“You?” Betty snarled. “Protecting the city under the sanction of the FBI?”
Donny held out his hands in mock humility. “It’s what I do best, in my own way,” he said. “And for my troubles, my new friends will look the other way if anything unpleasant needs to be dealt with.”
Betty was fuming. She knew Jacob had been under pressure to wrap up the serial killer case, but there was no way he knew how high the stakes of failing were. It seemed that no matter what he did, Donny was going to be back on the streets sooner than they had thought. And working for the feds, no less.
“The way I see it, your fancy man Dick is just about out of a job. Or at least, off the case.”
“Did you invite me here to gloat, or do you have something worth listening to?”
Donny leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.
“I have more. This is all just cream in my coffee, you know, so you can learn a lesson from it. Mud never sticks, not to me. Now, you know better.”
“You’ve got five seconds before I break both of your legs with that concrete desk, Donny. Shake your business up and pour it.”
Donald Pinzolo chuckled, stood up slowly and took a single step to reach the concrete shelf desk on the back wall of his prison cell. He took down a book, flipped it open and pulled out single leaf of paper.
“Manners, Mrs. Jones. And you call yourself a lady?” He shook his head. “I’ve got a little tace licet for you to mull over while you’re painting your pretty face.” He passed her the piece of paper. “I got a visitor the other day.”
“You get rather a lot of visitors, for a man in solitary confinement,” Betty seethed. The paper was blank, except for a phone number in messy script. She didn’t recognize it.
“What can I say? I’m a friendly guy,” Donny laughed. “My visitor was a representative, so-to-speak. For a mac, goes by the name of the Tin Man.” Betty’s eyes narrowed. She felt her pulse quicken. Donny grinned. “Thought that might touch a nerve.”
“And what did he want?”
“He wants you. Dead,” Donny said. “And he’s willing to pay for it.”
“Aren’t I the popular one these days,” Betty said, her voice laced with sarcasm. “Another trophy for your mantle then? What is it this time? He’ll give you his first-born child?”
“Probably. This fella doesn’t sound like the family-type.”
“The Tin Man is behind the Boudoir Butcher murders, you know,” Betty said.
“Oh, I got the rumble. I’m all ears in here.”
“So, you’re going to try to kill me again, Donny?” She rolled her eyes. “In case you haven’t noticed, it didn’t work out too well for you last time. Or the thirty hatchet-men you cornered me with.”
“I have some interesting friends now that I didn’t have before,” Donny shrugged. “They could do the job for me.” He looked at her appraisingly, then leaned back against the wall. “The thing is, Cookie, I don’t trust this bozo, this Tin Man. He gets a broad to do his dirty work while he hides in the shadows? Then there’s all this grandstanding over his kills all over the papers. Call me old-fashioned, but I think a goon’s gotta work his way up the food chain. Pay his dues.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were jealous.”
“Ha!” Donny’s lips were pursed, but he wasn’t laughing. “He has something on his side, to be getting away with it for this long. But he’s got no class. I never liked that in a goon.”
Betty refrained from mentioning what, exactly, the Tin Man had on his side. The mind-control powers of the Boudoir Butcher. What a temptation that would be to the man in front of her.
Donny’s eyes became shrewd. “So, I’m bringing you another opportunity, Mrs. Jones. I could kill you, like this Tin Man wants me to, or maybe I could help you kill him. I came to you with an offer before and you turned me down. Now you gotta deal with the consequences. But the offer stands again. You want me to get this Tin Man off the streets and maybe even get the FBI off your back, then I might be able to help with that. But we’ve gotta work together.”
Betty opened her mouth to speak, but he held up his hands.
“You go away and think about it, little Suzie.” Donald Pinzolo straightened up his bullish shoulders, cracking his neck, then sank back against the concrete wall again. “It’s like you said yourself, it’s better the devil you know. So, maybe it’s time that you make your own deal with the devil. And I’ll be here waiting for your answer until they let me out.”
Episode Seventeen
The Bowery Flophouse
Shadows mottled and stretched the street as heavy clouds stole the moon’s glow. Betty threw a glance over her shoulder. She was still alone. A block behind her, the rumbling din of a gin joint under Barrow’s Bait Shop gave the otherwise silent street the mood of having a giant snoring beneath the asphalt. At any time, patrons could come spilling out to observe Betty stalking the sidewalk. It was past two o’clock in the morning. She was cold and tired.
Abruptly, Betty turned on her heel, and walked back in the direction of the bait shop, keeping to the other, dark side of the road. Her Oxfords clicked on the concrete and her winter coat brushed her calves. The salty taste of East River drifted between buildings on her right to reach her. She stepped over a pile of rotten newspapers, holding her arm out for balance as she did so. Her handbag dangled from her crooked elbow.
“I’ll be taking that, sugar,” a voice hissed in her ear. Something cold and sharp flicked up against her neck. Betty’s handbag was wrenched off her arm. The blade pushed harder under her chin. She pulled back a little into the man, giving the sharp steel space.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Betty warned. “My very favorite lipstick is in that handbag, and I won’t take kindly to being bereft of it.”
The man laughed. “I don’t give a rat’s ass, doll. And you can gimme those pearls too, while you’re at it. Hurry up.”
Betty lifted her hands slowly. “I suppose you’ll need me to take the pearls off, then.”
“That’s right. And the rings.”
“My wedding rings?”
“Move it, lady. I ain’t got all night.”
“Certainly.” Betty felt the knife pull away and she turned slowly to face her burglar. He was young, barely twenty, with a thin face and eyes that shone in the dark night.
“Well? Get on with it, lady. And don’t try anything funny or I’ll stick ya like a pig.”
“I don’t doubt it.” With a reassuring smile, Betty slowly raised her hands toward the back of her neck to remove the pearls.
Slam!
Her elbow came down hard into his chest. The man stumbled backward, gasping and waving his knife. He lunged for her with a strangled cry as he tried to suck oxygen past his bruised ribs.
Smack!
Betty ducked under his fist, dodging the knife. Her open palm found his cheek in the dark. The man recoiled, growling and thrust his knife again. Betty felt his weight force her back. She grabbed his wrist and twisted it. She felt his forearm bones shift and stopped short of letting them snap. The knife fell free. It skidded away with a swish of her Oxford.
Boof!
With a jarring thud, the young man collapsed, his knees hard on the asphalt.
“Ease up, ya crazy cracker!” He looked up at her, panting. Betty raised an eyebrow disapprovingly, then stepped aside to pick up her handbag which had been flung in the scuffle. She brushed it down with her glove, then picked up his knife as well. The man was breathing heavily, his hands on the road to support his knees, which Betty guessed were considerably bruised. She gave him a moment, then spoke.
“Now that I have your attention, Beauford –”
“Hey! How do you –”
“– I have a little favor to ask. I’m looking for Hell Cat Harry.”
“Harry? Whatcha want Harry for?” His mouth was turned down in confusion.
“That’s between him and I, dea
r. Now, be a good lad and hop up off the road or you’ll catch your death.” She beckoned to him, impatiently. “Up you get, let’s go. Take me to Harry.”
Beauford looked up at her resentfully. He pushed himself to his feet with a sneer.
“I don’t have to do nothin’ to help you, lady. Flippin’ nutcase, you are! If I take the likes of you to Harry, he’ll have my guts for garters. I don’t need that kind of trouble.”
Betty stepped forward, grabbed fistfuls of his jacket and lifted him a clear inch off the ground.
“Beauford, darling,” she breathed in his face, “if you choose to live the life of a River Rat, you’re going to have to take on certain responsibilities. And that includes getting yourself out of the trouble you get into.” The man struggled, but Betty gave him a shake, her eyes as hard as flint in the moonlight, her voice as smooth as silk. “Now, if you choose to mug an innocent woman walking along the street, you’re going to have to pay your dues by helping said woman, or she might just haul you down to the 7th Precinct by your ear and have you locked up for it.” Betty dropped him with a thud.
“Fine. I’ll take you to Harry,” Beauford seethed. “But he’s not gonna be happy about it.”
“That’s neither here nor there to me.”
“And somethin’ else, how the hell do you know my name?” He stood up once more, smacking frost off his trousers.
“I’m a friend of your mother,” Betty lied. Beauford’s eyes widened. He shut his trap and took off up the street toward the wharf, looking back to see if Betty would follow. When she did, he skittled forward, trying to keep his distance. Betty trotted after him, tucking her handbag under her jacket. Using herself as bait to catch a River Rat had worked perfectly well, but there was no sense in inviting more trouble. There were plenty of muggers hidden in these dark corners.
Within a few minutes, Beauford pulled up short in front of a diner. The lights out front flickered over a grubby sign. The Sleeper.
“Just wait ‘ere,” Beauford called back to her. Betty nodded. But instead of pushing through the doors of the diner as Betty had expected, the young man slipped into a narrow alley between the diner and a laundromat next door. The path was barely accessible, strewn with trashcans and bric a brac. Betty hummed as she waited, shrugging into her coat a little tighter. It was a cold night to be sleeping rough, and her heart stung for the men in the dark crevice beyond, whether criminal or not.
A snap. A shuffle. Soon they appeared, scuttling over the dumpsters and landing lightly on their feet like rodents, self-assured and poised in the dark. A dozen young men, each tattooed and wearing a black bandana tied around his hair. They zeroed in on Betty, Beauford leading the way, his lips pursed and accusatory.
“Well, what do we have here?” one of the men said, as another wolf whistled. They moved as a pack, slipping past one another in the dark until Betty was surrounded.
“Fancy bird like you shouldn’t be out alone at night,” one cooed. “You might lose a few feathers.”
“She can fight,” Beauford insisted. “I’m tellin’ ya, she’s not what she looks like.”
“This whistle bait?” another man scoffed. “Looks pretty soft to me. What do you say, Regis?”
“I say she’s as soft as they come,” another man chuckled. “Togged to the bricks with that fancy white coat on her. Reckon it’s worth somethin’ too.” The men circled closer, eyeing her keenly. Betty watched them, a quiet smile on her face. There was only one man here she had business with. She let the others preen.
“Shut up, all of you,” her quarry said, finally. A man stepped close to her; his brow furrowed in curiosity and irritation. “This doesn’t look like your side of the street, lady. So what do you want with me?” As he spoke, Betty saw his teeth had been filed into sharp points. The ends of his fingers sported brass fingernails to match, like crowned daggers.
“You’re a hard man to find, Harry Flynn,” Betty said, without an inch of fear.
Hell Cat Harry’s eyes narrowed at the woman standing in front of him.
“That’s the idea.” The others laughed.
“Well, I’d hoped to catch you at The Bridge Café,” Betty said, lightly, “but seeing as I had no luck, I had to convince Beauford here, to bring me to you instead. Don’t blame him for it. I was very persuasive.”
Hell Cat Harry shot a dirty look at his underling. “That’s what he said.” A few of the men sniggered. Beauford had been out fought by a woman. No doubt it would plague his reputation for years. “So, what do you want?”
Betty took a moment to study him. Hell Cat Harry had a bad reputation. But beneath the terrifying persona he projected with his Dracula-sharp teeth and metal claws, the tattoos stretched across his neck and his menacing scowl, Betty knew he was not, in fact, a killer. A criminal, certainly, in every other sense of the word. But no killer. Yet.
Harry Flynn was the leader of The Drowned Rats, a rag-tag gang of misfits and petty criminals that spent their days sleeping and their nights thieving. They were modern-day pirates, stealing onto fishing boats moored in the East River in the dark hours before dawn to steal unloaded cargo. They were rough and violent, often drunk and always liars. The gang started brawls and gave the brass no end of trouble as they pilfered their way through the shipping vessels that came to port. Individually, these boys were almost impossible to catch, slipping through the cracks of the night wharf like the River Rats they were named after. They defended their territory viciously. Donald Pinzolo was the only mob boss they tolerated on their turf – his racketeering amongst the longshoremen at the docks was too powerful a business to take on.
“I’ve come to bring you a warning, Harry.” Betty stepped toward him, ignoring the others. “And it’s worth your while to listen to me.” She paused, to make sure she had his full attention. “There’s a price on your head.”
Harry’s eye twitched. The men around him hushed.
“Says who?”
“Says the Boudoir Butcher.” The night air thickened. Harry’s jaw flexed and Betty heard his sharpened teeth grind together behind his closed lips. The others froze, wide-eyed, all pretense and preening suddenly gone.
Betty rolled her eyes. “No, you silly boys,” she said, as if addressing children. “I’m not the Boudoir Butcher.” She felt their palpable relief. “The Butcher has a price on my head too, apparently, and I certainly hope it’s a decent penny or I’ll be rather offended.” She turned back to address Harry directly, “No, the Boudoir Butcher tried to hire a prostitute to murder you, Harry. She manipulates them, you see. These women don’t act of their own accord. They’re – drugged in a way. Under a delusion. In any case, The Butcher was intercepted, by me. She failed. But you ought to know that you’re still next on her kill list.” Under the watery moon, Harry looked shaken. He was standing stock still now, watching every move Betty made. Even his breath was careful. “I’ve come to tell you to watch your back,” Betty said, gravely, “and I strongly suggest you take a vow of celibacy for a few weeks until this all blows over, so to speak. Better to be safe than sorry, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yeah, I’d say,” Harry muttered. “And who are you to be knowing all this? Are you one of them lady cops?”
“I’m not a policewoman,” Betty said, amused at the notion that she, a prolific murderer herself, might have been acting lawfully in anything that she’d ever done. “Let’s just say, I’m a concerned party.”
“So why are you telling me?”
“Because you aren’t a murderer, darling. So I think you deserve the chance to escape what’s coming for you.”
The man ran his tongue over his teeth, considering. His eyes were shrewd as he took Betty in, trying to figure her out. His mind was sharper than his bite.
“Why is she trying to kill me?” he asked.
“Nothing personal, I assure you,” Betty replied. “The Boudoir Butcher is working for someone else. A Russian mobster by the name of The Tin Man. Have you hear
d of him?” Hell Cat Harry shook his head and Betty couldn’t help but feel a pang of disappointment. “Well, he’s the one orchestrating the murders of high-profile gang leaders. It seems you made the cut.” She noticed Harry lift his chin a little and grin. Despite the implications, it seems he couldn’t help but feel a little pride at being considered ‘high-profile’ enough to murder.
“This Tin Man bastard wants my turf?”
“He wants everybody’s turf,” Betty explained. “He’s stirring up trouble, hoping all the gangs take each other out and save him a lot of dirty work. He’s lazy and conniving, Harry, dear – a dangerous combination.”
“So, we should take him out first,” one of the men behind Hell Cat Harry growled. “We find this Tin Man and show him the sharp end of a shiv.”
“Trust me, Booker, you don’t have the required skill,” said Betty. “Stick to stealing fish crates.”
“And who’s got the skill? You?” Booker jeered. A few of the men laughed.
“I have more skill in my left ear than you do in your whole body, dear,” Betty drawled. “I’m warning you, leave the Tin Man to someone else.”
“I could take him down,” Booker challenged.
“Shut it!” Hell Cat Harry shouted, spinning around. “All of you.” He turned back to Betty; his face serious. “So, what am I meant to do with this business then, lady? I got a serial killer on my back and you want me to just hide out until it all goes away?”
“Unless you feel a change of career is in order, yes.” Betty shrugged. She looked around at the men, their faces shadowed. “Do what you do best and lay low. All of you, but especially you, Harry. Or you’ll find yourself stiff, in the worst sense of the word. Things are getting ugly out there.” Betty gave Harry a polite nod. “Well, I’ll be taking my fancy coat and pearls and walking home now. Alone. Good evening, gentlemen.” She had only gone a few steps before Hell Cat Harry called out to her.
“Wait,” he called. “Lady! You should know. There’s trouble brewing down at the Bowery, because of this Butcher broad. The Boys and the Micks, they’re gonna rumble –”
Lady Vigilante (Episodes 16 – 18) (Lady Vigilante Crime Compilations) Page 8
