Dead Birmingham

by Timothy C. Phillips

  Maybe this is a college chick, Johnny Shakes reasoned. If I play my cards right, I might end up sacking out at her pad for a couple days while I get my shit straight. No way I’m going back to mine until things cool off.

  “Bloody Mary, babe.” Johnny winked at the girl and played it suave.

  I’ll just chill here and tip a couple back until it darkens up outside. Get this chick’s number. Sort things out. Yeah. Get my shit straight.

  The girl slid Johnny his drink and smiled at him broadly. Hi, I’m Heather, her name tag proclaimed.

  Johnny, you old devil. You got her eating outta your hand and you haven’t even fed her a line yet. Johnny took the first sip of his Bloody Mary. He gave the bar a little slap of appreciation.

  “Heather, you’re an artist,” he said.

  “Always a pleasure to serve someone famous,” the girl named Heather replied, still smiling.

  Johnny Shake’s brow furrowed and he looked down at his napkin, where he saw now that Heather had written “Look at the T.V. set” and his eyes went up to one of the screens that bracketed the counters. He saw his own face, and heard the announcer saying, “If you have seen this person, notify law enforcement immediately. He is wanted for questioning in connection with . . . ”

  “Finish your drink, Mr. Sheehan, and then we’d like you to come with us.”

  In the mirror behind the bar, Johnny saw two Birmingham Police officers standing behind him.

  “Well, so much for getting my shit together,” Johnny mumbled. He shrugged, laughed, and tipped back his drink. That Heather really did make a fine Bloody Mary.

  Chapter 24

  “So you’re Johnny Shakes.”

  “They call me that.”

  “Why? Why do they call you that?”

  “When I was younger, I don’t know, in my early twenties, I always wanted those James Bond Martinis. You know, Vodka and Vermouth—”

  “—Yeah, okay, I get it. So you’re a class act. Tell me what the Ganato family wants with you.”

  Johnny Shakes became Johnny Squirms. “I don’t know.”

  “Funny. You look like you know.”

  “I know a lot of things, but I don’t know that.”

  “You know a lot of things, huh? That’s interesting.”

  Broom leaned in close. “Suppose you tell me why kids are getting killed in this city. My city. Suppose you start with that.”

  Johnny squirmed some more, and even shook just a little.

  “What kids?”

  “I think that is one of the things you do know, Johnny, and before you leave here, you’ll tell me.”

  “I don’t have to tell you nothing.”

  “Not right now, Johnny. You can clam up, lawyer up, and bail out. But then you’re just going to end up in another room, with other guys, and the guys talking to you won’t be the good guys. They’ll be hoods like you. Ganato’s men, maybe. I hear they want you for questioning, too. I can just picture it. They’ll be guys with ball bats, blowtorches, and other play pretties. And no lawyer in this world can get you out of that one.”

  Johnny Shakes appeared to weigh the likelihood of this scenario in his head, and cautiously ventured a scenario of his own. “So what if I tell you something? What if I had nothing to do with any of it? What if it’s all stuff that I just heard, and maybe ain’t even true?”

  “I’d say that I heard everything off the record, Johnny. I’d say that I’d like to hear whatever it is that you heard. I’d say start talking. I’m all ears.”

  Johnny swallowed and made a bitter face, like whatever he’d swallowed had cost him something.

  “Off the record.” His eyes wanted Broom to verify his promise.

  “Off the record, Johnny. Completely.”

  Johnny nodded. “Yeah, okay. I heard some things, all right. Like maybe there’s an old man down on Five Points got something stolen.”

  He looked to Broom as if for confirmation. He got none.

  “Go on.”

  “Yeah.” Johnny ran his fingers through his hair and then waved them around in the air for a second. “So there’s this guy who came down to visit Longshot Lonny.” He stopped for a moment, as if unable to go on.

  Broom reached over and touched his shoulder. “Johnny, I swear to you, nobody’s going to hear this came from you. You heard a story. Tell me the story.”

  Johnny looked up into the bigger man’s eyes. “I hate coppers, you know that? I really hate them.”

  “You know Johnny, I’m really not surprised to hear that.”

  “But you. I always heard you were a fair guy.”

  “No one will ever know where I got my details, Johnny. I’ll make sure the word on you is you didn’t talk.”

  Johnny nodded slowly, but there was still a bitter caste to his features, and a pallor to his face. “Yeah. Okay. So here’s you’re story, big man.”

  He stared hard at the table surface, as if the details he was giving were written there. “So there I am, sitting with Longshot Lonny O’Malley and some of his guys, you know? I mean, we’re playing cards. Just a friendly game of poker to pass the time. We’re all having a good time, when someone comes in, one of Lonny’s guys, and he says, ‘Hey boss, there’s some guy out here wants to see you.’ Like that.”

  Johnny Shakes paused and cracked his knuckles.

  “Lonny says, ‘Bring him in,’ so the guy brings in this big mean-looking guy, and I’m surprised because he looks Italian, you know. I mean, there’s no love lost between Longshot and Don Ganato, so I’m thinking, what the hell is this? What’s an Italian doing in here? Maybe he’s a spy for Lonny? But then I listen and I understand that this guy is from some other outfit, from way up north. One of the big time families, maybe. This guy’s been sent down to look for a contractor to take care of some problem.”

  “They came all of this way just to hire a gun? The mob families up north don’t have guns of their own?” Broom shook his head. “You’ve got to do better than that, Johnny.”

  Johnny held up his hands as if to ward off a blow. “No, it’s not just that they were looking for any gun. They were looking for a particular guy, and he’s hard to get in contact with. It took Lonny a while and he made a few calls, but I think he finally made a connection on it. Lonny knew somebody who knew somebody, you know what I mean? Somebody who could get in touch with the guy. So he sent one of his guys somewhere to make the deal. This hotshot from up north gave Lonny the money to make it all go down.”

  Johnny Shakes nodded vigorously, as if he suddenly liked his own line of reasoning.

  “This put Lonny in good with this northern mob. Kind of headed the Ganato crew off at the pass, y’know? It put Lonny in the sunshine with a bigger outfit for the day when he’s planning to take over. I guess he thought that it couldn’t hurt. Anyway, Longshot Lonny just acted as a, I don’t know, a middleman. I got no idea who really wanted it done, or sent the money down, or who this spook is they wanted hired. For that matter, I doubt Lonny even knew the details. That kind of stuff doesn’t usually get talked over.”

  “Come on, Johnny, that’s some pretty vague stuff. Give me some details, or we got no deal. You mean to tell us that you never even heard a name mentioned?”

  “Easy, easy. I mean they called him, well, not a name. And they never said the name of who was gonna get whacked, if that’s what you’re after. But the guy they wanted, they kept calling him by a nickname, like maybe that’s what everybody calls him, like, you know, an alias, like Scarface or Machine Gun, or, ah—”

  “—Or Shakes,” Mack put in sardonically.

  Johnny ran his fingers through his chestnut hair and smiled nervously.

  “Yeah, I guess. Like Shakes.”

  “So what was this nickname, Johnny?” Broom asked. “What was it that Lonny and the guy from up north called this guy?”

  “Heh, it’s funny, but they called him The Foreigner. That’s what they kept calling him. The Foreigner.”

  Chapter 25

  Dext
ra was crossing 21st Street when she caught sight of Yim approaching from the opposite direction. She waved both arms until Yim caught sight of her and headed toward her. As she drew close, Dextra saw that she looked like she had passed a rough night. Her clothes were rumpled, and her hair was a mess.

  In the way of a greeting, Yim asked her, “Where have you been?”

  Dextra felt herself trembling. “I—I went to see Mule’s parents. Yim, Mule’s dead. Someone murdered him.”

  Yim felt tears come to her eyes immediately, as if some dark inner fear of her own had been confirmed. Her mind fled immediately to Bone, and his mysterious absence. “Oh my God, why?”

  Dextra’s eyes were red, but her fists were clenched defiantly. She would mourn after she had taken her anger out on the cause of her grief, her face and body seemed to be saying.

  “Scott lied to us, Yim. He stole something from that old man’s shop on Southside, and they think there’s some kind of hit man looking for all of us.”

  “Looking for us? What did we do?”

  “Some cop talked to Mule’s dad. He seems to think that Scott has something that they want back. So they sent this killer to get it. Come on, Yim let’s go get Angel. Let’s get upstairs and tell everybody. We have to get out of here.”

  Yim put her hand on Dextra’s shoulder. “Dexie, I got separated from Bone yesterday, and he didn’t meet me later where we agreed to get together.”

  “Maybe something spooked him, and he couldn’t meet you. Maybe he’s upstairs in the hotel, right now.”

  “Yeah, maybe Scott is too,” Yim ventured with a raised eyebrow. I hope they are both there safe, it seemed to say.

  “Scott. I certainly hope so,” Dextra said through clenched teeth. “I can’t wait to see that son of a bitch.”

  Something made Dextra glance down the street and her eyes immediately narrowed. “I think you got a tail, Yim baby.”

  Following a block and a half away, the Foreigner saw Yim meet up with another girl and engage in an energetic exchange that lasted for a few seconds. He then, despite the distance, could quite clearly make out the fact that they both turned their faces toward him.

  Fool, he chided himself. He had grown sloppy for only a second and the new girl had made him. He immediately started walking again, toward the two girls, and nonchalantly turned at the corner, but he knew they were probably alerted now.

  He hugged the wall and started running, quickly, around the block. He had to get into another vantage point where he could still observe the girls without being seen.

  Yim saw that the man she saw fit the description Bone had given her—a thin, pale man, in a black suit. “Oh my god maybe that’s the store detective,” Yim said, her hand flying to her mouth.

  Dextra gave a rough laugh. “Wake up, honey, that ain’t no store detective. What did I just tell you? I bet anything that guy followed you all the way here. He can’t be up to no good. We better get moving.”

  * * *

  The Foreigner waited two minutes under an awning on the other side of the block, and then walked slowly back through an alley that brought him up behind where he had last seen the two girls. They were gone, of course.

  He had lost them somehow. They had probably disappeared down the alley across from the one in which he stood. If they had started down the long streets in either direction, he probably would still be able to see them. The office buildings on these streets were all closed, so the alley it was. He looked across the street. Rearing up before him was a majestic looking building of yellow marble. Upon closer inspection, he saw that it was missing a few windows. A giant, sweeping capital “C” adorned its topmost floor.

  The Cabana Hotel, its faded marquee proclaimed. An abandoned hotel. Interesting, he mused. His street urchin’s sense told him that was his likely destination.

  So perhaps his prey had ducked down this alley to a back way in.

  When he looked down the alley, however, it came to a dead end. But his was a meticulous nature, and he retraced his steps. The dark alley had only two turns, both adjoining back alleys, one to the left, one to the right, in a block of mostly locked, deserted or run-down buildings, none of them housing businesses open at night.

  Both alleys were very dark. Where had the girls gone? He went down the one to the left, which opened back onto 23rd street, much further up a busy street with several bars. That was too far for them to have reached in the time it had taken him to round the block.

  No, they had gone the other way, they must have. Toward the old hotel.

  The Foreigner went back down to the alley that had been on the right. He walked to the apparent dead end. There, almost at the end, was a small alcove, barely wide enough for a person, covered by a piece of plywood that had been made into a makeshift door. The wood had been painted the same color as the concrete wall. He carefully slipped his fingers beneath the edge and pulled against it. It opened soundlessly, the bottom clearing the pavement by an eighth of an inch. In the darkness, he could make out a narrow stairwell that led down. An ancient service entrance, cleverly disguised. So; he had been right, after all.

  Chapter 26

  No one cares, you know. You live your life, you make your own mess, and pick up after yourself. No two lives have exactly the same beginning and end, and no one has any idea where it’s all going to take them. The messes that get left, we clean up. We are janitors.

  Broom stared through the windshield. A storm was brewing, and in the distance he could see forks of lightning firing down from the brooding blue clouds that rumbled low in the distance. We are janitors, cleaning up the morning debris that the night leaves behind: murdered children, murdered lovers, wives with black eyes, all those lives destroyed. We clean up a little of the mess, and then it happens all over again. He shook his head to clear his thoughts.

  Broom had been a cop for twenty years, and he had seen all the usual kinds of mayhem. But this case troubled him. There was a monster in his city, this little southern town that had grown too big for itself, this city that had known bombings and race riots, blues men and gangsters and heroes, too. For all her past troubles, though, from somewhere out in the greater darkness a new kind of demon had come. The thunder boomed loud. Broom’s car window was open slightly and he smelled the coming rain.

  This guy, this killer, is the real thing.

  Broom knew this instinctively, with the kind of near supernatural insight that the detective acquires, must acquire, to do his job well. The real thing, yes. But what was that thing? A hit man? Broom had seen one or two of those. Forget the movies. They were generally the lowest specimens of criminal, ordered to their wet work by bosses who knew they were weak and would do as they were told. A few were psychopaths who enjoyed killing. A very few were professionals with method. Generally mob connected. But the careful methodical torture of these kids was beyond anything Broom had ever seen. This man had come from . . . somewhere else. A different paradigm than that of rat-race crime.

  The big detective sat for a while in thought, until something clicked vaguely in the recesses of his mind. “A long shot,” he mumbled to himself, “but sometimes they win races.”

  He picked up his cell phone and pushed a number on his speed dial.

  “McMahon.”

  “Broom here. How’s our boy, Shakes?”

  “Right as rain. He’s got a private room upstairs.”

  “Great. Hey, Mack, I’ve got an idea.”

  “Let’s have it. I’m fresh out.”

  “Get on the horn to the FBI. Tell them about this Foreigner character. See if we can find mention of victims with the same M.O. I think this guy has been at his work a while. I’m sure he’s left others behind him. Find out about Canada, maybe, and Mexico too, if you can. Maybe we can see what he’s up to, and head him off.”

  “What are you doing while I’m chasing phone phantoms?” Mack asked.

  “Sorry, Mack, but you know that’s how it’s done.”

  “So my fifteen minutes of real
crime fighting are up? Anyway, you didn’t say where you were going.”

  Some guys had a wry smile. Broom had a wry frown. No one was there but himself, but he frowned his wry frown. “I’m going to see if I can find an antiques dealer.”

  There was a loud crack of thunder as he hung up. And the rain came pouring down.

  * * *

  “FBI, VICAP. Agent Marsh.” A young woman’s voice, sharp and professional. Mack liked her already.

  “Agent Marsh, This is Detective McMahon, Birmingham Homicide Squad. I’m requesting information on any murders that bear similarities to killings that have taken place here in Birmingham.”

  “Have you placed the details on NCIC?”

  “Yes, but my partner thought if you guys had maybe looked over our report so far . . . ”

  “I see. You’ll need to e-mail me your details, detective, and we’ll be glad to get you whatever information we can.”

  “Do you guys keep track of murders in Mexico or Canada?”

  “You’ll need to talk to Interpol for that, Detective McMahon. But they have an excellent database, and are very efficient.”

  “Can’t say as I’ve ever had to deal with them, but my partner is also my boss, and he says find out.”

  “Boss for a partner? I feel sorry for you.”

  She gave him a very long phone number that connected him with a French operator, who came on the line after a pause.

  “Est-ce que je peux vous aider?”

  “Uh . . . what?” Mack asked after a pregnant pause.

  The operator switched to accented English when she realized Mack had no idea what she was saying. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m trying to reach Interpol.”

  “Yes sir, you have. I am the Interpol operator.”

  “Uh, yes. Well, I’m a detective in the U.S.A., and I need some information on some crimes that have been committed—”