife.”

“At least pull it out of his eye,” one mobster complained. A wet slurp gurgled through the headphones. The assembled men groaned, several gagged.

“There, can we get back to work? Thank you,” Stino snapped. “Al, talk to Lonny, have the Union yard clear by ten tomorrow.”

“Got it, Stino.”

“You better. Franzo, pull the boys together. We'll need at least twenty for the meet. Loyal, quiet guys. Remember, loose lips catch shivs.”

“And they get cut off your face,” Franzo added. “I got the guys for this, boss. We'll be there.”

“Pack heat like we're going to war. Nothing can go wrong. Brusco, get rid of Chiclet. In the morning, you’re squaring away the Hyblaean. I want that insurance payout.”

“Sure thing, Don Stino. I got just the place for him.”

“Don't tell me anything else. The rest of you, with me. I need a drink, boys.”

The men muttered and followed their don out. They piled into the waiting cars and drove downtown. After a moment, only Brusco remained, grunting and wheezing in pain as he tried to throw Chiclet's corpse over his shoulder. He wheezed, still feeling the tenderizing Ford had inflicted upon him.

Mick removed the headphones.

“You can turn that thing off,” he told Ford. The kid nodded, flipped the power switch, and carefully placed the Earshot back in its violin case.

“What'd you get?” Ford asked.

“Chiclet's dead,” Mick said quietly.

“You knew what they do to rats when you let him go,” the kid said. “He was a killer, a dope pusher, and a collaborator. Couldn't have happened to a better guy.”

“‘Loose lips catch shivs,’” Mickey repeated. He tried not to think about adding another corpse to his pile. He may not have liked Chiclet, but everyone deserved the opportunity to make up for the shit they’d done. Even somebody with bodies to his name.

“I have not heard this saying,” Artyom said as he reeled Karina back into the car. She buzzed in protest.

“It's nothing,” Mick said. He cleared his throat, explaining: “The meet with Spark is going down in less than twenty-four hours.”

“Time for back up,” Ford said.

“At the very least,” Mick confirmed.

“We'll need muscle,” Ford said.

“The Lanes and their men have been aching to hit Eizhürst back since Tallahassee,” Mickey replied.

“And something to catch 'em off guard,” Ford continued.

“I can supply that,” Artyom said.

“And someone with local knowledge,” Ford added.

“I'll call Uncle Gio,” Mickey said.

“And you'll need someone sneaky,” Beasley quipped. She was crouched next to Ford’s open window, smiling unsettlingly.

Mick jumped and banged his head on the ceiling. Ford drew his Colt so fast that it tumbled to the floorboards. Artyom simply yelped and Karina flew in furious circles.

“What are you doing?” Mickey gasped, rubbing his dome.

“My team finished cataloging an hour ago. I thought you'd want to hear what we've found,” Beasley said.

“I almost shot you,” Ford mumbled.

“I'd have brained you before you got anywhere close,” she said. She held up her right hand and showed off her gleaming brass knuckles. Ford smirked and retrieved his Colt.

“So what's the news?” Mick asked. “It's got to be something good for you to crash our stakeout.”

“Show me yours,” Beasley said coyly. Mick grunted, pulled his flask out of his coat, and took a long sip before he answered.

“Montuosos are providing security and a location for Eizhürst's meet with Spark tomorrow at midnight. Somewhere called the Union yard,” Mick said. He didn't have time for the back and forth.

“The Union Stock Yards, that makes sense,” Beasley said, nodding.

“What is it?” Ford asked.

“That's where the trains unload all their cattle, a way station before they head to the slaughterhouses. The Montuosos use the outgoing trains to run dope and weapons.”

“You've been studying,” Mick told her.

“ADA’s Montuoso profile is extensive,” she replied with a shrug.

“Yeah, yeah. So what did you find?” Mickey chuckled.

“You said you were going to meet with Eustorgio Selvaggio?” she asked.

“We're going to need backup,” Mick said.

“How about the cops?” Ford asked.

“The Selvaggios saved you once, kid. You don't trust 'em now?”

“I don't know these guys. And I didn't think it would be this muddy on the home front. Everyone is in someone else's pocket, and they all have an agenda,” Ford said.

“If that's the line we're drawing, we should leave the cops out, too,” Beasley added.

“I, for one, am going to choose to trust Gio and his boys,” Mick said.

“Why?” Ford demanded. Mickey ignored the kid's tone.

“Because Gio owes the Office. He'd have had his block blown off in Tallahassee if it wasn't for Earp,” Mick said.

“He wouldn’t have been in Tallahassee if it wasn’t for you,” Beasley pointed out. Mick ignored her.

“And because if a cop swaps loyalty, he gets fired. If a Selvaggio does, he sleeps with the fishes.” The three other officials shrugged and nodded. Gangland retribution was a stronger enticement than a paycheck.

“So when are you going to see Uncle Gio? I need to talk to him, too,” Beasley asked.

“What exactly does he have to do with your findings?” Mick retorted.

“Did you know Eustorgio Selvaggio was the fourth son of Santino Selvaggio?” she wondered.

“So what?” Ford snorted.

“So, I need his expertise.”

“In drinking wine from the bottle?” Mick chuckled.

“Santino, Senior was the first don. Junior was raised to be the heir to the business, his second and third sons Enzo and Cosimo to be Junior's right and left hands. Gio was left to his own devices. He was never meant to lead the family.”

“We all know Enzo and Cosimo were killed by the Montuosos,” Mick said. It had been big news twenty years back. Two princes of one the most infamous crime families in America bumped off hours apart; readers had eaten it up and the papers had paid their rent with that story for months.

“Eustorgio stayed out of the business for his early life. He earned a doctorate from the University of Illinois in his spare time and at one point was a lecturer himself.”

“Doctor Gio,” Mickey mumbled, trying the weird combination of words out.

“He is a doctor of history, specializing in Chicago history,” she clarified.

“History, such an inconsequential discipline,” Artyom snorted. Karina buzzed in agreement.

“Judging by what Spark collected, we can only hope it stays that way,” Beasley said, then slapped a fat folder onto Ford’s lap.

WEDNESDAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER 15, 1943
SELVAGGIO RESISDENCE, NORTH PARK
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

“Eggs, bacon, jam, toast?” Eustorgio Selvaggio offered through a stuffed face. Grease glistened on his thick lips.

“How is rationing treating you, Gio?” Mickey asked. His stomach grumbled at the sight of the mafioso's lavish spread. He was sitting at the don’s right hand, smelling every smell, while Ford, Nea, and Beasley watched from large dining room’s near wall, floor-to-ceiling bulletproof windows illuminating them from behind.

“Oh, you know me, scrimping and saving,” Uncle Gio chuckled, spraying flecks of cheesy omelette from his mouth. Ford grumbled something under his breath. Beasley heard it and almost hid her smirk. Uncle Gio ignored them. “You should see my Liberty Garden. Takes up the last four holes of the Beverly course.”

“How does Putter feel about that?” Ford asked.

“My garden will be sod by the time my nephew gets back to the green,” the obese mobster told Ford, laughing. “He says he’s going to see the war through from the old country.”

Uncle Gio clapped Mick on the shoulder, saying:

“Why's the kid so serious? I heard all about Vesuvius from Putter's guys. If I’d got through that close a scrape, you couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. And the gloves, what's with the gloves? I feel like I'm about to get my physical.”

“I’m not here to talk about Vesuvius,” Ford said flatly, ignoring the other comments. Even a boisterous blowhard like Uncle Gio could tell that Ford was ending the conversation. He shoveled another mouthful of English muffin loaded down with strawberry jam into his maw. Ford grunted again:

“And don't call me 'kid.'”

“Fair enough, son. Now, Malloy, I know what you think of my organization,” he said. “You must need something tough to come by, real bad. Is it cash? I got real good terms. Need someone under a fresh tombstone? Or how about some booze? Don’t tell anyone, but Putter’s a Francophile when it comes to vino. I’ve been working my way through his cellar of unpronounceable reds downstairs.”

“We're here for you, actually,” Mick said.

“Oh, really?” Uncle Gio said. “No offense, Malloy, but the feds have never pinned a thing on me and I doubt you'll be the one to break that streak.”

“If I was here to - !” Mick blustered, but Ford cut him off:

“We need backup.”

“You got your culprit cornered and now you got to call in the cavalry?” Gio asked, his grin wide and mischievous. “I'll get a few of my friends on the horn, we'll get the airstrips and docks cleared, you can bring in whoever you need. Is there a reward for the recovery of all that art? Never mind, we'll go over numbers later. For now, you and your people are welcome anywhere in Chicago, under my protection.”

He speared a glistening sausage off his plate and downed it in three bites. Mick chose not to mention that Gio’s claimed city was lousy with militias, spies, and thieves at that very moment.

“We already have our people on the way,” Mickey said, gritting his teeth. He knew from bitter experience that getting favors from gangsters was like Frenching a cobra: on the off chance he didn't get poisoned, he’d still be kissing a reptile. “But we need to plug holes in our lines; we need local help.”

“Like I told you, Malloy, my boys are spread thin. I'll line up who I can, and I got a call-sheet of Chicago's finest on deck. But we could have handled this over the phone. Unless you're offering collateral that you don't want some switchboard operator overhearing. Maybe you're finally going to let me take your Roosevelt stamp for a spin?”

“We already got a deal, Selvaggio: you look out for us, we look out for you,” Mick snapped. He didn't even want to consider what trouble Uncle Gio could cause with the President's unknowing say-so. “You haven't had any G-men nosing around in months, and you get a heads-up every time we get wind of a Montuoso deal. You've been rolling in dough since Putter started working with us. Now it's time to reciprocate.”

“That doesn't change the fact that you could have run this through any of my men and gotten the same help I'm going to give you now. We didn't need a private meeting for this. I'm wary about those. Last time I took one, I ended up having to get a very expensive Persian rug replaced. So cut to chase, what do you really need?”

Beasley and Ford looked at the carpet beneath their feet where they were suddenly certain that a murder had occurred.

“What we need is a historian with a local knowledge and an eye for criminal opportunities,” Mick said.

Uncle Gio set his fork down, leaned back in his padded chair, and sank into his bulk.

“No one has asked after Doctor Selvaggio in some time,” he said quietly. He studied the four officials before him, actually interested for the first time since they’d walked in.

“Okay, doc, we’re on a clock here,” Mick said.

“You know, there's not much call for the chronicled arts in my current profession,” Uncle Gio said wistfully.

“Hopefully you aren't too rusty then,” Mick replied.

“These brain wrinkles might need a little dusting to get the gray off, but everything's still up there,” Gio quipped, tapping his temple with a stubby finger. “What can the doctor do for you?”

“Show him, Beasley.”

The old mobster's eyes lit up when Beasley stepped away from the wall. Nea stayed a step behind her, scribbling.

“And who might you pair be, my dears?” he asked. Beasley snorted and slapped her thick file folder down on the table before him. Gio smiled, sending crumbs tumbling over his chins. “A firecracker, I'd expect no less in this grump's retinue.”

“This is Official Second Class Beasley and our archivist, Official Second Class Nea,” Mick said.

“Hello there, doll - !” Uncle Gio started with a velvety tone, but Mick interrupted him:

“Official Beasley. Just read the papers, Casanova.”

“Just trying to be hospitable,” Uncle Gio muttered. He shoved his stacked plate aside and opened the folder. He squinted so hard that his beady eyes seemed to suck into his face. He began patting the breast pocket on his stretched-taut mint green suit. Mick muttered something and pulled a set of reading glasses out of his own pocket.

The glare he shot the younger officials as he held them out screamed ‘can it.’

“Thank you,” Uncle Gio said. He took the offered spectacles and held them in front of his face to examine Beasley’s files. He began mumbling as he flipped through the pages with the rapidity of a practiced scholar.

“What do you see?” Mick asked.

“Zoning bylaws, architectural studies, geological surveys, ventilation system blueprints, leasing and sale agreements,” Uncle Gio listed.

“That much we know,” Beasley said. “What would Spark want with them?”

“The locations referenced are all close to the Illinois Tech campus,” Uncle Gio said.

“We know that, too,” Mick said. “And that you taught there for a short period.”

“Well, what even you might not know about is the Antikythera Club,” Uncle Gio said triumphantly. A look of confusion crossed Nea's round face. Gio handed Mick’s glasses back to him. “That's about the only thing I could think of that might interest a Man from Tomorrow. Seems like Spark is trying to deduce where we used to meet.”

“Another social organization?” Ford asked dryly.

“A very exclusive one,” the mobster replied. “It was a brain trust. The biggest eggheads in the city discussing scientific progress over drinks. To be fair, I didn't have much to offer a room full of geniuses, I think they just invited me for my booze.”

Ford snorted. Uncle Gio only smiled and took a long slurp of his breakfast wine, straight from the carafe.

“You lot might know the founder of our little group: Lander van den Berghe,” Uncle Gio said carefully. Nea gasped and scribbled a little harder.

“The Belgian, I knew him briefly, a long time ago,” Mickey said quietly, and Gio nodded. Mick had been there with van den Berghe during the first days of the Office, during the last war. Since then, he hadn't seen him since after Falkenstein, twenty-seven years back. Ford, Nea, and Beasley obviously knew the name: van den Berghe was one of the Office's founders, a genius inventor, tactician, and, to the younger officials, a legend.

But legends can never stand the test of time. Whatever his accomplishments and friendships since the war, Lander van den Berghe’s life had ended in violence. He had been murdered a year prior by the Nazi scientist Emil Fleischer, torn to pieces. Mick let Gio stay blissfully ignorant while he reminisced.

“That nutty Fleming would lead discussions on engineering and things I couldn't follow, but I’d be right there with ‘em, draining bottles with colleagues and theorists and yelling at each other until dawn,” the mobster explained. He smiled as he thought about those long, loud nights.

“I didn't realize that van den Berghe ever made it across the Atlantic. When was this?” Mick asked.

“Lander taught at Tech from '21 ‘til '30, but the club was at its peak around '23,” Uncle Gio recalled.

“I guess I didn’t actually know him that well,” Mick muttered, and in truth he’d barely spoken to van den Berghe before he’d had to go into that damn castle. The Belgian had a six-inch-deep slash from his thigh to his shoulder blade and was short a bucket of blood. Mick had thought van den Berghe was going to die right then and there, to be frank. He didn’t think he’d ever see the man again, and he was right, just twenty-six years late.

“You missed out, pal. Lander was a great time,” Uncle Gio said. “He was damn-near a native before he went back overseas.”

“So where’d your club meet?” Ford asked.

“By the look of the papers Spark's gotten his hands on, he likely already knows,” the mobster said. His chair scraped against the floor as he scooted back, and creaked when he stood. He tugged the silk napkin out of his collar and asked: “How about I take you there?”

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Copyright © 2025 Daniel Baldwin. All rights reserved.

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