Morris PI

by Dion Baia

  Walter tailed the cab out to the elevated West Side Highway and headed south toward the dockyards and the tip of lower Manhattan. On the highway he passed by a series of billboards in succession that were part of an ad campaign, starting with the first that read, “Angels,” the second, “Who Guard You,” the third, “When You Drive,” the fourth, “Usually,” and the last, “Retire At 65.” The punchline made Walter smile, and he simultaneously read aloud as the last billboard came into view, “Next stop, Burma-Shave.” He always got a kick out of those advertisements.

  They took an exit off the motorway at the bottom of Manhattan, where many of the turn-of-the-century factories, warehouses, and antique slaughterhouses still stood. These vast industrial neighborhoods made of iron, brick, and cobblestone were isolated and dimly lit in the evenings because the most of the establishments closed after dark. The long, wet streets were empty, with only the occasional heavy-duty truck shattering the stillness, coming or going from various businesses.

  Being somewhat a ghost town, it forced Walter to keep the Merc at a distance behind so he wouldn’t be detected, especially with no other vehicles moving around the neighborhood. The Studebaker made its way to the last street that ran parallel to the Hudson, a beat-up dirt maintenance road where massive warehouses lined either side. Some were built so half of the building extended over the water, big enough so even smaller-sized freighters could dock within the hangars.

  Tall wooden fences separated the buildings from the road, obstructing the view for anyone who might want to snoop. The limo eventually came to a stop alongside a large gate with a guardhouse next to it. A night watchman came out to meet them. He tipped his cap at the driver and opened the gate for the Studebaker to drive through.

  Walter rushed to park the Merc around the corner, keeping it out of sight. He reached under his dash and pulled out a hidden drawer that contained a blackjack, stiletto, and .22 and .45 caliber semi-automatic handguns. He chose the stiletto but bypassed the others, choosing instead to take a .38 caliber revolver, which he sheathed under his arm. He checked how many pictures he had left on his camera and opened up the glove compartment for a pair of binoculars and another roll of film. Leaving his hat on the front seat, he got out of the car.

  Walt hurried over to the corner and peered around, hoping to quickly size up the situation. He didn’t want to waste any time and lose track of where their Studebaker was headed. He was just in time to see a large Cadillac drive up from the far end of the street and turn into the driveway by the gate and guard booth.

  The detective took advantage and swiftly crossed the street, keeping close to the high wooden fence and out of sight. He stayed down low as he got closer, masked by the darkness.

  The guard left his booth again but stopped abruptly after recognizing the approaching vehicle. The overweight, elderly man spun around and opened the gate as fast as he could. The gate opened, and the shiny Cadillac continued down the same gravel road the Studebaker had just traveled.

  Walter took out his binoculars and found a place in the fence that had a big enough gap between the wooden planks to view below. The Caddy stopped in front of a large old wooden warehouse, right across from the parked limo. Two figures exited the Studebaker and were greeted by the people who were waiting in front of the building.

  The Cadillac flashed its headlights at the two men, bathing them in bright light. Through his tiny binoculars Walt recognized one of the guys from The Creo Room- the slender one with the huge scar over his eye. He was a lot paler than he had been before; it was eerie. Away from the public, he resembled a demon in the form of man.

  A figure exited the Cadillac and stood in front of the car’s hood, silhouetting itself from Walter’s vantage point. The guy standing next to the warehouse’s huge sliding doors flipped a lever, turning the building’s loading lights on, and clearly showing the man in front of the Cadillac.

  He was dressed in a pure, angel-white trench coat. Underneath he wore a matching white double-breasted suit and tie, and matching large-brimmed Stetson. His collar was turned up and the man’s face was cast in a shadow, a small beam of light dancing off a pair of round wire-rimm-ed eyeglasses.

  The man with the scar approached the figure in white eagerly, his face lit up into a broad-toothed grin. He greeted the mystery man with a warm embrace. Walter captured all of this with his camera and, using his binoculars, saw that the warehouse was “Icehouse #4.” He quickly jotted the information down in his notes. After the embrace, the scarred man pointed up at the warehouse excitedly. The man in white nodded. A few others had exited the Cadillac, and the group shared greetings, shaking hands and smiling. They all made their way into the warehouse.

  Walter double-checked his surroundings before carefully and quietly pulling himself up and over the fence. He got a good footing on one of the planks and he went over a lot easier than he expected. He was careful to land on the dirt rather than cement, which muted his shoes when coming down. He stayed low in the shadows and crept toward the warehouse.

  He climbed on top of a large dumpster on the far side of the building, which got him to the warehouse’s lower roof. He crawled along until he reached a large upper window which was partly open. He carefully opened the window just enough to get himself inside, jumped down onto some large wooden boxes, then lowered himself quietly to the ground. He crouched down on the floor as low as he could.

  Walter looked around and was surprised to see it was a giant icehouse, a depot connected to the Hudson River that received boats from upstate carrying blocks of ice of all sizes to be cutdown and sold for refrigeration in the city. The enormous warehouse was like being inside Penn Station. Certainly, large enough to fit a ship or a train inside. Stacked high to the ceiling in every direction were massive blocks of ice. Towering, sleek semi-translucent obelisks.

  He realized how lucky he was to have found an open window because the place appeared completely closed off and specially insulated for the low temperatures, like a meat locker in a gigantic slaughterhouse. There was a heavy mist swirling over the floor, moving up and around the thick rows of ice. Walter saw the vapor of his breath. He buttoned his jacket and pulled his collar up.

  A string of lights hung high between the floor and the ceiling but did little to illuminate the narrow passageways down below. The bright white of the ice made the huge slabs radiate with an eerie phosphorescent glow.

  Walter lit his Zippo to see the floor clearly through the fog and moved on.

  Once he started to get a little deeper within the ice maze and turned many frozen corners, it dawned on him how claustrophobic it was getting. Eventually some of the blocks began to shorten in height, and he came upon a clearing, a kind of large cavern shielded on four sides by the walls of ice. This area would have been invisible to anyone looking in from the outside, the room hidden from prying eyes like his. Walt could just about make out some large wooden boxes and crates wrapped in cargo netting. They looked so out of place, hidden away here in the back of an ice factory.

  He ventured closer to see under the netting. In a prior life had, Walter worked on a transatlantic ocean liner, so he instantly recognized that the battered appearance of the large heavy-duty crates was from being on the move, the multitude of dents and scratches from being transported and loaded in and out of hundreds of cargo holds. Walt searched high and low but couldn’t find a label on any of them. The area he was in was vast, the size of a high school gymnasium. He estimated that all the wooden crates could fill the cargo hold of the average tramp steamer.

  Keeping out of sight, Walter bent down low on the ground, took out his stiletto, and tried to pry a board loose from one of the smallest crates, which was still pretty large in comparison. It took a lot of elbow grease and patience, but Walt was eventually able to quietly remove two nails from one end of a board and make enough space so he could peek in. Using his Zippo for a light, all he could see was the straw stuffing that wa
s spilling out.

  Holding the stiletto, he carefully stuck one hand in through the crate to feel what was in there. It didn’t feel like anything solid was hidden inside all that stuffing, so Walt switched the blade to his other hand and cautiously reached in. He felt something small enough to extract. A large solid gold cigarette case.

  Very puzzling, he thought.

  He put his arm back through and this time pulled out a gold pocket watch, circled on the face by diamonds. He stuck his hand in a third time, felt around, and closed his fist around something small and plentiful. It felt almost like Cracker Jacks. He pulled them out to take a look.

  Walter couldn’t see properly in the darkness, but it felt like a handful of gold nuggets. He jiggled them around in his palm curiously then took the lighter out of his pocket and carefully lit it again, bringing his hand closer to the lighter’s blue and yellow flame. Even when the contents were in the light, he was unsure what he was actually looking at.

  His eyes widened. He realized he was holding actual gold teeth and fillings in his hand. He looked back and forth between the items in front of him and the mammoth number of scattered wooden boxes and crates of various sizes, which were hidden in between the mountains of ice. Who knew what the others were filled with. Some of them were as big as automobiles, some even larger.

  Walter’s brows furrowed as a thought flashed through his mind. Horrified, he plunged his arm back into the box, hurrying to put everything back in.

  The reason he was in the warehouse to begin with rushed back to him when he heard the sound of voices. He put his knife away and put the board back into its slot. Walter moved on his knees like a baseball catcher and navigated through the boxes, toward the sound. He continued among the shadows, down and around the cold slabs and wet corners.

  Down below, at the farthest end of the factory, a group of men were standing together where the warehouse reached out over the water. One was leaning against the large machine used to cut the ice into smaller, sizes depending on the customer’s specifications.

  Walt stayed low and managed to get as close as he could without being spotted.

  He listened intently and strained to see the faces of the men speaking. He was still seventy feet away and the words were barely intelligible. He hastily determined they were speaking another language entirely, probably German, like the other night at The Creo Room.

  Suddenly he was Humphrey Bogart in All Through the Night. That almost made him chuckle. That’ll be the day, he thought, a black man in a starring role. It made him remember how hard it was to even see Cabin in the Sky when it came out a couple years back.

  Anyway, the only thing he was sure he heard was the English phrase, “Operation Overcast.” But then that term “totten core” came up again. Walter had forgotten he’d seen them say that in the basement of The Creo Room before he was drunk-dumped. Walt removed his notepad from his pocket and jotted both down in the dark. He put the pad away and took out the small camera from his breast pocket and tried to get eyes on who was speaking. He inched along the ice and found a corner where he could twist his head out to see the situation slightly below him but still have good cover.

  The men were down by the inside dock area, next to the long slip where a vessel would wait to be loaded. Scattered about the floor of the warehouse were guards in dark suits on patrol. The man in white stood perfectly still with his hands clasped behind his back, nodding and listening to a report from the two men who were waiting for him here at Icehouse Number Four.

  Behind Walter was an colossal chunk of ice, at least fifteen feet high and eight feet wide. Walt knelt around the corner and turned toward the frozen wall so he could light his Zippo underneath his coat and check his watch. The block he was crouching against lit up because of the flame, and unseen by Walt, was the outline of a lower leg and torso became partially visible encased within. The cadaver it belonged to was over six feet tall with an athletic frame and bald head. Black goggles were strapped around the face and covered the eye sockets. The complexion had a yellow/green hue, and the body was laid as if positioned in a coffin, with the hands and arms crossed over the chest.

  Walter heard a noise. Someone was approaching. Walt quickly tried to find a place to hide, but it was too late; the individual turned the icy corner and saw him. The man was just able to reach for his gun before Walt was on him, his hands reaching for the man’s throat so he couldn’t scream. They tumbled to the floor and wrestled on the ground. Walter glanced down at the gun he was trying to fight for, and his jaw dropped open in an almost comical fashion.

  In the darkness it looked like a Colt 1911 .45 automatic handgun, but heavily modified. Its barrel had been extended by several inches, and it had a Thompson submachine gun’s foregrip attached past the finger guard and by the muzzle for better control. It also had a long banana magazine where the regular would normally be, descending from the grip, which alone would double the weapon’s capacity.

  “What the hell is tha—”

  Walter was kicked in the groin and suppressed a moan as he was thrown hard against two ice blocks. The top one slid forward and jutted out. He ducked a blow but was pushed onto his back. The guard was on him quickly. The large block of ice on top rocked a bit more and stuck farther out as their legs kicked at the lower block for footing. The barrel of the gun was just inches away from Walter’s face, and he struggled to hold it back. With all his might and using the strength in his legs, Walt threw the man off and slammed him to the ground. Walt jumped to his feet, but the guard retrieved the gun and pointed it at the detective. Walter reached up and pulled down the large block of ice, squashing the man below him.

  He screamed. It startled the other men in the warehouse, alerting them to their location.

  Walt grabbed the man’s gun. Just as he gripped the handle, Walter’s eyes discerned one of the cadavers encased in the ice. He looked around and saw they were everywhere.

  Horrified, he stopped himself before he could yell. “Wha—?!”

  Guards scattered, pulling out weapons like to the one Walter held in his hand. Walt saw more nearby ice blocks, and realized they too had these giant men frozen inside of them.

  “Jesus.”

  The men pointed and hurried toward his location. The tall, scarred man took charge, placing himself in front of the man in the white suit.

  “Apple? Apple?” was one of the closer man’s call near where Walter was hiding. Walter ducked behind a block of ice and spied on the guards who were closing in from all directions.

  “Apple?” the scarred man said.

  Walter didn’t know what the hell to make of it and figured if he answered right, it could maybe get him out of this whole situation. After a brief pause, Walter responded, “Pie?” There was silence.

  Maybe he’d guessed right?

  Everyone in the warehouse opened fire at Walt’s location. The modified weapons fired like small submachine guns.

  Walter dropped as low as he could go for cover. “Shiiitttt!”

  The incoming bullets shredded the ice around him, sending shavings flying into the air. It looked like it was inexplicably snowing on the detective. The scarred man and others around him shielded the man in white and rushed him toward the far door.

  Walter decided to head back the way he had come and darted for cover behind some of the wooden crates. He chambered a round in his new toy, jumped up, and fired back at the advancing guards. He hit a few and the others ducked for cover. Walt was amazed at the power and speed of this tiny automatic.

  “Now we’re cooking with gas,” he thought.

  Past the crates, toward the end row of even more ice blocks, he saw a huge window, the panes of which had been painted over.

  He aimed his weapon up at the overhead lights and fired. Shattered glass cascaded through the darkness. The men stopped firing and took cover from the falling debris. Walter ran as fast as he cou
ld. He slid across the ice shavings toward the window, slammed against a slab of ice and took cover behind it.

  Outside, all seemed peaceful, the gunfire inside muffled by the walls. That changed when Walter came crashing out of the painted window at full speed and rolled onto the adjoining roof, then quickly made his way down to the ground below.

  He raced away from the warehouse toward the tall fence. He scaled that fence like he was an Olympic pole vaulter, hitting the top in one jump then twisting his body legs over first in one fluid motion. The night watchman at the gate awoken by all the commotion caught a glimpse of Walter’s silhouetted body on top of the fence against the city skyline. The old man ran into his booth and came back out with a flashlight and a bolt-action rifle, running toward the intruder.

  Walter hit the concrete hard, the shock reverberating from his heels all the way to the top of his head, making his teeth click together. He almost lost his balance but caught himself with his hands before he completely fell to the ground.

  “This is why I should have a partner on these gigs,” he muttered.

  He jumped to his feet and loped around the corner toward his car. A loud shot rang out behind him; it sounded like it a rifle, most probably the night watchman. Walter dove into his Merc and sped off.

  Chapter 12

  M1911A1 .45 PISTOL FULL AUTO CONVERSION

  It was a busy night at Small Change’s pool hall. There was a tournament in the back-left corner that had attracted a good-sized crowd, though it was barely visible through the nicotine-colored haze. The local youths (the neighborhood’s very own version of the Dead End Kids) made up a good portion of the spectators despite the late hour. The regulars and old-timers up front played straight eight-ball, while a mark was getting hustled by a traveling pro. When the call came in from Walter, Small Change could barely hear him.

  “How’s that? …Yeah. His name is Elisha Cook. He’s the best guy to talk to about that, Walt.” He put his index figure in his other ear so he could concentrate on what was being said. “Yep. Guns are his hobby. He’ll be there now. Yeah, I’ll call ahead. Right. Okay.”