Men Who Walk Alone Page 6

  I intended to exploit that fact.

  “Listen here, dame killer,” I declared in a deep voice. “Ya think ya get out on bail? Forget it. Ya can’t chisel ya way outa here. Nobody will put that kind of cash up for scum like ya. Even if ya did, ya’d be free only until the trial. Ya ain’t walkin’ from that one. And don’t think ya can bail out of town. Ya never make it out of Beverly; I’d hired brunos myself to keep ya ass within shootin’ range. All the advantages ya got are for talkin’.”

  “Right.”

  “Think about it; ya could be tried for all three deaths. Ya killed two adults and a little girl. We can prove it. The evidence is solid, uncontestable. Ya been in a courtroom before. Jurors get very emotional when children are involved, not to mention after what happened in that Soldier’s Moment murder on Abbot Street. The prosecution’s gonna milk that for all its worth. Ya remember Lindberg’s kid? Ya want that kind of hellfire? The electric chair ain’t just lights and sparks.”

  “I’ll manage,” Celio said mockingly, flicked imaginary lint off his shirt.

  Small impact, no sign of intimidation.

  Next move; apply physical threat, literally.

  I grabbed him by the back of his neck, employed heavy force with my fingers to direct intense pain in precise areas.

  Celio squealed like a pig as he tried to get up. I shoved a hidden revolver into his back. Celio stayed in his place. His temper flared quickly.

  “Hey! Back off, ya damn copper! I got rights, ya know!”

  I grinned, shoved it in further to silence him. I spoke deliberately; my tone full of disdain.

  “Boy, ya need to remember where ya are; this is Beverly, not friggin’ Rantoul Street, where the pasta flies freely and ya can do whatever ya want if the Don approves it. The only right ya got in this part of town is to die a really slow, painful death.”

  “The same applies to ya, Moore.”

  “I tried to be nice, but this is what it boils down to. Ya work for Costa, but ya ultimately take ya orders from that greasy piece of foreigner trash known as Don Marzio. This town lives off bribes from them. Let’s not fool ourselves. There ain’t no secrets in this place. They know ya in here chitchattin’ away the night with me. If they don’t, they’ll find out eventually when ya don’t show up to sell more little girls to those bastards on Vice Street. They don’t know whether ya squeal or not. If I were them, I’d assume that ya turned stool pigeon and want ya dead.”

  A trace of insecurity, trepidation. A crack in the dike.

  “Ya bluffin’, Moore.”

  I laughed gruffly. Exploit the breach, the insecurity, the doubt.

  “Am I really? Or are could there be truth to it? If ya walk out of here, with or without bail, ya gonna mysteriously disappear from this city, wind up a part of our waste dump for the meat wagon to yank out, or somebody will pull a ‘Inspector Javert,’ have ya sleepin’ at the bottom of the river with chains on your arms and legs. The nearest cobbler shop don’t sell cement shoes, my friend.”

  Celio’s face began to get sweaty.

  Threat accepted as genuine; solidify support.

  I brought the revolver to the side of his head.

  “And if ya don’t talk to me, ya lousy wop, then I’ll have to assume that ya ain’t no use to my case. No skin off my nose. I’ll just accept the very generous offer of twenty-five Lincolns to get rid of ya, permanently. I could use the dough.”

  I pulled the hammer back slowly, each click emphasized.

  “Get me, paisano?”

  Celio breathed out slowly, swore under his breath.

  “Capisce; I’ll do it.”

  With a large smile, I got up from his chair, slapped him mordantly on the shoulder. “Wise choice, Celio. I’ll get ya taken to our maximum-security cell. Two handpicked guards will keep an eye on ya, make sure ya buddies don’t slit ya throat...at least not until after I get ya on the record.”

  After I had Celio escorted back to his cell, I headed back to my desk. I couldn’t see myself, but I knew at that moment I beamed with accomplishment. The small victory cheered me up.

  Hardy’s distinct roar splashed into the hallway. I stopped, listened to him as he argued with someone inside his office on the left. I leaned up against the corner of the wall, made the pretense of leisurely going for a cigarette.

  The captain’s voice was muffled, but very defensive. And very worried.

  “I told ya I’d get rid of this guy! I keep my word, don’t I?”

  Elroy’s calm, understated voice permeated through the walls.

  “You told me he would be captured by now. Is he? I don’t think. You made promises, and as the captain, I expect you to be honest with me on this matter.”

  “Isn’t my fault. That strike force should have gotten to him by now. That first little stunt they pulled did nothing but let him know we are on to him. Since then, he’s pulled back on the number of guys he’s bumpin’ off.”

  “I’m not concerned with whether he stops. I want him arrested so he could face trial and answer for his crimes. You are supposed to make that happen. If you can’t, I will have no choice but to find someone who is up to the task.”

  There was a brief pause before Hardy stuttered back a reply.

  “I-I will get this thing under control. It’s only a matter of time. A few days at the most. I ain’t givin ya any funny business on this. Three days.”

  “Very well. Three days.”

  I hurried around the corner before Elroy opened the door to Hardy’s office. He paused in the hallway as he placed his fedora on his head, then headed towards the lobby. It was well after his usual shift hours. He had come by to pay a special visit to Hardy; such visits were never a good sign to the person who received them.

  As I continued down the hallway, muffled moans came from one of the lieutenants’ office. Through the glass windows, I saw the unified silhouette of two bodies leaned up against the desk at the end of the room. The moans increased in volume as I got closer, then it slowly disappeared. One of the persons got up abruptly, moved away from the desk, walked towards the door

  It opened; a woman in a skimpy black dress strutted out, held a wad of dollars bills in her hand. She counted them, smiled with satisfaction. She drew closer to me, shoved the money down the front of her low-cut dress before she gave me a gentle wink, waved her ring-studded hand out.

  “Want somethin’, handsome?” she asked. Her fingers dipped down into her curvaceous bustline. “Name ya desire.”

  I smiled sardonically, opened my jacket to reveal my Smith and Wesson in its holster. I pulled it out, instantly placed it between her eyes; they turned white.

  “My desire is to put a bullet in ya face,” I said softly, gruffly. “A .357 Magnum, to be precise.”

  The whore raised her hands, whined like she was five years old.

  “Go back to the storm drain ya came from,” I ordered. “Or I’ll give ya a bang worth rememberin. And tell ya pimp I’ll write him a love letter with a lead ink if I ever see ya walkin’ down these hallways again. Got it?”

  She nodded distraughtly, hurried away, fled from my presence. I put away my piece, my smile replaced with a disgusted frown.

  I had few vices; none of them involved women; I had become immune to their charm the day my wife walked out of the house five years ago. She had hardly bothered to leave a note; then again, I had hardly read a word of it before I had tossed it into the fireplace after five shots of whiskey kindled my rage.

  I already knew what it said, the same thing she had said a dozen times before then during one of our hour-long fights. I had changed in her eyes; so much so she had barely recognized me from the man she had married.

  But I knew it was bullshit. I hadn’t changed. I didn’t look or act the same maybe, but underneath I was the same fool she had been dumb enough to marry.

  A voice called out to me.

  “Yo, Moore!”

  I turned around; four sleazy officers stood side to side. Dark features, naturally-
formed sneers, bunched arms. I recognized them easily; the pimps paid them off, ran protection rackets for low-ranked Mafiosos that worked the Italian neighborhoods around Rantoul Street. They also hustled the underage girls.

  Through my less than scrupulous contacts, I had learned enough about the brothel to act. A moment of compassion had caused me to slip the information to the district attorney several months back. The brothel had been shut down the next day. One of life’s small victories.

  It didn’t surprise me, however, when little else had happened from there. The Grand Jury had investigated coppers in questions, but all had escaped indictment. Attacked, but uninjured, it seemed they longed for a little payback.

  “I noticed ya scared off that little cutie back there,” one of them said.

  “Yeah?” I replied. I eyed them each, then sniffed, unafraid.

  The same cop waved at his colleagues. “We thinks that ya don’t take kindly to the services that they provide in this town, especially after watchin’ that little reaction ya had.”

  I crossed my arms. “A fella’s the right to respond any way they want to, don’t they? I didn’t like the toots’ produce.”

  I waved my pack of Lucky Strikes. “These are my only preferred brand.”

  “Trues, but remember that brothel that kinda got raided a while back? The one that got shut down because they had some girls who, by their own free will, were workin’ there?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Remembers the Grand Jury stickin’ their noses were it ain’t belong?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, here’s the thing; I figure that a loser like our beloved Commissioner had to have gotten that info from someone who knew about those kinds of things. He ain’t too big on lookin’ into that kind of stuff, ya know? Hittin’ the skin trade don’t earn him no points with Mayor Holman. The way I figure, it had to be a fella who keeps a low profile, but don’t follow it none.”

  He pointed accusingly at me. “Someone like yourself.”

  My arms fell back down to my side. I already knew where would go. It was rather pathetic. They thought I should be scared.

  “Spare me. Ya got somethin’ to say? Say it straight and clear. I don’t have the time to listen to what ya have as an excuse for brain. It’s miracle ya ever go outta ya crib.”

  The four cops laughed. The largest one stepped forward. He was at least six and half feet tall. His head scrapped the ceiling, a muscleman without the intelligence to wield it.

  “We thinks you called the commish and told him about it. Now that the place got shut down, they stopped givin’ out…incentives for those who are willin’ to be Boy Scouts and do them a good turn.”

  “My heart is bleeding for ya, fellas.”

  The first cop stepped forward, his hand drawing close to his belt where his gun lay.

  “Not yet, Moore. But soon.”

  I couldn’t control my grin. I already knew the way out of this one. These cops were too easy, too stupid; muscle that had no intelligence to rise in the ranks of mobsters; men who could be trusted for their simplemindedness.

  I took out a gray colored Zippo lighter, flicked it open then shut habitually.

  “Let’s play a little game of hypothetical and say ya kill me,” I said. “Captain won’t like that at all.”

  “A quick apology and he’ll be alright,” the small one said. “If not, money’s always an option.”

  “Yeah, but money can’t buy what he wants. He wants his people happy; his people want the Vigilante dead. Now, who else in this department’s gonna find him besides me? Ya gonna find for him? I doubt none of ya can find ya drawers after ya done makin’ whoopee with some cheap whore.”

  The four cops went silent.

  “If Captain was unable to make his people happy, because ya did somethin’ stupid, like killin’ me,” I continued, “then maybe he might, oh, I don’t know, do the same to ya. Everybody in this town has got a scapegoat. Ya got me; Hardy will have ya idiots to toss to Costa.”

  More silence.

  My grin got bigger.

  “Think about it.”

  I ended my argument with a sly glance. They remained immobile, baffled as I returned to my desk to find my phone on its fifth ring. The voice on the other line was erratic, urgent.

  “Detective Moore! Get your ass over to Rantoul and Elliot!”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “The Vigilante has struck again, if what I’m told is correct! Except he killed civilians!”

  What?

  I coughed incredulously. It was a lie, or a mistake. I chose the former.

  “Where?”

  “He hit a small store in the east downtown precinct.”

  “Who’s there right now?”

  “Just me and some other officer who’s trying to inspect it himself. I got there after hearing some gunshots, seeing the officer heading towards the door. I told him to stay away, that this is your deal. He said that he saw the Vigilante run out of it.”

  My eyes narrowed. I smelled a rat. I spoke firmly, with authority.

  “Seal off the store. Don’t let no one step a foot inside. And call Hardy. Tell him that I’m takin’ charge of it and that I don’t want his goons down there. The task force is a joke; he knows it. Got it?”

  I slammed the phone, ignored all calls for my name as I tore down the stairs. I fled the lobby, leapt into my car; the tires screeched across the road as I drove to the address. My pulse ran furiously, anxiety blended in with excitement.

  It was a decent break. I needed it. My other leads were dead. Patrick Malone was clean. The background check explained it quite clearly. He didn’t want to answer my questions because he had been at the liquor store that night. The motive was there; alcohol.

  The fear was justified; the heavy drinker had been jailed for assault while intoxicated, given strict probation; no alcohol was tough for alcoholics to stomach.

  Further suspicion swirled in my head; was it a mere cover, a way to protect him from his other activities?

  Not likely. Patrick didn’t come off as bright, couldn’t formulate the kind of strategy required.

  Even so, I had decided to play it close to the chest. For the past several days I had tailed him after work. Nothing had enlightened me.

  I had also gotten the results on the irate neighbor. No registration. It was a condemned house. Illegal residence. “Nobody” lived there, nobody who had gotten beaten near to death by mobsters, ravaged his face. A good motive to kill.

  I had surveyed the home while I also watched Patrick Malone, never saw a single person go in or out. I would need a warrant to search it.

  I didn’t fret; the crime scene would provide more evidence. I still hadn’t gotten the results of the hair sample I had sent in. They kept saying that they had more urgent things to do.

  If they only knew what case it was related to. It would have been analyzed the same day I had brought it in. I was tempted to learn the process and do it myself.

  The other potential leads still lived, but feebly. Reviewed photographs from the scene demonstrated the footwear that the Vigilante used; a trench boot, foreign in origin, probably European. The outsole’s groove pattern didn’t match any American boots. A fast check of the city’s gun stores informed me that none of them sold .455 Webley cartridges.

  Something didn’t fit.

  The Vigilante got his ammunition from other sources. Smugglers were a possibility to check out, old bootleggers that worked in the harbor.

  I pulled up to the intersection at Rantoul and Elliot, I saw the officer who had called put up yellow tape around the store. I recognized him as Johnson, one of the few good ones still left on the Force. A quiet man, he had worked hard not to be noticed.

  Three other tetchy officers argued with him as he worked. They were members of the “task farce.”

  I sensed trouble as I got out of the car to yell at them.

  “What’s going on here?”

  The three turned to me with ins
olent smirks. One of the men barked an order in return.

  “I’m Murphy, and ya need to let us in.”

  I glared at him instantly. Murphy was the rat I had smelled. He was one of the men who would have turned the crime stats report over to the newspapers. He operated as an enforcer for a two-bit loan shark.

  I felt my authority had been flouted, challenged. It riled me up fast.

  “I decide what is gonna happen, officer. Nobody goes into that store without my approval.”

  I pointed a finger at Murphy. “And ya ain’t got it, get it?”

  Murphy laughed nervously.

  “Moore, Moore, I don’t think ya understand—”

  “There ain’t nothin’ I don’t understand, Murphy. Hardy assigned me to investigate any Vigilante incidents, not morons like ya. If ya itchin’ for a heroic opportunity or ya moment of fame, then ya can stand out here and make sure that people keep their freakin’ distance.”

  I pushed my way past the louts; they muttered under their breaths, offered vague threats. I waved them off dismissively as I ducked underneath the yellow tape. Hands on my hips, I viewed the scene somberly.

  The lamp at the counter shone with a dim luminosity that left little for me to use. I unclipped my flashlight off my belt, turned on with a flick. A circle of light revealed a grim outcome. I could taste the potent flavor of death in the air when I approached the counter. I peered down on the floor.

  Five dead men, one of the bodies right underneath the counter, a hand slouched over the cash register; a gun was in his other hand. The other four lay together near a stack of chairs. Puddles of blood formed around them. Their pistols sat neatly on a shelf on the wall.

  I saw no casings from the weapon used to kill them.

  It made no sense.

  Then it did.

  Claims of murdered civilians; corrupt cops on the scene, demands to search the place, apprehension of what I’d find written on their slimy mugs.

  I studied the victims’ faces; eyes were open in horror; corneas had not yet clouded over. The attack had been recent, less than thirty minutes ago. Their nostrils were still moist, bodies still warm.

  I wiped my hand across my forehead as I returned to the door, replayed the scene out mentally.