Maddog 1 The Begining

by Tom Golabek

After the meal, I asked, “balloon busts” if she wanted to go out for a few drinks. She told me she was tired, and couldn’t handle another night out. I felt like bumming around with the boys tonight, so I told her I was going down to the Lotus. My shirt was on the sofa, and I reached for it. Some idiot had sat on it while he was watching a Superman program. I strutted over to the bedroom, pulled out a fresh one, and slipped it on. My hand reached for my rig, and I strapped it in place. Lola came over handing me my jacket. I kissed her on the cheek, patted her on the ass, and walked out the door.

  The lift was on my floor, so I jumped in, and pushed the “L” button. The elevator whizzed downward. When the doors opened I jolted out, walked through the lobby, and into my Pontiac. The engine rumbled under the hood. I made tracks for 264th Street.

  The air was cool and moist. It was the kind of night that a guy likes to spend in a bar, sopping up some brew, and shooting the breeze with friends. The city was bright even at night. The moonlight, streetlights, headlights, and brilliance of the billboards and buildings combined to blank out the darkness of the streets.

  I reached 264th, pulled the heap to the curb, and got out. Music knifed its way to the street through the doors and windows of the Lounge. My hand gripped the door handle, and I swung the passageway open. I stepped in, scanning the room. Dutch was behind the bar busily making a cocktail. At the head of the bar were a couple of the usual hookers, who had both latched onto a customer apiece. They would be making some money by the end of the night. Further down the bar, and at the booths, were an assortment of husbands, wives, bores, moaners, loners, and happy-go-luckies. At the rear of the bar, behind the table, were a couple of my buddies.

  I crossed to the area that served as a part time dance floor, by the jukebox, and waved a hand towards Dutch. I viewed the assortment of booze on the shelves behind the bar, and noticed that bottle of oily rotgut I had smelled the other day was gone. Dutch probably gave it to one of the local barflies.

  The boys at the table were “Dubo” and Jack Catalano, better known as “Cadillac Jack.” Dubo is a bookie, and a compulsive gambler. He’d lay a wager on baseball, football, car racing, ping-pong, marbles, or you name it. Cadillac Jack is a bald headed and burly Teamster truck driver.

  They saw me coming, waved me on, and pushed out a chair from under the table. I sat down, exchanged “How ya beens”, and began shooting the bull.

  Dutch came over, sat down my drink, shoved today’s newspaper in front of my nose, and said, “Hey pal, looks like you made the front page today.”

  I looked down at the newspaper, and sure enough, there was a picture of my kisser with about six inches of typing under it. I looked mean in the photo. The editor had a few mug shots of me at his office, and selected the ugliest in the hopes that it would increase circulation. The story below the picture was a little hard on me. It said that I was a merciless killer, a compulsive killer, and a “kill crazy” private cop who should be in an asylum. I laughed at the article, and handed the paper to Dubo.

  From behind, I heard, “Hey you three bums. Don’t youse eva go home?”

  I turned, seeing “Pretty Boy George” and “Boston” a step behind him. I have known them for years, but didn’t know their real names. They pulled up a couple of chairs, and sat down. Boston yelled out, “Dutch, hows ‘bout trowin us a deck of cards?”

  The cards flew over my head, and Boston caught them with a Willie Mays basket catch. We all took out a few bills, and laid them on the table. Dubo started off dealing with some seven-card stud. Dutch buzzed over, put down a round of fresh drinks, picked up the empty glasses, and trotted off.

  The cards kept falling, the juke kept playing, and Dutch kept buzzing. My stack was getting bigger and bigger. We were playing small time poker with a two-dollar limit. I never seemed to come out a loser. My pack of butts became empty, and I got up to get some more out of the machine. Only then did I notice that nobody else was in the joint. Dutch had locked the doors over a half hour ago. I peeked at my watch. It read four-thirty. Man, time passes fast. I sat back down in my chair, and resumed playing, but I was getting tired. The booze, smoke, gambling, and noise took its toll. I counted up my money, one-hundred and sixty two bucks, and shoved it in my pocket. The boys hated to see me go, especially with their money. Before I left, I slipped Dutch a five-dollar tip, waved “so long,” and staggered out. The night air, or should I say morning air, was so fresh that it knocked me stiff as I whiffed it. My car was right in front of me. I opened the door, fell in behind the wheel, and set a course for home.

  Less than five minutes later, I had the heap parked in front of my apartment. I shuffled out of the Goat, into the lobby and elevator, and opened the door to my pad.

  The lights were out, and all was quiet. Lola must be sleeping. I slipped inside, and turned the living room lights on. It was going to feel good to hit the sack. I took off my shoes, and opened the bedroom door. Lola wasn’t in bed, nor was the bed slept in. Where the hell could she be? I looked in the bathroom, and got the same results. I went to the kitchen, dining room, even the closets. No Lola. It wasn’t like her to be out by herself at this time of night. I searched the room looking for any sign of a struggle. Nothing was turned over, and nothing was out of place.

  I sat down on the couch, and turned my brain on full speed. Thoughts raced through my mind. She must have been taken out forcibly, or lured out of the apartment by Dragon’s men. Maybe he discovered my only weakness. She had to have been taken by either the stairs, or elevator. Maybe I am jumping to conclusions. Maybe Dragon’s men didn’t take her. Maybe sick friends called, or maybe even her mother. If she left on her own accord, she would have taken her pocket book, and left a message. I ran to the bedroom to check. No message, and her pocket book was where she had always left it.

  Suddenly the phone rang in the living room. I dashed to it, picked up the hook, and half screamed a, “Yeah?”

  A slow seedy voice was on the other side of the line. It said, “Murdock, if you want to see Lola alive again, show up alone at 325 Farmers Road in Hastings, at p.m. It’s a deserted farmhouse and barn. Come up the driveway. Walk into the barn. Don’t come any sooner, and don’t call the police, or you’ll find her dead. Remember…come alone!”

  I yelled into the phone that whoever harmed her would die the slowest, most torturous death…but it was not heard. He had hung up on me.

  The phone was still in my hand. I threw it to the floor, and slammed a couple of punches into the wall. How stupid could a guy get? I should have known that they would get to me by nabbing Lola. I couldn’t believe this was happening. Not to me. Not to the most feared man in the city. Not to the merciless killer, the compulsive murderer, the kill crazy private cop who belongs in an asylum.

  I’ll be there at nine. They’ll wish I hadn’t come though. I was through playing games with these mugs. They all were as good as dead. The newspapers will call me a mangler, a beast, a madman…a “Maddog.” I’ll be there alright, and I’ll be ready.

  There was nothing I could do until sunrise, so I moved my body to the bedroom, and crawled into bed. I laid there on top of the covers, clothes on, and thought. My mind wouldn’t rest. It wouldn’t let me sleep. The sun was starting to rise anyway. A faint glow of orange light seeped through the draped windows. The clock read 6:20 am.

  I got out of bed, and walked to the kitchen. My stomach wasn’t asking for food, but it was something to do. I had to keep moving. My hand opened the fridge, and grabbed four eggs, and a few slices of bacon. I threw them into a frying pan, and turned on the flames.

  The radio was to my right. I turned it on. The news was being broadcast. Tomorrow they would be talking about the killing, or killings that occurred in Hastings.

  The bacon and eggs were done, and I slapped them onto a plate. I took my time eating them. Maybe twenty or thirty minutes passed by the time my plate was clean. I left
it on the table, and walked into the living room.

  What do I do now? I strolled over to the tall mahogany cabinet in the corner of the room, and opened it. My eyes scanned over my toys. Four.45’s, six extra barrels, three firing pins, and ten boxes of shells lay quietly inside the cabinet. I took out two .45’s, two firing pins, and two new barrels, and placed them on the table in front of the couch. Then I opened the other drawer, and took out my gun cleaning equipment. I carried them to the table laying them beside the guns, and sat on the couch.

  My hands blindly stripped the weapons down, and cleaned them. I inserted the new firing pins for sure fire, and new barrels for extra accurate aim. The guns were like new. I put the semi-automatics back together. They were gleaming from the light coat of oil I had put on them. One was in each of my fists.

  People were going to die. They were going to wish they had never heard the name Murdock. My reputation would spread. More stories would be written about me. In addition, there would be a few less “scumbags” in the city.

  Something was nibbling away at my memory. Something like a clue about the man behind all this. It was the key that opened the door to a lot of facts about this mystery. The key was within reach of my fingers, and on the tip of my tongue. It was important. It was so important that it would solve the case. Nevertheless, I couldn’t grab it. I just couldn’t nail it down. The clue was laughing at me. It was laughing at how stupid I was. I sat on the couch, and pondered. The clue continued to stay just out of my reach. I felt it was right in front of my eyes, yet I couldn’t see it.

  My memory raced back in time, and I carefully thought of every move I had made the last few days. I reviewed the boxing match, the locker room, the explosion, Dragon, Krasinski, and Ragino. Nothing! I kept repeating the events in my mind. I reminisced back to Joe’s Pool Hall, the incident outside the Red Hat, and the setup at the broad’s apartment in Bronxville. Still nothing! The clue was in there somewhere. I went over the whole thing again, bit by bit, piece by piece. All I came up with were the same results…nothing. The lousy clue was in there. I knew it was there, but I couldn’t pinpoint it to save my life. I could have kicked myself in the ass.

  My eyes glanced at the ashtray. It was now filled. Hours had passed by. I had gone through a whole pack of smokes without realizing it. The clock on the wall read 3:00 pm. Six hours to go.

  I needed some help, and decided to call Matt Zima. He was always happy to get some publicity, and he’d get plenty if things worked out. I picked up the phone, and dialed his number. His thick deep voice answered the phone. I asked him to meet me in front of the lobby of my apartment at 6:30. He kept asking what for, but I kept repeating, “It’s a surprise.” I also told him to pack a rod or two. Matt agreed, and hung up. I went to the bedroom, slipped on my coat, and walked out of the pad.

  I needed to rearm, and gear-up for tonight’s activities. For one thing, a holster fitting the small of the back and a gun fitting it might prove fruitful. Unfortunately, a .45 would stand out like a sore thumb there.

  I took the elevator down to the lobby, walked out of the building, and into my car. She started up, and I headed for 151st Street. I got there about fifteen minutes later, hooked the wheels to the curb, and got out. In front of me was Dino’s Gun Shop.

  The air inside the shop smelled of oil and wood. Dino was behind the counter sanding a stock for a shotgun. He was a tall clever fellow in his late twenties. He saw me, put his work down, and came over with his hand outstretched. “How goes it Mike? I’ve been noticing that you have been in the newspapers regularly. Too bad they don’t print where you buy the tools of your trade. Better yet, I’m glad they don’t. I’d probably get closed down by the authorities.”

  He started to reach towards the shelves of .45’s. I stopped him and said, “No, I need a different weapon. Give me two Berettas.” Dino looked puzzled. “After all these years with the .45’s you’re going to change to a Beretta?”

  “Nope,” I said, “It’s just for a special job I have in mind.”

  He walked behind the counter filled with pistols and revolvers of all sizes, shapes, and colors. My eye caught the twinkle of a .25 black pearl-butted Beretta. Dino pulled it from the counter, and handed it to me. It felt, and looked like a toy gun. My mitt fully incased it. Dino handed me another one with some ammo, and I took them downstairs where he had a shooting range. I loaded up the pocket-sized pistols, and tried them out. They didn’t make much noise, nor did it spit much fire or smoke. I shot until the guns were empty, and walked back upstairs.

  Dino came over, and asked me if I wanted anything else. I had been mulling over another type of weapon. I had nothing to lose by buying one. I was sure he was going to be shocked.

  “Yeah,” I said as I pointed to a double barrel 12 gauge shotgun hanging on the wall. He took it down and put it on the counter.

  I added, “Cut the barrel, so it’s about fifteen inches long. Then cut the stock into a hand grip.” He started to shake his head, and said that it was against the law. However, when I laid two hundred dollar bills in his palm, the shake of his head turned into a nod.

  I was getting a little hungry, so I told him I was going next door to the coffee shop to grab something to eat, and that I would be back in about twenty minutes. The firmness of my voice told him to have the scattergun ready by then. I turned to the door and walked out.

  * * *

  Ch 14 Preparing for the “OK Corral.”