Mystery Men (& women) Volume 1

by B C Bell

  Crankshaft had his reflective goggles on. In the coveralls he looked like some kind of moon man, smiling and revving the engine.

  He kicked the rear exit open, expecting to have to run around the building. Damned if the Blue Streak wasn’t idling right there in front of him.

  Mac shoved the detective into the back of the two-seater’s cab, blocking the rear view, and then climbed into the car. He wasn’t going to chance either of them riding in the rumble seat.

  Crankshaft floored it. Mac waved out the window at the rat-catchers, glad to see they were all right, but still trying to hide his face. He’d have to pay them the rest of their money tomorrow. Heck, as far as he was concerned those guys were scarier than the cops any day.

  Speeding for the north side, the Blue Streak’s engine purred. Mac pulled a roll of masking tape out of the glove compartment and pulled his bloody glove off with his teeth. Wiping the blood off, he could see where Martin’s gun had ripped a half-inch of tissue out of the soft flesh on the inside of his thumb. He wrapped the tape around his hand, then turned around and wrapped the rest of it around the Lieutenant Martin’s eyes and mouth until he looked like the invisible man, except his nose was sticking out.

  It was going to hurt when The Bagman ripped all that tape off the crooked cop’s head. Mac might even have been smiling.

  Chapter VI

  Bucket of Brains

  He couldn’t move his hands.

  “That cold hard thing next to your head is a pair of scissors,” the voice said. “You may not want to move your head.”

  Lieutenant Martin was blind and his whole body shaking. He flinched under the wad of tape around his head.

  “Or, you might be happy with just one ear, I dunno…”

  The lieutenant felt fingers like steel cables force themselves under the tape. One of the big hands grabbed a handful of his hair; the other one wrenched the shell of masking tape from his head. Martin made a moaning sound before his mouth could speak. “You’re breaking my neck,” he gasped as if he couldn’t breathe. His eyes stayed clenched shut. One of the big hands slapped his face just hard enough to get the circulation going again. Lieutenant Martin winced.

  “Jeez, you’re just a big chicken, aren’t you, copper?”

  If Lieutenant Martin had bothered to look, he would’ve seen Crankshaft rolling his eyes in the background. The ace mechanic hated it when Mac talked like the pulp gangster version of Edward G. Robinson. And when Mac was The Bagman, he talked like that a lot.

  They had brought the Lieutenant underground to the Secret Subway, the garage underneath Crankshafts Car Repair. Mac and Crankshaft had built a small toolshed in one of the corners to store all their equipment, both legal and illegal, just weeks ago. Tonight, they’d removed everything from the shed but a table and two chairs. The table was laden with all sorts of sharp scary-looking tools, and the ominous shape of the crank generator’s wooden box beneath a sheet. Lieutenant Martin didn’t know where he was.

  Slowly, the lines on his eyes became shallower. He opened his eyes, shaking his head. Then looked up into a blank face, no mouth, no nose—just two steely eyes, made all the more mean-looking by the evil V the brows formed above them.

  “Oh, Looey, what are we gonna do with you?” The masked man said, rhetorically. “Copper, copper, copper…”

  Crankshaft was practically going into convulsions, his eyes rolling and his fist banging on the wall.

  It startled the lieutenant. He spun his head from one man to the other, yanking at his bonds the entire time. Then he suddenly just stopped. He stared at his shoes, before he inhaled, exhaled, and finally looked up again.

  The Bagman was holding up a bucket of water.

  Lieutenant Martin started shaking again. “Nothin’! I ain’t tellin’ you nothin’!”

  “Man alive.” The Bagman slapped his thigh. “For a guy who’s supposed to know how to interrogate a suspect, I thought you’d come up with something a little more original than that. What’s the matter, cop, you forget what the bucket of water’s for? Oh wait, I forgot—you’re not a real cop. You’re Torquemada. Heck, I’m willing to bet you’re not even that bad, probably more of a Marquis De Sade. Gets you all tingly down there causing all that pain, doesn’t it?” The Bagman poured the bucket of water on Lieutenant Martin’s lap. “Probably a real release for ya, when they confess to something you actually did, huh?”

  Martin spat at him, but his mouth was too dry.

  Mac dumped the water in his lap. “Ve haff vays uf making you talk!” he said, and almost breaking into a satirical goosestep.

  Crankshaft sat down in the other chair, again turning his head to and fro, tsk-tsking, probably more at Mac than at the lieutenant.

  “An empty bucket ain’t gonna hurt me none,” Martin said.

  Mac put the bucket on the lieutenant’s head, and started banging on it with a lead pipe from the table. Lieutenant Martin screamed.

  “Aaaaagh! That hurts.”

  Mac stopped. Stood with the hand holding the pipe on his hip, leaning back as if to get a better look at the situation. Lieutenant Martin’s breathing slowed, calming down. Mac started banging on the bucket again.

  “Aaah! Aaah! Aaah!” Martin stopped screaming when he couldn’t breathe anymore.

  “Yeah, you’re right cop. Without the water that buckets’s useless.” The Bagman glanced over at Crankshaft and took the bucket off the lieutenant’s head, then held it in the air by its wire handle. “I’ll be back in a minute. I need more water,” and he traipsed through the doorway so that all the captive Martin could see was the darkness outside.

  Crankshaft rested one leg upon the other and sighed: “You know he’s crazy, don’t you?”

  “What’s that say about you? You—” He glared up into the mechanic’s reflective goggles, “—you Martian, you!”

  “Wow, are you stupid,” the Martian said, picking something out of the tread of his boot. “I might be able to get you out of this thing alive,” he chuckled. “I mean, I don’t know if he’s going to kill you or not. I may not be able to keep him from killing you—hell, if you do get out of here alive, it probably won’t be what you call living. So why don’t you just confess, or sign, or whatever the hell it is he wants you to do, and I’ll try to make sure whatever it is, he does it as quickly as possible.”

  The crooked detective clenched his jaw and stared daggers at the black man. “If he’s really crazy, why you hang around?”

  “Somebody has to keep him under control. Seriously, he’s happy right now, but you should see him when he’s angry. It’s horrible what he does to those kids.”

  “Kids?”

  “Yeah. Kids and puppies. It’s just horrible…” Crankshaft waggled his head some more.

  The door behind him opened and slammed, again. The Bagman set the bucket of water next to the lieutenant’s feet, and then unveiled the electric generator like a magician releasing a dove. He picked up the wooden box, holding the two wires extended from his left hand with the exposed ends crossed in the air, then cranked it once, hard. Sparks flew.

  “OK, OK, I’ll talk.” The lieutenant wiggled against his bonds.

  The Bagman tossed a Big Chief notebook and a pen on the side of the table nearest the detective. “Now you’re talking. Write it all out, and sign.”

  Martin struggled at his bonds, his palms outward like he was trying to shrug his shoulders.

  “You right or left handed?” The Bagman said, picking up a machete from the table.

  The lieutenant’s eyes clenched near shut, trying to block the horror out. “Right. I’m right handed.”

  The machete slammed against the right side of the chair. Martin raised his hand, surprised to see it was still connected to his arm.

  “Look, I’ll confess to anything you want, but y
ou guys gotta know, I’m not the man in charge.”

  “Well, hell, cop. We already knew that. You think we actually believed you were smart enough to pull this off by yourself?” The masked man picked up a straight razor and started sharpening it on the leathery strop connected to the table. “You just tell us who that ol’ evil mastermind is—and we’ll make sure it’s all over easy for you.”

  Lieutenant Martin swallowed, looking around the room for a sign of hope. Crankshaft nodded slowly to him behind The Bagman’s shoulder. The lieutenant reached with his free hand for the notebook with the pen on it, tugged them into place, and started writing. It was quiet for a moment before he signed his statement with a flamboyant gesture, looked up and said:

  “Honest to God, guys. I didn’t know nothing about this when I signed on to the BTF,” Martin said.

  “BTF?” The Bagman said.

  “Yeah, the Bagman Task Force. Orders came down from Mayor Kelly, after you took out Slots Lurie.”

  “Bagman Task Force?” Both captors said in unison, turning to look at each other.

  “The Kelly-Nash machine must’ve missed some of their dirty money, too…” Crankshaft mulled. “’Course with nobody paying taxes that’s the only way the city can afford anything, I suppose.”

  “Justice is not this complicated.” The masked man grabbed the lieutenant by the collar, and pulled him into the air with the chair still tied beneath him. “Who’s in charge of this task force, the alderman?”

  “No, no,” Martin stammered. They brought in some undercover cousin of Kelly’s, some kid named Cobb.”

  “Richie Cobb?” The eyes behind the mask went wide.

  “Yeah, that’s it. He was supposed to live in the neighborhood, call us out whenever you were sighted. He looks innocent, but the kid’s all strategy. He was tellin’ us where exactly to be, and what kinda’ guns to carry. Meanwhile, he came up with this plan to keep arrests up and keep the money flowing.”

  The Bagman’s teeth clenched, and then twisted into a grin only the Devil could love. He shoved the exposed wires into the lieutenant’s neck, and shoved the crank on the generator down. Lieutenant Martin yelped and bounced out of the seat, his mouth wide open. The Bagman shoved the sleeping pills he’d gotten at the drugstore into the dirty cop’s throat, and massaged them down with the palm of his hand like he was giving medicine to a dog.

  “Richie Cobb? Isn’t that the name of the kid you hired?”

  “IF that’s his real name. He’s not an artist—he’s a con artist.” Mac picked the lead pipe back up and slammed it in the palm of his hand. “Crank, ya wanna go to work with me today?”

  Chapter VII

  Criminal Justice

  Richie Cobb showed up at Mac’s Tobacco a little after eight that morning. He hung around in front of the store for a while, waiting to see if Mac would show up. Finally, he opened the door with his key and pulled the morning papers inside, noticing somebody had cut the twine on one of the bundles. A copy of the Tribune was missing. He made a note of it, then went in back and counted out change for the register at exactly nineteen dollars and ninety-nine cents, before he turned the sign in the window around where it read “OPEN, come on in.”

  He was sitting behind the register eating a Charleston Chew and reading the Tribune’s headline—Rats Invade Police Station—when the tiny bell hanging on the door sounded announcing the first customer of the day.

  “Morning, sir, how can ahuuh—” Cobb’s tongue flopped over his lip like he’d just gotten a shot of Novocain. “Y—you’re him!”

  The Bagman was standing in the doorway with his fedora pulled down and the brim snapped at eye level. Stepping in from Lincoln Avenue with the sun behind him, he looked like he’d just stepped out of a western movie. The only way to describe him was… big. Not fat, not eight-feet tall. It was something beyond physical. It was something about the mask and the blue steel burning in his eyes, something almost evil. He just stood there, and all that weirdness oozing off him filled the room.

  “Funny thing about the Trib this morning,” The Bagman said, slapping a rolled up newspaper in his palm like he had the lead pipe. “They didn’t mention the rats on the north side.”

  Richie Cobb swallowed and began to edge slowly back toward the stockroom. “Look, mister, I dunno what you want, but whatever it is, just take it. This ain’t even my store.”

  “I wasn’t talking about the store, dimwit. I was talking about my neighborhood.” The Bagman’s voice cut through the air, not loud, but imperative. “I heard it was because you’re a cousin of somebody in Mayor Kelly’s machine.”

  Cobb’s hand swiped for the inside of his coat. The Bagman slapped him upside the head with the rolled up newspaper—back and forth—fast and hard. The Tribune was a thick daily, and by the time Cobb had gotten around to touching his gun, it was gone. When he shook his head and looked up, his gun was twirling on The Bagman’s index finger.

  The masked man grabbed him by the hair while his other hand swept across Cobb’s body, looking for a knife. Cobb didn’t resist. The Bagman found the knife, took the wallet. What he didn’t find was a badge.

  “So you’re not undercover?” The Bagman let go of Cobb’s hair, slinging him away.

  “No. I just got this job here.”

  “Liar… First of all, if you’re telling the truth your eyes don’t shift both ways when you’re telling it. Plus, I talked to a guy who knows a guy, and then kidnapped another guy. And they must have told me the truth—because they’re still alive,” the man with no face said, sounding like one of the neighborhood mooks. It looked like he was smiling under the mask, but he could have been gritting his teeth, you couldn’t tell.

  Cobb’s knees were shaking. Every false step he made for the back door made him look squirrelier. He jumped, gasping when the door behind him thumped shut.

  A wiry black man in an oil-stained jumpsuit blocked the exit. He had eyes like a fly and was holding a wooden box in hands. It was about a foot-square, with a brass crank handle on the side.

  Cobb leapt sideways like the box was on fire. The man with no eyes set the box on the counter and pointed a U.S. Army Automatic from the World War at him.

  The Bagman hadn’t even seemed to notice. He was still thumbing through Richie’s wallet when he said:

  “You shouldn’t ’ve jumped like that, Cobb. Means you know what that box is for.” There was a long pause. The Bagman was still going through the wallet. “And you should never leave a card in your wallet with a list of dirty cops’ names and numbers on it.” He ripped a card out and held it in the air, pointing at it with his other hand. “Hey, is that the mayor’s personal phone number?”

  Cobb was all but whimpering in the corner.

  “Y’know, I can understand calling the police if you’re in danger, or if you think somebody else might be. But for the life of me... No, not the life of me. How many men have you tortured to death? Do you know how many men you’ve sent to the chair? Or to prison? Innocent citizens?” He glared down at Cobb, who was sobbing on the floor. “And don’t give me that crap about the ends justifying the means, either—‘cause I’ve been living that one and the means just get dirtier and meaner.”

  The Bagman grabbed Cobb’s straw hat off the rack, stepped toward him and offered it as if he were taking him for the proverbial ride. Cobb wilted, but took it and put it on his head.

  The masked man grabbed him by the throat, and forced three sleeping pills down his gullet. Cobb passed out like he’d been hit over the head.

  “Now we have two unconscious men on our hands,” Crankshaft said. “You let them go, they’re just going to come back and kill you. We’re talking about cops here. Are you willing to kill them?”

  “Stop being so cynical, Crank. It’s people like you that make this Depression so damned depressing.” Mac eyed Lieutena
nt Martin. He couldn’t believe the guy had just passed out. “And, no, I’m not gonna kill ‘em. Remember how I knew about the construction in those woods outside Niles Center? Well, there’s a reason I know about the woods out there. Couple of guys I know run a still about a half-mile away. You might want to bring a bottle to fill, too. They make a mean corn mash.”

  Crankshaft eyed him sideways. They picked up Cobb’s unconscious body by the hands and feet, took him out the backdoor, and loaded him in the back of the truck they had borrowed from the Car Repair.

  ***

  When Lieutenant Derek Martin first woke up his head hurt.

  He was tired. Couldn’t seem to lift his head, but he kept trying to wake up. Somebody poured some liquor in his mouth. He coughed and opened his eyes. Closed them and fell back asleep again. He was so tired.

  Forcing his eyes open, he realized he didn’t know where he was. His arms felt like anvils– dead, heavy weight. Wait a minute, he thought, this is the construction site. The one he kept prisoners in, while the boss decided what to do with them. How did he get back here?

  The lieutenant heard something moan in the shadows, on the concrete in the opposite corner. It was Special Detective Richie Cobb! What the hell were the two of them doing here? OhmyGod! The Bagman! He’s gonna kill us!

  Lieutenant Martin concentrated on moving, but his arms just flopped at his sides. A flashlight beam cut through the scrubby wooded darkness, then another. He’s coming to kill us. He’d have to…

  Martin tried to move again. His whole body felt numb. There was something in his hands. Floodlights exploded over the construction site, exposing every tiny twig. Then he heard a siren. The cops! It’s the cops! Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you! I’m safe! Clean and safe! Martin shook his head, trying clear it.