Men Who Walk Alone

by T. J. Martinell

  He consumed the facts in small pieces. A murder had been committed the other day. The victim former convict. Police now believed the killer to be the Vigilante.

  He reacted indifferently when the name of the victim was mentioned. He was too busy being thankful that for once he did not have a guilty conscience. He himself had just gotten out of jail, now on parole after serving a ten-year stint for a bank robbery.

  During the robbery, he had made the ill choice of walking in armed, which had made things turn ugly when one of the bystanders had tried to take the gun away from him and had ended up shooting it at a young man by the counter, killing him.

  Though Craft had been charged with murder, in the end, the jury had believed him when he had said that he hadn’t intended on hurting anyone, even though he had had a loaded gun with him. They had sentenced him to twenty years for robbery and manslaughter. But he had gotten out early. The prisons needed more room for a new breed of criminals they were importing in.

  Now on probation, he vowed never to commit another crime, and so far, he had kept that promise. Working as a construction worker for one of the nationalized civilian labor programs, he was one of the many people dependent on Uncle Sam for a job. Money was tight, but he deserved to suffer for what he had done. He blamed himself entirely for his circumstances.

  But, he believed in second chances, not only for others but for himself. He had optimism for the future. He felt that the jail sentence had saved him from a fate that could have permanently destroyed his life, rather than for a mere ten years.

  A small noise in the kitchen caused Craft to put his beer down on the arm of his chair. He went into the kitchen to see what it was. As he did, he was almost positive that he heard very quiet breathing. Fearful that it might be a robber—like he had been—he grabbed a small knife from his desk and went into the kitchen.

  There seemed to be no one there. The noise died down.

  He stood silently, gazing around the room. The radio in the background seemed to lose its clarity, the voice becoming garbled. When nothing occurred, he shrugged and began to walk back into the living room.

  As he did, an arm reached out and grabbed his right shoulder, spinning him around like a ball. He then came to a brusque stop. He leapt back in horror, dropping the knife as his face nearly ran into another man’s.

  Except it was the face of a demon.

  The Vigilante.

  He wore his torn and tethered trench coat, along with his famous automatic revolver, which he carried out in front of him.

  “What do you want?” Craft cried out. “I haven’t done anything!”

  The Vigilante raised his revolver, his lips sealed. He fired, shooting the man in the chest. The man fell to the ground, a small blood trail leading out of his mouth. His eyes were full of terror.

  The Vigilante walked over to him and fired another shot into his head. Tears were rolling down his face, his eyes muddled with a twisted sense of ecstasy.

  “You did. You did.”

  Beverly Evening News, October 4, 1934

  THE VIGILANTE STRIKES AGAIN!

  ‘CRIME FIGHTER’ KILLS MAN IN HOME!

  Saturday Morning Citizen, October 5, 1934

  DRAGNET SPREAD FOR VIGILANTE UNDERWAY!

  CHIEF OF POLICE TO OVERSEE TASK FORCE, VOWS TO APPREHEND KILLER

  An Irish pub rumbled with the noise and sights of eating and drinking. Illuminated by the pale light of rusted bulbs, the people moved about with a relaxed, soothed temperament. Their merriment was found when the hungry families approached the counter and ordered a hearty traditional breakfast.

  The separation of social ranks was murky and softened. The well-off types sat by the dusty radio, politely drinking their breakfast tea, while the hardened, husky men who sweated at the railyard gathered by the bar counter, loudly toasting to their good health with a round of hot cider. The mass of poor families huddled in the center, keeping their young ones close at hand as they consumed their meal of scrambled eggs, bangers, black pudding, and back rashers.

  Although some of the patrons felt lively enough to sing, the room also had a sedated, grave overtone that occasionally stifled their cheery demeanors, in no part due to the three deadpan men who stood guard at the entrance with crowbars.

  Grabbing one of the newspapers from the pile that was stacked on top of the counter, young Irishman in his late twenties, attired in a dirtied getup, carried it over to his small table and sat down, setting the newspaper on it. He reached for his cup of tea, slightly pausing to read the front page of the Beverly Evening News as he added a cube of sugar.

  When he read the headlines, his teaspoon slipped out of his hands and fell into the cup

  “Cripes!” he cried. “The bloody chisellers! They’ve gone too far!”

  The room suspended its noise. Everyone turned to the man.

  “What’s the matter, Murphy?” one man asked him.

  “Have ye read this bit ‘o nonsense, Conan?” he said, holding the paper in the air, his eyes glittering fervently.

  The whole table nodded their heads simultaneously.

  “Aye, that we did, brother” Conan replied. “And I tell ya what I did when I read it. I told the old boyo sellin’ it that I wanted the bob back that I had tossed him for it, but he went on yappin’ about how he had to make a livin’ too. Can ye believe it?”

  “Aye,” said the flat-nosed man sitting next to him. “And I told him that if he didn’t fork it over, he wouldn’t have much of a livin’ left to live by the time my fist was done with him.”

  They toasted and finished their glasses of cider.

  “When they let that wop off the hook in court for murderin’ that lass near the bridge, that was enough for me,” Murphy stated agitatedly. “But even they should know better than to print this rubbish.”

  “At least we’ve got McKinney’s Press!”

  “I tell ye, these galoots canna be allowed to do this anymore!”

  Murphy’s eyes flared brightly as he gestured to the whole room. “We don’t deserve this! It isn’t enough that we have to dodge bullets as we walk what little we have for work in this town, if the job isn’t stolen from some guinea who has connections with Marzio’s hoodlums. It’s a disgrace that a man has to surround himself with an army to eat a decent meal.”

  The rail yard men rose from their table and toasted with Conan and Murphy. As they drained their glasses, Conan glanced to his right, seeing a young man silently sitting by himself in the corner of the room at a tiny table made of a board and two barrels. He ate privately, his back slanted so that his face was kept away from their prying eyes. Beside him sat a young woman, who ate her food with shaky hands. Even as he ate, it was evident he maintained his gaze on her always.

  Conan walked over to him, tapping him on the shoulder.

  “Are ye gonna raise a glass to him as well, Sean?”

  Seanan twisted his head, his child-like face gazing up at the father with a submissive expression. He shrugged his bony shoulders gently.

  “I already drank me tea,” he replied timidly.

  “Blood in ounce!” Murphy exclaimed. “Sean, me lad, ye need to join the rest of us. Stop sniveling like a whipped schoolboy in this wretched corner. Come bring Evelyn and eat with Murphy and me. Ye haven’t been over to our house for days. The Connell household isn’t the same.”

  Sean hesitated, his breath stalled. He looked over at the young woman. She lifted her head up slowly, an ambivalent expression apparent. Sean nodded, then picked up his food and carried it over to the table, the father’s strong arm pressing on his back. He then returned for the young woman, leading her over with his hand grasped tightly around hers.

  “Thank ye for the invitation, Murphy,” Sean said as he and the young woman sat down.

  “Sean Blood!” Murphy declared, standing behind his chair. “I haven’t seen ye around lately. What have ye been up to, boyo?”

  “Working here and there.”

  “Not for the dagos, I pr
ay?”

  “No. I keep to me own business.”

  “That’s a good lad!”

  Sean tapped Murphy on the side, whispering into his ear as he leaned down. “I’d rather we not disturb Evelyn. She doesn’t like too much noise, even if it’s joyful.”

  Murphy nodded with a sense of sympathy in his eyes. “Of course, me boyo. Ye a good lad for taking care of her.” He whispered back in Sean’s ear. “Much better than her brother, from what I hear.”

  Reacting vaguely, Sean tilted his head to the side, as if to reply, but then resumed his breakfast.

  “What do ye think of this slandering affair?” Conan said as he gave Sean the copy of the newspaper.

  Sean bit into his sausage as he took a quick glimpse at it, seemingly dispassionate of what he read. He shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

  “I think ye be too much in a tousle over it,” he submitted. “Did ye expect them to write approvingly of him?”

  “No, but cripes, if they don’t have a decent bit o’ shame to their credit. No dignity in it.”

  “The problem is,” the pub owner said, “is that someone is killin’ these fellas. They got the pictures. They be lyin’ about somethin’, but not too sure what is true or not.”

  “It’s all lies, I tell ye!” Conan said. “Lies!”

  “Please,” Sean said as he placed his arm around Evelyn, who appeared startled.

  “Sorry lad.”

  “All I know is that the Vigilante has to defend himself,” Murphy said angrily. “He must defend his honor. If he won’t, who will?”

  “Does he need it to be defended?” Sean inquired.

  “Have ye lost yer sensibilities? Of course, he does!”

  “It’s politics,” the pub owner replied. “Exactly the sort of bullocks I’d expect in this town.”

  “We need him,” Conan said. “He’s the only thing that is keepin’ the blackguards at bay. They be scared of touchin’ his territory until he be dead as a man marked by a black cat.”

  “Killin’ isn’t gonna to do it,” Sean said.

  “You’re wrong,” Murphy protested softly. “If ye da was here today, God rest his soul, he’d agree. He knew it to be true that you can’t be a peacekeeper when there is no peace to keep.”

  “I thought we all left the old country to get away from that sorta bloodshed.”

  “And it followed us here, didn’t it?”

  “Bad luck, I suppose.”

  “Naw, just livin’ up to yer good name.”

  “I’ll say this,” the gruff rail yard worker said, “if the Vigilante doesn’t stop this, then how are we to know he isna killing these men himself? He be the one fella we trust. He’s never let us down. The coppers aren’t gonna protect us from criminals anymore. They’re after anyone who stands up to injustice. The Vigilante canna fail us now.”

  Sean nodded, his fiery blue eyes intensifying his equivocal countenance. He turned to Evelyn, looking at her affectionately as he responded to Murphy and Conan, who shared a brotherly sense of companionship.

  “Then pray he be listening to yer prayers,” he said. “And pray that he be right.”

  ***

  Sean stood around the corner to the alleyway as he watched Seth Moore walked down the front steps to the police station. His flat cap covered most of his face, his slanted posture indicating exhaustion. His gaunt features had been carved out by small meals. The long work hours had darkened his complexion. But his blue eyes blazed just as brightly.

  When Moore reached the sidewalk, he suddenly stopped. His eyebrows rose as he turned to his right, tapping his foot suspiciously.

  He then looked down at the footprints on the ground.

  “Come out,” he said. “I know ya there.”

  Sean didn’t move, even as Moore came around the corner eagerly, a subdued grin on his face.

  “How ya doin’, kid?” Moore asked. “Haven’t seen ya in a while.”

  Sean checked behind Moore to confirm they were not overheard. He then lifted his head up.

  “I’m swell,” he said. “Nothing has changed.”

  “How are Patrick and Evelyn?”

  “The same.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  There was a moment of silence as each of them waited for the other to speak. Moore seemed as though he had plenty to say, but he held it back.

  Moore motioned with his shoulder at the diner across the street. “Let’s go get some coffee and we can talk. I don’t like my desk. Too crowded.”

  “I agree.”

  They found a somewhat secluded spot inside the diner located near a large cathedral radio. The sound of Martha Tildon’s lovely voice served as additional cover for their discussion.

  Moore offered Sean a cigarette; the young man turned it down. They both ordered coffee. When it arrived, they sipped on it quietly. Moore studied Sean closely. The younger man tried to avoid his gaze.

  “I’m not gonna ask ya if ya did it,” Moore said. “I know ya didn’t, so ya don’t have to convince me of nothin’.”

  “I appreciate that,” Sean said.

  “I doubt the rest of ya mick friends buy it.”

  “No, they don’t.”

  Moore chuckled. He smacked his lips together as he tasted the bitterness of his cigarette tobacco mix with the creamy flavor of his coffee in his mouth. He rubbed his sore, sensitive cheeks, groaned.

  Sean observed Moore’s strangely clean presentation; his uniform, normally spotted with splats of mud and reeking of cigarette smoke, sparkled as though brand new and smelled fresh. He forced himself to smile.

  “Have a date?” Sean asked.

  “Funny. Real funny. We got a comedian here. No, I was meetin’ with Elroy and Barker, the commission and chief of police.”

  “What do they want?”

  “Me to take the case.”

  “Will you?”

  “Sort of. I used it as an excuse to find out what happened at the murder scene.”

  “Have you found anything interesting?”

  Moore winked as he pulled out a notepad from inside his jacket. He flipped it open, placed it on the table. Sean peered at it as the waitress refilled their coffee. He waited until she headed to another table before he spoke.

  “I knew it,” he said. “I knew they were withholding details for a reason.”

  “Of course, they did,” Moore laughed. He gestured at the notepad, emphasizing his points with a finger jab. “For one, Craft ain’t so innocent. He was a former convict.”

  “That doesn’t make it right to kill him, does it?”

  “No, but it changes the storyline quite a freakin’ bit. This guy didn’t just rub out a random innocent Joe waitin’ to see some Mickey Mouse cartoon in a theater. His target was too selective.”

  “It says here Craft had served his prison sentence.”

  “Yeah. That’s kind of strange.”

  Moore’s green eyes darkened with fascination as he grabbed the notepad. “But look at this. This fella uses the same revolver ya do, but he don’t use the same cartridge.”

  Sean’s head tilted in acknowledgment. He seemed much more puzzled than Moore did.

  “I always used a .455 Webley,” he said. “This person used .38 ACP cartridges.

  “Yeah. It don’t make no sense. If it was meant to shift the blame on ya, then they’d used the same cartridge, wouldn’t they? Or maybe we ain’t talkin’ about no genius here, are we?”

  “But none of the stores sell that ammunition anymore. It would be rare to find. And perhaps they assumed no one would think about that. They’d be convinced just based on the type of revolver used.”

  Moore nodded, a suspicious frown forming as he fidgeted in his clothes.

  “I’ll have to do some diggin’ around,” he said. “There’s got to be somethin’ screwy with this they ain’t lookin’ at right.”

  Sean suddenly gained a peremptory demeanor as he leaned closer to Moore, a determined look in his eyes.

  �
�No,” he said. “I want this one.”

  “Nuts, kid! Ya need my help.”

  “I could use it. But I want to do this alone.”

  Moore stared at him, aghast.

  “Ya don’t know the whole scoop, kid,” he said. “This is big. Before, ya was just a nuisance for Costa. Now the whole force is looking for ya. We’re putting major resources into this thing. It’s a manhunt.”

  “That’s why I have to deal with it.”

  “No way! Lemme handle this. Go back to Shingleville and enjoy some peace and quiet for one freakin’ night while I deal with this twit.”

  “I just want one thing from you.”

  Moore sighed, rolling his eyes as he gestured resignedly.

  “What’s that?”

  “A list of convicts who have been released from prison in the past two months.”

  “Why just two months?”

  Sean appeared uncertain as he folded his arms, his eyes cast on the wall.

  “Please don’t ask too many questions. You wouldn’t understand.”

  Moore grinned subtly, nodding his head.

  “I get it; ya tryin’ to get inside this guy’s head, ain’t ya? Ya know who he’s gonna hit next?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Moore poured bluish smoke into the air as he rested his head on his hand. He then sighed again loudly, throwing a hand off to the side.

  “I’ll get ya info when I can,” he conceded. “Be careful, though. I may be on the case, but I ain’t doin’ nothin’ but sittin’ at a desk lookin’ over the stuff they bring me, see? I won’t be out there to rescue ya when ya run into trouble.”

  “You won’t have to worry about that,” Sean promised. “I can take care of myself.”

  ***

  A couple sat next to each other in their living room on a plump sofa. The evening was quiet, the woman intently reading an article inside a copy of Reader’s Digest magazine, while the man eagerly scanned down the sports section of the newspaper. The World Series was in full play, the St. Louis Cardinals against the Detroit Tigers. He had put a bet down for five bucks on the “Gashouse Gang.”