Men Who Walk Alone Page 9

  Sean shrugged, put away his revolver. He went over, picked up his mask, grasped it in one hand.

  “I’ll listen for now, but I’m not going to have anything to do with the department. And my identity remains a secret, you hear? If anyone finds out, it won’t just me be they’ll go after. Patrick and Evelyn will be targeted as well.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  We walked out of the room, silently proceeded back to my car, where my radio blared furiously. I ran over to the car, leaned in, answered fearfully. A distress call at this hour could only mean one thing.

  “This is Detective Moore. The hell is goin’ on?”

  “We’re being attacked!” the officer yelled. “They’re gonna kill us! We’re takin’ fire at the station! Hardy’s here, too! We need backup support!”

  “Who?”

  “We’re being slaughtered, ya fool. It’s Costa! He turned on us, had a bunch of his men shoot up whole squad of policemen en route to the station! They’re greasin’ any officer that they see in the precinct! We need the whole department mobilized or we’re dead!”

  I wanted to get more out of him, but this wasn’t the time. I threw a useless gesture of hope.

  “I’m on my way.”

  I then swerved my head, found Sean on the other side of my car. He reloaded his pistol chamber one cartridge at a time.

  A laugh, then another transmission.

  “And I’m bringin’ backup.”

  ***

  Hardy huddled beside his men behind the perforated walls on the third floor of police station. They ducked as bullets zipped past their heads. Costa had them pinned, couldn’t move unless they exposed themselves to a full barrage of gun fire from Costa’s men outside.

  Hardy cursed at himself, pounded the floor with his colossal hands. He then peered out the window, got a respectable glimpse of how grim their situation looked.

  In the darkness were vibrant, flashing muzzles on the street below, Costa’s hoodlums slowly advanced up to the station in large waves, dead policemen sprawled on the sidewalk. They weren’t taking prisoners.

  Costa’s astonishingly speedy attack proved that the mobster had been prepared it. Within minutes, his men had already taken out two beat cops, obtained police radios, police cars, caused general chaos throughout the Cabot Street. Hardy had called for an all-out city backup, informed Commissioner Elroy before his phone line was cut.

  One of the officers next to Hardy attempted to discharge his weapon out the window. A bullet shot right through his head. Blood spurted out of his face. He fell to the ground, landed right next to Hardy.

  Hardy scooted himself away, refused to look at the horrid expression left on the corpse.

  “Sir!” one of the officers yelled to him from across the room. “We are holding the main floor and both sides of the station, but that will change soon if we don’t get reinforcements!”

  Hardy crawled over to his radio.

  “Moore! Moore! Do ya come in? Moore! Where the hell are ya?”

  The gunfire outside ceased on their left. The flashing muzzles disappeared. Hardy leaned over to the window; he heard a mixture of shouts, erratic gunfire on the right.

  After a few minutes, it fell quiet, too.

  Seth Moore’s husky voice came in on the radio.

  “We’re here.”

  ***

  Leonard Costa held the radio in his hand with a large, sinister smile on his face. He stood outside a police car, surrounded by his entourage of bodyguards.

  “We’re movin’ in,” one of his lieutenant responded on the radio. “We should be in the building in a few minutes. I told the boys to bring Hardy out alive. We’ll let ya deal with him on yer own.”

  Costa answered happily, but darkly. “Fan-freakin-tastic. Just make sure ya don’t kill all of ‘em. I want Hardy alive, too, so I can teach him a few things about respect. We want to make a good impression. Capisce?”

  The sound of a gunshot splashed out of the radio.

  “What the freak was that?” Costa asked.

  No response.

  He stepped back, gaped at the dashboard.

  Then, a groan came. He muttered a string of curses.

  Disquieted, Costa called out to one of his spare men, ordered him to take a small group, see what had happened to their flank.

  He waited for several minutes. They didn’t return.

  Costa then saw one of his men run up to him. The man quickly told him that right flank was in position to begin storming the station. Still no word yet on the left flank.

  “I don’t care about the officers,” he said to one of his men determinedly. “I want Hardy. I want to slaughter that fat bastard myself.”

  “Absolutely,” the hoodlum said. He cracked a smile.

  Gunshots thundered out from an alleyway behind them. They scrambled for cover behind the police car, raised their guns toward the hazy blackness. They instinctively expected an ambush by a hidden squad of policemen.

  Nothing. They heard shouting in the blackness, followed by a synchronized pattern of bullets being fired, as if to a slow, but steady beat.

  “The bastard’s over here! Damn it!”

  “Mikey! No!”

  “Shoot him! Shoot!”

  “What the hell is that?

  “Ahhhhhhhhhhh!”

  “There he is!”

  “He’s a ghost, I tell ya! A demon!”

  “Costa!”

  Silence.

  Costa pulled out an extra gun from his jacket as a precaution, walked slowly up to the five-story building that the yells had come from. One of his men covered him as they headed over.

  Four rapid shots fired out of the blackness. The first two hit Costa’s man right between the eyes. He fell forward onto the sidewalk. The other two hit Costa’s dual guns, knocking them out of his hands. They fell onto the street with a clang.

  He stood there confusedly, peered into the darkness as he tried to make out his adversary.

  A man walked out of the shadows, wore a large trench coats that flowed like a cap, boots that clacked against the cobblestone. In his hand was a smoking revolver. He stepped out into the street, his face cast into the light.

  Costa screamed.

  The Vigilante.

  “What the fu—?”

  The Vigilante pulled the hammer back on his revolver, wagged a finger.

  Two more mobsters stumbled onto the scene. The Vigilante shot them both before they could discern him.

  Costa took the opportunity to pull out of large knife. He ran up to the Vigilante, licked his lips. The Vigilante turned his revolver back to him.

  Costa smiled, cackled derisively.

  “Ya stupid son of a bitch. Ya only had six shots in there, and ya used them all up.”

  The Vigilante was still, tranquil. He then reached into his jacket, produced a Colt pistol, cocked it resonantly.

  Costa’s smile evaporated.

  Six rounds entered Costa’s body. The force of the bullets flung him onto a police car behind him. He bounced off the door, slumped lifelessly onto the street. A trail blood followed him down to the ground.

  The Vigilante reached into his pocket, reloaded his pistol as he walked to the devastated police station. He picked up the noise of someone calling Costa on the police radio inside of a vehicle. The Vigilante answered it with a thick Italian accent that mimicked Costa’s perfectly.

  “We need to pull back, capisce? Police reinforcements are arriving’. Get out otta here! Ya hear me? Get them all the hell out of here! We’re gonna get wiped out if we don’t!”

  “Sure thing, boss!” was the reply.

  The Vigilante sniffed quietly, stepped away from the car. He walked steadily towards the symbolic edifice of law and order as he amusedly observed dozens of gangsters flee for safety within the darkened environs of Rantoul Street.

  ***

  I burst through the door that led into the stairway, wondered if anyone was still left alive. I stopped when I found Hardy along with
a handful of officers crouched over by the window. I panted violently, my hands on my knees as I rested. I had practically run into several mobsters during their exodus; none of us had been in the mood to stop so we could kill each other. One worthless minion wasn’t worth the advantage we had now.

  “Moore!” Hardy exclaimed, unable to suppress his elation as he strove across the cluttered floors. “Mother mercy! Glad to see ya alive What’s going on down there?”

  “Costa’s dead,” I said in-between breaths. “I managed to run past the crossfire and get in through the south entrance.”

  Hardy blinked in disbelief. “What?”

  “Costa’s dead. He’s making amends with his Maker as we speak.”

  “And what about the rest of his men?”

  “They dispersed, runnin’ like jack rabbits. This can’t wait. We gotta take advantage of the situation, Captain. They’re unorganized now, but not for long. We can shut down Costa’s operations in this precinct permanently, but only if we act quickly. I got the list of all of his front operations.”

  Hardy instantly spoke to one of the sergeants. “I want these guineas to pay dearly. Round ‘em up or put ‘em down, whatever they make it easier for ya to do! We got the bulge on them. Let’s use it!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We also need to look for any of our men that got cut off or captured,” I added as the sergeant left.

  Hardy nodded his head in agreement. A grin from ear to ear, he grabbed me with a bear hug, wrapped his arm over my shoulder. It was pretentious. Both of us knew it. He treated me as if we had been pals for years, had just gone through the fire together as close friends.

  I couldn’t help but feel amused as we walked down the stairs together. I played along, mostly out of my joy at the sight of Costa’s stiff corpse. One more bastard for our coroner’s report.

  “So, Seth,” Hardy said, “where did ya get all the reinforcements? Did our wonderful Commissioner send back up right away?”

  I smiled wryly. The pleasure was all mine.

  “I didn’t get any.”

  “Bullshit! Ya didn’t do this all by yourself, did ya?”

  “No. I didn’t do any of it. I just took advantage of it to sneak back in here.”

  “Then who did?” Hardy asked, exasperated.

  I laughed quietly to myself.

  Hardy made it obvious he didn’t like my surreptitious demeanor. He fidgeted restlessly as we walked into the lobby. There, two dozen officers had gathered; all of them wore dirty, tired expressions on their faces.

  The lobby didn’t look any better. Bullet holes peppered the walls, destroyed radios, typewriters. The phones were strewn across the floor, the front doors completely hacked to bits by submachine guns. The place would be a hell of a cleanup job. Leave it for the morning shift to deal with.

  The officers looked at the two of us curiously; they knew us well enough to realize some sort of truce had been made. Hardy tried to act like he was Henry V as he congratulated us all in melodramatic fashion. He offered his thanks, got a tepid response from the men. They unified in their sentiment; their stares accused him for their troubles. Hardy swallowed hard, sought to shift the focus as he gestured at me.

  “So, who was our savior? I wanna give the guy a commendation and an early pension.”

  For a moment, the noise in the lobby ceased.

  I didn’t respond, my expression equivocal.

  Finally, someone responded.

  “I did.”

  Out of a dim corner of the lobby, the Vigilante leapt out. He grabbed Hardy by the front of his uniform, held his revolver up to the man’s burly chest. Hardy yelped in terror; his hands shot straight up like arrows.

  Somewhat startled, I gazed at the Vigilante – or Sean Blood - disappointedly. I didn’t see this as a wise move.

  The officers shrieked, drew their weapons with hushed gasps.

  Hardy’s face was permeated with horror as he looked at the Vigilante’s face. He squirmed, fought the iron grip on his collar as he screamed at his men to come to his aide.

  No good. They kept an air of rigidity, too scared to stir an inch. The gossip, the tales they had heard overcame their senses; bullets did no good against phantoms.

  The Vigilante’s eyes seemed to sear through Hardy’s essence, like a demon that permeated the soul. Hardy trembled, his arms writhed like snapped cables.

  “Let me go!”

  The Vigilante brought Hardy closer to his face.

  “Why?” he asked sardonically. “You wanted to find me. And now I’ve found you.”

  Hardy’s eyes bulged as they lost their color. His big hands aimed at his subordinates. I caught the idiocy of it. He would try to bluff first.

  “Put that revolver away, or my boys will blow ya ass to the moon!” Hardy warned. He attempted to sound tough. It didn’t work.

  “It was I who dispensed with Costa and his men,” the Vigilante said. “While I did so, I got to see how your men fight. I was not impressed. If you want them to try to shoot me, without hitting you too, then go ahead and give the order. Otherwise, you tell them to put their guns down. Now.”

  Hardy swallowed hard, looked at me. I raised my eyebrows as I shrugged. No way I would get involved in this. I knew he wouldn’t kill him. If the Vigilante had wanted to kill him, it would have already happened.

  “Lower your weapons,” he finally uttered.

  Alarmed, the officers followed his orders more eagerly than he would have preferred.

  Satisfied, the Vigilante loosened his grip on the Hardy’s collar as he lowered his revolver. Hardy straightened his wrinkled uniform, recomposed himself with what small degree of dignity he still possessed.

  “Whadya want, then, a medal of valor?” Hardy asked him. “Ya got rid of Costa, didn’t ya? It’s what ya wanted all along, wasn’t it?”

  The Vigilante held the Webley-Fosbery revolver at his side with a stiff arm, snarled resentfully.

  “I ought to kill you now,” he stated. “You’re scum, Hardy, and you know it. You deserve to die for the blood on your hands.”

  He scanned the gutted room, saw the bewildered faces, the pathetic nature of the people who surrounded him; save for me. He avoided my gaze. But he could see the silent plea in my eyes. He needed to leave right away. If the reinforcements arrived, he’d be captured.

  The Vigilante realized this. His anger soothed out, dissolved into mercy.

  “But I’m not in the authority to take that kind of thing into my own hands,” he said. “I’m not the judge or the jury. I never was. All I tried to do was the job you weren’t willing to perform. That’s it.”

  He deliberated, then eyed them specifically. “That’s why I’m going to give you a second chance. You think I want this? I don’t. I never did. I hate it. I shouldn’t have to be doing it. I’m here right now because you aren’t.”

  At that, he solemnly paced towards the now-ramshackle entrance. The throng of blue-attired bodies cleared a small path for him. I simply grinned.

  Before he left, the Vigilante stared at Hardy with his two fiery blue eyes, gave him a last statement to consider, an ultimatum.

  “I took down Costa by myself. I can do worse to you. Abuse your authority again, and you’ll see how quickly I’ll have all of you dragged out of here and hacked to pieces. Next time, however, I won’t be coming alone.”

  And then he left.

  While everyone else in the lobby stood motionless, I walked out after him. He didn’t run as he headed towards the steps. There, I grabbed his shoulder firmly, but gently. He stopped, looked over at me, then turned around.

  “Nice job, kid,” I said. “Whadya gonna do now? Start a sideshow performance?”

  “Home,” he replied in an honest tone. “I’m going to try to live whatever life I can. If your department does its job for now on, I won’t be needed.”

  “Who? The Vigilante or Sean Blood?”

  He looked away; his youthful insecurity overcame his facade.

  �
��Ya know, we can always use an extra hand,” I suggested. “I can get ya a spot in the station, probably paperwork at first, but it become somethin’ worthwhile. The only problem is ya’d wear a blue uniform and carry a badge. Not as much glory and publicity as ya current employment gives ya.”

  He grinned tightly, but it quickly subsided. We stood there in silent reflection for a moment, watched thoughtfully as small raindrops began to fall on the ground, the gradual inception of a gentle shower. The water trickled down our faces, but we didn’t care. Each of us waited to see who would break the silence first.

  The precipitation continued to pour, grew more intense. He frowned suddenly, offered a hint of consternation.

  “So, is my secret safe with you, detective?”

  “Call me Seth,” I said. I futilely attempted to light a cigarette, groaned, threw it on the wet steps. “And yeah, if I ain’t under oath, I don’t think ya need to lose sleep over it.”

  “Thank you.”

  I slicked back my garbled mess of soaked red hair, rubbed my eyes. For the first time in a long time, I would be able to open the door to my house without a gun in my hand. Tonight, the mobsters would be the wary ones.

  “So, is it over for you?” I inquired.

  He glanced at the street below them, pondered what to say in response.

  “It will never be over for me,” he said, almost as if to himself.

  He then ran down the steps, fled into the darkness. By the time his murky outline had vanished from the wall of the alleyway he had ran into, dozens of police cars had come to a halt in front of the police station.

  I stared down at the eager cops as they poured out onto the sidewalk; a taut grin conveyed a sense of renewed hope while the red lights below me glistened in the night.

  Part II

  Looking Through The Mirror

  Luke Craft relaxed, leisurely drinking a bottle of beer as he sat back in his chair, listening to the news on the radio with a half-focused mind. He didn’t seem too interested in what the reporter had to say, his eyes more focused on the bottle that was shoved against his mouth.