Zombie Pulp

by Curran, Tim

  “Never figured you for a broom jockey, Junior. Good to see you found your place in society.”

  “Fuck you, Steel. This is just something I’m doing for awhile.”

  “Yeah? What’s your grift? How’d you get tangled up in this mess?” I said.

  “What mess?”

  I shook my head like I knew what I was talking about. “They’ll put you away for keeps this time.”

  But like a skinflint, he wasn’t buying it. He swung the broom handle at me and it whistled past my cheek. I stepped in hammered him two quick shots to the chops. He took ‘em, spit blood, and cracked me in the ear with the broom handle. I saw stars and clipped him under the jaw. Before he could answer that one, I took hold of his shirt and sank my knee into his stomach. I repeated that maybe three times until he was curled up harmless as a kitten in a box.

  He gagged and spat and called my mother a few unsavory names. But all that got him was a couple more kisses from my left.

  “Dirty…sonofabitch,” he growled.

  “I’ll do the talking, Junior. I’ll ask the questions and you’ll do the answering. Savvy?”

  He glared at me with eyes like runny egg yolks. “Go…screw…yourself.”

  I laughed and pulled a switch out of my inner coat pocket. It was a special pocket I’d had sewn in the back, at the bottom, right where the seam was. Even if somebody took my gun, I was still armed. I thumbed the button and six inches of double-edge Sheffield steel was at my disposal. I took my pal by the shirt and hoisted his dead weight up. I slammed him up against the desk and pressed the blade against his crotch.

  His eyes were wide, his face trembling. “What the hell you doing? Jesus, Steel.”

  “What am I doing? I’m about to slice off Uncle Johnson and the twins unless you start singing a tune I wanna hear.”

  “For chrissake! What do you wanna know?”

  I sketched it in for him, real slow and simple-like. Didn’t want to tax that dishrag he called a brain.

  Junior nodded, started humming a few bars. “All I know is that I was told those people would be coming for a body…that they knew what they were doing and I was to stay out of their way. That’s what the man said.”

  “And who’s the man?”

  “The man? Barre…Franklin Barre. He owns the place. Christ, you gotta believe me.”

  And I did. I let him go and he slid to the floor like lard down a hot pan. He just sat there, covering his friends with his big mitts, and hating, just hating me.

  “We’ll finish this talk another time,” I promised him.

  I picked up my lid off the floor, brushed off the brim and put it on my skull. Then I got the hell out of there.

  4

  Next morning I was sitting in my office pouring hot tar down my throat when the blower rang. I’d been sitting there thinking about H. Hill and what it might mean as I answered it.

  “Yeah?” I said, setting my coffee down.

  “Vince?” Tommy Albert said and I could hear it in his voice again, that sense of disgust like he’d just found out his mother had the clap. “Well. My friend, this ain’t getting any better. In fact, it’s getting a hell of a lot worse.”

  “Lay it on me.”

  I could hear him striking a match and I could almost smell that turd he was smoking. “You recall a guy named Buscotti? Tony Buscotti?”

  I did. Tony “The Iceman” Buscotti, a.k.a. “Frankenstein”, a.k.a “The Headhunter”. Big Tony, as he was also known, was an enforcer and a torpedo for the Italians. He was one of the main cogs in their protection rackets. He was the guy who collected late payments from bookies, loanshark customers, and a variety of other businesses the wops decided needed “protecting”. He was also the guy the mob gave contracts to. A stone killer, Buscotti very often used a knife on his victims. His specialty was a few slugs in the knees to cripple his prey and then some fancy knifework to finish the job. He was a big fierce man, part human and part grizzly bear. Rumor had it he ate raw meat. And when you were nearly seven feet tall and weighed around four hundred pounds, you could do any goddamn thing you wanted to. He made the toughest cops on the force want to wring out their shorts.

  Or had, that was.

  A year ago he’d been convicted of some seven homicides and sent to the big house for the hot squat. Two weeks ago, he sat down in that chair and put the funny hat on and they fed him the juice. Worm meat now, but the memory persisted like a bean fart in a closet.

  “He’s dead,” I said. “Nobody showed at the funeral. Hard to understand, he was such a sweet kid…when he wasn’t using a baseball bat on someone’s jewels.”

  But Tommy wasn’t in the mood for that. “His body’s missing.”

  I almost spilled coffee all over my lap. “Missing?”

  “Yeah,” Tommy said. “I’m out here at the cemetery. You better get out here. I think we’re developing a pattern.”

  I was already pulling my coat on. “Which boneyard are you at?”

  And then he said it and I knew: “Harvest Hill,” he said.

  5

  By the time I got there they were pretty much finished with the grave.

  They had opened it and found Buscotti’s casket empty as my wallet and now everyone was standing around looking grim as graverobbers. The day was the color of dirty laundry: dingy and gray. Last night’s rain had turned the boneyard into a mud sea. It was everywhere, clotted on the bull’s shoes like they’d just tiptoed through Mother O’Leary’s cow pasture.

  Tommy Albert said, “They had this special coffin made for this ape.” He flicked his cigar butt down into the black, yawning grave. “Had to be twice as wide as usual and longer than your standard box. Like the service and the plot, it was paid for anonymously. You know what I’m saying, Vince?”

  I did.

  It was all paid for by the Outfit. They couldn’t come right out and put their names to it because that wasn’t how they did things, but everyone knew who sprang for it all the same.

  Tommy and I turned away and walked through the sloppy earth, weaving our way amongst headstones, stands of leafless trees, cracked slabs. In the bleak shadow of an ornate burial vault we found more diggers at work. We got there just as they struck wood.

  Tommy looked at me. “Eddie Wisk,” he said. “Numbers runner. He was gunned down three weeks ago.”

  The workers brushed dirt from the lid of the casket and opened it. They didn’t have to bust open the catches because somebody beat them to it. Wisk was gone, too. You could see the grayed impression on the silken pillow where his head had been. A beetle ran across it. But that was all.

  Tommy’s boys jumped down there and started dusting for prints.

  “Gone,” Tommy said. He shook his head. “This is connected, ain’t it, Vince?”

  “Has to be.”

  “Still clinging to the ‘cult’ theory?”

  I sighed, slapped a nail in my kisser and gave it some heat. “I’m not sure of anything just yet.” Quickly, I filled him in on my visit to the funeral home. “I’m thinking whoever wrote that is the one that was here last night.”

  “And you think it’s this Franklin Barre character?”

  I blew out smoke. “Just a guess. It was his office I was in.”

  “I’ll have him brought in. See what we can sweat out of him,” Tommy said. “What about this Marianne Portis broad?”

  “I think you should hold off on her for now. Give me a day or two.”

  Tommy looked at me. “You know what kind of shit I could get into if I did that?” He shook his head. “Two days. That’s it. This stinks, Vince. Stinks bad. I got pressure on me now like you wouldn’t believe. I got uniforms out looking for Stokes too.”

  Stokes was the night watchman at Harvest Hill. Nobody seemed to know where he was and maybe he wasn’t tied up in this, but neither Tommy or I believed that for a minute.

  Conspiracy? You’re damned right. One that involved killing prosecutors and robbing graves and making off with dead bodies in the
still of the night. But what was the thread? There was something, but I just couldn’t make the connection.

  “See ya, Tommy,” I said walking off.

  “Where you going?”

  “I gotta see a guy about a grave.”

  6

  Thirty minutes later I was in Little Italy. Parked just up the street from a warehouse called Frenzetti & Sons. For all intents and purposes, it looked like a warehouse and was: inventory in the form of furniture came in and went out. But if you happened to know the right people, you could get invited down below into the basement where the Italians operated an illegal casino. Blackjack, roulette, craps, slot machines, high and low stakes card games—you name it. The mob ran it and took a lucrative cut of everything that went down. The mob, in this case, being Slick Jimmy Conterro. A guy I grew up with and who happened to be an underworld soldier. I never held that against him and he never held being a cop against me.

  I knew that right now, Bernie Stokes, night watchman of Harvest Hill boneyard was down in the casino. And would be for fifteen or twenty minutes more.

  I knew I could go down there and get him anytime, but I didn’t. I’ve gambled at Jimmy’s place plenty. Lots of cops do. He gives good odds. Better than you’ll get in Vegas. He runs clean games. But I also knew Jimmy wouldn’t like me barging down there and manhandling a customer. You didn’t make waves in this neighborhood; even the cops were on the payroll here.

  So I sat there in the heap chewing a salami on Jewish rye and dipping my bill in a quart of beer. The minutes ticked by. I finished the sandwich, the beer, was halfway through my second butt when Stokes came out.

  You should’ve seen him.

  Looking over his shoulder, keeping his head low trying to blend into the crowd. But he blended in like a nun in full habit at a stroke parlor. Maybe it was how he acted—so jittery and afraid—but the guy was marked. You could see that.

  I called him over and he almost left his skin lying on the walk.

  “Jesus, Bernie,” I said. “What gives? You don’t look so good.”

  “Don’t feel so good,” he said, sliding through the passenger side door.

  He was a tight little guy with a beak on him like a doorstop. Good guy as far as that went, but you could trust him like you could trust a rattlesnake in your shorts. He stank of hair oil and cheap rum. His eyes were red as the setting sun and his face hadn’t seen a razor in a week or more.

  “I got my problems, Vince. You know? I got my problems.” He kept his eye on the rearview. In fact, he kept an eye out everywhere. “You can’t be too careful these days.”

  “Give you a ride somewhere?”

  “Sure. Uptown. You know the place.”

  I did. Bernie had a place over an Irish saloon. “Somebody after you, Bernie?”

  He was trying desperately to light a cigarette, but his fingers were trembling too much. I lit it for him. His face was pale as a whitewashed fence. “Yeah, somebody’s following me. I know it.”

  I wasn’t sure what that was about. Jimmy’s goons weren’t known for their subtlety; they wanted you, they kicked right through the front door like the First Marine Division hitting a beach. “Probably cops, Bernie.”

  “You think so?” He was even paler now.

  “I know it.” I explained to him how I was unofficially working with the precinct. “It’s this bit about Tanner. The papers didn’t have the particulars, Bernie, but he was partially eaten. Chewed up like a drumstick.”

  “Jesus.”

  He looked like he was going to be sick, so I turned the screw a bit.

  “They want to talk to you about what happened out at Harvest Hill. Some ghouls hit it last night, snatched a couple stiffs. Caretaker found the graves all messed-up this morning.”

  Bernie stared off into space. “You think they’d put the graves back in order when they were done.”

  Some cabbie laid on his horn and I gave him the finger. “Who are they, Bernie? Listen, you might as well be square with me on this bit. Better me than the bulls, you understand? They put the pinch on you, you’ll be wearing a state suit.”

  “I don’t know nothing about nothing,” he said.

  But he knew. He knew, all right. “You know a cop name of Albert?” I asked him. “Big ugly flatfoot? Know the guy?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  I smiled…then frowned, shook my head before he saw me. “Well, this Albert, this big ugly shit-eating ape, he’s really something. He’s handling all this. You sure you never heard of him? No? Damn, guy gives me the creeps. They should’ve thrown him off the force years ago. Things he does to guys…boy. Anyway, he’s in charge. He’ll be coming to see you real soon. You can count on it.”

  Bernie looked at me. “What…what kind of things this Albert-guy do? I mean, what? Knocks guys around? Rubber hose or what?”

  I laughed and shook my head. “Only if they’re lucky. See this Albert…boy, he’s something. Some kind of pervert, I guess. Likes to get a guy alone. Strip search him and stuff. But that’s just the beginning with this freak…man, makes me sick, Bernie. I just hate the idea of him pawing you up and all. Forcing himself on you—”

  “Christ!” Bernie said, desperate now. “I’ll just talk to you, okay, Vince? You can keep him off me, right?” He dragged off his cigarette and he could barely hold it still. “All I know is these people come to me. They say they’ll pay me a hundred just to look the other way. But when I found out what they want…I’m, no sir, no goddamn way…”

  “Not unless they up the sugar?”

  He shrugged. “Well, you know how things are these days. So five-hundred they give me. I tell ‘em, okay, just put everything back the way you found it. First couple times they did too.”

  I swallowed. “How many times this happen?”

  “Three, four times. I don’t know what their thing is. Don’t wanna know. Last night, though, Vince, that was my night off. They must’ve just come in and did what they wanted.”

  “Who watches it when you’re off?”

  “No one. They were all by their lonesome last night.”

  “Who are they, Bernie?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. Didn’t get no names and didn’t give ‘em mine. There’s two of ‘em—a man and a woman. Creepy, I tell you. Both of ‘em. But they just handle the business end. This truck pulls up and men get out, do the digging. It’s dark, I never see what they look like.”

  “Why these hoods, Bernie? Why are they after these dead criminals?”

  He just shook his head. “They know who they want and where to find ‘em. I didn’t have nothing to do with that.”

  He told me a few more things, but nothing of any value. I brought him back to his place even though I knew the cops would be waiting for him. But it had to be done. They had to put Bernie in custody…if somebody really was following him, he might not be around in a day or two.

  Two uniforms jumped out from behind a parked car and put the elbow on him. He was like jelly in their hands, trembling, shaking, loose as a bag of poured rubber. Completely boneless. Tommy came walking up and nodded to me, then he turned to Bernie.

  “You Bernie Stokes?” he said, flashing his tin. “Yeah? Well, I’m Detective-Inspector Albert. I need to have a word with you. Alone.”

  You should’ve seen Bernie then. Christ, he came alive like a sack of cobras, twisting and writhing and fighting. The uniforms could barely hold him. Me? I had all I could do to keep a straight face.

  “Put him in the car,” Tommy said. Then he turned to me. “What the hell’s wrong with that sonofabitch?”

  “Search me.” I quickly filled him in on everything I’d gotten out of Bernie. “You better put him under protective custody, just in case.”

  Tommy nodded. “He’ll be safe.”

  “He’s not a bad guy, Tommy. Just a little sleazy is all. He’d make a good little rat. Let him skate on this and he’ll be more than happy to finger these people for you if we can bring ‘em in.”

&nbs
p; “Yeah, okay. Sure was acting funny…not a hophead, is he? No?” A look passed over Tommy’s face. Then: “You didn’t happen to tell him I was some kind of pervert, did you?”

  “Me?”

  “You bastard. You goddamn bastard, Steel.” But he thought it was funny as always. “Listen. Do the names Yablonski and Sumner mean anything to you?”

  They did, but I couldn’t place them

  “They were two of the jurors that put Quigg away,” he said. “They found their bodies this morning. Same as Bobby Tanner.”

  I just stood there, the color running out of my face slow and steady. “It’s connected to him. It all is. But how?”

  “That’s what we’re gonna find out tonight, sunshine.” Tommy put an arm around me and grinned at me salaciously with a face uglier than a boar’s backside. “You think I’m a pervert? Good. Because me and you got a date.”

  “What should I wear?”

  “Come as you are. We’re pulling the night shift out at Harvest Hill.”

  7

  Truth was, we weren’t alone.

  Tommy and me were staked-out in a stand of dark bushes that bordered a family plot of leaning marble headstones. Roughly dead center of the graveyard. Two uniforms were hiding out by the north wall and two more near the gates. Tommy’s instructions were simple: nobody moved until the ghouls were in place and digging. It was a clear, cloudless night. Cool and breezy, but with a big old moon riding high in the sky and painting down the cemetery in a white, even glow. It was a good night to do what we were doing.

  I lit a cigarette, cupping it in my hands to cut the light same way I was taught in the Navy. “This is a hell of a date, Tommy,” I whispered to him. “No wine. No steak. No music. Not even a goddamn movie. You think you’re getting into my pants, guess again.”

  “Shut your yap, Steel,” he said.

  I had an ugly feeling I wouldn’t be seeing my bed this night. I wasn’t sure if this was going to work or not. I just kept watching the headstones dotting the hills, jutting from the dark earth like teeth, angled and white. A sudden gust of wind blew leaves in our faces.