LeRoy, U.S. Marshal

by Neil Hunter

  ‘I take it by illegal means?’

  ‘Let us say there are ways around many problems.’

  Arling smiled. She understood Trattori. Liked his thinking. The way he took a direct approach.

  ‘The diamonds were brought to the border and passed to Tamber to be carried along with his religious goods.’

  ‘Who would suspect a man of the church. Even one of dubious practices.’

  ‘Tamber had been lucky. His transgressions were hushed up and his gratitude came in the form of transporting something for me.’

  ‘Very enterprising. ‘

  ‘Now I must consider how to complete my plans now the diamonds have been lost. They would have made things much easier to achieve but there are other ways to achieve my goals. I believe you, Miss Arling, can figure in them an enterprising young woman as yourself could fare well as my contact in the west. Between us we could bring about my plans.’

  ‘All I need is some financial incentive to help me get started.’

  ‘Of course. You will be well compensated for your efforts. As we seem to have a mutual concern in the form of this man, Bodie, if we work together it will be easier to track him down and arrange for retribution.’

  It was a short time later that Beth Arling started on her return journey to the other side of the continent, as a partner in Trattori’s plans and considerably richer than she had been on her arrival.

  Unknown to her, as she left New York, the subject of part of her discussions with Trattori, was just arriving in the city.

  ~*~

  LeRoy had put up with the discomfort of the long train ride to New York, sleeping as much as he could and counting off the miles in his head as a distraction. He had not informed his superiors of his intentions and knew he would catch hell from them when he returned.

  Still nursing his healing wounds he had endured the discomfort. His mind was set on locating Luchino Trattori and dispensing some western style comeuppance when he found the man, even though he was embarking on a risky endeavor.

  The word when was the only one he accepted. Alvin LeRoy was under no illusions. What he was doing was strictly off limits. Going after Trattori was close to being unofficial and might get him dismissed the service. He ignored the possibility.

  He was intent on handing out justice. Luchino Trattori was the man behind the whole affair. He had given the order for all witnesses to be silenced in order to cover his crime. From what he had learned about the man Trattori had little conscience over handing out the death sentences to the people on the wagon train and that was something LeRoy could never tolerate. For a bag of diamonds Trattori had issued a death sentence to unknowing men, women and children. For nothing more than monetary gain. It was no reason to allow the killing of people not remotely involved in the affair, but simply there by chance. They had paid the ultimate price and in LeRoy’s eyes there had to be a reckoning.

  ~*~

  LeRoy had learned as much as he could about the criminal gangs in New York. Armed with that information he went into Manhattan’s Lower East Side district where they operated. He took a room at a grubby boarding house as a base, and during the days he walked the streets, asking his questions. He was risking his life and he understood that, but working unofficially he had little choice. He found people were uncooperative. Some obviously scared. Others downright offensive.

  LeRoy knew his questions were getting him known and in the end they drew the kind of response he was expecting. He was into his third day when he was accosted by a pair of men. They were slightly better dressed than most of the locals. Better fed too by their appearance. And they moved with the assurance of connected men.

  The one in charge, confident in his surroundings, confronted LeRoy. He was lean and mean faced, thumbs hooked in his pants as he stared at LeRoy. He wore a shiny bowler hat.

  ‘You ask a lot of questions,’ he said with no preamble.

  ‘Only way to get answers.’

  ‘One way to bring yourself trouble.’

  LeRoy stood and faced him, having to look down as he was taller than the man.

  ‘Now maybe we should go where we can work this out,’ Bowler Hat said.

  He let his partner edge closer. This one, heavier and solid, exposed the muzzle of a pistol held under his coat.

  A result LeRoy might have expected, so he went along with the pantomime.

  Bowler Hat led the way, his partner close to LeRoy, his pistol held steady. They moved along the sidewalk for half a block before Bowler Hat guided them down a narrow ally strewn with trash and the smell of decay. Reaching a small door Bowler Hat led the way inside what turned out to be a derelict warehouse. If anything the decay was stronger inside the walls.

  ‘Now we have privacy,’ Bowler Hat said.

  He turned to face LeRoy, producing a slim-bladed knife. He moved closer to LeRoy, the blade waving in front of LeRoy’s face.. His partner gave a soft snigger. He brought his pistol into full view now. A .38 caliber revolver.

  ‘Now we ain’t never seen you before,’ Bowler Hat said. ‘And you’re asking questions about someone important to us. Mister Trattori don’t take to out-of-towners pokin’ into his business. So we got a problem.’

  ‘Does he have something to hide?’

  ‘Seems you need taking down a peg,’ Bowler Hat said.

  The .38 man managed a sickly smile that exposed crooked teeth. His dark-ringed eyes narrowed as he made a decision, the dark shape of the pistol rising as he made to strike LeRoy. If he had pulled the trigger he might have succeeded in putting LeRoy down. It was mistake and the last one he ever made. The second the muzzle of the pistol cleared him LeRoy broke into action. He put his power into a solid punch that thudded into .38’s face, snapping bone and twisting his head around, blood spraying from his distorted mouth. In the same move LeRoy launched a kick that put the toe of his boot into Bowler Hat’s groin as he made an ineffectual swipe with his knife. The force behind the kick drove the man’s testicles almost to bursting point. Bowler Hat gave a shrill scream as he stumbled back, dropping his knife as he doubled over, clutching his groin, tears streaming from his eyes. He fell to his knees, his bowler slipping from his head. With Bowler Hat out of the game LeRoy turned and took hold of .38’s gun hand, closing his hand around the man’s boney wrist. He twisted hard and kept on twisting until he heard bone crack, drawing a whimpering cry from the man. There was no resistance when LeRoy wrenched the pistol from the man’s limp grip. He pressed the muzzle against the side of the man’s head and pulled the trigger without hesitation. The .38 made a sharp crack, the man dropping without a sound.

  Bowler Hat, still clutching his groin, stared at his partner’s motionless body, then at LeRoy.

  ‘Jesus, you killed Ketch.’

  ‘And there are more bullets available,’ LeRoy said. ‘You boys, here, set the game up. All I’m doing is playing it by your rules.’

  ‘You’ll not get out of town once Trattori knows what you done.’

  ‘Thing is I’m in no hurry to leave. Not until I reach your boss man and pay my respects.’

  Bowler Hat rubbed his sleeve across his mouth where he was dribbling uncontrollably. His eyes were flicking back and forth, seeking a way out. But there was no escape from the black clad man standing over him, the muzzle of his dead partner’s pistol aimed at him.

  ‘What is it you want…to kill me as well?’

  ‘Information, friend. That’s all I want. Where I can reach Trattori. Right now. Not later. Not tomorrow. Right now.’

  Bowler Hat saw his knife still lying on the dirty floor, only a couple of feet away. He blinked at the tears still flowing from his eyes from the pain in his groin where LeRoy had kicked him. He figured out what his chances were. If he made a grab for the knife before the black clad man could…

  ‘If I tell you what you want you let me go?’

  He was using the words to distract LeRoy as he inched his hand across the floor…

  LeRoy didn’t respond.

&
nbsp; ‘Maybe I could tell you what you want to know.’

  His fingers scraped across the rough planks. Closer now. Very close.

  Thinking I’ll gut you, bucko…

  With the thought in his head Bowler Hat, through fear as much as loyalty to his employer, snatched at the knife, twisting his skinny body in a wild lunge. His fingers touched the ebony handle scant seconds before LeRoy’s boot slammed down on his outstretched hand, crushing his bent fingers until they cracked, blood oozing from torn flesh. Bowler Hat screamed at the pain, feeling the weight of LeRoy’s impacting foot.

  ‘Not too smart, son,’ LeRoy said. ‘I saw that coming easy. Appears city boys are a mite slow.’

  Bowler Hat let go with a howl of frustration. Caught between a rock and a hard place, with nowhere to go. When LeRoy lifted his foot, kicking aside the knife Bowler Hat clutched his bloody hand to his chest.

  ‘Think fast, boy, I’m losing my patience.’

  ‘All right. All right. Pier six. Hudson River. Boat’s tethered there until late afternoon. The Callisto. Got guests coming tonight. So he’ll be there. Trattori. But he’s well protected. You go after him you won’t get close.’

  ‘What’s special about this boat?’

  ‘It’s Trattori’s gambling boat. Where he entertains important clients and holds business meetings.’

  ‘Wasn’t so hard,’ LeRoy said.

  Bowler Hat stared at the grim faced man, blinking away streaming tears as he hugged his crushed and bloody hand.

  ‘Now you can let me go. I need doctorin’. You said you’d let me go if I told you.’

  ‘And you won’t warn Trattori?’

  Bowler Hat’s gaze slid to one side as he said, ‘No.’

  ‘The hell you won’t,’ LeRoy said and put a shot between Bowler Hat’s eyes.

  ~*~

  A pale mist hung over the river. It gave the impression moored craft were floating on clouds. The air was heavy with moisture and the smell of decay. LeRoy stood in the shadows of a warehouse, studying the long shape of The Callisto. It was a hundred and fifty foot steam powered vessel, smoke drifting from the single funnel. Painted dark blue and green. Tethered to the pier, a gangplank giving access the main deck.

  There was also a trio of suited, shotgun-carrying men standing lookout at the bow.

  LeRoy figure he would have a limited time to make his move. If clients started arriving for the gambling his chances were going to lessen. He didn’t want to put anyone at risk who were nothing to do with Trattori’s illegal business.

  He saw there were a number of small row-boats tied up against the pier and made his way to the spot. LeRoy stepped down into one of the boats, unlimbered the oars and loosened the painter. Perching on the narrow wooden seat he slid the oars into position and pushed away from the pier. It never crossed his mind he was leaving himself open to becoming a target. It was to his advantage that the low mist helped conceal his quiet approach. He eased around the blunt stern of the vessel, bringing himself to the starboard side where he managed to stand and reach the rail edging the deck. LeRoy pulled himself up and over the rail. He hugged the deck, pressing himself against the cabin structure.

  LeRoy was improvising a plan as he eased his way along the cabin’s length. He was hoping he could make it work because he needed to isolate the boat from the shore before he became too involved with Trattori’s crew. Once that happened there was not going to be a deal of time to relax.

  Rounding the bulkhead he checked out the position of Trattori’s gunmen. Since his appearance they had moved along the deck and were now gathered at the far end of the main cabin structure, looking almost relaxed. He saw tobacco smoke rising from cigars and cigarettes. The penalty of taking too much for granted. Sure they were safe from any problems on board Trattori’s boat. Too confident in the power of their employer.

  Who would dare to stand against Don Luchino Trattori?

  LeRoy picked out the stern mooring rope, looped round the capstan. He dropped to a crouch and made the swift move, reaching to slip the line from the capstan head. He had to grip the rope and drag it against the pull of the water to loosen it. It took him longer than anticipated as he had to fight the sheer bulk of the boat before the line gave enough for him to free it. LeRoy felt sweat break out as he used his strength to combat the pull of the river, his eyes moving to check the group of guards were still too occupied to look in his direction. He almost let out a yell of success when the boat rolled with the current, the line slackened and he was able to ease it over the brass-topped head of the capstan. He let it drop free into the water.

  LeRoy didn’t hesitate, turning back into the cover of the cabin structure, where he moved quickly to the opposite end, again staying out of sight as he reached the bow. He stayed below window level as he picked up the murmur of voices coming from the trio of guards and smiled at their words.

  ‘Crew’ll be coming back on board anytime soon.’

  ‘Goin’ to be a busy night.’

  ‘Always is when the bossman invites those city bastards on board…’

  ‘Damn fools take his cash for favors, then come back and leave it on the gaming tables…’

  Someone laughed at that.

  ‘Hell, they can’t help bein’ dumb…’

  LeRoy, tight against the bulkhead, brushed against something. Saw it was a fire axe, resting on hooks. He lifted it, feeling its solid weight in his hands. It would make things easier for him than having to struggle loosening the bow line.

  ‘Hey, stern’s drifting.’

  ‘Stay here, Boone,’ someone said.

  There was a scuffle of boots on the deck. As LeRoy peered around the bulkhead he saw two of the three men heading along the deck towards the stern, leaving the third guard at his post. He had his back to LeRoy watching his partners. The lawman used the moment to rise to his feet and step across the deck. The axe in his hand made a couple of swings, the blade cutting into and through the bowline, severing the rope and biting into the wood of the capstan. The line broke free with an audible twang.

  The remaining guard spun around, shotgun lifting. LeRoy had already moved forward to meet him, the axe swinging. The blade thumped against the man chest, delivered with LeRoy’s considerable strength. It cleaved muscle and bone, going in deep. The guard let go a terrified scream, stumbling back. Blood began to bubble around the blade. The guard slumped to the deck and lay bleeding there.

  ‘Hey.’

  The closest of the guards let go with his own weapon, the 12 gauge booming out its sound. Too far away to be totally effective.

  LeRoy palmed his shoulder holstered Colt, dogging back the hammer as it rose, leveled and held for a breath before fired. The slug took the guard in the chest. He took a step back, eyes wide in disbelief as he went to the deck. The surviving man ran at LeRoy, letting go with his fist shot, sending the shot as LeRoy dropped to a crouch and felt the wind of the buckshot go over his head. He returned fire, missing by a hair as the shotgunner turned in at the door to the cabin, firing off his second barrel as he vanished. Stray pellets clipped LeRoy’s right sleeve and he felt the hot sting as they gouged his flesh.

  He drew his second Colt, and with a pistol in each hand he breached the door, ducking low as he entered the main structure. He caught a glimpse of the shotgunner ramming fresh loads into his weapon. LeRoy let go with a single .45 slug that hammered in between the shotgunner’s eyes. Stretching him out on the floor.

  Loud voices reached LeRoy, coming from the glass-paneled doors to his left. He hit the doors with his boot, tearing away the lock and smashing the decorated glass as the doors swung inwards. As he moved forward LeRoy caught movement, a gun firing and sending a slug that ripped a chunk of wood from the doorframe. He launched himself forward, onto the thick carpet covering the floor, letting his lean form turn as he rolled aside, picking out a quartet of figures.

  Two were clad in dark suits and were wielding handguns. The wide cabin, displaying ornate and expensive furniture and gami
ng tables, echoed to the sound of gunfire. Slugs pounded the floor, sending ripped fragments of carpet into the air as they sought LeRoy’s moving form. LeRoy ignored the offensive fire, setting himself to return shots deliberately. He caught one dark suit with a shot to the middle that folded the man at the waist, discharging his final shot into the floor. He heard someone shouting, issuing orders, and took that as being from Trattori. Whatever he said had the effect of steadying the second gunman. He triggered a shot that struck LeRoy’s left arm, high up. Sure he had his man the shooter took a step forward, easing back the hammer of his revolver. He never made the shot. Extending his right arm LeRoy fired twice, placing each slug in the man’s chest. The hit man fell sideways, colliding with a chair as he fell and thumped to the floor on his front.

  It became quiet.

  Gritting his teeth against the pain of his wound LeRoy stood. He could feel blood running down his arm under his clothing. Nausea threatened to overwhelm him. LeRoy fought it off as he rose to his feet and faced the man he had come for.

  Luchino Trattori.

  Solid build. Dark hair above his strong-boned face. Dressed in expensive clothing that befitted his status as a man of great importance. Luchino Trattori. The Don. The ultimate power behind the criminal organization he ruled with absolute power. Totally ruthless and demanding total obedience from those under him. In New York his word ruled as it had for years. No one opposed him. If they did Trattori struck without mercy. He expected, demanded, compliance. And had always received it. He had at his call men of power in the city. High ups who did his bidding and were handsomely rewarded. Judges, politicians, even police. They did it through greed, or often because Trattori held things over them. He could wipe them out with a few words in the right ears.

  Just beyond Trattori stood the lean figure of the man called Fabio. Trattori’s arranger. The yes-man who did Trattori’s bidding. Pale now, his slack features a sickly white. He stood motionless, eyes fixed on the disheveled, bleeding figure facing them both. The revolvers in LeRoy’s hands were pointing directly at his employer, yet Fabio understood he was also in the line of fire. He stood with his hands in clear sight, making no offensive moves. Not that he could have done anything offensive because Fabio was unarmed. He had never carried a gun in his life.