by Bill Craig
“Pete!” Thin Man said.
Wrong answer, Hannigan thought, and pulled the trigger. Blood and brains sprayed across the windshield and the Citroen lurched as a dead foot pressed down heavily on the gas pedal.
Hannigan swung the pistol at Shadow, who was in the process of drawing his own weapon, and fired. The bullet slammed into his upper chest and drove him backwards, out of the open sided truck and into the street. Jelly Belly made a grab for the wheel, but Thin Man’s death stomp had opened the throttle wide; the truck was out of control and headed for a crash. Hannigan jumped up and out of the Citroen, landing painfully on his shoulder and rolling in the dust.
Miraculously he managed to keep his hold on the Colt and watched as the Citroen smashed into a tree, ejecting Jelly Belly from his seat and through the upturned windshield. Blood began spurting from Jelly Belly’s neck, but vanished in the cloud of steam that gushed into the air from the shattered radiator.
“First day in Africa and I’ve already iced three guys,” Hannigan muttered morbidly as he picked himself up from the dusty ground, thumbed down the hammer on his Colt and slipped it back into his waistband. “Great way to start the day.”
His shoulder throbbed, but it was pain that he could live with. He started back along the way he had come, knowing that it was even more important that he reach his destination. It was evident that someone was trying to keep him from getting to The Broken Tusk. …The big questions were who and why?
The only enemies he had were back in New York. There was nobody here in Africa that even knew him aside from Gregor. So why had these men sought him out? It was a question for which he had no answer.
He was more than a little worried about Gregor now. He didn’t know who the three men had been, but he was pretty sure they weren’t from Degiorno. Did that mean Spinnelli had sent them? …If Spinnelli’s wrath reached all the way to the Dark Continent, then Hannigan was in for a world of trouble.
He limped back down to the corner, trying to remember the way back to The Broken Tusk, when a tall, pale, thin man with white hair appeared out of a doorway as he passed it. Hannigan’s hand almost dropped to the pistol butt, but something about the man’s demeanor stopped him. The stranger moved with the certainty of someone that was totally comfortable with his purpose and his abilities. Hannigan squinted into the sunlight reflecting off the lenses of thin wire-rim glasses.
“Are you okay, My Son?” the man asked. Only then did Hannigan notice the priest’s collar around his neck.
“A little bruised, Padre, but doing better than the men that were trying to kill me.”
He managed a weak grin.
“So I see.” The priest replied soberly.
There was a hint of scorn in the priest’s manner that made Hannigan feel defensive. “You always this cheerful?”
“Mostly. Sometimes I get so filled with joy I do handsprings.”
“Why do I find that hard to believe?” It must have been a joke, but Hannigan didn’t feel like laughing.
“I see men like you every day, Son. Men looking to make their fortune, looking for adventure. If they come back at all, they are maimed or disfigured or dead inside. Africa is like no place you have ever been, or seen, or even dreamed of. There are demons here. Heed my warning, Son: this is a deadly dangerous land.”
“Thanks, Padre, but I kinda noticed that already. Name’s Hannigan, Mike Hannigan.” He extended a hand.
The priest looked at it for a long moment then accepted the handclasp. “Father Niles McKenzie. I won’t say it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hannigan, but I have a feeling you will make things interesting for a while. I suspect you and trouble are close acquaintances.”
“Well, more and more lately, it always seems to know where I am.” Hannigan grinned.
“Would you care to confess your sins, Mr. Hannigan?” McKenzie asked softly, his voice almost inaudible.
“I guess God already knows what they are, Padre, without me having to tell him. However, if you can give me directions to The Broken Tusk from here I’d certainly appreciate it.”
“The Broken Tusk? Why would you want to go there?” McKenzie asked, more curious than judgmental now.
“Employment. A friend recommended it to me.” Hannigan shrugged, wincing slightly.
“Let me guess; you’re supposed to talk to a man named Degiorno.” McKenzie said it in a way that meant it wasn’t a question.
“Yeah, that was who Gregor said to talk to.”
“I sense that you are not a bad man, Mr. Hannigan. I must warn you that Degiorno is a truly evil man. You take great risk in working for him, not only to your life but also your immortal soul.”
“I need the work, Padre,” Hannigan replied. “I guess it’s a risk I’ll have to take,”
“Then go with God, my Son, and may He always watch over you.” McKenzie made the sign of the cross then turned away. Hannigan watched as the priest walked back inside the small white building that he now realized was a church.
…Shaking his head, he started back down the road in the direction he hoped would take him to The Broken Tusk.
Chapter Three
The sun had risen higher in the sky and with it came the heat and humidity that heralded the closeness of both the ocean and the jungle. Hannigan’s shirt was soaked when he stepped inside the slightly cooler interior of The Broken Tusk. Ceiling fans squeaked lazily as they tried to force the humid air about the dark confines of the bar. Hannigan had automatically stepped to the side of the door after entering so he wouldn’t be silhouetted against the rectangular frame of light from the outside. He waited a couple of minutes for his eyes to adjust to the dimness inside the building.
By New York standards, the place was a dive, but Hannigan knew he couldn’t afford to be choosey. Besides, he was still wondering about the three men that had tried to kill him earlier, and words of the odd priest he had encountered immediately afterwards; this might be a dangerous place, but it was probably the only place where he was going to get some answers. He managed a confident grin as he approached the bar.
The bartender was a mountain of black muscle; his skin shiny and dark looked almost as if he had been carved from obsidian stone. His dark irises were ringed in white and when he opened his mouth, Hannigan could see that his teeth had been filed to sharp points.
Hannigan blanched; was the man a cannibal? Remembering the .45 tucked under his vest gave him some comfort, but looking at the size of the bartender made him wonder if even the .45 could bring the man down.
The bartender looked down at him. “Yah?”
“Beer,” Hannigan replied, trying hard to make sure his voice was steady.
The man nodded and lumbered away. Hannigan eased onto a corner stool so that he could keep an eye on the room. Several tables were filled with a wide variety of tough looking men. Some had the military bearing of soldiers, others just the solid, menacing look of thugs. A multitude of nationalities seemed to be represented in the room—a veritable League of Nations. Hannigan finished his survey as the bartender placed a foam-topped mug in front of him. He dropped a few Belgian francs on the bar and the man nodded and moved away.
As he sipped his beer, Hannigan took another look around the room, and wondered how many of The Broken Tusk’s customers were already in Degiorno’s employ. He thought about the job Gregor had promised and wondered if it was really as big as promised, but mostly he thought about the man himself; did Degiorno want to hire him, or kill him?
*****
Father Niles McKenzie thought about the man he had just met outside the church. His eyes had quickly seen past the façade of bravado the young soldier of fortune wore like a shield. Young Mister Hannigan was a man of destiny, though he wasn’t aware of it yet. He reminded McKenzie of another young adventurer he had known during the Great War, his commanding officer Captain Dane Hawkins.
It had been a long time since he had thought about Hawkins and the others, fallen friends and colleagues, ghosts that haunted hi
s dreams and his waking hours besides. The Great War had been terrible, a war to end all wars, they had said of it. Only the end of the war had not brought about safety and security, but an unprecedented time of global strife. The villains had gone to ground, and for more than a decade, the Fighting Hawks had gone after them.
Devil Dog Davis. McKenzie grinned, wondering how the old warhorse was doing. He almost wished he had written, and kept in touch with the very few survivors of the old gang. But he had not done so. Instead, he had fled to a remote corner of the world to find a place where he could lay his demons to rest.
Just like Captain Hawkins.
What had happened to Dane Hawkins? McKenzie remembered him as a mere boy, thrust into a role of leadership at far too young an age to handle the burden. As members of their group had died, McKenzie knew that Hawkins carried each death as a personal failure of his leadership abilities, and that he questioned every decision he had made, wondering if perhaps his men might yet live had he chosen a different path. McKenzie, the spiritual leader of the company, had tried on many occasions to get Hawkins to see the truth; that it was war and that even the best laid plans sometimes went awry.
He had failed Hawkins, failed to help him deal with his guilt, until one day the man had just vanished almost as if he had never truly existed.
*****
Gregor Shotsky entered The Broken Tusk through a side door, slipping out of the light and pausing to let his eyes adjust to the interior lack thereof. He was relieved to see Mike Hannigan sitting at the bar, quietly sipping a beer and getting the lay of the land. Shotsky smiled to himself; young Hannigan was learning. He made his way to the bar, and dropped his duffle on the floor next to Hannigan’s.
“Glad I caught up with you my friend.”
Hannigan fired up a Lucky Strike. “Gregor, I figured you had forgotten about me.”
Gregor caught the faint tremble in his voice and the way the young man fumbled his cigarette. “What’s happened Mike?”
Hannigan took a drink of his beer. “Trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?” Gregor’s face twisted with concern.
“Three men, claiming to have been sent by your friend, picked me up and tried to take me out in the bush and kill me.”
“I’m pleased to see they did not succeed. How did they know to use Francisco’s name?”
“That, Gregor, is a very good question.” Hannigan shot him a hard look.
“Surely you don’t think I had anything to do with it?”
“I’m sure of nothing, which is why I’m asking you now.” Hannigan’s voice was flat and cold.
Gregor shook his head. “I swear my friend, I have no idea what any of it was about. In fact, I am planning on joining you in working for Francisco.”
“Then I guess that just leaves Francisco.” Hannigan said, turning slightly on his stool.
“Don’t be rash my friend,” Shotsky admonished. “I’m sure there is a reasonable explanation.”
“Not according to the priest, Father McKenzie. ‘A truly evil man,’ that’s what he said.”
An expression of total bafflement crossed Gregor’s face. Hired killers? Strange priests with dire warnings? …What kind of deal had he gotten them into?
*****
Francisco Degiorno leaned back uncomfortably in the woven wicker high-backed chair. His white suit was stretched tightly across his obese frame. His thick black curly hair was slicked back against his skull. Thick drops of sweat beaded on his brow; even the ceiling fan above did little more than stir the constant hot humid air. He took a white handkerchief and used it to mop away the sweat as he thought about his latest venture.
The Germans had first approached him almost a year before, telling him just enough to get him intrigued. They had spoken of a lost city deep in the heart of Africa, one filled with riches beyond the imagining. Francisco had smiled at the superlative; he had a very active and vivid imagination. So, while helping the Germans with one figurative hand, he had begun planning to beat them to the prize with the other. He had started searching for men - foreigners who wouldn’t inadvertently expose his scheme with an offhand comment in the local bars and brothels - who were not afraid of hardship and danger, in order to mount an expedition of his own to search for the lost city ahead of the Germans.
One of his contacts, a Russian named Gregor Shotsky, had promised to try and round him up some men from the crew of the tramp steamer The African Queen. Now that the steamer had finally put into port, the last pieces had been set up on the board; it was time to begin the game.
Degiorno mopped more sweat from his brow, drumming the fingers of his other hand on his desk. Did the Germans suspect at all that he possessed a photographic memory and had recreated the map they had shown him - the map that detailed the city’s precise location in the impenetrable jungle - right down to the smallest detail? If they did, then he was most certainly a marked man.
His rendition of the map currently resided in his safe hidden behind a Monet painting on his wall. …Only Lumumba, his trusted lieutenant, who doubled as the bartender in The Broken Tusk, knew of its existence. Most men knew to give the giant African warrior plenty of room. Lumumba would never betray his employer, even under threat of death. But the Germans, with their guns, might not find the big warrior so intimidating. Degiorno was running out of time and he knew it. If he didn’t get moving soon, the Germans would have his head. Where was Shotsky?
*****
Father Niles McKenzie looked up as a shadow briefly blocked the sunlight streaming through the door.
“Have you gotten all the arrangements made for the supplies, Dad?”
McKenzie couldn’t help but smile as he looked at his adopted daughter. Bridget Ellen O’Malley looked so much like her mother she almost seemed a carbon copy. Her long red hair was usually hidden beneath a nun's wimple—a necessary accoutrement given the rough men that lurked about the trading post—but just now she wore it in a ponytail that hung halfway down her back. Her green eyes glowed with an emerald light, an effect that was only accentuated by the smattering of freckles across her sun-bronzed cheeks. She had grown in to a beautiful young woman, and he still wasn’t sure when it had happened.
Her parents had died during a cholera epidemic years before and McKenzie had taken his sister’s only child in and raised her as if she were his own child rather than his adopted one. He had schooled her in spiritual matters - and not just the teachings of the Church - as well as teaching her to do field surgery and medical work. She was his assistant and good right hand at the Mission. The one thing he couldn’t teach her was what it meant to grow up into a young woman. The Congo was a poor finishing school.
“Almost, Bridget. In fact, I’m sure that we have enough, but I’m thinking about riding along on the boat with them this trip.”
“Oh really?” she replied, arching an eyebrow at him. She leaned against the wall and crossed her arms.
“Yes really,” McKenzie told her.
“And just why would that be?” she asked.
“I want to find out more about someone I met today. A young man, whom I think has a lot of potential for good.”
“Another lost soul?” Bridget asked, with a wink. Nevertheless, her curiosity was irrepressible and obvious. “So where did you meet him?”
“Right out front. He took out three men and walked away relatively unharmed.”
“Took out? You mean he killed three men right in front of the church? This is the man you’re so interested in?”
“Yes. His name’s Hannigan.”
“Sounds like a real catch.” Bridget said half-sarcastically.
McKenzie wasn’t fooled. That he had even mentioned the young soldier of fortune was enough; he knew his adopted daughter was interested, and God knew there were few young men he felt worthy of her. He knew her well enough to know that she would like Hannigan, but he wasn’t so sure that was a good thing. Still, if he was right about the young man….
“Let’s go o
ver to The Broken Tusk,” McKenzie told her. “That’s where he was headed.”
*****
Mike Hannigan noted a subtle shift in Gregor Shotsky as a fat man in a white suit entered the bar from a door in the back. He wondered if this was the legendary Francisco Degiorno. The sweating, waddling man didn’t look like much of a power broker, to say nothing of Father McKenzie’s evil incarnate, but Hannigan had learned that looks could be deceiving. That was just one of the hard lessons Spinnelli had taught him.
“That him?”
“Yes,” Gregor replied, his face expressionless.
“I got some questions to ask him,” Hannigan said, his voice hard and cold.
“Yeah, me too,” Gregor answered, his tone matching Hannigan’s.
“Gregor! How good to see you,” Degiorno called as he crossed the bar.
His manner seemed friendly enough; if he was behind the attempt on Hannigan’s life, he hid it well.
“Francisco, come join me for a drink,” Gregor answered, hiding his anxiety behind a toothy grin.
Hannigan watched the interplay, unimpressed.
“Exactly what I had in mind, old Friend,” Degiorno replied with what looked like a sincere smile. “It has been a long time.”
“This is my friend, Mike Hannigan. He is interested in working on the job you told me about.”
“Ah yes. I was hoping you had been able to recruit some men to help with this endeavor.”
Hannigan watched the man’s face as he spoke. There was no indication that Degiorno had ever heard of Mike Hannigan before this moment. But if that was the case, how had the three men known to mention his name? What else was going on?
Hannigan shook his head, still trying to figure it all out, but just then the door to The Broken Tusk opened, and he saw something that put the threat of death completely out of his mind. The most beautiful girl he had ever seen in his life stepped across the threshold, followed by the last man he would have expected to find in a dive like this, Father Niles McKenzie.