In an instant, Betty assessed the space. It was a large room just as it had been before, at least twice as long as it was wide, but it was no longer overflowing with crates of frozen crevalle jack like those Marco Pinzolo had once used to smuggle heroin from Colombia up the coast.
Now, the warehouse was divided into two by a long, polished steel bench at waist height. On the side of the bench closest to the front door, where Betty stood, was a large desk. Violet Mills was languishing in the armchair behind it, with a pearl handled Lady Derringer pistol in her fingers, and two empty chairs in front. She glared at Betty from the chair, whose only acknowledgement was a slight raise of one eyebrow. A brass band spilled from a small clock radio on the desk.
Behind Violet, against the front wall, was an empty sofa and coffee table, which was littered with papers. A place to do business, Betty surmised. The long room was split midway by a polished bench across its width, and behind it, crates, oil drums and storage shelves were stacked in even rows, none higher than a man could reach. The steel bench was littered with brass gas burners and rubber tubes, thick enamel bowls and all the paraphernalia Betty recognized as being required for distilling heroin. A laboratory. Two men were watching her, nervous, backed up against a drum that Betty guessed held water for boiling the pungent, jelly-like opium with lime. One of them, was shaking and cradling his forearm. He was in pain. Beyond the laboratory was the back wall of the warehouse, fitted with bolted double doors. And on the back right hand side wall, was an industrial metal locker – a cage divided into four parts, each tall and narrow.
Inside the first locker, was her daughter.
Betty pushed down her rage. Every instinct she had, tore at her, longing to snap the Tin Man’s neck as he smirked, watching her assess the room. Betty threw her mind out frantically, calling to her daughter from across the concrete warehouse in a silent, desperate appeal.
Nancy. Are you alright? What have they done to you?
Nancy’s head jerked up. She swayed, her tear-streaked face wild with relief. Her fingers wove through the mesh of steel bars and curled tight against the painted green metal.
Mom! I’m so sorry!
It’s alright, darling. I’m here to take you home.
I just wanted to see daddy. She said she’d take me. She lied to me!
Did they hurt you?
Nancy hiccupped. Not as much as I hurt them, she replied, an edge of pride in her voice.
Betty breathed an audible sigh of relief.
Sit tight, my darling. I’ll get you home soon.
Their conversation was so fast and silent, that Betty simply looked as if she was taking in the room. But Nancy’s reaction to her presence, was not lost on their host.
“Oh, of course, a little catch up,” Vladimir said. “Your gift is impressive. As is the little she-cat,” he nodded to the cage. “She had me measured the moment she stepped foot in the door. I’m afraid I’m not as talented as Violet in emptying my mind of my true intentions in order to impress little girls.”
From the armchair, Violet laughed gleefully. She sat forward, leaning her elbows on the desk. Her tone was spiteful.
“I couldn’t believe my luck when I came across her in the park, all alone, pining for her daddy. She practically begged me to kidnap her. Apparently, your mothering skills are somewhat lacking at the moment.” Violet laughed again, then looked toward the locker. “You might want to have a little think about that before you die.”
“The cage is unfortunate,” Vladimir interrupted, holding his hand up to Violet. “I was amused by the girl until she gave me a black eye and broke Nasir’s arm. She’s feisty. We had to contain her. It turns out that Violet’s gift of manipulation doesn’t work on her, the child has a way of shielding her mind. Clever trick.”
Betty looked around the laboratory and noticed a couple of crates had been overturned. There was broken glass on the floor.
Well done, darling, she thought.
“You’ve been getting in our way too long, Mrs. Jones,” continued Vladimir. “I had all sorts of wonderful plans to get rid of you. I have to say though, in the end, it was easier than I expected to catch the big fish. I was going to wait for Pinzolo to hand you over, but look at this, you’ve come all on your own. And all it took was this little fish to fall hook, line and sinker.”
“If you’d sent me an invitation with your address on it, I’d have been here much sooner.”
The Tin Man laughed. “No, I think this has worked out for the best. Violet saw an opportunity today to solve one of our little problems. A welcome distraction to the daily grind, as it were,” he gestured to the steel table where a large mortar and pestle sat amidst the accoutrements of producing refined heroin. “We were busy, but I don’t expect you to be here long.”
“I have a habit of out-staying my welcome,” Betty said. She moved slowly, like a cat, around the blond man toward the desk where Violet sat. The other woman squirmed in her chair. Physically, she was no match for Betty, and she knew it. Violet, like Vladimir, relied on others to do her dirty work. Still, she clutched her pistol tighter and sat forward, deadly intent in her eyes. Betty ran her finger over the clock radio and dialed up the volume. One of her favorite East Coast swings. The percussion set a cracking beat. It’s always nicer to murder to music.
“Nice pistol,” she said, nodding at the pearl handled Lady Derringer. It was a relic from the old West, dainty enough to carry in a lady’s handbag or stocking, but hopelessly impractical unless the victim was in close range, as Betty currently was. She leaned forward, over the desk. “Antique?”
“My great grandmother's.” Violet stood up, knocking back the chair with her calves. She aimed the pistol at Betty’s chest. “It’s a family heirloom.”
“I didn’t pick you for the sentimental type,” Betty drawled. “You do realize you only have one shot in that, don’t you?”
Violet cocked the gun. “You do realize you only have one heart?”
“Ladies, ladies! No need to start the party yet,” Vladimir said, waving his gun at Betty and holding a hand up to Violet again. “I have invited others to join us.”
“I assumed you would,” Betty said, turning back to him. With perfect timing, there was a loud knock on the front door. Tin Man winked, stepping backwards without turning his back on her, and turned the handle. A man walked in, followed by another, and another, until a half-dozen mercenaries had crowded into the entrance space. Tin Man flicked his hand and the last of them knocked the wooden front door shut. The men spread out, their fingers clenching and stretching, hungry at the sight of their quarry.
“This the broad?” said the man who was clearly in charge. He was tall and reedy with bright green eyes and a thicket of black hair.
“The very one,” replied Tin Man. He was watching Betty closely, his eyes narrowed with a faint smile, as if she were the most interesting specimen he had ever seen. “Take care. I hear she bites.”
“My fav’rite sort, then.” A shorter man was eyeing her off greedily.
Betty winked at him. “Nice kicks, darling,” she said. “I bet you’re a killer on the dance-floor.” The goon’s grin widened. He looked down at his gleaming two-tones, outfitted with axe blades. He caught the beat of the jazz radio with his toe and began to tap it in time with the music.
“Better believe it, sugar. Wanna spin?” His thumbs traced the wide lapels of his zoot suit.
“You bet.” Betty slipped into his mind. Dewey Saint Clair, known by his cohorts as Dandy Dewey on account of his penchant for fancy accessories. The copper eye gouger in his jacket pocket was well-worn and the axe blades on his shoes sharpened daily. A dirty fighter if ever there was one.
“What’s the catch?” growled the reedy man in charge. He scrutinized the warehouse, taking in the two laboratory assistants, the girl caged in the metal locker up the back, and then at Betty, who stood, smiling demurely in front of him. Betty stripped his mind. Fish-pike Pete. Carried a lis
t of gruesome deeds he would perform at a price. Ten dollars for a punch to the face. Twenty-five to chew off an ear. He’d beat a man unconscious for forty. Murder – four hundred dollars. He’d sold them all, many times over. This was his gang of hatchet-men, hired out for a cut of the clams. All killers. Betty dug further into his memories. Fish-pike Pete was a past associate of Vladimir, lured over from California last Fall at the Tin Man’s behest, promised a generous slice of New York gangland territory if he helped the Russian achieve his goals. Betty decided to deny him the prize.
“She is the catch,” Tin Man replied, nodding toward Betty. “You take her down and I’ll hand you what you want on a plate, my old friend. The Bowery Boys, the Ghost Warriors, the Micks, the Armenians – they are nothing compared to this woman.”
Fish-pike Pete appraised Betty, a new respect in his eyes.
“Now you’re on the trolley,” Betty smirked. “So, if you think a handful of itchy gunpokes is going to take me, you’re more stupid than you look.”
“That right?” Pete raised an eyebrow and looked back to Tin Man. “Minx with a smart mouth, hey?” He looked past Betty, across the room, where Nancy was silent in her cage. “What about the kid?”
“I’m rewarding you handsomely for this,” Tin Man said. “Do your job.”
“Let her go,” Betty cut in, her voice scathing. “She’s just a child. Your fight is with me.”
Tin Man looked toward the metal locker and shrugged. “And there it is, Mrs. Jones. Your weakness. You women are far too easily manipulated when it comes to your children.” He shook his head in mock sympathy. “We have a saying back home in Russia, ‘Vot gde sobáka zarýta.’ It means ‘That’s where the dog is buried.’ No? As you Americans say, ‘That’s where the shoe pinches’ – see, it is the crux of all your problems. Your weakness for these little bremya. That is what will see you undone.”
A rush of resentment hit Betty, but it was not her own. She glanced at Violet. The woman’s face was impassive, but inside, she was churning with hatred. The shock nearly made Betty give her away. Violet hated Vladimir. The other woman met her eyes, suddenly realizing she’d been read. Betty raised an eyebrow. She dug deeper. It seemed Violet was only conspiring with Vladimir until she found Teddy. She had used the Tin Man’s business dealings to build a nest egg of cash and real estate for herself, including, interestingly, this warehouse. But why here? Betty dug a little further. She looked at Violet in surprise. The other woman scowled but couldn’t speak without giving herself away. It seems I have more in common with this Boudoir Butcher than I realized. Betty tucked the secrets she had stolen away, for later consideration. Right now, it seemed Violet had a bigger plan in mind than simply being the Boudoir Butcher. She was poised on the edge of escape. Violet was using Vladimir as surely as he was using her mind-control to secure his position as the new head of organized crime in New York City. Vladimir had no idea Violet was so close to leaving. The second she had her son, she would disappear. And he would be enraged.
“Besides,” Vladimir continued, oblivious to the women’s silent exchange. He licked his lips. “I think your daughter should see the trouble she’s caused you. And the price you’ll have to pay for it. So,” he said to the room at large, clapping his hands together. “An impromptu party, but I am delighted you all came. I wasn’t expecting company, as you can see,” Vladimir nodded to the steel benches that partitioned that room, covered with glass vials, ceramic bowls, gas burners and laboratory equipment. “Try not to break anything. It’s more expensive than it looks.”
“Cooking?” Betty said, sarcastically.
The cut-throats snickered. Betty looked forward to meeting them more intimately.
“Why not?” Tin Man walked around the end of the bench closest to the front door and stood behind the mess of equipment. “It’s a new venture. Uncle Sam has cut the supply, you see. All the usual hustlers are getting –” he grinned like a Cheshire cat, “distracted and unreliable. The junkies are desperate. For three dollars a day I keep them satisfied.”
“I’m sure you do.” Betty believed him. Like everything else, the international heroin trade had been disrupted by the war, sending addicts to drugstores and physicians for their hit of narcotics. When they were denied, supply went underground. The heady mix of the Harlem jazz scene and street corner hustlers saw addiction spread like smallpox. It was an epidemic. One that Tin Man was apparently ready to take advantage of. “Distracted and unreliable.” Betty repeated, her laugh a cold and cruel bell that rang through the open spaces of the room. “You mean they’re too busy fighting each other to sell. It’s quite an accomplishment, pitting every gang in New York against the other with none of them realizing you’re behind it.”
“I don’t do it for the accolades.”
“You do it for control,” Betty said, sounding bored. “Control of the streets, control of the city.”
The Tin Man picked up a glass vial from the steel bench and studied it for a moment. His movement was fluid, seamless. He showed no fear of her at all. “You understand me well. It’s nice to be appreciated.”
“I appreciate you as much I do a hangnail, Malinov. You’re not the first sociopath with delusions of grandeur that I’ve met.”
Betty smiled at him mockingly but directed her thoughts to her daughter.
Are you ready?
Yes, came the tentative reply.
Be brave, Nancy.
Betty’s own heart thumped so hard she thought it might explode. Every one of her senses was on high alert, absorbing any miniscule detail that could give her an edge. Her mind was assessing the strength of each man, every stale inch of concrete, any opportunity that might be stolen to draw favor to her plight.
The hatchet-men seemed to feel the shift of energy in the room. She turned to face them, away from Malinov. One by one, the killers stirred, skimming the edges of furniture and obstacles to surround her in an arc. Betty took a step backward. The small of her back hit the polished steel bench. Behind it, Tin Man was waiting, his automatic pistol aimed at her back.
“You’re in a bit of a pickle now, aren’t you, mother-of-the-year?” Violet said spitefully, from behind the desk.
“Better to be in one pickle than a whole jar of them.” Betty said, lightly. She watched the bodies moving in on her, thinking fast. They were dirty players. All armed, all rough. There were these six cut-throats, the two lab rats hiding by the crates, Tin Man with his 0.45 and Violet, the Boudoir Butcher, whose pistol was nothing compared to the mind-control capabilities she would undoubtedly deploy in her defense.
“Ready to jive, sugar?” Dandy Dewey’s round face was pink with anticipation. He caught the beat of the jazz tune piping from the clock radio. He licked his lips.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Betty admonished him. “Dance card is lady’s choice, remember? First dance, I always choose the breakaway.”
And she threw herself backward.
*
Betty arched, skidding across the steel bench behind her on her shoulder blades, driving a slew of equipment ahead of her. It smashed onto the floor on the other side.
Gunshots rang out as she hit the floor herself, shoulders first, head tucked and tumbled into a backward somersault, knocking Tin Man off his feet. He fired the pistol, his arm flinging out as he collapsed. Betty twisted on the floor. She grabbed him by the lapels.
Thud!
Betty’s fist found his jaw. The back of his head hit concrete. She wrestled the gun up and out of his grip to turn it back on his head.
His right hand shot up to catch her wrist.
Smack!
The automatic skidded away with the force of his blow.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Dandy Dewey and Fish-pike Pete were already over the table, knocking burners and bowls as they crashed their way toward her, guns firing. Betty rolled off the Russian. She heaved him up and threw him in their way, forcing them to cease-fire. She turned and ran. An open barrel of
water was in her path.
Crash! With a heave, Betty pushed it over. The stave collected new bullets as it rolled toward men, gushing a flood of water.
Bang! Another shot whizzed past her ear. She was almost at the metal locker. Inside, Nancy was a sitting duck. She had nowhere to hide from the bullets that were flying. No chance of escape.
Betty’s Oxford hit the edge of a wooden crate and she leapt across the distance remaining. She couldn’t dare risk shooting the padlock off the locker. The bullet could have recoiled into the mesh. She grabbed the lock with her bare hands, pulling it down, falling to her knees as she strained with all her might.
Snap! The lock broke away and Betty threw the industrial cage open, grabbing Nancy by the arm. Her mind was racing. There seemed no way of getting her daughter out of the warehouse. The six hatchet men were closing in. Behind the bench, Tin Man watched as his wolves descended. His face was lit with dark amusement. Betty spun her daughter to face her. She did not need to speak aloud.
‘Defend yourself, but do not kill anyone Nancy. Do you understand?’
Nancy’s eyes were wide with fright.
‘This is important. You must leave their death to me. Just fight to survive.’
The thirteen-year-old nodded furiously. Her eyes forming resolve. Her frown resolute.
‘You can do this, darling!’
Betty spun around to face the Tin Man’s militia. The men slowed and drew up short, guns in their hands, smirking. Their prey was cornered.
‘Remember everything I’ve taught you. Just like practice,’ Betty silently urged.
Back-to-back, mother and daughter stood as the vultures circled.
‘I’m ready,’ Nancy thought.
‘Yes, you are. Fight with me, Nancy - now!’
Smash!
Betty moved first, throwing herself at Fish-pike Pete, who was directly in front. His face had barely registered her motion before she slammed him sideways into one of his comrades. As Pete fell, Betty’s leg swept out behind her, tripping two more of the men. They crashed to the ground. She drew up, pummeled Pete’s jaw and got thrown by a crack from his elbow. Betty fought hard, beat him soundly and was repaid four-fold.
Lady Vigilante (Episodes 16 – 18) (Lady Vigilante Crime Compilations) Page 20