The Case of the Singing Sword (The Billibub Baddings Mysteries)

by Tee Morris

  It usually works on the average Joe and Josephine, but tonight, there was a table of dinks in custom-cut pinstripes that continued to make jokes at my expense. I could hear them. They knew it.

  Sure enough, this was beginning to look like one of those Westerns, with me being the good guy walking into the saloon, gearing up to introduce these outlaws to my girl Beatrice, who remained snug against my left breast in her holster. (You see, that was always my problem with those moving-picture cowboys. They were showing everyone where they were packing heat.)

  “Hey there, Billi, how ya doin’?” Mick hailed cheerfully as he poured out a bowl of the special for the guy next to me.

  God bless this crazy Pollack! First, he had fixed a seat at the end of his bar deliberately higher than the others, especially for me. Then, there was that winner of a smile and his battle-horn bellow of a greeting, an obvious one-fingered salute to those mooks snickering in the booth behind me. Now he presented me a bowl of the “Baddings-sized” Chili Special while the customer next to me now eyed his own bowl, wondering why the short guy hopping up into the higher stool was getting an extra ladleful of Mick’s best.

  Yeah, he’s looking at his own bowl. Now mine. He’s thinking about letting it go. Now he’s thinking about how good this chili is. Takes another spoonful while staring at my own. He’s reconsidering. Give it a moment…

  Three. Two. One.

  “Excuse me, sir…” The sap waved to grab Mick’s attention.

  I stifled a good, hearty laugh; I could tell he wasn’t a regular. He called Mick ‘sir,’ and that meant it was time for the dinner entertainment. Mick does love a comedy routine for the Saturday-night crowd, and I was always the headliner at his vaudeville revue.

  “Why is he getting a bigger order of the special?” the sap protested.

  “Well, sir,” Mick said sharply, giving his ‘sir’ an extra sting, “being as we are a family-run place, I’d like to know who I’m talkin’ to.”

  Any paler, and this guy could have been mistaken for a swamp wraith. “Um, my name’s Kevin.”

  “Kevin.” Mick nodded, cleaning his hands with a towel and slinging it over his shoulder. “Y’gotta understand a couple of things here, Kevin. First, this is my place, an’ I can do whatevuh I want. That’s why the name of the place is Mick’s and not Kevin’s.”

  He turned to the counter behind him for a moment and then placed four fresh green jalapeño peppers in front of me, evenly spaced and lined up as if they were fine slivers of Dunheimian jade displayed before me for approval. I gave him a very subtle nod.

  “Second, this here is Mister Billi Baddings,” Mick announced curtly. “Don’t let his height fool you. He’s got a big appetite.”

  That was my cue to pick up one of the peppers and pop it in my mouth, stem and all. While a four-foot-one redhead with a scraggly beard and a thirty-something-inch waist dressed in a navy pinstripe suit hardly strikes fear in the hearts of mortal men, the ability to polish off a couple of raw jalapeños tends to give people a moment’s pause.

  Especially if they don’t see you sweat.

  Each pepper’s crunch could be heard clearly by this guy at the bar and the handful of customers enjoying their chili, sandwiches and sodas. Even those orcs cracking the jokes on me earlier paused for a second as I held pepper number three between my pudgy fingers and lifted it to the light, savoring its color and firmness with the appreciation of a true connoisseur, before plunging it into the murky abyss of a dwarf’s stomach.

  I took a solid bite out of the last pepper, the resulting crunch causing the little nipper having dinner with his mom and dad to whisper “Wow!” I smiled and polished it off in a second bite, still no trace of sweat forming on my brow. Not even when I took a sip of the piping hot coffee Mick served as a chaser.

  “Nice appetizer, Mick,” I coolly remarked, dabbing at the edges of my mouth in a truly Poirot-ian manner. No sigh of relief. No intense flush on my face, apart from the brilliant red in my beard. No troll’s belch. (That would come later.)

  “I think I’ll take that chili now,” I purred like a Saber-toothed mountain cat of the Black Hills. “You got any hot sauce I can put on it?”

  “For you, pal? Sure.”

  To desecrate Mick’s chili would normally be considered sacrilegious, but this was just part of the show. Every chili-eater in the joint knew that another drop of Tabasco would bring down the wrath of the El Hanor Durea Temple Gods.

  While Mick searched for his bottle of hot sauce, I leaned in toward Kevin, his own special growing colder and colder while he stared at me like I was a freak of nature. I knew my breath had to reek of jalapeños—a nice touch that always made my next line a fun way to end this bit of dinner theater.

  “If I were you, bub, I would scoot down a few chairs. Fresh vegetables give me gas like you wouldn’t believe.”

  Had he moved any faster, I think the barstool cover would have gone with him. His change on the counter was still settling with a jingle before the door slammed shut, the bell above the door pealing wildly as if trying to get the last word in this scene.

  Mick roared with laughter as he plunked down the tiny bottle of Tabasco and a tall glass of water with a fresh slice of lemon floating between clumps of crushed ice. “Goddamn, Billi, I never gets tired doin’ that,” he said gleefully between gasps.

  “Just count yourself lucky that I got this cast-iron stomach!” I scoffed while shaking the still-capped hot sauce over my dinner. (Preserving the illusion, you know?)

  I took another look at the crowd. A quiet Saturday night. Not normal for Mick’s place. I don’t know if it was a twinge of guilt I felt, or if the jalapeños weren’t layin’ right, but I looked up at my friend apprehensively.

  “Look, Mick, you didn’t think that was too much? I don’t wanna—”

  “Now don’ you get in a sweat, Baddings,” Mick scolded, scooping up the poor sap’s change and ringing up the sale. “A dingleberry like that, comin’ into my place, tellin’ me how to run things…I don’ appreciate that. If I want to make your Saturday Chili Special a little Extra Special, then that’s my call, not Kevin’s. Don’ get in a lather, Billi. Jus’ eat ya dinnah!”

  If you’re wondering why I’m getting this special treatment from Mick, it’s got a lot to do with being a dwarf. Mick was telling me one day over a glass of some particularly cheap Canadian booze that his whole family was running this uphill race simply because they were “of Polish descent,” as those “discreet” humans would put it.

  Now, I can understand the animosity toward me to an extent. I’m a dwarf. Four feet tall. Redhead. A walking mass of pleasant portliness. I’m different. Sure, I admit that. But to slight a guy, let alone an entire family, for having a last name that sounds like a High Elder during a sneezing fit? You’re kidding me, right? I could care less about that stuff, so long as you hold a steady bow, have a good eye for distance, and you’re drawing a bead on the mook shooting at me.

  Guess that’s why Mick and I hit it off. A Pollack and a Scrappie, drunk off bootleg whiskey and having a good laugh at how much we had in common.

  When I was first starting out as a gumshoe back in ’28, my clients were not as reputable as Miss Julia Lesinger. Many of those first clients were down on their luck, what Miranda would call “good heart” cases. The kind that you do because bad things are happening to good people, and you get paid when you get paid. (Yeah, I had to keep the “Waldorf” routine polished and ready at a moment’s notice.)

  Well, Mick was one of those “good heart” cases. Back then, he was having a problem with break-ins. Capone’s boys were going easy on him concerning protection money, as that was now considered “old hat” for the Organization. (The real money was in running numbers, bootlegging, and the old reliable income that was a moneymaker across Acryonis, too: prostitution.) The talk on the street was that Capone ran things differently, although a couple of the generals continued to take protection payment simply out of habit.

  Mick was
n’t being pressured into paying protection money (yet), and the evidence I came across didn’t appear like a sales pitch for Capone Insurance. No, these “break-ins” were way too subtle. It smacked of an inside job.

  I did a bit of asking around, watched Mick’s place, and eventually found out it was one of his waitresses who had gotten herself into trouble with some slick-talking mook. Instead of taking it to the cops or to Capone, we all had a sit-down. It turned out that this waitress, a sweet girl named Annabelle, was in a maternal way unexpectedly, and it looked like the boyfriend was going to be anything but helpful. This guy actually had Annabelle believing it was solely her fault that she had a loaf in the hearth.

  Now, you would think that the boss she was stealing from would consider kicking her into the streets, heavy with child or not. Not the Nowinski clan. Mick took her into his own home. Where the Nowinskis lived was hardly a castle estate, but there was a guest room open for visiting relatives. His family did all but adopt Annabelle and her newborn baby. She still works at Mick’s as a waitress while Mick’s wife, Gladiss, watches her kid.

  After that “good heart” case, Mick and I became friends. Good friends, although I still can’t release all the spirits from my keep. Not yet. For now, all they know is that I’m a guy who faced some hardships on account of my height. When the time is right, I’ll let them know about Acryonis, the portal, and all the rest. Regardless of how much they come to know, I can always count on them being there because their hearts are always open to me. They’re my new family in this new realm.

  And with my new family constantly trying to hook me up with their numerous friends and relatives, I’ll never have a lonely night in my life.

  And lately, Mick has been getting sneakier.

  “Why don’t you come by the place Tuesday night, Billi?” He was smiling warmly. Too warmly. “Gladiss is fixing your favorite Bratwurst recipe.”

  The spoon stopped before entering my mouth. I raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Who is it this time, Mick?”

  He paused in wiping down the counter, and then, without looking me in the eye, he replied with one breath, “Her name is Bertha. She’s my third cousin.”

  “Ah, for the Druids of Hadismill!” I took a bite of chili, savoring its flavor while I took in my friend’s imploring eyes. My meal would probably taste better if I could duck all the matchmakers around me. “Was your family the only family on that boat from Poland? You sure you ain’t Italian?”

  “So, I got a big family. So shoot me!” Mickey shrugged as he began stacking a few of the empty plates at the opposite end of the bar. “You’ll like her. She’s a redhead, too!”

  “So that makes her what? Irish-Polish?” I held up a chubby finger, trying to drive this point home as I had tried time and again in the past. “Mickey, you know I don’t want to disappoint you! I mean, c’mon, why are you wantin’ to hook me up with someone in your family?”

  “She’s a nice girl, Billi. You’re a nice guy! You’ll like her!”

  It doesn’t take a detective to know the words “You’ll like her” can be the most dangerous words used when setting up a blind date.

  “You don’t know me that well, Mick!” I joked. “All I’m going to do is go out with her once and break her heart.”

  “Or trip her up when you open the door for her.”

  The voice came from behind me. In the chrome of the napkin dispenser, I caught a blurred reflection of those mooks sniggering in their booth like a bunch of goblins cornering a litter of kittens.

  Instead of cutting the offenders to the quick with his signature death stare, Mick just finished stacking the plates in front of him and carried them over to the sink, where he started running the hot water.

  I shook my head, returning to my meal. “You’ll let anyone eat here, won’t ya?”

  “Well, Billi,” Mick replied quietly, “sometimes you have to let the customers get in the last word…especially when they’re part of the working class.”

  That was all I needed to know. These brainless ogres behind me were Capone’s ogres. The fine-cut suits, plus the dim expressions that implied these mooks could change their socks easier than their minds, should have been a giveaway—but one thing you learn as a detective is never to take things at face value. This was one of those times where my gut instincts had been right.

  “I say you give this Pollack a break,” the ogre grunted. “Date his cousin. She’s only distantly related. Couldn’t be as butt-ugly as him!”

  All right, nobody was allowed to call Mick a “Pollack” aside from me. And taking a swing at my friend’s family? The family I considered to be my family? Not smart. Swing and a miss. Strike one.

  I watched the formless image move closer in the napkin holder until he was looming over me like a gargoyle extending from a parapet of a cathedral. His expensive cologne and cheap Chesterfield he was smoking completely overpowered the sweet bouquet of Mick’s work. Wherever he was in the Organization, he was nothing more than a foot soldier. Still, he could make my life uncomfortable if he wanted to.

  “Besides, Short Stuff here ain’t exactly beating the birds away, are ya?” he chuckled, taking a long drag from his cigarette.

  He blew smoke in my face. I was okay with that.

  Then he put his cigarette out in my chili. Did I not mention Mickey Nowinski’s chili is that good? Strike two.

  “Then again, I don’t know. I could be wrong.” Mr. Funny Man motioned to Annabelle, who was trying really hard to become invisible in taking care of her customers. “What do you think, sister? Could you love a mick-leprechaun with a mug like this?”

  Strike three.

  One great thing about being four-foot-one is that whenever you have a creep trying to get your goat, he has to bend down to look you in the eye. It throws him off-balance, which makes hitting his face with the back of your elbow so very easy.

  Sure enough, Funny Man toppled back, hands covering his nose and howling like a wounded pack-beast. Neither he nor his sidekicks had expected me to make a move, but he was 2 and 0 at the plate before the leprechaun crack. If he wanted to walk, he needed to be nicer.

  I love Mick’s Diner for some of the simple touches, like his plates and bowls. They’re so thick and heavy that when Annabelle is having that occasional day of clumsiness, she can drop ten of these plates and only two or three will chip or break. They are solid, American-made.

  In the hands of a dwarf with military training, they become weapons.

  The second ogre was reaching for his piece, but not before I got a firm hold of the wide-rimmed soup bowl in front of me. As I did, I caught a glimpse of the bent Chesterfield sticking out of what was, at one time, very good chili. What I was about to do would normally be considered a horrific waste, but I had my back against the counter, and besides, the chili was ruined anyway. I’d rather have Mick’s hard work go out in a blaze of glory than on account of some asshole’s cigarette.

  I gave that bowl a good hurl. By the time the second ogre’s piece saw daylight, the bowl-now-discus nailed him square on the bridge of his nose. I got a real satisfaction in hearing the pop of bone and cartilage when it hit him. The girlish squeal he let out was an added bonus. On striking its intended target, the remainder of my still-hot-from-the-kettle dinner went straight into the face of the third thug.

  Funny Man was attempting to get back on his loafers, but a hard spin of my barstool brought my Buster Browns around to clock my wisecracking buddy in the jaw and send him back to the floor in the throw-rug position.

  The third guy (kinda skinny for a gangster, but I guess it takes all kinds) had just cleared the bits of chili from his eyes, the red in them matching the burn on his skin. I doubt if he could see clearly through his watering peepers, but I’m sure he could at least make out the blob that was his buddy—all bloody nose and lack of balance—falling on top of him.

  When I heard the sound of heaters hitting the floor, I brought Beatrice out to play. She was looking good after the tender loving care I
had bestowed on her after the visit from Miss Lesinger. It was a sure bet that asking questions about Big Al’s business would invite some socially challenged types, so I had made sure Beatrice was ready for any one-night stands.

  Right now, her barrel was resting between Funny Man’s nose and his cheek, her hammer pulling back with a click-click that rang through Mick’s place like a body collector’s bell in the eerie quiet of a village struck by plague.

  The rest of Mick’s patrons hit the dirt, the mother shielding her young son from any stray bullets. But I wasn’t worried about bystanders. These dinks were smart in one respect: If they caused any problems in their boss’ territory, they wouldn’t be seen around the neighborhood anymore. Hell, as pissed as Capone would get, it would be a stroke of luck if their own mothers took credit for them!

  I looked up at the other stooges in their booth, both frozen in their clumsy stances. (They looked really uncomfortable. I liked that.) With the second ogre now sporting a crooked nose and a blood-and-chili-stained pinstripe suit and awkwardly leaning against his scrawny, red-faced sidekick, it could have been a laugh-riot for everyone at Mick’s…but Beatrice had raised the tension just a hair. Maybe more like a hair-trigger.

  My eyes darted from face to face, a nudge from my head motioning them to slide slug-like out of their cozy booth.

  “Boys, boys, boys,” I scolded, pressing Beatrice a little harder against the ring-leader’s face. He was still disoriented from my kick, and probably also trying to work through his thick skull how a Scrappie had taken him down in a mostly-fair tavern brawl. “This could have been a friendly Saturday night at Mick’s, but you had to go and spoil it for everyone. Now, if memory serves me right, I’ve heard your boss state pretty proudly that he’s a simple businessman with his interests toward the people. I’ve also heard him deny that the violence in this city”—on the word “violence,” I pushed Funny Man closer to the floor, with Beatrice just aching to give him a kiss—“doesn’t come from him or any of his associates. Now when I arrange a little chat with the press about how the local mob muscle is getting out of hand, how well do you think that’ll set with Mr. Capone?”