Men Who Walk Alone Page 7

  Vigilante had come in, masked by the dim light; he had spoken to manager, unrecognized; someone had pulled out a weapon, all bets to the Vigilante; he had gotten off all five shots before they could return fire. The gunfire had then drawn the cop’s attention as he had left the store. Then the report had been sent to me at police station.

  But the pattern didn’t fit.

  I sat down in a chair, my hand on my chin as contemplated it. I then noticed something under the counter on the floor. I grabbed it, held it in the air in front of my face as I tried to place it in the light. I tapped the glass bottle with his fingers. No label on the side.

  Then I recognized the contents.

  A whiff of anger trailed me as I stormed out of the store, where Johnson stood; he walked up to me uneasily.

  “Did you find out why he killed those civilians?” he asked.

  “They weren’t civilians,” I replied, my eyes trained on Murphy. “And this joint wasn’t sellin’ no toothbrushes, either.”

  “What was it selling?”

  “Heroin.”

  I confronted Murphy, who still stood in the huddle with his two goons by the edge of the street. I stepped into their circle, broke it apart. They looked at me with confused bitterness.

  “What do ya want, Moore?” Murphy sneered. “Ya got the store. We’re securin’ the perimeter, like ya asked.”

  “Who got here first?”

  “I did,” Johnson answered.

  “No, I did!” Murphy snapped.

  I got in his face. “How did ya know this happened? Ya standin’ by while he blew them away, or what?”

  Murphy shifted his stance unsurely as he spoke. “I was driving by the store and I heard the gun shots, so I come to investigate, and I found them dead.”

  “Then how come ya didn’t arrest the man who did this when he walked out?”

  “I don’t know; maybe he went out the back.”

  I eyed him mockingly. “Nice try, the back entrance to that store is locked on both sides and the key for it is still in the pocket of one of those stiffs.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “What made you so sure it was the Vigilante? Ya see his face?”

  “Who else could it have been?” Murphy replied.

  “Yeah, really, that’s a good point. Who else would be carrying a piece in the middle of Beverly? It’s a good thing for that; you sure couldn’t have seen him inside the store. That light ain’t too bright. Maybe if you had a flashlight you could recognize him.”

  I pointed at Murphy’s belt. “But it seems ya don’t have yours with ya. Also, if ya knew this, what made ya so edgy about comin’ in and inspectin’ the joint yourself, when ya know the scoop? Hardy assigned them all to me. Gettin’ a little finicky, aren’t we?”

  Murphy repeated himself. He sounded scared. “What’s ya point?”

  I rolled his eyes, spewed my disgust out with a finger aimed at Murphy’s nose. I blurted his sentiment candidly, no filter, no sieve. I let him have it full blast like a shot of buckshot.

  “They’re selling ‘H,’ that’s my point, and ya knew it was him because ya one of Costa’s cop sissies. Costa runs the narc operations in this neck of town, and he wants to make sure no one disturbs his business. Ya were supposed to be protectin’ it from the Vigilante; they knew he was going for it, and ya knew that he bumped them off, so ya planned on removing the evidence that the Vigilante had hit it. Good way to avoid the backlash against ya; ya frame it on a rival mobster inside his own organization, shift the blame. But Johnson spoiled it all for ya; he got to the scene right after ya did. Killed ya plan right then. That’s how ya knew who it was without even seein’ some much as a lousy shadow. Costa knew he was comin’. Ya nothin’ but one of his lackeys. That’s my point.”

  Murphy trembled, slapped my hand away from his face.

  “Ya better watch what ya say, detective! I got connections!”

  That did it. The arrogance in his tone drained my patience. I feared only a few people. Murphy did not belong to the list.

  “I’m sick of cleanin’ up ya brodies everywhere I go,” I said. “That goes for the rest of ya crumb friends. Justice will get ya, believe that. If the law don’t get ya, Costa’s gonna send ya down river without a paddle, or a boat.”

  Murphy snapped; he went for his gun. I had prepared for it. I had mine up first. I pointed it mere centimeters from Murphy’s eye, pulled the hammer back with my thumb in a drawn-out motion.

  Murphy froze. His cronies backed off. They expected blood.

  “Just know this,” I said, “if anythin’ happens to me, all kinds of hell are gonna come down on this freakin’ department. I ain’t bluffin’. Know that. I’m on friendly terms with the DA and got enough blackmail to send y’all packin’ ya bags for the dead-end express train. This city has enough good people still left in it to finish ya bastards off, even if we go down in the process. We ain’t done yet.”

  I then violently pushed my gun into Murphy’s jaw.

  “And if I ever see ya so much as think of reachin’ for ya piece around me, ya gonna either be in the emergency room or have ya mug shot in the morning edition’s obit section in every single newspaper in this city.”

  A thick layer of perspiration trickled down Murphy’s uneasy face. I smiled, winked, put my gun back in its holster. I then turned back to the store. Johnson stood off to the side, a large grin from ear to ear. He had waited someone to do that to Murphy for years.

  I admittedly felt a little pleasure myself, but knew that I had pushed my luck to do so. Murphy had been one of three. I had had only myself, two if Johnson had been in the mood for some action. Best to not push the odds.

  A police car screeched around the intersection, skidded down the road. The right-side wheels ran up onto the sidewalk next to us. A disgusted expression washed across my face as I witnessed Hardy stumble out of the car.

  Hardy ran towards us, his face red, his breaths loud, raspy. I braced myself for the storm to hit me.

  But he acted as though I didn’t exist. He marched straight up to Murphy, screamed at him the moment he got within the proper distance.

  “Do ya know what ya done?! Ya idiots have killed us all!”

  Murphy was defensive, diffident.

  “Captin’, if ya could let me explain….”

  “I don’t want ya damn explanations! Can ya tell that to him! Do ya think he’s gonna care?!”

  “Sir, I’m…it ain’t our fault…”

  “Then tell me, genius, whose friggin’ fault was it?”

  Murphy silently begged his “friends” for support. They kept their heads down, refused to make eye contact. They would let him take the fall for it. Typical.

  Hardy didn’t wait for a reply. His pistol lunged up, a round promptly ejected into Murphy’s leg.

  Murphy screamed, fell to the ground in agony. He bawled like a girl. The other officers jumped back in fear, didn’t know if he was going to shoot them too. I watched it with Johnson from a safe distance.

  Our Captain’s temper simmered as the brightness in his eyes faded; he put his gun away, grumbled, then bent down next to Murphy; he still screamed from the gun wound in his leg. A splotch of blood covered his fingers.

  Hardy’s voice held no pity.

  “Ya were responsible for somethin’. Ya failed to do it. If it wouldn’t cause me so much time and effort to cover it up, I’d kill ya now.”

  He got up, turned to the two officers, both full of dread. He nodded at them. “Take this piece of shit to the hospital.” He then thought for a second, added, “And of course, ya both saw him shoot himself accidentally. Tell the doc not to give the sissy any morphine or nothin’. Just pull the slug out.”

  Hardy bent down, switched his gun with Murphy’s, placed it in his holster. The two toadies nodded their heads sheepishly, dragged their colleague into their police car before they drove off.

  Hardy then approached me. He tried to speak, but I got the draw. I wouldn’t play the stoog
e anymore. I had a strange feeling the hole I was supposed to dig them out of was deeper than that.

  “What the hell is goin’ on, Captain?” I demanded. “Ya got us into somethin’ I should know?”

  Hardy’s head was cast off to the side. He answered softly.

  “It’s Costa. He gives me some checkers to protect his narc operations in our precinct. But this damn Vigilante has been offin’ a lot of his muscle. Bang! Bang! The son of a bitch has no mercy! Then last month, he snuffed one of their boys who had a list of all their front businesses. The list was missin’ when we found his body. That’s why Costa had us go after the bastard, said to get rid of him before he could start hittin’ their operations. But ya knows Costa; he ain’t the trustin’ type, thinks we’re tryin’ to double-deal under the table, gettin’ paid to off him while we pocket his cash. He warned me that if this happened, he was comin’ after us. These guineas are freakin’ paranoid, think that we was behind these attacks.”

  I nodded solemnly. I brushed my long hair away from my eyes as I stared at Hardy.

  The dots connected completely, formed the full picture.

  The Vigilante’s victims were the keystone to the conspiracy archway. They explained why Hardy wanted the man dead in the first place. He didn’t care about his reputation, the Grand Jury, what the newspapers said, or even Elroy. Costa had strong-armed him. Not the worst motivation; Costa rarely made impotent threats.

  Bad way for a champion boxer to fight. Hardy had put himself in the corner, let the smaller guy get in his punches before the bell rang. He was already somnolent with the last round about to start.

  “Captain, I’d say this is a good time to make amends,” I advised. “Why don’t ya just crack down on them, hit ‘em while they’re waitin’?”

  “Are ya crazy?” Hardy asked. “And get Marzio involved? The slimy dago runs the whole city. He’s got every city councilmember in his side pocket. He could take us down with one phone call.”

  The bleakness of the situation left me with little else to do but laugh as I smoked on a Lucky Strike.

  “Nice one, Hardy. Ya got us stuck between a rock and a hard place; ain’t nothing to do but push real freakin’ hard. Should’ve gotten yourself out of it while you had the chance.”

  “Don’t ya think I know that, damn it!?” Hardy snapped back. “I knew that a long time ago, but it was too late to go back. I can’t make tracks on this one. In their world, if ya ain’t helpin’ them, then ya standin’ in the way. I had to make a choice.”

  I cackled, tossed my cigarette onto the ground. I popped a piece of mint flavored chewing gum between my teeth.

  “Lousy choice,” I said. “So, what are we gonna to do?”

  Hardy was ruffled, imbued with dread. He started to walk back to his car.

  “I don’t know,” he said over his shoulder. “But this Vigilante’s gonna pay. He’ll freakin’ pay for it.”

  The police car dropped off the sidewalk, slammed the curb, left me there on the sidewalk, alone.

  I listened to the clock tower bell ring; it carried a grim melody, like a signal to mark the end of the world.

  Suddenly I had a premonition: Costa wouldn’t wait until morning to sort this out. The bastard was brash, impetuous. He’d make a move. The night seemed ripe for death, bodies on the street.

  Back in the store, I returned to the counter, where I rummaged for more heroin. I wanted to keep it out of the hands of the narc addicts. It’d also tell me something about Costa’s operations. Smugglers left a trace of their work in the substance. If I got it analyzed, it would lead to a raid. Shut them down before the stuff got loaded onto the docks.

  A bottle fell in the store, broke into a hundred pieces.

  My revolver came out; I quickly turned to see who it was. Johnson gawked at me as he raised his hands passively.

  “Haven’t ya left yet?” I asked.

  “I want to help,” Johnson said. “You’re a loner; I know that. You don’t like company. But I’m not heading back to the station now.”

  I shrugged, examined the heroin that he had left there. It was clever, hidden it in old flour jars.

  Johnson paced about the vicinity, causally inspected the outcome of the shootout. I stood up to speak to Johnson, but found him kneeled on the ground. He held a small indistinct object in his hand.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  I dropped down behind him, peered at it curiously. He had an unfired bullet wedged between two fingers, which he offered to me. I took it, gazed intently at it.

  “Looks to me like one of the cartridges the Vigilante carries,” I said. “It’s a .445 Webley. It’s unfired.”

  “Where would he be getting them from?”

  “Don’t know. Checked out all of the stores in town; no one sells it.”

  Johnson grinned quietly.

  “I might know where he could be getting them.”

  My lethargic face perked up.

  “Ya do? Where?”

  “The old Gilbertson’s Guns and Ammunition warehouse. They shut down a couple years ago. You know where it is, out by Water Street?”

  “Yeah, but what does that tell us?”

  “A few months ago, we picked up a large cache of guns and ammunition from a smuggler working outside of Mario’s usual contacts; one of those independent types, sold his stuff cheap. We busted him, found the ammo he had been selling. All of it was old Gilbertson’s. He was gonna confess where he was hiding the stuff, but he got capped off by one of Marzio’s goons in the county jail. A hell of a way to maintain a monopoly, huh?”

  “Your point?”

  Johnson took the bullet, laid it in his open palm.

  “Gilbertson sold this cartridge; we found a lot of it during the raid. Rumor had it that the warehouse was where he stashed the stuff, stole it when the store went under, then hid it in the same building. We searched the joint and got nothing.”

  The man’s self-confidence rose. “I do the beat around the harbor precinct. I was passing by the warehouse the other night, thought I saw somebody climbing the fence. I chased after them, but they got away.”

  He handed the bullet back to me. “This Vigilante might have taken over the poor sucker’s cache, been using it for his own ends.”

  My eyes lit up, a tight grin spread my lips apart as I chuckled wryly. It was the perfect operational base for a lone gunman. Isolated, quiet, well stocked well suited for his needs.

  I started to run out of the store with the gut instinct I had nailed the last peg to the case.

  “Call an ambulance,” I threw over my shoulder. “Get these bodies cleaned up, and watch ya back. I’d take off ya uniform for now, keep the badge inside ya pocket.”

  Johnson had his pistol out, wielded it in preparation.

  “Aye, sir.”

  I gripped the steering wheel of my car tightly as I drove away. The empty streets in front of me seemed to roll on forever. But it permitted me to think my theory over.

  It all made sense. The company had died, but the building stood intact; Marzio hadn’t bought it out or used it as a front. The gun smuggler had operated on his own, had been snuffed, his cache still hidden. The Vigilante had found it, put it to good use.

  An inexplicable mystery remained. His sole weapon was an outdated British revolver. Why? Was it nostalgia? Loyalty? None of the above? There had to be more powerful, more suitable rifles and pistols at his disposal.

  Back to my original premise: It was personal.

  The rest of it fit like a glove. I just needed to find the hand that fit in it.

  The warehouse was closed off, barred from entry. The beat cops kept a patrol of the area to keep the homeless gangs out. They were easy to spot. A lone, determined person could get inside.

  One more fact: Patrick Malone was still a suspect. None of this new information convicted him, but it didn’t acquit him, either. Closed leads reopened like clotted gashes.

  Someone on the radio called for me.

  “This i
s Lead Detective Moore,” I answered.

  “This is Oswald. I was asked by the forensics guys to tell you the result of that hair sample you gave them.”

  My heart rumbled like the engine of a 20th Century Limited. I sighed, let some of the steam hiss out.

  “Yeah?”

  “According to what I’m reading, they said its horse hair.”

  What the hell?

  “Ya shittin’ me, Oswald? I’m ain’t in the mood. Not tonight.”

  “I’m not shittin’ ya, Moore. There’s also something here that says it’s the kind used in products, like toys.”

  My forehead creased, his eyebrows furrowed.

  “Anything else?”

  “That’s all it says on the paper. I can barely read what these twits wrote.”

  “Thanks.”

  I threw the radio down, experienced a blend of anger, confusion, disappointment. Horse hair told me zilch. It was the clog in the machine. Or maybe it was a cog. I needed to figure it out fast.

  My logic ventured down a precarious thoroughfare: The hair came from a product; wigs, toys; toys with hair; dolls.

  Dolls. Evelyn.

  I slammed on the brakes violently. There was one last thing to do before the warehouse; my mind ran wild, lobbed sporadic ideas. I had to confirm my thoughts, settle my doubts. I turned my automobile around, headed back to the bridge into Shingleville.

  As I turned a corner, my headlights shone on the sign for Eastern Avenue. In the middle of the block, I stopped abruptly, cast a long gaze at a familiar structure.

  After a long exhale, I left my car, walked briskly towards the dilapidated house. Only one light shone in front of the muddied front window when I approached the door. I lightly pounded on it, while my other hand reached behind my back, felt my spare Colt pistol tucked underneath my shirt.

  Evelyn answered the door. She shivered, as if on the verge of hypothermia. Her glassy eyes looked at me, then tore themselves away.

  “…what do ye…want?” she barely managed to get out.

  This time I addressed her with a firm, insistent voice.

  “Miss Malone, where is your brother?”

  “I donna know!” she screamed. “I donna know! Stop tormentin’ me! He dina do anything!”