by Tom Golabek
After our little tryst, I climbed out of bed, and got dressed. She had a look of satisfaction on her face. The babe came out with, “I’m glad you turned the tables on that cockroach on the floor. I’m no killer. I’m a prostitute. Just a prostitute. I like you Mike. That son of a bitch made me do this. He killed my girlfriend when she didn’t do what he wanted. He threatened to do the same to me. I would be dead now if I didn’t go through with it.” Fear and hate wove in and out of her voice, as she rattled on.
I understood her situation. She was frightened for her life. Many times, I’ve seen vermin like him force others to do their bidding. I decided to go easy on her, and tough on him. The guy on the floor was still out like a light, even after I finished putting on my clothes, and strapping my rig back on.
I picked up the mug’s gun. It was heavy at the muzzle due to the silencer. Instead of killing him, I felt that it would be justice if he lived out the rest of his life in pain. I aimed the silencer at his right knee, and pulled the trigger. A muffled “pop” sounded. His knee jumped up, and a circle of blood began to expand on his pants. A grimace covered his face, but he didn’t fully “come to.” I had always wondered if a guy, who was knocked unconscious, would wake up if shot. So far, the answer was “no.”
Another test was needed to be sure. The muzzle kissed the pants covering his left kneecap as I squeezed the trigger. Another muffled “pop.” This time, the mug let out a groan. The sound of the kneecap cracking was as loud as the groan. His eyes opened briefly, but then shut tight.
One thing for sure, he wouldn’t be running any more hundred-yard dashes. I wasn’t finished with him. This mug had intentions of putting me in a body bag. He was going to pay for that.
Standing over him, I pumped out two more slugs, one into each elbow. His arms flailed up, and came to rest in a distorted position. Blood gushed out of the left arm with exceptional force. Oops, I must have hit an artery. Anyway, getting back to my experiment, he still hadn’t regained consciousness. It became clear to me that if you knock a guy out, then shoot him, he’s not likely to wake up.
The babe sat on the bed, watching my scientific experiment. She had a look of fear on her face. Or was it worry? Was she terrified what he would do to her, when and if, he came to? Or was she tense over me dealing with her next?
I faced her saying, “Relax, I’m giving you a pass. If he survives, he may not” The thug on the floor now laid in four separate pools of blood. He was still, but was breathing. Removing a pillowcase, I cleaned my prints off the gun. I looked at the babe, placed the .38 at the edge of the bad, and muttered, “Do what you feel you have to do. I’m leaving.”
I took the service stairs down to the main floor, went out the rear entrance, and snuck through the alley to the street. From the darkness, I could see the two guys who had trailed me, standing by the house phone in the lobby, apparently waiting to be called up to dispose of my body. Their car was doubled parked, and not far from mine. I eased over to it, and almost noiselessly let all the air out two of the tires by jabbing my pocket knife into the sidewalls. Then I hopped into my heap, and pulled up in front of the apartment building. My horn honked two loud beeps. They turned to see me laugh at them. Two clowns! They came charging out of the lobby after me. Before they could get to the door, I was roaring halfway down the street. I could just imagine them trying to tail me in their car. Amateurs! When are they gonna learn that I’m nobody to mess with.
It was almost three in the morning, and I had to get some sleep. All this violence made me tired. I lit up a butt, and headed for home.
About fifteen minutes later, I parked the car across the street of my apartment. The doorman had split hours ago. I took the elevator up to my floor, and opened the apartment door. Lola was laid out on the couch fast asleep. She’ll have a heavy hangover tomorrow, but her job isn’t exactly brain surgery.
I let her continue sleeping on the couch. It would feel nice to have the bed to myself, and wake up in the morning without her body on top of mine. Occasionally anyway.
My hands wrestled to tear off my clothes. I jumped into bed, and pulled the covers over myself. Soon a black cloud slowly settled over my eyes.
Sunlight from the window sliced its way through my eyelids. I blinked, struggled for consciousness, and sat up. The clock on the dresser read eight-fifteen.
I wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep, so I got up and dressed. Lola was still laid out like a sack of potatoes. If I didn’t see her move, every so often I would have taken her for dead. I left her as she was, and walked out of the building.
I jumped into the car, and rolled out towards Yonkers. My stomach told me it was chow time, so I cut off onto a side street, and headed for Jo-Jo’s Hash House, situated down by the waterfront. I could smell the stench of dead fish as I neared the Hudson. It was a different city here. Strong, burly men surrounded the area. Ties and jackets were unseen, and tall office buildings were out of sight. Warehouses and piers took the place of the skyscrapers, and trucks, crates, and bales cluttered the area.
I pulled over into a parking space near Jo-Jo’s.
The place was opened twenty-four hours a day, and was never less than half-full. I weaseled out of the car, and walked inside the joint. The Hash House reeked with the aroma of fried fish and shrimp.
If I didn’t know what time it was I wouldn’t have ordered breakfast. In this place, breakfast was served at night, and supper was served at dawn. It was a dizzy world here. I took a seat at the counter next to a mug that looked like he was cloned from a gorilla. He was chomping away on a slimy liverwurst sandwich. I guess I would have grunted too, if I had liverwurst for breakfast.
One of the waitresses came bouncing over, and asked in a high voice, “What’ll you have handsome?”
She must have been looking for a tip. “Kill a couple of eggs, and fry up some bacon. Well done. Bring a cup of Joe along with that as well.”
She strolled off, yelled the order to the cooks in the back, and drew my coffee. This dame was a prize. Her short, curly, bleach-blond hair looked like wire, and she tried to make herself look younger by putting on more makeup than she needed.
I grabbed a newspaper from the counter, turned to the sport section, and read as I slowly slugged down the coffee. The N.Y. Giants had lost another game. What a bunch of bums.
My meal came, and I dug in. I shoveled it away in less than two minutes, then ordered another of the same. When it arrived, I threw the paper aside, and tore into order number two. Another cup of Joe washed down the remains as I reached for my wallet, and pulled out a ten.
“Makeup face” came over, and asked me if I wanted anything else. I stood up, gave her the ten, and said, “No, but keep the change, and buy yourself some soap to take that garbage off your puss.”
Her face showed that she was insulted, so I added, “You’re a good looking tomato. You don’t need any help.”
She was flattered then. I turned, walked out, and got back into my ride. I started it up, and headed for Lockwood Avenue.
A butt pushed its way into my mouth. My watch read ten o’clock on the nose.
As I drove, the city I knew emerged once again. Hundreds of people were on the streets. How many of them were racketeers? How many innocent people would die before nightfall? Mobsters, I hated them. I hated them because they were vultures preying on unsuspecting bystanders. Some people call me a killer…a ruthless killer…and I guess I am. I kill. But only the guilty. I kill killers. They knew it too. That’s why they shudder when they hear the name “Maddog.”
I found myself steering my way to the top of Lockwood Avenue. The tailor shop was to my right, so I wedged the car between two others, flipped open the door, and walked into the place.
The tailor was behind the counter sewing the button onto a suit.
“Ah, Mr. Murdock, my best customer! I have your three jackets ready.” He shuffled into the back, and
returned with my assortment of colorful blazers. It would feel good to wear my style of clothes again. I took my jacket off, gave it to him, and said, “Keep it. You’ll look better in it than I do.”
He took the ugly piece of material, and handed me my bill. It came out to two hundred clams. I dug into my wallet again, and pulled out two “C” notes. He ought to be a retired with the business I’ve given him. I shot the tailor a “Thanks,” grabbed the blazers, and got back in my heap.
My time was free until four o’clock when I was planning to see Ragino, so I turned the wheels toward Joe’s Pool Hall. I thought I might find somebody with some lose money in their pockets.
I pulled in front of the place ten minutes later. The sound of balls hitting balls knifed its way through the windows above me. I got out of the car, locked up, and stepped inside the joint. The usual musty odor attacked my nostrils. Joe was behind his desk again with an uneasy look on his puss. He appeared somewhat anxious to see me.
“Hi Mike. How ya been? See that guy on table four? He asked me about when you come in here.” I looked toward table four. Behind it was a man the size of King Kong. Not many people are bigger than me, but this giant had at least six inches and a hundred pounds on me. That’s not a hundred pounds of fat either. He reminded me of a professional wrestler. A large scar crossed the middle of his forehead. I turned to Joe asking, “Who is he?”
“Who is he? Fast Eddie recognized him when he came in. Dat’s Jaguar John from San Fran, buddy. He’s a hired gun…a contract man. You ever hear of that madman. I don’t know what he’s doing here.”
I turned to Joe, and spat out, “He came to Yonkers to kill me.”
Joe sat back in his chair. He wasn’t sure if I was kidding or not, until he saw the seriousness on my face. I picked up a stick from the rack, and walked to table four. Jaguar looked up and saw me. His stare was cold and deadly, and he was playing it cool. I heard about him, and I’m sure that he’s heard a lot about me as well. He has killed almost as many people as me, and just as viciously.
I chalked up my cue and said, “I’m the guy you’re supposed to kill.”
He followed through with his shot then answered, “I know.”
“Yeah, but I have news for you. You’re not gonna do it.”
He looked up from the table, and very cockily grunted, “Look Murdock, Jaguar John never misses.”
I didn’t like the sound of his voice. “Maybe so,” I shot back, “but you had better get off the first shot, or you won’t be getting off any.”
“Murdock, you’re all mouth. You’re as good as dead.”
I don’t like anybody threatening me. It gets me mad. I don’t know what he expected me to do, but he wasn’t ready for what I did.
The small end of the cue was in my mitts. I swung the heavy end around my shoulder, and with the style of Mickey Mantle, crashed it across the bridge of his nose. The bone made a loud snap as it split into little pieces. The big hulk fell over backwards. He rubbed where his nose used to be, and felt the sharp splinters of the bone. Blood was spilling over his face but I wanted him to see the rest that was coming. The big man from San Fran didn’t look so big anymore, and I gave him a few second to get his bearings back. The front of his face was a bloody red gash. His mind cleared, and by instinct, his hand reached for his rod, but I was faster. I snapped out mine first, and pulled the trigger filling the room with one, two, three thunderous blasts, sending the smell of gunpowder throughout the pool hall. Jaguar’s forearm was lying on the floor, detached from his body, due to the surgical accuracy of my marksmanship. He stared at it, and then looked at his mangled elbow in disbelief. It was a mass of bone and flesh with dark red liquid spurting from it onto the floor. Stench took the place of gunpowder…burnt flesh that smelled like rotting eggs. I like to mangle and deform killers. Shooting his arm off was no mistake. I was thinking of doing the same thing to the other one.
The killer didn’t moan or groan, nor scream, or cry out in pain. He was in a state of shock, and smiled. His smile turned into a laugh. Then suddenly it stopped, and he looked up from his lifeless limb. Jaguar directed his eyes toward me. His stare knifed its way through the gun smoke showing bitter hate and revenge. He knew he had seen the end of the road.
I gritted my teeth into a smile and said, “Now you know why they call me Maddog. How the hell did you get the name Jaguar? It should have been kitten.”
A thought came to mind, and I laughed. I laughed like a maniac for here before me was the top hit man in the country. The most dreaded murderer in the U.S., and here he was, in front of me, with his nose splattered across his face, and his arm severed beside him. Some terror! I leveled my gun at his face letting the barrel swagger an inch from his forehead. He was at my mercy, and my mind raced for a decision to kill him or not. I thought of all the collateral innocent people he must have killed, all the widows and orphans he had left behind. I also remembered that he came to kill me. I reached my decision, and it looked like I was going to have to make an example of this guy.
I wanted him to know what he was going to look like when he was dead. His eyes watched every move I made as I took out my pocket knife, cut off the tip of a bullet, and placed it into the chamber of the gun. A homemade dum-dum. He knew what I had done, and what the bullet would do to his body. His head was turning from side to side with his mouth open. The pain in his nose and arm was forgotten.
The barrel of my rod once again took its position an inch away from his forehead. My grin was stretched tight for I was going to enjoy this.
He screamed, “You’re mad, you’re mad. You wouldn’t kill me like that. Not in cold bloooooo…”
I should have let him finish his sentence, but my finger squeezed the trigger, and another deafening blast sounded. The bullet ripped through his forehead tearing through the bone of his cranium, leaving his brain and skull splattered across the wall. I heard pieces of bone hitting the floor on the other side of the room as deep red blood was splashed on everything I could see. The smell grew stronger. He lay sprawled on the floor, half of his head missing. I couldn’t tell where his brain was, but I really didn’t care. Pieces of it were scattered from one wall to the other.
The sound of police sirens broke the silence. Joe must have called them when I shot Jaguar’s arm off. Cars screeched to a halt outside, and the trampling of feet running up the stairs made their way to my ears. I turned and faced the entrance. The first cop through the door was mad…no, more than mad. Steam was coming out of his ears. His face was blue from holding himself back from what he wanted to do to me. I never saw this guy so fired up. The cop was Frank Komo.
* * *
CH 12 Working the Case, Part 2.
