by B C Bell
“Here they are! Over here!” A uniformed policeman stared down at him from above, about twenty feet from the abandoned building’s foundation. He pulled his gun, one eye staring down the barrel.
Cobb noticed something shiny in his peripheral vision.
He started to turn his head, but before his neck could respond, he already knew what it was. He could smell it. A still. The damn thing was smoking. Somebody was distilling corn whiskey, here in the middle of the woods.
Oh, no, wait a minute, he tried to say. I’m a cop, too! That’s when he remembered they weren’t Chicago Police, but Niles Center. God he was so tired, he had to…
Two of the policeman stood directly in front of him, two in front of Richie Cobb.
“I think this one’s drunk,” one of the policemen said.
“This one, too” said the sergeant. “Prohibition ain’t over yet, brother! Book ‘em!”
Somebody else started talking fast. Something popped, and even more light flashed.
A flash bulb! Reporters!
Lieutenant Derek Martin looked down at his hands, remembering something had been in them. His left hand lay next to a gallon jug of corn mash. When he finally forced his right hand up in front of his face, there was a piece of paper from a notebook stuck between his fingers.
He recognized his signature as the sergeant tore it out of his hands.
THE END
Chicago, We Have a Problem...
So I’d just finished my book TALES OF THE BAGMAN. I’d sent it in to my trusty editors—drafted, redrafted, and edited their edits so they could re-edit mine—when I got an e-mail in my box that said, “I need another BAGMAN story!” And of course, I quickly wrote back “no problem.”
Of course, there was a problem. The next BAGMAN book was forming in my head and involved the Chicago World’s Fair of 1933, possibly more than 150 pages, and possibly more than one villain—and I’d hardly started researching.
So, the first thing I did was pick up the continuity. Mac was now supposed to be running a Cigar Store, which was a great ending for the first book, but not the best place to pick up the next story. I had originally figured managing a cigar-store would be the perfect job for Mac, until I started writing this story. First of all, it kept Mac from hanging out with his pals—and let’s face it, that’s where the action is. Second, I realized Mac’s just not a customer service kind of guy. Sure, relatively normal pulp heroes like The Crimson Mask can work in a drugstore, or The Avenger can consult with one of a hundred different companies, but Mac? He’d be bored to death. So, in one sentence Mac’s Tobacco ceased to be a legitimate business and became a front. I had no idea that was going to happen when I started this story, but The Bagman’s just too much of an operator to be tied down behind a counter selling smokes and Jujubes.
And then, to top it all off, I realized I had to introduce the character to readers who may have yet to read the astonishing tales presented in The Bagman’s debut. And I suddenly realized why there wasn’t always a lot of continuity in the old pulp hero yarns. It ain’t easy to do.
So I simply started doing. I didn’t have a villain yet, but that didn’t matter, I simply had to start with some action. Well, my brain said, how about Mac foils a bank robbery to start things off? Perfect, I said to my brain, and proceeded to nail down ten pages of the most hard boiled, gangbusting violence any mind in the Western world could comprehend.
And it simply didn’t work. It didn’t feel right. Because, while Chicago’s favorite masked mental case would protect the neighborhood, he wouldn’t necessarily go in guns blazing like a billion other masked mystery men. No, Mac is all about saving the neighborhood and then the world. He wouldn’t want to risk the stray bullets, or the death of a hostage. He’d be clever.
And that’s how I proceeded to write the only heroic pulp tale I know of, where the hero runs away from the action in order to double-cross the bad guys. Yup, Mac is definitely different. Dangerously different, kinda’ clever and all kinds of weird.
My hero.
So while I was redrafting the beginning and still looking for a villain, the real world fell onto my head, a local news story that could only bring fertile life to the twisted darkness that makes this writer so happy. Former Chicago Police Department Detective and Commander, John Burge was convicted of torturing hundreds of criminal suspects between 1972 and 1991. Burge was accused of beatings involving cattle prods, violet wands, and a small wooden box, similar to an old telephone crank, that was used to shock the face and inner thighs of its victims (remember the movie Brubaker? –same thing). And for my money, just looking at the guy, he was immediately emblazoned—no, make that scarred—into my consciousness as a villain.
So, while I didn’t want to do another crooked cop story. I had to.
For me the entire concept of torture is not only dehumanizing for every party involved, it is also induces the sort of terrified, helpless feeling no human should ever have to endure. It is a concept that is ultimately so appalling that I can’t stand to see it used in popular entertainment. I shouldn’t have to be conditioned to torture to be scared by it. So yeah, even on a good day, I’m still pretty repulsed by the whole humans-hurting-humans thing. Probably why I love heroes so much.
Regarding Chicago’s corrupt Mayor Ed Kelley… well, he was corrupt. And while I like to keep these yarns somewhat historically accurate, I have no problem nailing Kelly or the Cook County Sherriff of the time as crooks either. They really did let mobsters take “field trips” from jail and their scams are now a matter of public record. Mac may be forced to have a few words with him in the future.
As long as I’m at it, the Babe Ruth Pocketknife is real too. The words in italics are a shortened version of the original ad. The information about the city of Skokie should all be valid other than Stinky’s residence.
As far as loading a herd of vermin into a trench coat, I still haven’t quite worked that one out, but I’m willing to bet the old rat catcher’s used sail cloth. I’m probably not going to try this one at home, though. Regardless, if you’re new to The Bagman—Welcome! We’re just getting started. And if you’re one of those lucky readers now on their fourth Bagman story? Well, hang around, some of those question marks have answers written in bullets, and more of the mystery is soon to be revealed!
Thanks, and remember, the world needs heroes—go be one!
B. C. Bell
Chicago, Nov. 2010
Author Bio
A lifelong pulp fan, B.C. Bell is the author of TALES OF THE BAGMAN, the novel which precedes this story. He has also written adventures for several different AIRSHIP 27 titles including SECRET AGENT X, Vol. 2; JIM ANTHONY SUPER-DETECTIVE and DAN FOWLER G-MAN. He currently has more pulp and a horror novels in the works. He lives in Chicago with his beautiful and patient wife. Follow the adventures of both The Bagman and Bell on the Tales of The Bagman blog at http://chicagobagman.blogspot.com/ or join him on Facebook and MySpace.
You can read his award winning short horror story, “How Pappy Got Five Acres Back and Calvin Stayed On the Farm” over at SFReader.com for free!
THE RED VEIL
“Hell Hath No Fury…”
By Aaron Smith
“Alice, Alice, come out of there! You haven’t eaten in days! Have you been sleeping or are you still crying? Come on out, child. At least let me know if you’re alive in there!”
There was no reply for many minutes. Still Julia Carter waited outside the door. She was at her wit’s end but after three days of her own mourning was beginning to feel her strength returning. As her own grief began to subside, though it was far from vanishing, her thoughts turned to concern for her daughter-in-law and she desperately wished the door would finally open.
The old hinges creaked and the knob turned. Julia Carter gasped with worry as the face appeared in the open
doorway. Alice looked horrible, her hair a mess, nightgown wrinkled, face streaked with the lines made by tears cried over the course of nearly seventy-two hours alone, and her body still trembling as if trying with all its might to keep the shaking sobs from coming back.
“I’m…I’m sorry Mrs. Carter,” she said, her voice shaking. “I…I didn’t mean to worry you…but I just can’t…I don’t know what to do!”
Seeing the younger woman near collapse, exhausted, half-starved, overcome with sorrow, her mother-in-law wrapped her arms around her, trying to soothe or comfort her. She thought back a decade to when she had lost her dear William and knew that she had at least some sense of what poor Alice was going through. Still, she thought, William had gone peacefully after a valiant battle with the illness that had eventually taken him away from her. Alice had had no time to prepare, for poor Tommy, Julia’s son, had been a sudden victim of a heinous act of violence, a far too frequent occurrence on the streets of the darker corners of the city. Julia could hardly imagine what it must have been like to have the love of one’s life suddenly, unexpectedly, and permanently snatched away by a hail of bullets and ruthlessness. Tommy had been her son and she had nearly collapsed when the news had come, but she had seen death before and lived through it. Alice, on the other hand, was young, seemed fragile like a piece of fine porcelain, and could hardly be expected to bear the burden of such heavy grief at such a young age.
“I know it hurts dear, I know. I miss Tommy too, but he wouldn’t want you to lock yourself away like this. You need to keep up your strength; the funeral is tomorrow. Now go and take a hot bath while I fix us some supper, Alice. And please, dear, won’t you start calling me Julia? You’re all I have now that my William and my poor little Tommy are gone. There’s no need to keep calling me Mrs. Carter.”
Alice pushed her mother-in-law away, took a deep breath to steady her nerves, and walked away into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. When she emerged an hour later, her face was clean, long hair brushed, and some of the color had returned to her face. She still shook a bit, but the hot water and the steam had calmed her somewhat. She felt her hunger now, some of her grief-given numbness beginning to subside. She went back into the room she had spent the last three days in, the room that had belonged to Tommy when he had been a little boy, and got dressed. She tried her best to drive her terrible sadness deep down within herself and keep it there, at least for the evening. She knew that Julia was hurting too, now a mother without her child, and she realized that it would be selfish to continue to grieve in solitude. Julia had been right, Alice knew; they had each other now and that was all they each had. They would have to be each others’ strength and spirit. Alice finished dressing, dabbed some makeup on her face to at least give the illusion that she felt like being alive, and went downstairs to be greeted by the smell of pot roast, mashed potatoes, onions, and hot bread. The scent increased her hunger and she walked more quickly into the dining room to join her mother-in-law at the freshly set table.
The food was excellent. Alice could tell that Julia had put her best effort into the preparation, probably glad to have something to do, anything to take her mind off of the loss they had both suffered. As they ate, Julia spoke of her son, telling Alice stories of Tommy’s boyhood mischief. They both shed a few tears and shared a few smiles. When the main course was gone and the coffee consumed too, Alice stood up and walked towards the door.
“Mrs. Carter…Julia…I need some air. I’m going for a walk. I won’t be gone long.”
“Nonsense, Alice,” Julia Carter responded. “I know exactly where you’re going, because I’d do the same if I were you. You’re going to walk over to your and Tommy’s apartment and go inside and look at Tommy’s things for the first time since you came here after you got the news that he was gone. And when you get there, you’re going to miss him even more, but I won’t tell you not to go; you’ll have to go sooner or later I suppose. When you need me, Alice, I’ll be right here waiting for you…and praying for the both of us.”
Alice Carter left the little house where her beloved Tommy had grown up. It was a warm spring evening and she hadn’t bothered to even bring a sweater. If she felt chilly, her clothes were mostly still at her own apartment; she’d brought only a small case with her when she’d gone to stay with her mother-in-law. As she walked along the streets in the mostly quiet, residential section of the city, her mind kept repeating her memories of the night, three days earlier, when her world had suddenly fallen off a cliff into the deepest pit of despair she could have imagined.
She had been home awaiting Tommy’s arrival after she had spent the day shopping. He had made a little bonus money the month before for working a few extra shifts to cover for a friend who had been ill. Tommy took overtime whenever he could get it as the young couple had been trying to get ahead on some bills and stay up to date on the rent. Cops didn’t make much, especially young patrolmen like Tommy Carter, but they got by. The extra overtime had brought in more money than usual and Tommy had insisted that Alice treat herself to a new dress. She had done so and had gone straight home and put it on to show Tommy when he got home from walking his beat. She couldn’t wait to see his reaction to the way she looked in what she had selected for herself. They had been married just a few short years and still saw in each other that radiant glow that only the recently wed can perceive.
She was admiring her new dress in the bedroom’s full length mirror when the knock on the apartment door had come. She glanced at the wall clock; shortly after seven, about an hour too early for Tommy to be home. She wondered who it was and walked to the front hallway of the apartment to answer the knock.
“Larry,” she said, seeing a well known face in the doorway. “Sorry, but you’re too early. Tom isn’t home yet and even if he was…he’s all mine tonight; there’s no way I’m letting you take him out for a beer!”
Officer Larry Epstein had held his hat over his heart and hung his head in sadness as he muttered “Alice…I’m sorry.” And Alice Carter had known that something had happened, that her dear Tommy had been taken from her.
Epstein told her what was known at that point as they both choked back sobs of loss. A call had been made reporting gunshots in a building on Tommy’s beat. A patrol car had made its way to the area to investigate. Officer Thomas Carter had been found dead in an unrented third-story apartment, having succumbed to two shots to the chest. No arrest had been made, no suspects had been questioned, and no witnesses reported anything other than hearing the shots.
Alice had collapsed into a shaking and weeping puddle of grief and Officer Epstein had escorted her to the home of Julia Carter where the two of them had broken the news to the slain policeman’s mother. Alice had stayed with the elder Mrs. Carter for the three days since Tommy’s tragic death, his murder.
Now Alice walked the familiar streets of her neighborhood, aware of where she was but drifting in and out of the trance of numb disbelief that had been her home for the past three days. She had no tears left to cry and her slim body could stand no more trembling. She just walked, slowly and deliberately, knowing that she had to, sooner or later, face her return to an empty apartment, a set of rooms that would remain empty, at least empty of the presence of the man she had loved with more of her heart than anyone she had ever met before in her young life.
The sky had grown dark as she had slowly walked along those streets but Alice paid little attention to the coming of night. It had seemed, from her painfully grieving point of view, to have been the darkest of nights since she had heard the awful news of Tommy’s death. It didn’t occur to her to think that the streets in her neighborhood were not the safest of places during the late hours. She took a shortcut through a side street and squinted to see her way through the shadows cast by the walls of the two buildings that stood tall and proud on either side of her. She heard a noise, the clicking of shoes on hard concrete. Then a voice,
rough and not entirely sober, came from the darkness in front of her. As the light of some upper-story lamp just managed to penetrate the shadows, she saw a face before her. It was a scruffy face, unshaven and tough; no gentleman stood in her path, she knew immediately.
“Evenin’ Miss,” the stranger said in his scratchy voice. “What do we got in that little purse of ours, ‘eh?”
“Leave me alone,” Alice said shyly. She wanted to get back to her apartment, wanted to get through her mourning. She felt not fear, but annoyance at any obstacle to her reaching her intended destination.
“C’mon, girlie,” the thug said. “Hand it over or I’ll have to work you over for it.”
Alice turned to reverse her course, head back to the main avenue where it was brighter, more populated, and safer. As she turned, she felt a strong, large hand grasp her arm and begin the motion of spinning her roughly around. She was turned and found herself face to face with the ugly stranger. She could smell the stench of poor hygiene and cheap booze on his hot breath and feel the coarse calluses on his fingers as they tightened on her slim wrist. The mugger pulled her closer to him, seemingly intent on rape in addition to robbery.
Alice did not scream. She made no sound at first. She closed her eyes for the briefest of instants and saw a different life flash before her inner vision. She saw a life of desperation and violence that she thought she had left behind forever, buried like the past often should be. A feeling of forceful confidence, almost cockiness came over Alice. Her entire expression changed. She became someone she had once been and had never expected to be again.