Morgan nodded.
“You see, that’s where the gumshoes above go wrong. They beat you, but after a while, a beaten body learns to like the pain. Eventually, it doesn’t help anyone. We thought of a better idea.” He turned to Booth “Newly promoted Lieutenant Booth, please take the prisoners down and lock them up.” Booth almost merrily skipped over to the prisoners whistling Danny Boy.
“Gladly, your honor. It would be my absolute pleasure your grace, come on lads lets be having ya’” Booth jerked them around and started for the room’s door. He paused in front of Doakes. “Doakes, be a grand chap, would you? Take that little club there and beat off the rats until I chain our visitors down, thank you very much.”
Doakes hefted a makeshift club. “Not a problem,” he agreed.
The Parisian leaped sideways “Christ! Rats? Boys come on, you can’t do that. We’d be eaten alive!”
Booth just jerked him forward
“Not my problem. The judge said lock you up, so that’s what I’m going to do. Oh and lads if ya’ see a big gray rat missing an ear, watch her she’s nasty. I call her Doris!”
Binky dropped the hard man act “No, no I’ll tell you!” Morgan strode over and caught the Frenchman by the scruff of his neck. He hustled him into an even smaller tunnel as his flashlight sent a probing beam ahead of them. Large, gray shapes scurried into the deeper shadows where red little eyes glowed in the darkness at the human intruders trespassing on their dirty kingdom.
Binky snarled through his spittle covered teeth.
“Just can it, Binky! It’s a bluff!”
Morgan snarled but made no reply. He manhandled the gunman to the horrid floor, quickly snapped a cuff on his wrist and hooked the other end to an iron ring sunk into the roof space. Binky kept his nerve up, but his friend broke down like a small child. “Renetti or his daughter, will take all of you, pal. Count on it,” Binky shouted defiantly. Morgan wiped his hands on his pants. “Hey, I’m no monster. We gave you company, didn’t we? These wharf rats will keep you busy. Well, or they’ll eat you. So that makes us even.” He started to leave the ramshackle prison cell, but Binky’s cry stopped him.
“You’re murdering’ me!” he yelled as Morgan shook his head looking down at the broken bodyguard
“No, my French friend. You’re offing yourself. But if you talk, you’ll get a fair shot at making it out of here. For instance, you could tell us who ordered the hit. and well…”
“I can’t!” screamed The Parisian.
“Oh did Booth by any way mention, the thing you know about Doris to you, yes no, oh well?” Morgan shrugged and left. As he made his way back, he heard Binky trying in vain to scare his protector into keeping his mouth shut. A rat must have taken a chomp out of a leg. The Parisian let out an almighty wail of terror.
“Please, listen to reason. In God’s name, please!” he howled
Morgan paused, winking at Costner, then called back “Give us names, pal”
“Renetti!”
“If our boys had been snatched by some other family, it would be my job. Farther doesn’t like mistakes, get me?” She barked. Despite all her power and being the only daughter of her family, Victor Renetti's daughter now had the city and that meant just one thing, she was queen.
“But, my slimy little friend, you’re paid a damn king’s ransom to be the tricky mouthpiece of my family. When our blood gets pinched, is it too hard, for you to do your job to spring them? I’ve paid you, so now I’m waiting on you. My friend, I don’t like to wait.”
Renetti’s cigarette spat ash and embers in the direction of the man opposite him. The little lawyer stopped, wiped his sweaty brow with nervous fingers, then made a futile praying gesture with his hands. But Allegra was no dame to pray to.
“I tell you Miss Renetti,” he shouted, hoping his explanation the third time around would sink in to his employers head, “these two men. Morgan and Doakes, ain’t with the C.C.P.D no more. I did what you asked and got Banner to can them, but they got tough and quit. Just in case I have every crooked lawyer and aid we got on the books staked out all over town and further out. If these wanna be heroes haven’t taken our kin to jail, we can get to them. But if they do end up in the clink, I can spring them easy as pie. After all, you pay me a lot because I can spring anyone from anywhere. But Miss Renetti, please be reasonable! I can’t spring someone from the jail who ain’t been put there.”
From the far corner of the room a broad con, spoke. “You don’t suppose these cops would bump em, do ya?”
Lawyer Marcus Collins braced himself, standing up with all his dwarfish height. For most being a dwarf, would hinder most in this city, but not this slimy double dealer. It came in handy when avoiding the law, not to mention the occasional brass volley, from a machine gun.
“Screw them. They wouldn’t dare,” she shouted. “I’d kill them and then break everything they hold dear!”
Allegra spat her cigarette form her perfectly painted mouth and glanced at the cold ash left behind. “I swear, it ends here. These westerners don’t know who they messing with. I will fix this I swear it.” Her slim, powerful hand reached out to a small table, yanking the phone beside him. She grabbed the telephone receiver and called an unlisted number.
“Evening comrade. Judge Kent? Listen, Kent, its Allegra. Hello, my friend. Two dumb yahoos named Doakes and Morgan snatched a pair of my boys, see. My cousin’s boy and his pal, some Frenchie. I want them boys nailed to a cross! My cousin wants to play Bible, if you get me. Get in touch with whoever puppets the jury make sure we have something on each of them, just in case, we need to apply pressure. You know the drill. Then my friend, bring in a warrant or indictment, whatever gets the job done first thing in the morning.” She listened as the Judge tried to explain these things take time. It didn’t impress.
“My friend, how is Ms. Kelly? She must be five years old now. Give the sweet dear a hug from me, wont you? No Kent. Do it now. I want it done within the hour. I don’t care how much it costs.
Maybe with the heat, we can smoke the filthy rats out, but if my boys find em you won’t need to bother with the jury. Buonanotte amico mio.” She waited for no answer, just hung up.
She let her eyes take in the collection of hoods, con-men, thieves and worse that all sat around the table. Next to the lawyer, at a separate table, five of Allegra’s most loyal lieutenants sat quietly nursing scotches. All but one awaited orders. Renard, Allegra’s only female lieutenant and most loyal, didn’t like where this was going. During a quick drink break, she made her excuses and left knowing a sinking ship when she saw one. She knew on top of this she'd have to make a few phone calls and get things ready for her boss, especially if things went sideways fast. Despite the anger she felt at being played like this, the crime queen did feel proud of the men and women she had around her. All her crew, despite their unsavory vocations, were well educated with the exception of Glasgovich. A loan from the soviets that had helped with that. After all, knowing things could make or break businesses in Central. Even a well-educated dame needed to swing a hammer or fire a shotgun. And the Russian was a very crude but effective hammer. The whole crew was good at following orders, no questions asked.
“Rourke,” she said finally to the lanky chain smoking hood at the door. “Do me a favor. Take our Soviet friend here and find out if our badges have broads or little ones. If so, grab as many as possible and take them all to the farm. Our Russian friend will know how to make them talk. But make sure he doesn’t kill them this time because dead folks can’t write letters, if ya get me.” Collins wiped his face with a gin stained sleeve. “I can save you both some time and me some paperwork. Morgan’s not married, but his pal, Doakes, is. He lives on Burbank Street, the third duplex from the corner of Nancy Avenue. His old lady’s called Grace. Doakes is coco for her.”
Eccellente, Allegra thought coldly, time to push back. With that, they left, the Russian at their heels. Lawyer Collins’ mouth opened and closed quick with a nervous smile. He
wiped a rag over his face and sought to conceal the involuntary shudder. Collins was an odd sort of bent legal eagle who could cheerfully frame an innocent John into a one-way trip to the pen or even the chair and feel absolutely nothing. He could let his clients know how to avoid every law in the book, even while making it look legit and legal. But when he faced violence in any form, he turned yellow and trembled. Allegra took a fresh cigar from a pocket, ripped off the end with her pearly white teeth and set it out on the table before her making sure it was perfectly straight then taking out a nail file began to perfect her already sharp talons. “I can’t figure this con out,” she mused, scowling. “There’s a chance that these two cops took them for a beef ride. You know, put the wind up em, maybe give them a beating. But it don’t look that way; they took too much of a chance in snatching them out of that restaurant. At least a hundred people saw them do it.”
“Perhaps they wanted to make em sing,” suggested a colored broad named Lefty.
Collins answered that one. “Talk? What for? Binky takes his orders from me and the judge, in that order. The judge will fix the jury, as requested, and have our two badges in jail by morning. That’s the hope. I can promise you that.” She used that rag again.
“Anyway,” drawled a man with a think Bronx accent, “they couldn’t make the Parisian talk. He can take it.”
Allegra shrugged. “Collin’s right. There’s nobody for them to squeal to. You’re right. The Frenchman could take it. He won’t speak out of turn. Hell I don’t even think he can speak English. But Binky will under pressure. He could and probably will sing. She hated to admit it but she had a hunch that, if either of them spoke out, she could be certain the heat would be on her, and hard. All she could do was hope she was wrong. But she hadn’t gotten this far by ignoring her hunches. They were always on the money, weather she wanted them to be or not.
“The Parisian is as mean as hell with a gun in his over-sized mitts, but…” She pulled her chair closer to the table not wanting to finish her sentence. “Come on, guys and dolls, let’s play a game of stud and see what lady luck brings us.”
Collins sat next to his boss. “I’ll sit in until Rourke and the Russian get back.
We should hear from them within half an hour.”
About forty minutes later, Lefty quit the game and walked to the door of the office. She mumbled as he downed a drink and went out only to reappear about a minute later with the face the color of wet cement.
Allegra frowned, slowly put down her cards, and started to push her chair back.
“Well, what in hell's the matter with you?”
Lefty made a vague motion with her head towards the darkness behind.
“Rourke!”
They way he said it brought the whole room to their feet as one, but Allegra was the first to reach the crumpled body of her executioner.
The Parisian was more than dead. He lay across the curb, his bloody knees shattered in the gutter. One knee wrenched to an angle that showed the bone through flesh. A nearby street lamp added grimness to the scene. The copse looked like a giant black spider trampled by a herd of elephants.
The villainous brunette swore in a mix of both Italian and American, both sounding as vulgar as the last..Shooting a raven-like look up and down the street. It was like a ghost town. The body dump could have only happened minutes ago.
“Come on boys” she snarled “Get that sorry hunk of meat inside, before someone sees.” Three of her men grabbed their former companion and whisked him through the back of the club and into her office. From a back room, Marcus Collins took out a large green rubber sheet, spreading it on the office floor. The other goons dumped the Parisian onto it with unceremonious grace. It was then Allegra noticed it. She bent down and opened the man’s mouth and pulled out a small piece of folded paper from underneath his tongue. It didn’t take much for the mob boss to realize it had been clipped from a tabloid.
It simply said:
A TRIED AND TESTED CURE FOR RATS!
One line said it all.
“And Binky?” gasped Collins.
“It’s obvious they grabbed the idiot, Collins,” Allegra said as she crushed the note in her well manicured hand. “Listen, you bunch of halfwits and deadbeats. All of you dip into my pocket from time to time, well the banks closed until you all dig something up on these bastards. So get your little pecker worms moving. I want these so-called hero cops dead by daybreak. You hear me?” As the goons piled out, Allegra swung for Collins missing him, but putting the fear of God in the little worm.
“Have you got my car nearby, Marcus?” The lawyer nodded. “I told your driver to wait around the corner” Allegra touched her temple and said, “Okay. Now, go and see our friend the Chief. Tell him to find his lost sheep before morning or I’ll find someone else to fill his overpriced shoes!” She made another gesture to get the scared lawyer out of her sight. Collins left the office after picking up his cap.The last thing he saw as he turned out the light was the dead Parisian on the rubber sheet.
As the over-sized machine picked up and growled to life, he relaxed against the soft faux leather interior, lighting up a cigarette, some Italian brand he couldn't pronounce. As he inhaled the woody smoke, he couldn't stop himself from shuddering. He recalled the finding of the Parisian. He couldn't stand even the slightest trace of blood or torture. Why get violent when blackmail and other underhand tactics could get the job done? He felt his stomach tighten and knot. He was in for another dodgy bout of indigestion. He let the smoke dribble through his nostrils.
Then, he suddenly became aware of something. The limousine had parked in front of a small, darkened drug store. Collins leaned forward and jerked open the dividing screen almost pulling it off its small runner.
“What the hell is the meaning of this, Hans you dumb Swede? Didn't I tell you to hurry yourself? Was I not perfectly clear?” The last part of that insult froze in the lawyer’s throat as the driver suddenly turned it was not the face of his Swedish chauffeur but of the old, lathered face of the foul mouthed Finley Booth. Booth shoved the over-sized driver’s cap back so that the visor could not shield his features. He grinned like an Irishman on St. Patrick's Day, but somehow the lawyer knew there wasn't a hint of happiness in his expression.
The weasel-like little lawyer always carried a small six shooter in his coat. It was more for decoration than use, but now, as the bloodied vista of the Parisian came flooding back to him, fear gripped him and he made a pathetic pass for his own weapon. It was in vain. The door jerked open and the overpowering bulk of Costner crowded into the Imperial beside him.
“Hello, Mr. Marcus Collins, associate of Remington and Croft associates,” Costner said, his tone measured and level. Despite his calm demeanor, he had the same feeling about him as he did Booth.
“Hope you don't mind us dropping by. We just wanted to have a nice, long chat with you.” Costner picked up the speaking tube and gave his mock orders.
“Home, James, and don't spare the nags!”
Collins knew the meaning of fear. Panic gripped the lawyer. Sweat dampened his suit and, in one almighty rush, holding back the vomit that was trying to escape as best he could.
“Where are you taking me?” he shouted, struggling forward in his seat in a final attempt to escape.
Costner grabbed him by the scruff bent his wrist back sharply until there was a small snap. Then, he jerked him back in his seat so hard his spine quivered. “To your home town, of course, dear Collins. Why, we are not monsters. You’re going home to Gomorrah!”
He laughed, but Collins didn't hear him. Collins had fainted...
Part Four
Judge Joseph B. Kent a stereotypical judge, down his flannel pajamas. His flat-topped head was crowned with a slowly departing crown of silver hair. He did his best to control it, but a comb-over fringe was the best thing he could do these days. His eyes were sunk back and dark, over hung by bushy eyebrows. A pair of ornate glasses acted like a barricade. The man’s skin was rugg
ed and what was once a solid square jaw now was nothing of the kind. Joseph Kent had wanted to be on the big screen. It was his farther who wanted him to be a lawyer. Now, he was playing the best part in this city. He made a successful judge and politician because he was a good actor, and he made sure he always looked the part. More importantly, he knew how to follow the orders of those who fed his palms with green. All in all, he was an impressive judicial even if the mask he wore, hid his real self at times. He was a grifter with a script and Renneti was his director. At one-thirty that night, he sat playing that role in his study with Alan Stroller, foreman of the grand jury.
Stroller was an obese man, completely bald who wore jam jar glasses and suffered from an extreme mix of both an inferiority complex and anxiety. His sudden appointment to the permanent face of the jury had been one of the great double barreled surprises of his life. These days, he tried in vain on a nightly basis to convince himself, as well a cynical wife and two children, that the post came as a long overdue reward for his business prowess and his civic loyalty. What made him of value to the corrupt Central City Powers was the fact that he believed in himself and thought he could make a difference. But the gent was still in awe, even being next to his idol, Judge Kent. He knew somehow, he was responsible for it all.
Kent ran his chubby, manicured fingers through what was left of his silver mane, peering over his glasses into the nervous features of his guest. “Stroller,” he boomed, his voice echoing around the room, “I called you here so we can be the proverbial early worm. You see this, my dear grand foreman, is...almost...a crisis in our fair Central City. These two disgraced policeman have been causing chaos. I know them both; they like to shoot first and well that's it. All gun no brain, Alan. May I call you Alan?”
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