The Holy City Hustle: A Duke Dempsey Mystery

by Ron Plante Jr

  Isabella awoke a few minutes later. The pain to her face was excruciating, but she was unable to scream. Her mouth had no function, as if every bone in her jaw was broken. Her eyes slowly opened as she tried to remember what happened. As she focused, she could see the dark sky and the moon above. A sharp pain radiated from her head, and she felt her back being dragged across a strange surface.

  Her hands immediately moved up to her head to find the origin of the pain, and she touched leather gloves wrapped snuggly around her hair. She struggled to pull free, but her body was too weak and injured from the accident to fend off her powerful attacker. His hands felt like that of a monster, and he violently pulled her hair as blood trickled down from the roots.

  As he dragged her across the sandy beach, Isabella could hear the soothing sounds of the ocean getting closer. It was a sound that brought her back to her childhood when the ocean was her playground. Images of her mother holding her hand as they jumped into the waves of the turquoise blue waters flashed through her head, and she yearned to be back in Cuba now.

  The ice-cold water instantly snapped Isabella out of her momentary daydream and back into her nightmare. It covered her face as she struggled to lift her head to get a breath of air. Her attacker stopped pulling her hair once they reached the edge of the surf, and he straddled her beaten body, sitting on her abdomen. She cringed as he placed all his weight on her broken ribs. Her whole body was screaming in pain, but she could barely muster a whimper as his leather gloves wrapped ever so tightly around her throat. Isabella tried to look up at her attacker with every recession of the waves, but her tears and the saltwater fogged her vision.

  “Where is the ledger?” the man asked as his grasp around her neck tightened.

  The effects of her injuries started to take their toll on Isabella, especially on her head. Her eyes fluttered as she started to lose consciousness. She could no longer feel the sting of the cold water on her face, and the pain in her ribs started to deaden.

  “What was it he asked?” she thought to herself. Her mind continued to flutter, until finally, she reached a moment of clarity. Her mother, she could see her now, reaching out for her hand. Isabella reached up and grasped it, and she knew she was where she was meant to be.

  “Where is the ledger?” the man screamed as he jerked Isabella by her neck, hoping it would jog the answer out of her. There was no response. Her head lifelessly dangled in his grasp. He looked closer at his victim and noticed trails of blood from her ears and nose. He checked her pulse and verified what he already knew. Isabella had died before he was able to obtain the whereabouts of the ledger. He knew the people he had to report to would be very unhappy.

  He checked her body for anything that might help him find the ledger, but her dress had no pockets. He walked back up to the dune Isabella had driven her car into, and was surprised to see a pickup truck and old man with a flashlight looking around the crash site. He knew that this was a problem he had to make go away.

  The old man looked over and made eye contact with the killer who was coming back from the beach. “Oh, thank God. Is everything ok, Officer?”

  “Yes, everything is under control. Seems like somebody just ran off the road,” Officer Jackson said as he moved closer to the old man.

  The old man looked at Officer Jackson and noticed that his uniform was soaking wet. “What happened to you?”

  Jackson took out his service revolver and fired two rounds into the chest of the old man, who instantly dropped his flashlight and placed both hands over his wounds. The man took two steps back, and fell to the ground, trying to stop the flow of blood escaping his body. Officer Jackson knew he would die from his injuries, but he walked up to the old man, who looked at him with fear in his eyes. Officer Jackson fired one more round between the eyes, and the old man’s body went limp.

  Jackson searched Isabella’s car looking for any clues, but didn’t find anything in the vehicle’s compartments except her purse on the floor of the passenger seat. He grabbed it and decided to leave the scene before anyone else tried to stop by to help.

  Chapter 8 – I’ll Take it From Here

  The silver Ford Trimotor touched down on an old runway on Johns Island, just outside of Charleston. It was a plane that was used for many secret operations such as this. The passenger plane had once been in service by Pan Am Airlines, but Bertucci had been able to buy it for a song.

  The sterling silver plane had a unique three-engine design, with one in front of the cockpit and one underneath each wing. The inside had been stripped of its passenger seats for a more luxurious décor, with couches that lined the side of the plane and a cocktail table in between. In the back was a fully stocked bar, and depending on the number of passengers, one or two stewardesses would accompany them on the trip. Monica was servicing this trip, and despite Carbone’s vast history with her, he passed on partaking in dessert. His mind was focused on one thing, and Monica was not in the cards.

  This was an unexpected trip for Carbone, but cleaning up situations like these was why he was such a valued soldier of Bertucci. Although the runway was used by farmers’ crop dusters and wasn’t paved, the Ford Trimotor was able to safely land. Johns Island was a very remote part of the county and served as a nice home away from the law. It hadn’t been hard for Bertucci’s people in Charleston to secure it for the early morning arrival.

  Carbone grabbed his bag and walked down the steps of the plane. The door closed and the engines started to roar as it turned around, ready to take off. The plane had gotten there just before sunup, and needed to take off in the same darkness.

  Two headlights in the distance made Carbone squint as the plane taxied away. Only a few people knew of his arrival, but he wasn’t about to take any chances. He placed his hand on his nickel-plated Beretta, ready for anything. As the car pulled up, Carbone looked at the driver and smiled.

  He threw his bag in the backseat and got into the passenger side. “So, you’re Bertucci’s man on the ground here in Charleston?” Carbone asked.

  “We have a problem.” Jackson was a man of few words, and was a loner. He’d made no friends in his short stint in Charleston, but he was a specialist who offered a set of services to the highest bidder. He’d transferred two months ago to the Charleston area to provide assistance and ensure the new operation in the southern city went smoothly.

  “That’s exactly why I’m here, to make these problems go away. Where is the ledger? I was led to believe that you retrieved it,” Carbone said.

  “The girl is dead, and she didn’t have it.”

  “That surely is disheartening to hear. Why did you kill her before she gave you its location?” Carbone said as he pulled out a cigarette.

  “It was unfortunate, but she died of her injuries from a car accident. I was unable to obtain any information from her, but found something in her purse,” Jackson said.

  Jackson handed a business card and a key to Carbone. “Duke Dempsey? Why does this name sound familiar?”

  “He was in the papers from stopping the killer this past summer. He was getting the Key to the City when Mayor Swanson was whacked.”

  “That’s right. She went to this Duke Dempsey for help?” Carbone asked.

  “Yeah. He may know where the ledger is.”

  “What’s with this key?”

  “I think it’s a key to where she was staying. It can’t be too far from where I ran her off the road.”

  “This so-called accident was caused by you?” Carbone asked as he took a drag. “So what kind of evidence did you leave behind?”

  “Nothing. There was an old man who stopped by, but he was an easy obstacle to get rid of,” Jackson said nervously.

  “You fool. You killed an innocent man and the very target you were supposed to extract information from. You do realize I noticed the damage to your car? It won’t take the police long to trace this back to you,” Carbone said, annoyed at the situation.

  Jackson didn’t like the tone Carbone was tal
king to him in, and the direction the conversation was going. He’d worked with these organizations long enough to know that if they weren’t happy with your services, you were expendable. He tried to judge Carbone’s body language, because he knew his reputation, and the last thing he wanted was a confrontation.

  “I’m the police and I’ve been doing this a long time. I know how to cover my scent, and besides, you don’t have a choice. You’re not the one who hired me,” Jackson said, trying to portray more confidence. He was no slouch, and immediately started to size up his competition. Jackson wanted to make the first move if anything went down.

  Carbone took another drag and looked away out the passenger side window. Jackson’s survival instincts kicked in, and he immediately went for his service revolver, but it was too late. Before he could even pull his weapon from its holster, Carbone crushed his larynx with a violent chop to his throat.

  Billy had seen the bead of sweat on the crooked cop’s forehead, and had waited for him to make a move, watching the police officer’s reflection from the window. The move for his gun was an open invitation for Carbone to do what he’d wanted from the moment he’d met Officer Jackson.

  The blind chop worked like it had so many times in the past. They never saw it coming until it was too late. It was something Carbone had picked up when he did some work in the Orient. As tough as Carbone was, he had the brains to perfect his craft. The hand-to-hand combat of the Orient was second to none, and it was about using your enemies’ weaknesses against them, anticipating their every move.

  Jackson was very easy to read. The officer quickly grasped his neck with both hands as he strained to get a breath of air.

  Hired thugs like Jackson just ate at Billy. He knew in his line of work there were a lot of unsavory characters, but Jackson was the worst of the bunch. He had no loyalty or cause. He was just a hired gun who straddled both sides of the law like a cheap whore. Carbone respected actual law enforcement more than a whore like Jackson, because at least they had a blind belief in justice and right and wrong.

  As for Carbone, he believed he’d been given his gifts for a higher purpose. He was a shepherd for the weak, and although he worked for Bertucci, it was just a gig that allowed him to do what he was put on the planet to do. He was there to cleanse the earth of the weak, and guide their souls to their Lord and Savior.

  “Officer Jackson, your services are longer needed. You are weak, stupid, and your time has come.” Billy Carbone got out of the car and walked over to the driver's side. Jackson struggled to breathe as Carbone opened the door, grabbed the officer by the hair, and ripped him from the car. Jackson tumbled to the ground, not able to defend himself. Carbone stood over him and watched him gasp and squirm.

  “Father, I give you another lost soul, for mine is not ready for collection. For I am Death,” Carbone said out loud, as he fired two rounds into the face of Officer Jackson. A splatter of blood shot back and hit Billy in the cheek. He looked at his victim and smiled, as he grabbed a handkerchief from his jacket and cleaned the blood from his face. “I’ll take over from here.”

  Chapter 9 – Murdertown USA

  “Detective Stampkin, you look like shit,” Sergeant Moody said.

  “Yeah, yeah. What are we looking at?” Stampkin asked as he took a sip from his coffee.

  “We’ve got to stop meeting under such bad circumstances. Two victims, one female, one male. The male is a Rusty Stoltz, 58-year-old that just lives up the road. Two gunshot wounds to the chest and one to the head.”

  “That truck parked on the side of the road is his?” Stampkin asked.

  “Yup, and our guess is this car belongs to the female.”

  “Where is the female?” Johnny asked as he looked around the scene.

  “She’s down on the beach. It looks like she sustained massive injuries from the accident and was dragged down to the beach.”

  “Thanks, Moody. Keep away the news hawks. They’re probably busy with Mayor Swanson’s murder, but it won’t take them long to sniff this out.”

  Sergeant Moody made his way back to the road to keep the gawkers at bay. Stampkin had gotten the call early in the a.m. about a double homicide at Sullivan’s Island. Not the exact way he wanted to nurse his hangover, but it wasn’t the first time his late-night meetings with Duke had managed to interfere with his morning. It was something the veteran detective had gotten used to since he’d rekindled his friendship with his old partner. He’d wanted to start his morning turning the assassin’s room at the Francis Marion inside out, but instead found himself in the middle of a double homicide.

  The small beach town hadn’t seen a murder since a private at Fort Moultrie had lost his marbles and put two in the head of his sergeant ten years ago. There wasn’t much of a population on Sullivan’s Island because the US Army pretty much ran it. Some scattered residents lived there, including the late Rusty Stoltz, but most of the population were active-duty Army staying in the barracks. Sullivan’s Island was the home of a beautiful beach, and was a quick weekend getaway for some of the Charleston natives. It’d been a rough year for the area, and it looked like it was going to get worse.

  Detective Stampkin was one of the few detectives that worked alone. He was the best the city had to offer, and they gave him a pass despite the policy. The sleuth bypassed the old man, and went right for the car stuck in the dune. He wrote down plate number E-768 and checked out the damage to the driver’s side quarter panel, which was extensive. The paint transfer was new. He sat in the driver's side seat and looked around the car for anything that stuck out, but the car was clean despite the damage to the steering wheel.

  The sand was a detective’s dream, because it left perfect impressions and often told the story. He could tell right away the veteran Moody hadn’t disturbed the scene, and he found the footprints of the old man and the footprints of the killer. Stampkin followed the path the killer had made down to the beach. Dragging a full-grown woman through the sand made a pretty easy trail to follow.

  The tide had shifted, and it was low tide. The body was about 15 feet away from the surf, but it was obvious that she had been in the water when she died. “The killer probably thought the tide would take away the body,” Stampkin thought to himself. The facial injuries were brutal, and had to have been sustained from the accident. Her face was swollen, and the dried blood in her ears and nose must have been caused by a brain bleed. Stampkin got the gist of how things had gone down.

  He wished Duke was there for his uncanny ability to evaluate a crime scene. Stampkin was good, but Duke was the best and had often guided him when Stampkin started to veer off track.

  “Duke,” he thought to himself as his bourbon haze began to clear. Johnny began to look past the bruising and swelling in the victim’s face. He looked more closely at her black curly hair, which was caked with dried blood and sand, and pictured her not as a beaten corpse but as the beautiful Cuban broad Duke had described the night before. Johnny crumpled his empty paper cup, threw it to the side, and lit up a Lucky. This case was getting murkier by the minute, but two things were clear. There was another killer on the loose, and Duke was about to get stood up for that early morning meeting.

  Duke got to his office on the corner of King and Society earlier than usual. He had an important meeting with a dame he thought could crack the Swanson case, and probably cause some headaches for people in high places.

  Duke made his way up the white limestone stairs and through the double glass doors. His office was on top of the Palmetto Savings and Loan that had only been built about a year and a half ago, but was quickly becoming a staple to the downtown cityscape. The limestone columns and staircase were of a Doric Order architectural style that mimicked early Greek and Roman structures. He’d lucked out getting the space, and had a pretty good relationship with the bank managers. The mahogany staircase that led to his office took a sharp left as soon as anyone came in the first entrance to the financial facility.

  ‘Duke Dempsey Private
Investigations’ it said in all the glory of gold Bodoni lettering, and was something Duke took pride in every time he saw it.

  “Good morning, dear,” he said to Margo.

  “Don’t ‘dear’ me. I’ve been here for over an hour already because you said you had an early meeting. I should have known that early for you was almost lunch,” Margo said as she fingered through a stack of files on her desk.

  Margo had a hell of a filing system that only she understood. Stacks of file folders always littered her desk, but with the influx of new clients, piles were starting to form on the floor as well.

  “You know that a filing cabinet has drawers?” Duke sarcastically asked.

  “One key to the city and you think you can do my job? No problem, I’ll be down at Millie’s getting some coffee if you need a secretary,” Margo shot back.

  “I’m just kidding. You know you’re the only one for me,” Duke said as he leaned over and gave her a quick peck on the cheek before she could slap him away.

  Margo had trouble trying to hide her smile. “What time is your appointment?”

  “Now,” he said as he walked into his private office. He threw his brown Walker hat on the hook in the corner and took off his beige suit jacket. Despite his success in recent months, and the influx of money, the one thing he never dared to upgrade was his hat. His suits, ties, and shoes were all brand new and top of the line, but his brown Walker never changed. He would never admit to being superstitious, but there was something about that hat, and he would never part with it.

  Margo had the latest copy of The Post and a fresh cup of coffee sitting on his desk waiting for him. He put his feet up on the old oak desk and dug into the front-page story, ‘Mayor Swanson Slain!’ They’d captured the events to a tee. Lenny’d had a front-row seat to the whole murder. It appeared that he’d seen the violent knock to Leo’s head unfold, and even tried to scream out himself before the shot had been fired at the mayor.