Men Who Walk Alone

by T. J. Martinell

  ***

  For a minute or so, we didn’t speak. I let him think it over, what the consequences would be if someone didn’t talk to me. When I started to see anxiety fill his youth face, I started with an easy question.

  “So how didya meet Patrick? At a speakeasy? Or were you still in diapers during Prohibition?”

  Sean ignored the joke. “Our families have known each other a long time. Our parents were really close when they were in the old country. Then Patrick and I were born, followed shortly by Evelyn. Immediately after that, we moved to America.”

  “So ya families are all originally from the land of taters?”

  Sean laughed, took the joke well. “Aye, our families moved here, picked Beverly because it was fairly cheap. And, there were plenty of jobs at the factories for anyone who showed up. But that’s all changed now. Things aren’t the same.”

  Driving across the bridge spanning above Porter River, Moore glanced outside of the car. A congregation of homeless people had gathered around an alley. He kept a close eye as he drove by. The hungry masses were harmless as individuals, but grouped together, formed into blocs, they were piles of wood soaked in gasoline. Like their own gang, they fought for control of food supplies. Riots at government bread and soup lines were common. None ended pretty. Violence seemed to be the answer, the solution to everyone’s problems.

  “So, what happened after that?” I asked.

  Sean gazed out the window, cast his eyes down at the concrete, thoughts seemed to wander in recollection.

  “Me ma and da died shortly after moving here,” he said.

  I sounded pithy, but genuine.

  “Sorry ‘bout that.”

  “Don’t be.”

  I turned; Sean gave me a weak smile, indicated it didn’t upset him.

  “I was only six,” he said with a sad smile. “It was not like Patrick and Evelyn. They lost their parents only a year ago.”

  He faced the window again, held his chin with his long, tapered fingers.

  “I was lucky,” he added. “Me granda came over from Ireland afterwards and raised me.”

  “So how close are you to Patrick?” I asked.

  “We’ve been best of mates for as long I can remember. We have our hard times, as ye seen yerself, but it doesna last too long.”

  “I hope not. Does he always lose his temper?”

  “He is a tough nut. He works hard as an ox, just like his da.”

  “Ya got a job?”

  “Aye. I used to work at a costume shop. It shut down a few years ago. No one was buyin’. I suppose they had scarier things to dress up as.”

  “Where do ya work now? Sing at a nightclub?”

  Sean laughed briefly, tapped the side of the door. “No, for the city. Had to get a real job. I work in the sewers.”

  “Ya went from costumes to sewage?” I asked.

  “Aye; we may have not much of an economy, but let me tell ya something, detective, we’ll always have to deal with other people’s shite!”

  I laughed; was just about to speak we reached Cabot Street. I parked by the curb.

  The roads were bare, vacated. The locals had made it so through their gossip. Now that the Vigilante had been there, it was marked as haunted, a territory for their ghostly resident.

  Two black and whites were at the corner, played guard at the liquor store. The officers sipped coffee nervously in their seats.

  Idiots under orders from their CO. The Vigilante wouldn’t back to the same place twice.

  “So, what happened here exactly?” Sean asked. He twisted his flat cap on top of his head.

  “First,” I said as I turned to face him, “ya tell me the truth. It matters, kid. Where was your buddy two days ago at about ten o’ clock?”

  Sean shrugged, put his long arms out in front of him. “I couldna say. I didna talk to him that whole day. He’s been gone in the head for the past few weeks.”

  “Do ya know why?”

  “Well, not really. I’m the kind of fella who stays out of other’s affairs. I believe, and this is not fact, but I believe he’s been under a lot of stress due to Evelyn. She has been worsening lately. Her spells have increased. The doctors canna do nothin’, and even if they could, Patrick canna afford any treatment. It’s murder now to get a doc to come by yer house.”

  I offered Sean a cigarette, pleasantly astonished when he turned it down.

  “Thank ye, but I donna smoke. There’s plenty of it in this city to go around.”

  “Sound reasonable. Anyways, a suspect was seen at that liquor store tryin’ to walk out with some gin. A couple of idiots in my department tried to catch him, but he got away.”

  I gave the boy a fast tour of the street, showed him the store, gave him long intervals of silence so he could fill in the blanks. But I got nothing back. Either Sean intended to stall, withhold, or truly didn’t have a clue.

  “Where did he run off to?” Sean asked.

  “Here.”

  I waved, Sean followed earnestly at my hurried paced. I brought him around the corner into the crumbling alley.

  “Blood in ounce!” Sean exclaimed as he looked over his shoulder. “That’s quite a long way to run, if ye don’t mind me sayin’.”

  “Yeah, but what’s even more amazin’ is the guy ran in here. And then he vanished.”

  We walked further into the alley, then stopped at the dumpster. I described what little I had found, what I had to go on. Admittedly I “tinkered” with a few facts to make it less accurate to the truth. The whole time Sean nodded, murmured grunts in acknowledgment. When I finished, he scratched his head, his eyes flitted with refraction.

  Meanwhile, I got impatient. Time for something to come out. I needed Sean to spill the truth. He had been at the Malone’s that night to take care of Evelyn; Patrick had come home late with obvious signs of violence; blood on his clothes, a large arsenal in his closet, strange clothes in his bedroom, unexpected disappearances at strange hours in the night.

  No confession.

  I unbuttoned my jacket, cracked my knuckles with frustration.

  Sean glanced down at his watch, gasped. He made a quick apology as he hurried over to a phone booth nearby by the edge of the street. A minute later, he hung up, ran over to me. I was on my haunches, deep in thought; Sean’s call was almost rendered imperceptible.

  “Sorry, I wish I could help ye more,” he said, “but I just talked to me boss. He always wants me to give him a ring on the horn if I ain’t home. They’re havin’ a bit o’ trouble with a section of a tunnel and need me help.”

  “Can I give ya a ride?” I asked distantly.

  “I’m I’ a ride, but thank ye, anyways.”

  “Mind if I keep in touch?”

  “Sure.”

  “Where do ya live?”

  “I’ll stop by ye station sometime,” Sean offered. “We can talk further there. Does that sound fine?”

  I shrugged. “Can’t ask for anything else right now. I appreciate it.”

  Sean left immediately. I didn’t linger much. I scratched the side of my head, realized I felt as haggard as I appeared. A good straight shave would remedy that.

  The drive back to the station gave me time to think of a fake report to write up. It would account for where I had been all day. I couldn’t delay it. I had utilized the broken typewriter excuse too often.

  After I shot Hardy an elaborate story, I blew out an eased breath as I stumbled to his desk. I called up the records archives. A strange premonition lurked in my mind. I wouldn’t let it go until I had explored it fully.

  “Yeah?” the man answered lazily.

  “This is Lead Detective Seth Moore, homicide. I need ya to get off ya ass to look up a person for me.”

  “To hell with ya, Moore....alright, who’s the unlucky bastard?”

  “His name is Patrick Malone, lives on Eastern Avenue. Check for a criminal record, anything else that we have on him. Call me if you find anything. This stays between you and me, got
it? I don’t want Hardy lookin’ at it.”

  “Okay, Moore. Calm down.”

  “Oh, and one other thing.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Somebody lives in the hovel next to him. Didn’t get a name, but a guy said he got a reeducation from some dagos not too long ago. See what ya can drum up on him, if ya can.”

  “Alright.”

  I hung up, prayed I wouldn’t be bothered for the rest of the night.

  But I doubted it.

  ***

  Two days later. Five men sat inside a congested trinket store off Rantoul Street, bored by the humdrum activity of the day. For the past few hours, not a soul had come in. All of them half-asleep, save for the manager. He was too apprehensive to sleep.

  A pile of smoldered cigarettes overflowed the ashtray. Their constant chain smoking had stuffed the air with a blanket of whitish gray smoke. The tranquility had been disturbed only by rough coughs, loud sneezes, the occasional guffaw at some lewd joke.

  It was dark; the room only had one small light fixture at the counter, where a squadron of flies swirled around it. They had tried to install a new one in the ceiling, but the store owner was against it, said they could live with what they got. A cheap bastard.

  Then a customer walked into the store.

  The manager stood up from his chair, behind the counter. He watched as the man looked around the room, studied its interior; the shelves stuffed with trinkets, the old paintings on the walls.

  He could only see the man’s outline, discerned a coat that seemed a little bit too large for him, had a gait that was unnatural.

  The customer stopped about five feet from the counter, his back stiff.

  “What can I do for ya?” the manager asked.

  The man spoke in a deep, quiet voice. “I heard that this place sells Cadillac for the best price.”

  “Ya heard right,” he replied. “Ya won’t find a better deal for it.”

  “I see.”

  He looked past the manager, spotted the other employees in the back, slumped in their chairs, a deck of neglected cards that sat on a four-legged table.

  “If it’s not too much trouble, I’ll take some,” he said.

  The manager smiled, reaching under the counter. “I think ya would know by now what it costs.” He tapped the cash register, chuckled.

  The man nodded, slipped his hand into his coat, walked closer to make his payment. He stepped into the light, revealed his face.

  The manager shrieked, fell back, almost stumbled onto the ground. His complexion turned white. His lower jaw fell.

  It wasn’t the face of a human. It was a monster.

  The monster pulled a revolver from out of his jacket.

  The Vigilante.

  Terrified, the manager wasted precious time, stared in disbelief before he went for his own gun underneath the counter. His hands trembled, scrambled for the pistol.

  The Vigilante fired a shot into his chest, propelled him backwards into a stack of empty boxes. The four other workers snapped awake at the sound of the gunshot. They opened their eyes, horrified to see their manager fly across the room.

  Angst-filled, they leapt up, reached for their own weapons placed against the wall. Too much distance. The Vigilante rapidly emptied the chamber to his revolver. They fell over each other, a pile of bodies formed behind the counter.

  The room became quiet again. The solitary figure was motionless, reflective.

  A candlestick phone behind the counter rang. The Vigilante picked it up, answered it. His voice mimicked the voice of the manager, had a surprisingly accurate impersonation.

  “Yeah?”

  The voice sounded somewhat curious, but far from concerned.

  “This is Officer Murphy. We just heard several shots fired. Costa wanted me to keep a lookout. Is there anything wrong over there?”

  A sardonic laugh.

  “Not anymore.”

  He hung up the phone, put his revolver back inside of his coat. Unbeknownst to him, the action caused him to drop a spare bullet onto the floor.

  The bodies were scrutinized; everything was taken. He hastily shoved the weapons into a bag. He then ran out of the store, plunged himself into the darkness. Just before he vanished, a cop raced down the street, spotted him.

  He yelled, fired his weapon...

  ***

  “I told ya I neva saw ‘em before!” the man cried. “How many times do I have to tell ya that?”

  I couldn’t help but chuckle as I brought myself close to the man’s chair. I leaned over his quaking shoulder, adjusted the two sets of lamps so they shined directly in the prisoner’s face. It worked marvelously; perspiration glistened across his bony forehead, accentuated his dire condition.

  The lights did their job. The continuous irritation would get to him.

  “Ya ain’t gettin’ out of this one so easily,” I said. “We got witnesses testifyin’ that they saw ya with ya boss, Leonard Costa. Don’t insult my intelligence. Ya can deny it all ya want, but that won’t change the fact that ya ain’t walkin’ out of here like last time! This time, ya mine!”

  The image of another murder scene burned into my mind. Tragedy had become a trite, a regular occurrence; a shootout between rival factions within the Mob, innocent bystanders caught in the crossfire. This one was no different.

  The causalities had been tallied: two “unconfirmed” gang members and a fifty-year-old male bystander. At first, I had figured it was another routine investigation where no one would speak up. The code of silence applied to everyone, not just the syndicates.

  But appearance of the Vigilante had changed things. Maybe some had been waiting for another to do something first. Whatever it was, I hadn’t expected the three people had come to our station to voluntarily debrief us. The trio had ultimately provided us with a detailed description of one of the men who had committed the homicides. One had even witnessed him speak with Leonard Costa, an underboss in the Italian syndicate.

  Costa in turn took his orders from Fredo Marzio, the head-hancho who ran organized crime in our town.

  I had been able to match the man described by the witnesses with police photos. After I had tracked him down, I had dragged him into the station, told everyone it was a purse-snatch investigation I would shortly hand off to a rookie.

  The three witnesses had hid behind the interrogation mirror, identified Justin Celio as the man behind the deaths.

  His rap sheet told his pitiful story. Another common thug who turned to crime when the factories had laid him off. However, his testimony would prove as good as gold. If I could get it.

  Too bad Celio did not seem to see it that way.

  Until January 1934, our town had also an Irish gang, the O’Brien’s. They had operated on the other side of Cabot Street, run by two brothers had been baptized in blood as children in their homeland. Privately, they had taken their orders from their authoritative mother, whose temper made her face as red as her hair. Rumor had it that she had started the bootlegging business to get her hands on pure moonshine to dull the pain of the old man’s departure.

  But for a town like Beverly, there was only room for one gang. The other had to go.

  Their animosity had culminated in what the press had dubbed the “Beverly Mob War.” What had started as a small squabble between two thugs over a call girl later escalated into a “last man standing” territorial shootout. When the smoke had cleared, Don Marzio had emerged still on his feet. He was too logistical for the hot-headed Irish. In the end, it had boiled down to who could pay the police the highest price for protection. Unlike the O’Brien’s, he hadn’t blown away his business reserves on hooch.

  Dozens of people had died, but to Don Marzio, the “consummate businessman,” it had simply been a hostile takeover. The deaths, which had included several civilians on both sides, had also left deep scars within the respective communities. The Irish blamed the Italians for Marzio, while the Italians never forgave the Irish for what one of the O’Brien�
�s had done to one of their young girls in the midst of a drunken stupor.

  With the two communities fixated on their grievances against each other, Marzio had a virtual monopoly on vice. Yet even now, his subordinates continued to fight each other.

  Naturally, I was expected to clean the mess up.

  I had prepared for years, quietly built up my case against Marzio. Celio was not the key to it. He was a pebble. After a dozen or so more, I would bury the smooth-talking wop in a mountain of them. The process was meticulous, precarious. Men like Celio were tough to crack, but had their weaknesses. The system wasn’t designed to save them, just their superiors.

  “I don’t care whatcha say,” Celio proclaimed. “I know how dis’ city works. Nobody talks; period. Not if they wants to live through the next week. Ya ain’t got the bulge on me.”

  I slammed my hand down hard on the table in frustration.

  “Celio, don’t be a stubborn greaseball! There ain’t nothing to complain about with this deal. Ya get immunity from prosecution if ya testify; that’s right, ya go home scot-free. I’m merely mentionin’ the witnesses to remind ya that as of right now, I’ve got ya ass pinned to the wall like a freakin’ rabbit impaled by a javelin!”

  Celio sat back in his chair, sipped nonchalantly on his coffee. He acted too cocky for his own good. That needed to be corrected.

  “No thanks. That buzzer ya fly in front of me don’t scare me none. Besides, I’ll be out of here on bail in less than an hour. You’ll still be begging for food at the Hebe pig’s shop next door. Sorry. No big house for me.”

  I smiled deviously, unworried about Celio’s lack of enthusiasm. I still had one card up my sleeve. It was well-used, but always worked.

  I leaned down next to Celio, assured that the officer who watched us in the next room couldn’t pick up what I said. In a small department like mine, no one ever did an interrogation without an observer on the other side.

  Hardy wasn’t present now, had his little snitches everywhere who kept an eye out for the cop dumb enough to step out of line. If Hardy knew I had a potential witness for a case against Costa, the man would be dead by now.