Men Who Walk Alone

by T. J. Martinell

  Holding his head low, Sean walked past the window of a small eatery on his right; directly on the other side of the glass a pair of Italians ate hungrily. When they looked at him, he avoided their gaze diffidently; they rewarded his respect with approving nods, as if to give their permission for him to be there.

  Shivering, Sean looked at frosty figures naturally painted on a windowpane next to him before he cast his head down at the storm drains and manholes. The water that had once run down the gutters had frozen, leaving a slick surface that gleamed brightly in the sunlight.

  He had to watch his steps. Though his boots were thick and heavy, the ice was slippery. One bad placement of his foot and he would end up on his back. Accident or not, it would draw attention to himself. It was the last thing he wanted to do.

  He felt the temperature rise and dip as he passed in and out of the sun’s light. A line of automobiles were parked on the side of the curb. Some of them belonged to people living in the apartments. Others were simply broken and had been abandoned there, tombstones in a neglected graveyard.

  As he gazed at them, he noticed the sun carved a neat line across the middle of the vehicles’ façade. A whitish blue sheen of ice covered one side, untouched by its warmth. The other dripped melted ice onto the sidewalk like teardrops, where they formed small puddles.

  Sean looked at a lamppost at the street corner and saw that a similar thing had occurred to it, too. And to a phone booth. And a tree.

  The more he looked, the more he saw similar visages.

  A man brushed his bony shoulder as they bumped into one another. Sean kept going, but looked back at him. The man’s face was covered with a scarf, only his dark eyes showing as he marched away.

  Ahead of Sean, a penurious-looking man held a hat out as he begged for change.

  Nobody said anything to him or paid any attention, save for an old man with a crooked back. He approached the beggar and took out a large silver dollar.

  Before he gave it to him, however, he flipped the coin in the air and left it land on the back of his hand. He then gazed at it, smiled, and handed to it to the beggar, who thanked him several times. As the old man left, the beggar’s appearance, humble and timid, became more furtive.

  Sean kept walking.

  Some time passed. The sun lowered. It was two thirty-seven in the afternoon. The days was short.

  Sean reached the end of Rantoul Street and stood at an intersection, eating a crust of bread from his pocket. Suddenly, he heard a disquieting sound to his right. He turned and walked away from the road, entering a darkened area between two buildings, perpetually concealed from the sunlight. There was a mixture of tress scattered around in remote spots, their limbs tapered and naked.

  Sean clutched his package tighter, straining his neck as he listened again for that familiar sound.

  He heard it again. People were shouting. Some of the shouts were done in anger, hatred. Other shouts conveyed distress.

  Turning around the corner of a building, he saw the source of the commotion.

  Men in dark overcoats and armed with Tommy guns stood outside of an apartment complex. More figures came down the steps to the building dragging a group of men down with them. When they got down the steps, the men brought the residents over to the exterior wall of an adjacent structure, where they lined them up perpendicular to their Lincoln automobiles.

  More residents came out of the building, mostly women and children. They protested bitterly, yelling in Italian. The elusive figures ignored them. Their guns spoke for them.

  Sean did not stir an inch as he watched. His face was expressionless. He looked at the men in overcoats, at the people, at the trucks, and then at the guns.

  An open window shudder in the building behind him closed violently. He did not look at it. He raised a foot to step forward, but he paused.

  “Don’t do it,” he said aloud. “Don’t get involved. Just take this medicine over to Mrs. O’Connell and make sure you get home without any trouble. This isn’t your business. There is nothing you can do to stop it. Violence will not solve this strife. Let the police deal with it. You told them to. They listened.”

  His own words seemed to mollify an unsettled spirit within him. His shoulders lowered. His head came down in concession. He took a last gaze at the people, and then turned around and walked away. His pace quickened as the screams grew louder and more poignant, until found himself back at the intersection. He sighed deeply when he reached it. He rested with an arm against an electric pole. A relieved expression was on his face,

  Then the screams stopped. Gunfire erupted.

  Sean dropped the package of medicine in his coat. He bent down to retrieve it, glancing to his left and right. No one else on the street seemed to have noticed the sound. They acted as if they hadn’t heard anything.

  Had he even heard it?

  Sean ran back to the darkened area. When he got there, he dropped the package again. This time he did not bend down to pick it up. He left it there as he observed the men in overcoats pile back into the Lincolns. The first car pulled away, smoke billowing out from its front tires. The others followed shortly after until they were all gone.

  Sean slowly turned his head towards the apartment building.

  The men they had seized were all dead. The wall behind their bodies dripped with blood as though it bled. A few yards away, a large pile of empty shells hissed on the frozen ground.

  Sean took several steps forward, then stopped. He listened for anything. A moan. A gasp. A whimper. All he heard was the sound of his own panting. No noise emanated from the apartment or any of the nearby buildings.

  He looked up at the stairways where the women and children stood silently in shock. Slowly, they crossed themselves.

  Sean then thought he heard someone’s voice. He searched the bodies, hoping to hear another sound.

  Nothing.

  Sean closed his eyes and knelt beside the corpses, as if to join them. By then, the shock had worn off the bystanders. Their disbelief turned to mourning as they approached the scene to recover their dead. The women both young and old ignored Sean as they held their deceased loved one close. However, the children stared at him with faces full of anger, and questions.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “They said our men didn’t pay them,” a woman answered softly. “It’s a lie. Our men had paid. They paid them again when they arrived today. But they killed them, anyway.”

  “Who?”

  “You know who.”

  Sean nodded. Then he stood up and walked alone out of the alleyway.

  ***

  Police Chief Barker was in his office when an uproar exploded in the main room on his floor of the police headquarters.

  He adjusted his tie as he ran out into the hallway. He got there and found almost the entire floor of officers and staff congregated in two clusters. Between them stood a beat cop who panted as he approached Barker, his face glistening with either perspiration or trepidation.

  “What the hell is going on around here?” Barker demanded.

  The cop didn’t reply. His complexion was ghostly white as he reached into his jacket. He pulled out a note and held it in front of Barker.

  “For you,” he quivered.

  “From whom?”

  “I’d rather you read it, sir.”

  Perplexed, Barker unfolded the crumpled letter and read it. His expression hid his bewilderment until he reached the bottom of the paper. When did, his eyes fell in terror. His lower lip quivered.

  The rest of the officers and secretaries gaped at him.

  “What is it?” one of the women asked.

  Barker stared at them, his countenance aglow with terror. They began whispering apprehensively amongst themselves. In an apparent catatonic state, he crinkled the note and let it fall onto the floor as he stumbled back into his office. The door barely closed behind him.

  Through the glass, they watched as he collapsed into his chair, his limp hand reaching for his te
lephone as if it were a hand to help him back on his feet.

  As Barker conversed with an unknown person on the other line, the crowd gathered around the note. They stared down at it as though it were a dead person.

  A sergeant eventually worked up the nerve to pick it up and read it out loud.

  When he did, the crowd dissipated in horror, as though that dead person had come back to life.

  ***

  Seven men stood at a table inside of a windowless room. They appeared secretive as they looked over their shoulders at the damp door covered with greenish yellow moss.

  Their pistols lay on the table next to a pile of filled ashtrays. They chose not to look at one another as they smoked. It wasn’t out of shame or self-consciousness, but so that they would not develop a sense of recognition if they happened to run into each other while they were out on the streets.

  A primus stove flickered weakly in the corner of the room as it cooked a stew inside of a corroded black pot. Bowls and a set of spoons were placed next to it on a short table. It would be their meal for the evening. They were not able to go out and mingle with the rest of their friends and colleagues for a while.

  None of them had regrets about it. They had known the consequences when they had made the blood oath. They had known it would require sacrifices from them.

  In fact, their faces served to encourage the man next to them, for they saw the pride and air of accomplishment in their eyes.

  Amid their coughing, the door opened as the rusty hinges creaked. Their eyebrows rose as their leader stepped inside of the room, rubbing his arms laboriously. He was short, but firmly built. He wrapped himself in a large wool coat and gloves. A scarf wrapped around his neck like a noose.

  “Everyone here?” he asked.

  They nodded, murmured in affirmative.

  Their leader grinned. He pulled out a copy of the Beverly Evening News and tossed it onto the table. The men gathered around it excitedly and looked down at the headlines which blazed across the front page.

  “It worked,” their leader said joyfully. “Just as I said it would. We made it just in time for the afternoon print.”

  A quiet sense of bliss floated across them as they each took in the results of their actions. The headlines announced it very clearly. The plan could not have come out any better for them or their cause.

  One of them touched the front page, his finger above the main photograph.

  “The Vigilante is back,” he declared.

  The tone of fearful respect gave the air a strong sense of solemnity.

  Their leader approached the table. He looked at the headline, laughing softly.

  “I knew he wasn’t dead,” he said. “I told you.”

  “I hope we know what we are doing,” one of them said. “We have unleashed a demon against them. He won’t stop until he kills Marzio himself.”

  “You see?” their leader said. “Look at what our work has done. This is only the beginning.”

  “What will Marzio do?”

  “Does it matter? No matter he does, it will only be food for the Vigilante’s rage.”

  “But what if the Vigilante finds out the truth?” a nervous voice offered.

  Their leader peered at the man who had spoken.

  “He won’t. He can’t. How could he?”

  “I don’t know. But I don’t know how he managed to kill Leonard Costa.”

  “That’s because he’s a demon,” someone said.

  A brief conversation broke out.

  “Yes,” another added. “If he finds out, he’ll come after us.”

  “Do not think like that,” the leader stated. “He will not question Marzio’s guilt. If he did, he would have waited.”

  He then emphasized his command with a heavy pound on the table.

  “In the meantime, we will keep ourselves confined to this building. No contact with anyone outside of this area. Food and water will be brought here for us. It isn’t the finest hotel in Beverly, but it will do.”

  “Why must we hide like this?” a younger man asked.

  “It is an extra precaution. There were witnesses at the scene. They saw us, what we look like. However, if they see us in public, they might start to wonder. After a while they will forget our faces. At any rate, I don’t want to jeopardize our work because of a small slip-up.”

  “How long do we have to wait here?”

  Their leader walked up to the young man and placed his arm on his bony shoulder. The older man smiled with confidence.

  “When the time is right. When the time is right.”

  He then handed out a carton of cigarettes to the men, a cheerful, rugged smile apparent.

  “My brothers, we have carried out a very painful, but necessary act. There are some who will condemn us for it. They will call us murderers. But in time, the city will look back on what we did and see it for what it is and us for what we are. We did what needed to be done, and we were the only ones willing to do it. Even the Vigilante won’t be able to deny it.”

  Italiano Americano, November 5, 1934

  MASSACRE ON RANTOUL STREET!

  INNOCENT ITALIANS BRUTALLY MURDERED BY MOBSTERS!

  MARZIO DENIES ANY INVOLVEMENT!

  Beverly Evening Times

  CHIEF BARKER CALLS ON FULL-FLEDGED INVESTIGATION INTO RANTOUL STREET MASSACRE

  McKinney’s Press, November 6, 1934

  THE VIGILANTE IS BACK!

  MYSTERIOUS KILLER EMERGES FROM THE GRAVE, ANNOUNCES VENDETTA AGAINST THE MOB!!!!

  Saturday Morning Citizen, November 6, 1934

  CHANGE OF HEART FOR POLICE TOWARDS VIGILANTE?

  COMMISSIONER REFUSES TO COMMENT ON VIGILANTE KILLINGS

  Beverly Evening Times, November 8, 1934

  VIGILANTE ATTACKS MOB BUSINESS FRONT, SLAUGHTERS UNDERBOSS

  DOWNTOWN PRECINCTS RESPONDS WITH FULL DEPLOYMENT

  McKinney’s Press, November 9, 1934

  VIGILANTE DOES POLICE ‘DIRTY’ WORK

  WHERE ARE THE PROTESTS FROM CITY HALL NOW?

  Beverly Evening Times, November 8, 1934

  VIGILANTE STRIKES AGAIN!!!!

  SHADOWY FUGITIVE LEAVES ANOTHER TWENTY MOBSTERS DEAD, INCLUDING UNDERBOSS

  McKinney’s Press

  IRISH AND ITALIANS MAKE ALLAINCE WITH VIGILANTE!!!!

  WHEN WILL THE KILLING END?

  Italiano Americano

  COMMUNITY LEADERS TO HOLD ANTI-MAFIA RALLY

  BLACK HAND RUN OUT OF NEIGHBORHOOD

  Beverly Evening Times, November 9, 1934

  MARIO REFUSES TO MAKE PUBLIC COMMENT, REMAINS INSIDE FORTRESS RESIDENCE

  Saturday Morning Citizen

  GLEMORE STREET MASSACARE INVESTIGATION DECLINES TO RELEASE ITS FINDINGS

  POLICE REPORT FOR RANTOUL MASSCARE PROVIDES VAGUE DETAILS

  I looked underneath the microscope, a tense line in my face.

  If any of the officers entered the room at that moment, they’d have known instantly I hadn’t moved an inch in the last five hours.

  My leather jacket hung from a chair. I had a scraggly five o’ clock shadow bordering on a beard. My shirt sleeves were rolled back. All I had had for food in the past two hours had been half a pack of cigarettes.

  I checked the microscope again, pressed the two bullets together. I then cackled at myself.

  The two gray bullets rolled like cogs in a clock. I compared their grooves, noted their ballistic marks, the indent from the firing pin.

  My back ached. I pulled myself back, took a short break, wiped the sweat that had built up on my forehead.

  Three cigarettes later, I returned to the microscope. A strong intuition forced me to keep at it.

  Hunches were peculiar things. Everybody desired them, talked to death about them. But when it came down to it, when the hunches reared their heads, they always came at the worst moment. They were irrational. Theories had their logic, their sensibilities. But hunches were just a quirky sensation in the gut, something that didn’t go away even w
hen reality seemed to contradict it.

  I knew better than to trust reality. It was a pretense.

  A stack of newspapers lay in the chair next to my tattered leather jacket. They were full of stories of the Rantoul Street massacre. I had read them all repeatedly. Some of the accounts were bullshit, hearsay. Several were valid.

  But not one of them could explain it. Nor could they explain what had brought the Vigilante “back to life.”

  Honestly, I hadn’t been fooled for a moment. The day after the harbor fire I had visited Sean’s home, eventually located him at Patrick Malone’s residence. Malone was still the same belligerent drunk, albeit he kept his temper at bay around me. Evelyn had been in bed with a severe fever, Sean at her side with a cold towel.

  Sean hadn’t said a word to me. It would have been superfluous. His somber expression, the distress in his eyes, told me that he was done with it all.

  I hadn’t believed that, either.

  My hunch had proved correct when Hardy had come back from a meeting with bigwig Elroy after the Vigilante had made an unexpected reappearance. I had half expected them to pin the blame on him. It was no more absurd than what they had proposed before.

  Hardy had taken me aside from my desk off to a dark corner, completely baffled. No investigation. No statements to the press. No task force. Not a thing. He had reached out to his connections, former contacts in Marzio’s rackets; their reaction was just as bewildered.