Fist First

by Nigel Mustard

  ‘I’ll go over to City Hall now, Chief.’

  ‘And Stoker’ replied Kowalski… ‘don’t tell anyone about this’.

  Frank Stoker stood up, edged slightly around his chair, turned and walked the four paces it took to reach the door, strode over a green rug, turned again, and left the room.

  In the corridor he was met by an eerie presence. A man stood in front of him, Stoker’s height, but gaunt and lean. He had a shock of hair as white as a sheet, long to his shoulders, like a fashionable ghost. His eyes were bright blue, and skin ghostly, almost translucent. He wore a long grey-white trenchcoat and spoke with a faintly Nazi accent.

  ‘Hello, Mr Stoker. Looks like you’ve been up to your old tricks again? How many dead this time?’

  Von Klatt was an albino, and a bad one at that.

  Stoker brushed past him, coolly.

  ‘Just doing my job, Von Klatt. Tell me, how much has Magnelli paid you this month?’

  Von Klatt didn’t move a muscle.

  ‘Frank…. Frank… Frank… Frank…. Frank…. You would be wise not to make threats like that to a man like me. Your friend and mentor Kowalski won’t be Police Chief forever… and when he retires, guess who will take his place?’

  Stoker replied, quick as a splash: ‘Over my dead body, asshole.’ He shoved Von Klatt to the side and walked to the elevator.

  Von Klatt whispered quietly as he readjusted his horn-rimmed glasses, panted on his thin cigarette and pulled on the collar of his white trenchcoat.

  ‘If that’s what it takes, Mr Stoker. If that’s what it takes.’

  He started whistling and turned the other way.

  Chapter 7.

  Magnelli’s face directed his eyes towards his hulking samurai. Hitoshi was bare chested, and wearing silk trousers and leather boots. His chest was covered in tattoos – each one written in a sinister oriental font. His back was marked by a different type of tattoo – a blood tattoo. That is, to say, a tattoo which was penned not by a tattoo artist, but by another samurai swordsman. To be clear, the tattoo was not a tattoo, in as much it was a scar, but it mirrored the dramatic presentation of Hitoshi’s front, so let’s just move on.

  Hitoshi grunted as he went to work. He had lashed his victim to a sturdy pole in the middle of the warehouse and was midway through a diabolical torture session. Magnelli used to turn away when Hitoshi conducted these devilish activities. He used to cower. Not anymore. To give orders from behind a desk seemed cowardly to Magnelli. Recently he had always insisted on a front row ticket to the tortureplex cinema – ticket for one please, no popcorn. No, I’ve come alone. No, she’s at home. Where? What do you mean?

  ‘Where… is... money?’ Grunted Hitoshi. He knew less than fifty words in English, but he could communicate more clearly with a glare, or a crashing arc of his Samurai blade, than any yapping lawyer that Magnelli had dealt with.

  Yes, Magnelli respected Hitoshi, but he was also damn well scared of him.

  You would have to be a complete fool or dickhead not to be afraid of the fearsome monster that was Hitoshi. Nobody knew whether Hitoshi was his Christian name or his second name, or indeed whether Japanese people normally have both forenames and surnames, or whether one word is the norm.

  ‘I don’t know… Jesus… please… no more…’ screamed the man who was being tortured. ‘Please…. please don’t torture me anymore’.

  ‘Where…’ …THWACK…. ‘Is…’ …THWACK… ‘MONEY!’ the final thwack of Hitoshi’s gigantic right fist knocked the guy out cold.

  ‘Hitoshi, kill him. He’s worthless.’ Almost, but not quite, before Magnelli had finished speaking, Hitoshi span on his heels and lashed his samurai sword at the bound man like a viper biting from a moving motorcycle – soon, where previously a proud head had stood upon a sturdy neck, blood gushed northwards like a volcano. A volcano – pumping blood like lava and brains like pyroclastic flow.

  Magnelli winced at this, and even he had to turn away. He climbed up the stairs to his office overlooking the warehouse floor.

  He sat down in his expensive real leather chair and sipped at his fine wine from a crystal glass. His Rolex watch dangled nonchalantly from his wrist. There was no doubt that this was a rich man; every accessory mentioned in the previous few sentences only proved it.

  He hated himself for not being able to watch the killing blow.

  Down below, Hitoshi claimed the head and put it into a refuse sack. He had been collecting these grotesque trophies since he started working for Thomas Magnelli twenty years ago – Magnelli never knew where he kept them… as far as he knew, Hitoshi slept on the premises and never seemed to leave to drink, gamble or fuck like most of his men.

  A couple of his lower level guys picked up the rest of the body and took it into the back room.

  ‘Magnelli Abattoir Ltd’ had been an outwardly legitimate business for nearly a decade. Rumours flew like Frisbees in local playgrounds about what was in Magstar dog food. But despite several investigations, no wrongdoing had ever been detected at the abattoir, and still the wheels kept turning.

  Magstar Dog Food is a Fictional Company and The Author makes No Claim, Real or Otherwise as to its Resemblance to a Company in Real Life.

  It amused Magnelli that the business was now making a profit, flipping fish carcasses, animal bones and sawdust into dog food. He had set it up only as a front for his criminal dealings, but it had turned into a nice earner for him. Every now and then, it proved even more useful for disposing of bodies.

  ‘Get me Lowenstein’, shouted Magnelli at his foreman.

  Ten minutes later, a small man with brown curly hair and a prominent nose waddled into the room. He had a skull cap and a pot belly. The man was a Jew.

  ‘You wanted to see me, boss?’ Said the Jew.

  ‘Reuben Lowenstein. You must be the greediest lawyer in the city. I pay you over one million dollars a year, and what do I get in return? I had the cops here last week, sniffing around. I told you, I don’t want that. I don’t like pigs snuffling around my work as if my fuckin’ work was fuckin’ truffles.’

  ‘Sure, boss – that was an anomaly. It was an erroneous occurrence and one that will not take place again’ replied Lowenstein, demonstrating his fierce intelligence.

  ‘Jesus you Jew prick, speak English. Anyway, I need to speak to you about something else.’

  Magnelli spun 360 degrees in his chair, menacingly.

  He spoke on, words tumbling ominously from his mouth like evil acrobats… ‘You know all about this Crawford… problem.’

  ‘You mean the Mayor’s daughter who you tried to have killed on the train last night?’ …clarified Lowenstein.

  ‘Yes, her. She survived. Some guy thought he would be a hero and decided to make mincemeat of three of my boys.’

  ‘A most worrying interception. Surely this interloper can be tracked?’ Replied Lowenstein, intelligently.

  ‘That’s where you come in. He’s on the front page of the New York Times – look.’ Magnelli handed the paper news over to his Hasidic legal advisor.

  ‘Oh Thomas. Indubitably this man is a known man… why it’s Frank Stoker – the most decorated cop in the Big Apple!’

  ‘Stoker?’ Enquired Magnelli, in shock.

  ‘Stoker.’ Repeated Lowenstein.

  ‘Frank Stoker?’

  ‘Frank Stoker.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘A few clues present themselves elementarily. Observe his outfit… black leather trenchcoat? Rare. This gentleman stands at well over six foot; nearly six foot six inches. Unusual. Lastly, he obviously possesses unnatural hand to hand combat skills. Uncommon. Triangulate these three facts, and unquestionably the needle points at one man. Frank Stoker.’

  Lowenstein’s fearsome intellect had deduced all this in a matter of seconds.

  Magnelli stood up like some kid at the end of class on the last day of term. ‘Now that’s what I pay you for. I know a bit about Stoker, he’s been a minor thorn in my side for years
. Isn’t he that prick who refuses to be paid off?’

  ‘That’s right Thomas – he’s unwavering in his defiance.’

  ‘Well, he’s about to learn not to tangle with Thomas Magnelli. You think he was assigned to this Crawford bitch?’

  ‘I think he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Magnelli hadn’t heard.

  ‘I said that I think he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time’, repeated the lawyer.

  ‘Well he’s about to learn not to tangle with Thomas Magnelli,’ declared Magnelli. He span in his chair again, 360 degrees, in a sinister fashion. He cracked his knuckles.

  ‘Where do we go from here, boss?’

  ‘We send him a warning. A warning in the shape of the beating of his life.’

  ‘You will certainly need heavy firepower to obliterate him. I recollect perusing his records a few years ago, when we were investigating him for the first time. He is a master pugilist - a former Golden Gloves heavyweight boxer, and a black belt in deadly Karate.’ Lowenstein took the liberty of raising his hand in the air in the Chinese Karate chop fashion – it came across as discriminatory and bigoted, so he returned his fat hand to his plump thigh.

  Magnelli sneered at his pathetic lawyer. ‘I just need enough numbers, Lowenstein. You never did have the stomach for a fight. You leave that to me. The smart play would be to get to a few of his associates first. Luckily for me, I got a delivery coming in from overseas that might just want to help me with this little problem. Oh yeah… a nice little airdrop from Beijing, China.’ Magnelli rubbed the stack of papers in front of him like he was kneading a piece of pastry.

  He turned back to Lowenstein. ‘Now… let’s go through the books.’

  They went through the books.

  Chapter 8.

  Stoker immediately disliked Edward ‘Eddie’ Crawford. He had been Mayor of the City for five years, and his reputation as a lazy, greedy fool preceded himself before him(self).

  Crawford had his feet on the table and barely looked at Stoker when he walked in.

  ‘Good afternoon Mr Mayor. Frank Stoker, Detective Policeman, NYPD Police Department. I’m here to ask you a few questions…’

  ‘Ah… yes. Frank Stoker. Will you take a drink with me Frank? Can I call you Frank, Frank?’

  Crawford’s repeated unauthorised use of his first name was intended to annoy Stoker. He hadn’t factored in Stoker’s resilience.

  ‘I guess it’s as a good a name as any.’ Replied Stoker, coolly. When it came to verbal chess, he couldn’t claim to be a grandmaster, but he was no beginner.

  ‘Well Frank, we’re both busy men. What can I do to expedite this meeting? I suppose you’ve come here for a thank you for your heroism last night?’ His arrogant voice sneered at Stoker, his words bouncing off his cruel tongue and sneaking through his yellow teeth as they fought their way to life.

  ‘Jesus, you must not like cops sniffing around your office?’

  ‘What the Hell are you talkin’ about, you leadfooted paper shuffler. I’m the damned Mayor of the City and I deserve a bit of respect.’ His Irish accent rose perceptibly, like a fiddler’s instrument towards the end of a tiresome folk song.

  ‘No – you deserve to know the facts about your daughter, and the trouble she’s in. That’s where my obligation ends.’ Stoker ran his fingers through his long black hair, catching a look at himself in the reflection of Crawford’s pregnant liquor cabinet. He undeniably looked damn good, but he would be too proud to admit it.

  ‘What trouble? So some nigger tried to mug her – that’s no rare thing in this damned city’ stated Crawford, displaying racial prejudice.

  Stoker remained cool, though he despised racists - and all they stood for. Stoker’s natural relationships with people of every skin colour in the rainbow reinforced this.

  ‘This wasn’t a mugging. These guys had been sent to harm her – or worse… harm her badly.’

  ‘Don’t be so preposterous. Chloe hasn’t done anything to anger anyone.’ Chess turned to tennis, the conversation being frantically batted back and forth over the table, which probably (stay with me on this) is best imagined as a net in this analogy.

  ‘Did I say that?’ Ace, fifteen love to Stoker.

  ‘You implied it.’ Crawford returned serve with a backhand winner, fifteen all.

  ‘I implied nothing.’ Stoker coolly despatched another ace. Thirty fifteen.

  ‘Yes, you did.’ Crawford gave as good as he got – thirty all.

  ‘Stop playing games, Mr Mayor. Your daughter is in trouble.’ Stoker had hit another ace, leaving the Mayor on the brink of a loss. Forty thirty.

  ‘Maybe you should stop implying I am endangering my daughter, Detective.’ Deuce.

  ‘No, you thick Irish bastard… I implied she was a target. We both know what the endgame was - to get at you. Looks like one of the fingers you have in all the pies around New York is starting to smell… because that particular pie is full of shit.’

  Advantage Stoker.

  Crawford’s jaw hit the floor. He wasn’t used to being talked to this way by anyone, and Stoker’s way with words was arresting.

  Crawford tried to respond, but the words caught in his throat like a tomcat imperfectly vomiting a sardine. His nose started to glow with rage, a bit like Pinocchio, only, to be fair, that singular wooden boy’s nose did not glow, it grow(ed).

  Anyway, Stoker smiled at him, knowing he had conquered his foe.

  Game, Stoker. Set, Stoker. Match, Stoker.

  Crawford took a slug of whiskey and finally found his voice. ‘Your way with words is arresting… which is something you should be doing right now, arresting criminals, rather than bothering the City Mayor down here at Town Hall.’

  ‘Are you that blind, or just too stupid, to realise that your daughter is in danger?’ Stoker slammed his fist onto the middle of Crawford’s fine mahogany bureau, shaking it to its very roots. ‘Tell me who wants to get at you, and I will end this. She’s a beautiful girl… surely you want her safe?’

  Crawford’s silence ironically spoke volumes. Eventually, several sips later, he spluttered: ‘I… I… never wanted to put my family in danger…’

  ‘Then you shouldn’t have been so goddamn greedy, Crawford. Who have you been dealing with?’

  ‘Look… you don’t understand. Things… are… complicated. I just missed one payment, I said I’d pay it, I just needed a couple of days. I hold an important office. The scandal… would be… devastating’.

  ‘Your daughter will be dead.’ Stoker told the truth like a gypsy (fortune teller) – hard, uncompromising and normally unwanted.

  ‘No… I’ll speak to them. I’ll handle this. I don’t need your help. Get out. GET OUT OF MY FUCKING OFFICE.’ Screamed Crawford, losing his Irish brogue for an instant.

  Stoker stood still, hard as ice and twice as cold. ‘Last chance to nip this in the butt and save Chloe, Mr Mayor. ‘

  The door opened and a jock with in a black suit with perfectly preened blonde hair walked in.

  Those who failed to be brought up in America should know that a ‘Jock’ is a big-thighed, blonde-haired man/boy who plays American Football Sports, kisses the prom queen (with tongues) despite her nearly looking over at another boy for once and is totally thick and gets Everything Handed to Them on a Plate.

  The Jock ran his hands through his long blonde hair, and said with the confidence of a man who had never been rejected by any woman or shit job interviewer:

  ‘Everything OK Mr Mayor? Want me to eject this guy from your vicinity?’

  Stoker eyed The Jock up. The kid eyed him back. The kid’s eyes fell to the floor. Stoker then eyed up Crawford. Crawford’s eyes refused to meet Stoker’s eyes.

  Stoker realised this man was prepared to put personal gain over the safety of his daughter.

  Stoker realised this man was a mealy-mouthed coward.

  He walked towards the door, but squared up to The Jock on the way out.
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  ‘Let me guess… Two twenty, two thirty pounds? All-American wrestling team? Had all the girls in school. Had an easy college life. US Marine Corps for a few years. Landed a dream job in the Mayor’s security team a year or two ago. Not seen any action in that time. You used to be hard, but now you’re soft round the edges. I don’t walk the streets – I am the streets. I’d murder you. I’d put you in the trash can.’ Stoker let his words sit for a couple of seconds. ‘Unless you think I’m full of shit? You wanna try and eject me?’

  The jock tried to stifle a swallow. He couldn’t, and dishonourably his swallow was visible. His hands trembled slightly. He was visibly amazed at the accuracy of Stoker’s assessment.

  Stoker smiled and breezed past him, turning back as he neared the door.

  ‘You’re a big guy. Tell you what. You ever get tired of picking up shit for the dirtiest politician in the country – you come and see me and I’ll put you back in shape.’

  ‘Ye…Yes sir.’ Replied The Jock, nervously. ‘Michael Janney.’ He held out a hand, nervously.

  ‘WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING YOU MORON?’ Screamed Crawford. He hurled his diary at the handsome bodyguard. ‘You work for me, not this goon.’

  By the time he had finished the sentence, the presence of Stoker in the room was only a memory.

  Chapter 9.

  Crawford’s driver drove up his drive in his automobile – a black car that was as expensive as a Cadillac with City Hall plates front and rear. Mayor of the City Eddie Crawford lived at one of the most prestigious addresses in the country. He snorted drugs off the back of his hand in the back of the car. One last narcotic hit before home. He laughed, drugs now coursing through his veins, and thought to himself:

  ‘Who does this cop think he is? I don’t need help protecting my own god-damn daughter.’

  If he had been able to think aloud, he would have heard how futile his thoughts were.