by Dion Baia
Morris felt a renewed sense of life. He pawed at the detonator, not bothering to detach any of the wires, just yanking them all out at once. He summoned all the energy he had left within him and ran toward the door.
Max continued to scream, its arms thrashing around, furiously searching for the detective, giving Morris an idea.
“Hey, Maximillian! C’mon, you gruesome son of a bitch! Follow me!” He began to make a lot of noise, clapping his hands.
It worked. Morris fled up the stairs with Max giving chase. For a guy whose head and upper body were on fire, it kept up pretty damn well.
Ambrosio and the G-Men, who had all arrived by now, had finally started to get the upper hand in the gunfight, along with the other police officers. Barton McLane, the man on the landing, had been shot dead, tumbled headfirst over the marble railing, and fallen twenty feet onto the stairs below. George Raft and Cagney had also been killed, pieces of their flesh and blood now sprayed all over the information booth window and marble floors.
Rory Caven, still wearing the Paul Muni mask, ran across the station toward the train platforms, to where his last shooter was positioned. He almost made it to the large doorways where the track number boards were but was gunned down by law enforcement. Rory stumbled forward as he ran, tripping over. He fell, sliding and coming to a rest within a few feet of his masked gunman.
This last robber, wearing a Peter Lorre mask, threw down his shotgun and put his hands in the air. Ambrosio and his men took that as a cue to advance with their guns raised, screaming for him to get to his knees and keep his hands up. The last torpedo quickly followed their commands and sunk to his knees, cowering at the head of the luxurious red carpet of the Twentieth Century Limited. The uniformed officers hurried over, ripping off his mask once he was secured and cuffed.
All the shooting had now ceased in the main concourse. And through the haze of gunpowder lingering in the air, there was a moment of peace and silence blanketing the room. Spectators who were huddled in corners and hiding behind baggage carts started to move again, uncovering their eyes and ears, breathing a sigh of relief. Officers attended to the wounded and made sure everyone was okay, amazed at the gunfight they had all been a part of. Davies tore the Paul Muni mask off of the dead body lying on the floor near him, discovering what they had already known: it was Irish mob boss, Hell’s Kitchen’s own, Rory Caven.
All of a sudden, there was a loud noise from a train’s air horn, startling people. It was the Twentieth Century Limited coming out of the tunnel and decelerating as it approached the plush platform. Everyone breathed an enormous sigh of relief when they saw it was just the famous train arriving. But the horn continued to blow, with a deep and frantic urgency, drawing the attention of those on or near the platform. They all turned back to get a clear view of the locomotive pulling in.
It was one of the brand-new Art Deco engines that looked to be in perpetual motion. It had a front end which jutted downward at a forty-five-degree angle as it neared the bottom, becoming the traditional “cow catcher” and shielding the front wheels from obstructions. Its chimney produced a thick gray smoke that shot up almost fifteen feet, and the train itself was like one long, chrome, metal snake with the engine blending seamlessly into the rest of the other fourteen cars it pulled.
It was about this time a figure appeared from out of the darkness at the far end of the platform, someone running at full speed and carrying something. Once that figure cleared through the train’s fog, a gray haze lingered around his limbs and torso. The police realized it was Private Detective Walter Morris. Those who were watching raised an eyebrow, a look of curiosity upon their faces. Ambrosio took a couple more steps toward the platform, bewildered by what he was seeing.
A glow appeared behind the locomotive’s smoke, moving at a rapid speed. The shape of a large figure came into focus, the bright glow becoming a burning flame. Maximillian emerged from within the darkness. It was in full-speed pursuit of Morris, the upper body still ablaze. The fire was burning so bright now it rivaled the intensity of the incoming locomotive’s headlamp.
The train was slowing at a greater rate than normal, Morris passed it as he ran and the porters, baggage men, and conductors who were waiting on the red carpet jumped out of the way to make room for the detective and the flaming demon on his tail.
The police were flabbergasted at the scene they were witnessing. When Morris got closer to them, he started shouting.
“Ambrosio! Ambrosio! Ambrosio!”
Frowning, the sergeant stepped closer. “Walter?”
Morris saw Ambrosio was at the head end of the platform and screamed as loud as he could. “Chopper, Chopper! Get me a Thompson!”
He had almost reached them, but Max was right behind. It had just passed the train, screaming and smoking like a road flare. The train engineer was so shocked he didn’t even notice the cigarette drop from his mouth or the hot cherry explode, red hot embers falling down the front of his dirty overalls. He poked his head out of the window to keep the incredible scene in his view as the train continued to decrease speed.
“Thompson!” Morris kept shouting. “Thompson!”
Without taking his eyes off the situation, an older uniformed officer who was standing next to Ambrosio remarked in a slight Irish brogue to the sergeant, “I think he’s asking for a Tommy gun, sir.”
Ambrosio nodded at the cop then looked over at another officer who had a machine gun. “Is that loaded?”
“Yes, sir. A full cli—”
Ambrosio grabbed it from him before the young man could finish getting his sentence out.
“Thompson!” Morris screamed again as he got toward the end of the platform. He turned to the older Irish cop and shouted, “Catch!” and threw him the detonator, which miraculously the policeman caught.
Ambrosio simultaneously tossed the machine gun toward Morris. The detective caught it and quickly cocked back the bolt, swung around, and slid onto his back, unloading the machine gun at the flaming goon behind him.
Maximillian was close enough that the landing projectiles made a violent impact. Morris kept the Chicago Typewriter in control and didn’t relent as the bullets shot downrange and into Max. It caused the ghoul to stumble and lose its footing as it ran, widening the distance from Morris. As the last rounds hit the legs, it tripped and fell off the platform, down onto the tracks and into the path of the oncoming train.
The engineer laid on the horn and recoiled in horror as the locomotive ran over Maximillian on the final yards of track before finally coming to a stop at the head of the platform.
Police officers helped a war-weary and bloody Morris to his feet. He waved the empty machine gun in air while he shouted over to the train engineer, “Hey! Don’t you worry. That was a bad guy. It’s okay! Bad guy.”
The train engineer grimaced awkwardly and waved his hand, unsure of what to do but hoping that what he had just been told was correct.
Morris limped over to Ambrosio and handed him the empty Thompson, placing it in both of his arms. Before the sergeant could say anything, Morris bent over, putting his hands on his thighs. He took slow, even breaths. “I gotta catch my breath…oh my God…wow.” He was exhausted and looked at Ambrosio and Davies with a pained expression. “You might wanna take a few guys with rods and go make sure that mutha’s D-E-D, dead.”
Nobody responded at first.
“Are you serious?” Ambrosio asked him honestly.
In between his slow and pained breathing, Morris nodded. “Serious as a heart attack, old buddy.” Morris put a hand to his own chest. “Which I feel like I’m having right now…”
Ambrosio motioned to the uniformed officers, who took out their revolvers and with their shotguns in hand, headed over to take a look.
“Yeah, Flash Gordon’s got nothing on him.” He kept an eye on the officers as they stopped the train from disembarking while the underc
arriage of the locomotive was being searched.
Morris looked the stunned passengers waiting to get off. “Let’s hope Ingrid Bergman isn’t on the Limited tonight.” He smiled between Ambrosio and Davies. “Okay, so there’s one piece here…but I need a head start to get the drop on them, and then hopefully have you guys come in like the cavalry. I gotta stop this heel before he’s able to escape. He’s behind this whole horror show.”
Ambrosio nodded, blinking slowly. “How much time are you gonna need? ’Cause this isn’t a fucking picture show. We can’t just delay our end because of you.”
“Please trust me,” Morris said. “These guys are fucking Nazis, the real deal. Straight outta Germany, I kid you not. I gotta get there first and kick them in the swastika, make sure they can’t get away, and then you guys can swoop in and get them.”
Ambrosio shook his head, at a loss for words. He glanced over at Davies, and his partner simply shrugged. “So what does this entail exactly?”
Morris gestured for them to follow him as he headed into Grand Central’s enormous main hall. “First and foremost, I’m gonna need a rod, preferably an automatic. If I could maybe borrow one, that and a rifle or a shotgun if possible.” Morris hurried across the hall, passing the various onlookers trying to get a good view of the bodies next to the clock. He looped around them and headed toward the front entrance.
“Jesus, Walt. Okay, then what?” Ambrosio begrudgingly asked.
Morris was hesitant to ask his next question but knew there was no getting around it. “And…I’m gonna need to borrow one of your patrol cars.”
Davies laughed. “And what are we gonna do, sit back and let you take it out to Jones Beach? I’ve heard it’s nice out there this time of year. Hey, Ambrosio, I hear Guy Lombardo puts on one heckuva show at their—”
Ambrosio jumped in, cutting his partner off. “Cut to the chase, Walt. Why would we ever let you have one of our vehicles?”
Morris made his way through the passenger waiting area. “I don’t need the entire New York City Police Department accompanying me, it’ll spook them, and I’m telling you, this guy will cut out of here so fast we may never see him again.” He headed toward the front doors. “I want to get a head start and get into position so that when you and General Patton arrive, they’ll be disabled and have no place to go. If we don’t do it this way, then they will slip through our fingers.”
The two police officers stayed on his tail. “And then what?”
“Then….” Morris stepped out onto Forty-Second Street, to where all of the police cars had been abandoned when the cavalry arrived. “Then when I get to where they’re going, which is in the city, by the way, I’ll call you on one of those fancy two-way radios you’ve got in some of your cars now.” He gestured toward all the black-and-white coupes and sedans. “Just give me one with a radio.”
Davies was grinning, as though Morris was completely crazy. But the sergeant had furrowed brows. He was standing with his arms crossed, staring intently at the detective.
“C’mon, Ambrose, you know me. You know you can trust me. Time’s a-wasting. Let’s get these guys.”
Chapter 30
PIER 72, ICEHOUSE #4
Morris was given their latest Ford sedan with the new two-way “Walkie-Talkie” radio system that was being tested in the Radio Motor Patrols, or RMPs. She was brand new and raring to go, looking almost as beautiful as his baby, which after all this was over, he still had to go out and retrieve from Long Island. Morris slammed the door shut and placed two automatics, a Browning and a Smith & Wesson pistol, onto the passenger seat. They even let him borrow a Thompson and several mags, which he threw onto the passenger floor. He hit the gas without even saying goodbye, not giving Ambrosio the time to renege on this little deal they had made. Morris couldn’t have the whole Army descending on the docks; he just needed a head start to guarantee those sons of bitches couldn’t go anywhere once the police were on the way.
He turned on the party hat and sped down Forty-Second Street, heading out toward the West Side. Once he got there, he’d radio in with his location, hopefully giving him enough time to sabotage their plans before the cavalry arrived to save the day. He had a straight shot with the sirens blaring, and in a fancy new black-and-white patrol car, people got the hell out of his way. His body was about to quit on him, and he had no idea how he was still even functioning. Whatever these pills were, they did the trick. He took out his last Pervitin tablet and tossed it into his mouth.
Morris got down to the West Side Docks in record time. He turned off the sirens on the highway and tried to be as inconspicuous as possible when he got off the exit. When he pulled onto the street along the waterfront, he turned off all the lights so as not to attract any unnecessary attention. He focused his attention on the numbers, looking for Pier 72. He turned into an unguarded Pier 70 and parked the cruiser behind a warehouse, out of the view of spying eyes. He holstered one of the automatics and crept along the side of the warehouse wall heading toward Pier 71, hoping to sneak over to Pier 72 and Icehouse #4. When he got to the fence he knelt down low, surveying the situation.
At the docks of Pier 72 a large, weathered freighter named the Demeter was docked next to Icehouse #4. Huge spotlights were trained on the massive vessel, where it looked like a small army was in the middle of frantically loading the ship’s belly. It seemed like every available dock worker in New York City was on hand, completely oblivious to what they were actually loading, and for whom. How could they ever know they were busy moving the Nazis’ stolen booty from their bloody conquests in Europe, as well as the future of warfare, the undead herculean ghouls surgically altered to be panzer tanks? Morris laughed at how insane it all sounded, even now.
High above the Demeter, two tower harbor cranes with long horizontal arms worked in tandem, each taking turns lifting the heavy payloads down into the ship’s cargo hold.
He did his best to creep out onto Pier 70’s dock to get a clear view of the Demeter as she was being hastily loaded. He spotted Von Stroheim up on the flying bridge deck, which was right outside the boat’s control room, where he was supervising the ship’s cargo. He had his jacket collar turned up to shield his face, but Morris recognized his figure and hat. The detective counted almost a hundred men, all working together in a synchronized dance to get everything on board, and it was looking to be maybe halfway done. From what he could tell, most of the dock workers were normal hardworking longshoremen, doing the most efficient job possible in order to get the freighter to depart.
Another man walked out of the control room and onto the flying bridge, then wandered over to speak with Von Stroheim. The man’s glasses reflected in the harsh light, and Morris would recognize that slicked-back hair anywhere. It was Mengele. Apparently the whole party was here. Stroheim raised his hand and barked out an order, and everyone’s rate of loading went into overdrive.
“Shit…,” Morris said. “How in the hell am I gonna cripple a steamer that size from being able to…” he trailed off, trying to figure out an answer to his own question.
Morris hurried back to the patrol car. As promised, he sent out a radio call for reinforcements, letting the powers that be know where it was all going down. Then he suited up; he placed the other .45 automatic in his belt, putting the extra mags into all of his available pockets, and headed out with the machine gun in hand.
The freighter was nearly loaded and most of the workers were winding down dockside. Only four more bundles of boxes remained, wrapped up in cargo nets and waiting to be hoisted onboard.
On the dock’s edge, on either end of the freighter, were the two enormous cranes situated on rails. The nearest crane to Pier 70 was also the farthest from all the action. The small control booth for the crane sat above the tower, behind the long arm that extended out high above the Demeter. The operator sat inside at the controls, lethargically loading the heavy cargo onboard. He lifted up an oversi
zed palette that had two large and heavy touring cars secured upon it: a Mercedes-Benz 770 and the ultra-rare 1939 Bugatti Type 57c.
The cab door opened and Morris climbed inside. The crane operator looked over and did a quick double take upon the realization that it wasn’t an actual employee. His first inclination was to question Morris, but he quickly noticed the submachine in his hand, the two handguns in his waistband, and the numerous ammo magazines bulging out of his pockets.
“Huh…you my relief?” he said with a healthy level of skepticism.
Morris tried to keep as nonchalant as the situation would allow. “Yeah. Go and get a fresh cup of joe.”
The crane operator’s eyes darted to the Thompson in Morris’s hand and nodded at the detective’s suggestion. “Yeah, a cup of coffee would certainly do a fella a bit of good right now.” He had already unbelted and was halfway out of the seat. “I’ll be right back.”
“Hey, while I have you here, if one needed a tiny refresher on how all of this worked, could you help a brotha out?” Morris gave the man his warmest and most sincere smile, plus a slight nudge with the machine gun.
Von Stroheim was now standing on the bow overseeing the loading process with another one of Mengele’s undead army, a newly restored Heinrich, who Tatum and Morris had plowed into and driven over out on Long Island.
Toward the rear of the ship, past two large open hatches that led down to the hold area, was a huge structure that enclosed the crew quarters and had the ship’s bridge at the top. Stroheim continued to bark out orders at the dock workers, yelling at them to hurry up. His attention became diverted when the large crane by the stern lifting the two cars unexpectedly stopped moving. Stroheim yelled in German at a ship loading supervisor who was the intermediator between the freighter’s crew and the dock workers, asking what had happened. But the crane began to move again, lifting the heavy load into the air. Satisfied, Stroheim diverted his attention to another issue at hand.
