The Dangerous Mr Wolf

by Brian Drake

  “Is this one personal for you, Wolf?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Tell me.”

  Wolf stood up. “Later,” he said. “I’ll let myself out.”

  “You weren’t kidding,” Petra said. “Less than ten minutes total.” She raised her voice as he continued for the door. “I think that’s a new record for you, Wolf!”

  Wolf returned to his home to rest; he had a big night ahead. He slept on his bed, clothed, and dozed off while staring at the spots on his ceiling.

  My best guess would be one of the independents.

  At 10,15 p.m., dressed head-to-toe in black, Wolf raided the basement poker game run by Nate Mason, a small-time operator whose game catered to pros who wanted to play off the grid. At the point of a shotgun Wolf robbed the game, stuffing the cash into a tote bag, keeping the players and the two guards covered with the double-barrel howitzer. He told them that somebody knew who had kidnapped the Suzi Fulton. He wanted to know who. Everybody would hurt until somebody told him who.

  Around midnight, at a large mansion in the heart of the suburbs, Wolf kicked in the front door. Men and women in the front room screamed as he fired the double-barrel into a grandfather clock. The ancient block fell in a thousand splintered pieces. The women were dressed for work--that is, not wearing much--while the gents were there to pay for services for sale. A gunman who tried to show Wolf out got a butt stock in the face for his effort, and Wolf told Jenny Samson, the madam who ran the place and arrived after the gunner, that if she knew who had kidnapped Suzi Fulton she had better cough up and there would be pain until she did. To motivate her, he took out an incendiary stick, pulled the pin, and tossed it under the drapes. The fire rapidly spread; Wolf slipped out as the ceiling sprinklers blasted a shower of water and the bulk of the house began evacuating.

  Two a.m. The semi turned off the freeway and followed the ramp to Fremont Street, passing a construction site which was currently dormant. It made the perfect place for a sniper to hide.

  From behind a concrete barrier, Wolf fired single shots from a high-powered rifle. The front tires of the cabin exploded, and the cab sank into the ground, stopping the rig. As the two-man crew jumped out to inspect the damage, Wolf approached cradling the rifle.

  The contents of the semi didn’t interest him, but he knew it contained smuggled and stolen goods meant for fencing by small-fry hood Tommy Dugan. The crewmen dug for their own hardware, but Wolf shouldered the weapon and one look at the big hole in the barrel made the pair freeze and put up their hands.

  “You tell your boss,” Wolf said, “that I want to know where Suzi Fulton is. Everybody is going to hurt until I find out.”

  It was the same message, delivered over and over throughout the city; Wolf hoped the seeds would produce fruit. And quickly. Otherwise it was a waste of time and the people who got angry with him weren’t the kind of people one wanted to have a beef with. But he didn’t mind making enemies. He didn’t exist to make friends. He existed for himself and what little good he might accomplish--because long ago he had made a promise that he wouldn’t waste what remained of his life. Anybody who thought otherwise would see the difference after the night finally ended.

  “You’ve been busy,” Inspector Callaway said.

  Wolf stood on the roof of a downtown building, watching as Callaway caught his breath and straightened his topcoat after climbing the fire escape.

  It was the next day, a cloudy and muggy day. Rain threatened but it was still warm.

  “A lot of people are saying your name,” the inspector said, “and they’re not happy.”

  “I’m on a case.”

  “On a rampage is more like it. What’s going on?”

  “I told you.”

  Callaway held back his frustration, but it showed on his face. Nobody knew Wolf’s first name, not even Callaway, and they’d shared many private moments such as this. Nobody knew where Wolf had come from, but, for some reason, he’d made the city his home, making connections with cops and crooks alive. He operated on the fringes in between. Callaway didn’t think he was dangerous, though plenty did; wasn’t entirely sure he was a good guy, either. Callaway did know that sometimes Wolf came in handy. But he also, sometimes, was a real pain in the neck.

  “When you start robbing poker games and burning down brothels, you’re doing more than working a case.”

  “I have a client to protect.”

  “Murray Fulton, by chance?”

  Wolf frowned.

  “Witnesses say you’re asking where his daughter is,” Callaway said. “Something like this you need to leave to the cops.”

  Wolf laughed. “You don’t have any more on her whereabouts than I do.”

  “So, your stunt didn’t work?”

  “Let’s just say we haven’t seen results yet.”

  “There’s a contract out on you. Came across it a couple of hours ago.”

  Wolf frowned. He hadn’t been followed to the meet; had seen no evidence that anybody was giving him more of a look than normal. He also hadn’t been tipped off.

  “Ten grand. Dead. Nobody wants you alive. I’m not even sure I do.”

  “All I’m worth is ten grand?” Wolf grinned.

  “You’ve declared some sort of war on the independents. They don’t have much cash to begin with. If you were taking on Sanchez or Gulino--”

  “This has nothing to do with them.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I asked,” Wolf said.

  Callaway shook his head. “You’re going to get somebody killed. Maybe even yourself.”

  “If what I did last night has resulted in me being marked for a hit, then that part of the job is done. This will be over soon.”

  “You figure whoever comes after you will have the answers you’re looking for?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You’re playing with the girl’s life. One of these days you’re going to pay for all of this. Nobody’s luck lasts forever. Nobody runs forever, either.”

  “Are you done?”

  Callaway let out a breath but never took his eyes off Wolf. “I suppose.”

  “Then I’ll see you in church.”

  Wolf stopped five feet from his door. Whoever had broken the lock did a lousy job. The wood near the deadbolt had split.

  Wolf took out .45, kicked the door, somersaulted through the doorway and came up tracking movement on his left. The gunner who stood there fired twice but Wolf’s forward momentum carried him away from the path of the shots. He fired twice in return. The gunner fell back and crashed against a bookcase.

  Wolf dropped, pivoting, as the second shooter emerged from the kitchen. The shooter raised a shotgun. The hot blast of buckshot seared Wolf’s face. Shot parted his hair. The automatic in his hand spoke once. The shooter spun around, colliding with the kitchen doorway, stumbling to the carpet. As he tried to get the shotgun up again, Wolf closed the distance and kicked the shooter in the mouth. He plucked the shotgun from the man’s hands and tossed it. As the shooter held a hand to his bloody mouth, Wolf dragged him from the doorway to the middle of the carpet. Kneeling, Wolf jammed one knee into the man’s groin, hauled his bloody hand away, and stuck the hot muzzle of the pistol into the man’s cheek.

  “Who sent you? Tell me!”

  The shooter mumbled through his bloody mouth. He spat blood but missed. Some of the spray landed on Wolf’s jacket. Wolf shoved his knee further and the shooter’s eyes widened. He cried out. Wolf repeated his question.

  “You’ll kill me anyway!”

  “I love how you tough killers always turn into little bitches when the gun is pointed at you,” Wolf said. “You get a fifty-fifty chance because I may kill you if you talk or not.”

  “It was Marcus!”

  “Victor Marcus? Why? Tell me!”

  “Why do you think, dummy?”

  Wolf stepped back and kicked the killer again and when he was sure the man was unconscious he left the apartment.

  As he dr
ove away, the Cadillac’s motor humming, he stared through the windshield, his face an unemotional stone, jaw locked tight. He relaxed his grip on the wheel, took a deep breath, and slowed down. He would have answers soon.

  Wolf drove to one of his back-up apartments and slept the rest of the day. The coming night promised to be as busy as the night before.

  Victor Marcus ran the Bay Meadow Poker Room, which sat on prime real estate just off the 80 freeway. He was a small fish in a big pond but stayed clear of Outfit activity despite leanings to the contrary which once got him in trouble. He always followed the same routine once he closed up the card room for the night. A round of night clubs, bars, an expensive dinner. Wolf patrolled his favorite haunts for over an hour and finally found him at a jazz club called the Hedley Club. Wolf took a stool at the bar and ordered a beer. Patrons crowded the place; the band played an up-tempo number; from where Wolf sat, he could watch Marcus and his lady friend in the mirror behind the bar.

  The bartender handed Wolf the glass and Wolf took a long sip. Anchor Steam. Good stuff. He took another sip and set the mug on the counter.

  He wasn’t expecting a major engagement tonight, but it helped to be prepared. Along with the Colt .45 under his left arm, he had a .32 Derringer clipped to his right wrist.

  Marcus and his girlfriend laughed, talked, ate, drank. Marcus appeared to have no muscle nearby, but he only had one fellow who provided that, Nitro Randall, who had it in for Wolf over losing a poker game.

  Wolf sipped his beer and watched the woman. She was a little thick, with long black hair, and she filled out her blue cocktail dress so that every curve could be taken in. Gina Abato. Certainly not a civilian. She didn’t run a racket of her own, but she liked the lifestyle and was never far from the arm of somebody connected to graft one way or another.

  A waiter delivered food to Marcus’ table. Wolf finished his beer and left. They were going to be a while. He wanted to make sure he could follow them when they departed. Back in the Cadillac, which he had parked on the street, Wolf left the driver’s window cracked. The meter he had fed still flashed a green light. Plenty of time left. He called Fowler but there was no news, no contact from the kidnappers. Wolf explained he might have a lead and to hold tight. Fowler’s voice shook a little when he said okay. After he ended the call, somebody tapped on the window.

  “Get out of the car, Wolf.”

  Wolf looked at the man outside. The man held a matte-black automatic pistol. His name was Nitro Randall, second-in-command to Victor Marcus, and a man Wolf constantly had trouble with. Wolf once cleaned him out in a poker game, and Randall had yet to put it behind him.

  Wolf opened the door. Nitro stepped back. Wolf got out of the car. He kept the door between him and Nitro. Nitro held the gun low and close to his body.

  “Let’s see those hands.”

  Wolf placed his hands on top of the doorframe. He said, “This is a public street, Nitro.”

  They were on the side of the street not heavily traveled. Two darkened warehouses fronted the street, with a dark alley between them, smelly Dumpsters near padlocked doors. Not the most inviting place for pedestrians, who preferred the opposite side. So, while they were relatively free from people observing them, a gunfight would attract attention no matter what.

  “Get in the alley,” Nitro said.

  “You could have shot me in the car and collected the money, Nitro. Once again you prove you have an educated mind.”

  “That would have been too easy. Get in the alley.”

  “Why don’t you just shoot me right here?”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  “But you won’t.”

  “Really?”

  “Your boss wants to know why I’m following him. Saw me, did he?”

  “You can’t hide for shit.”

  “Funny. I wasn’t trying. Why would Victor offer ten grand for my head when you’d do it for free?”

  “He didn’t put up the contract.”

  “I got a couple guys in my apartment that say otherwise. Or at least they said they were sent by him.”

  Nitro laughed. “You really want me to explain? Get in the alley.”

  “No.”

  “You’re gonna make me blast you right here?”

  “I didn’t hit any of Victor’s operation the other night, Nitro.”

  “He wants to collect the money. Same as I will. And I get to get even with you at the same time.”

  “Ten grand is chump change to you. I took more than that from you at the poker game.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “So, pull the trigger.”

  Nitro darted his eyes around but still hesitated.

  “He took the girl, didn’t he?” Wolf said. “Why?”

  “Like I’m gonna talk.”

  “Is he working for somebody? With somebody?”

  “Get in the alley, Wolf.”

  “You won’t shoot because you don’t know if I’m working alone or not. Nobody believes it was just me the other night, do they?” Wolf grinned, but the grin faded fast. He said, “Were those guys at my place ordered to kill me or take me prisoner?”

  Nitro opened his mouth but never spoke the words. Wolf snapped his right arm down and forward, the .32 Derringer released from the spring clip and slipping into his hand. He fired both barrels. The two pops echoed up and down the street and Nitro Randall grunted, stumbling back. He struck the warehouse wall and collapsed to the ground. He wasn’t dead. He still had enough energy to point his gun at Wolf but by then Wolf had the .45 out and planted a third slug between Nitro’s eyes.

  The big automatic sounded like a cannon and the noise battered up and down the street. Wolf dropped back into the Cadillac and drove off. People saw him. He saw them watch him. The car was just another tool; once he disposed of it, he’d get another.

  Now he had a solid lead. Knowing this, he drove with a loose grip and relaxed shoulders. He was close. Suzi would be home soon.

  The key turned in the lock. Wolf gave the silencer at the end of the Colt’s barrel a reassuring twist but made no move to turn on the light. The door opened. Gina Abato entered alone.

  She switched on the light, shut the door, turned and screamed. Wolf bolted from the couch as Gina dug into her purse and pulled out a pistol. Wolf batted it from her hand and shoved her onto the couch. She glared at him with hot eyes, her face flushed red.

  “What do you want, Wolf?”

  “Your boyfriend needs to answer some questions. He was supposed to come home with you.”

  “Well he didn’t. He’s got stuff to do.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like what the hell do I know?”

  “A kidnapped girl, by chance?”

  “I told you--”

  “Right, you’re deaf and dumb. Call him.”

  “What?”

  “I said, call him. Tell him to come back. Tell him you need him.”

  “No.”

  “Gina, there’s a sixteen-year old girl who’s being used as a pawn and Victor is up to his eyeballs in it. He has some sort of beef with her father, I’m not sure what it’s all about. She’s an innocent girl and shouldn’t be involved. You may hang out with punks, but you aren’t one of them.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Call Victor.”

  “You’ll kill him!”

  “He’s just a middle- man. I want to know about the one pulling the strings.”

  “It’s probably that bimbo I saw at his place the other night.”

  “Get a name?”

  “No, but I almost ripped Victor’s balls out. He told me it was just business and when the lady told me the same thing I cooled down. He’s probably meeting her again tonight.”

  “Call him.”

  “All right, all right.” She rolled off the couch and reached for the phone on the side table.

  “I’ll dial,” Wolf said. He moved around her to pick up the phone, dialed Marcus’s number, and handed the phone to her.
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  Marcus didn’t answer right away, and Gina almost hung up, but Wolf gestured with the silenced Colt and she kept waiting. Finally, she started talking. She tried the vamp act, first--“Come back, I need you”--but when that didn’t work she started to stutter.

  Wolf grabbed the phone and said, “This is Wolf talking, Victor. Nitro’s dead and Gina’s next unless you get your ass over here and talk to me.”

  Marcus uttered a string of curses and hung up.

  Wolf put the phone down.

  Gina Abata scrambled off the couch. She tried to scream but the cry choked off when Wolf grabbed her hair, pulled her back onto the couch, and smacked her. This time she fell unconscious and lay on the couch with the skirt of her dress hiked up and one strap off a shoulder. Wolf unlocked the door, switched off the light, and sat in the dark once again. But not before he picked up Gina’s gun and stuck it in a pocket.

  Victor Marcus didn’t bother with a key. He tried the knob first. The door opened and he stopped short once he saw that no lights were on. The hallway light lit him up, though, and Wolf saw the gun in his hand. He also saw enough of his legs to take aim and shoot him just above the left knee. The Colt .45 made a sound like a heavy book falling onto a desk.

  Marcus yelped, staggered forward and fell. The gun he held flew from his hand when he hit the floor. He reached for it, struggling to move closer. Wolf stood up, kicked the gun away, shut the door and turned on the light. He held his smoking gun on Victor Marcus who stared at him with a grimace.

  “I’m gonna kill you, Wolf! If it’s the last thing I do!” He lunged for his gun, trailing blood on the carpet. Wolf went over to the gun and put a foot on it. Marcus spat at him but stopped crawling. He lay on the carpet panting.

  “Where’s the girl?” Wolf said.

  “I’m not telling you anything!”

  “Nitro told me enough that I can hand you over to the cops and the Feds,” Wolf said. “You’ll be looking at hard time when they get done with you.”

  “Is there a second choice?”

  “Sure. Tell me who organized this, and I’ll give you a chance.”

  “To get away?”

  “Why not?” Wolf took his foot off Victor’s gun and stepped back. He put the .45 away and covered it with the flap of his jacket.