Nobody seemed to know what had happened. The word was that Marzio had gotten scared stiff, but it was just rumors.
It didn’t make sense.
Something was funny about it all. No specifics. Just a funny impulse that told me we had been sold a fake reality.
The bullets under the microscope confirmed my doubt. One of them had been removed from the body of one of the victims. The other bullet had been dislodged from a friend of mine whom I had dragged to safety after he had been shot by a hoodlum. My reward had been the bullet as a keepsake, a piece of lead to remind me that even though nobody thought I had a heart, I still acted like I did.
The grooves met. I compared them.
No similarities between them.
I tried again.
Same results.
One last attempt gave me the same conclusion.
Finally, I dropped my arms, yawned.
“I knew it,” I mumbled.
The ballistics for the two bullets didn’t match. Both had been fired from a Tommy gun, .45 ACP cartridges.
The first part didn’t mean much. Ballistics was always different for each gun. But the quality of the bullets was far from comparable. The bullet fired by the gun used in the massacre had been made by a preeminent manufacturer. The bullet recovered from the shootout with the mobster, however, had been reloaded by an amateur.
The big difference was the primer. The one from the massacre had been a Boxer, a British primer. Most mobsters purchased reloaded ammunition that used Berdans, an American primer.
Same gun; same cartridge; different shooter.
I brushed off the newspapers on the table, fell into the chair. I wiped my face, rubbed my wearied eyelids.
The “official” story was also the “unofficial” one.
For once, Marzio’s rare statement to the press hadn’t been a complete load of shit. His protest appeared to be genuine. Someone else had done the deed.
Sean Blood―the Vigilante―had the wrong perp.
I sighed in anticipation. The boy wouldn’t be persuaded to stop easily. He had gone too far too fast. What would he say when he discovered his error?
Maybe he wouldn’t care. There was a reason everyone was quick to buy the rumors; Marzio’s thugs made it too easy with their grisly reputation.
In a sense, it was poetic justice. They had paid for a crime they hadn’t committed, for all the crimes they had committed but never paid for. Was it so bad when a murderer was executed for the wrong murder?
Yes.
It meant the true murderer went free. Somebody had to bring them in.
Somehow, I knew I’d have to do it myself.
I touched my gun holster slung over my shoulder. My revolver bounced gently against my chest. Restless, I pulled it out, took it apart, cleaned it, then put it away as I peered at the door. The whole time I couldn’t help but think of how the massacre had changed the city.
For the first time in years, the rampant apathy had started to wear off Beverly’s wearied façade. The Italians had forgiven the Irish for all the things the O’Brien’s had done to them. The Irish, in turn, had forgiven the Italians for the murdered girl at the Solder’s Monument. The church services weren’t segregated anymore.
Beverly was a sea of grievances. This was just a drop.
I didn’t care. It was about justice. A bunch of killers had come into my town, shot innocent people, then shifted the blame. Didn’t matter if the men killed had had their own problems. Didn’t matter if another hood had taken the heat for it.
I’d take them down.
***
“Who sells this type of ammo?”
I lobbed the bullet at my contact. The sordid guy caught it, inspected it closely. He tried to give me his “haggle” face. Then he realized I wasn’t in the mood.
The usual routine wasn’t appropriate. I circumvented the customary procedures. Good thing he realized that fast.
I had chosen my contacts well. A few were decent people; Italians, regular Beverly residents who wanted to what they could, within reason. But some were seediest creeps in town. At the same time, they weren’t stupid. They never let profit get in the way of their survival for the next five minutes. I helped remind them of that from time to time. This one happened to one of the parolees I kept an eye on, made it easy.
“It ain’t that one of ours, I can tell ya that,” the man said. He held the cartridge up into the light, rotated it on his finger like a figurine on a music box. He then smelled it like it was a bottle of perfume.
“Yeah. This ain’t it. Marzio’s footmen usually buy that cheap stuff. The good stuff’s expensive, ain’t it? This was manufactured by the military.”
“What makes ya think it so?” I asked.
“They’re not hollow-tipped. Army can’t use ‘em. Rules of war and all that. Some convention shit or somethin’ like that. But ya coppers can use those rounds. Marzio’s boys also use hollow-tipped rounds. Apparently, that convention shit don’t apply to law enforcement or civilians.”
“I see. Got an idea where they might have gotten it?”
“Yeah. A smuggler who hijacks stuff from the Army depots.”
“Any name ring a bell?”
My contact paused, put a finger to his lips. He liked to test my patience. Not smart.
“Whatever ya thinkin’,” I said, “don’t think it. Just answer the question.”
“Come on, Moore! Ya know I’m ya number one guy.”
“Yeah; number one guy most likely to sell me out.”
“No way! I ain’t greasin’ palms with those bastards. Besides, they as likely to bump me off as ya. That is, if the Vigilante don’t bump them off first. Heard anythin’ lately about him?”
“Beats me,” I shrugged. “I ain’t interested.”
“Word has it ya his best buddy.”
“That ain’t sayin’ much, is it?”
“Ya know where his cave is?”
“He’s a demon, I thought,” I cackled. “Spirits don’t need caves. Just stiff human bodies to possess. Like yours, if ya don’t start tellin’ me somethin’ useful.”
“Alright! Take it easy! I’ll tell ya what I know.”
“Go ahead.”
“There’s this wise guy, a real Abercrombie who started a smugglin’ operation a while back. the He supplies the mob with military-grade stuff. He leaves the narcotics for others.”
“What’s his MO?”
“A weird combination; he sells gats, bullets, and dirty books.”
“Dirty books?”
“Yeah, the smut stuff. Those magazines. This Abercrombie runs it around the horn, get me?”
“What’s his name?”
“Pierre Forsyth.”
I chuckled. Why hadn’t I figured him for the job? Forsyth was one of the old timers. He sold porn, made deals with Don Marzio to keep his own gambling joint without the usual ten percent payoff. He maintained a few protection rackets. His gin mills had shut down when Prohibition got repealed, but his main source of revenue had always been guns.
“Ya sure it’s this fella?” I asked.
“Absolutely.”
“He’s the one who sold this ammo?”
“My word on it.”
“That don’t make me any more confident.”
“Aw, have a heart.”
“I do. I’d like to keep it beatin’ if ya don’t mind.”
His contact raised a flat hand.
“Alright. I told ya what ya wanted. Where’s my cash?”
I yanked a wad of dollar bills out of my pocket, chucked it at him. The man greedily snatched it, stuffed it in his jacket.
“Another twenty Lincolns and I’ll tell ya where to find Forsyth,” he added.
I paid him immediately. Not worth a haggle.
“Where?” I asked.
“He’s got a coupla places he likes to crash in. He takes his dames to a place in uptown, real swanky place. But when he’s doin’ business, he runs it from a small house out by the wa
ter.”
“Where? I want the address, not an obscure direction on the compass.”
“Curtis Point.”
“The address?”
“27843.”
My eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“He got any brunos with him?” I asked.
“Not at night,” his contact replied. “It’s a small place, get me? Nobody would notice it.”
“Ya seemed to have no problem findin’ it.”
“That’s why ya come to me instead of the other louts in this line of work. They don’t get what I deliver.”
I stared at him. There was always the possibility of a trap. There was no such thing as the truth or a lie in Beverly. All truths contained grains of lies; some big, some small.
The same went for lies. Its quantity was not important. The consequences were. My contact could be honest about it all, save for the solitude of Forsythe’s house.
I had to double-check it.
“If ya right,” I said, “if I get what I want from Forsythe, then I’ll pay ya double what I just did.”
My contact licked his lips. He had a ravenous appearance worthy of note. Money was his bread and butter. He could go for days without food. He needed money like it was water.
“I appreciate ya generosity,” he said.
“Don’t mention it.”
I paused, let time pass slowly. If my contact had lied, then he’d retract. Whoever he might sell me out to wouldn’t pay that much for his services. Loyalty was based on salary. The rest was negotiable. The man who handed out the most greenbacks got his allegiance.
No retract came. He was authentic.
I tipped my fedora. “Abyssina.”
“I’ll be seein’ ya, too, detective. Hopefully, alive.”
I planned to give Forsyth a friendly visit. But this time I couldn’t go alone. I needed to bring the Vigilante. If he could be convinced to do so.
The trick was to find him at the right moment.
***
I drove up to the curb, looked outside of my car. In the middle of Cabot Street stood the towering Saint Mary Star of the Sea Church; it dwarfed the buildings beside it, made them look like doll houses. Its pale red brick exterior seemed to act as a symbol of all the blood of all the innocent lives taken around it. Its tall steeple was like a watchtower, its invisible occupant disgusted by the crime it saw around it. If was as if the watchman wasn’t invisible, just ignored.
A cracked bulletin hung on the outside of the front door. The stained glass windows had gates around them to prevent burglary.
I checked the time on the bulletin. It said their afternoon mass was at five o’ clock.
My watch read two fifty. Ten minutes early.
Sean would be there. A man with that sort of weight on his conscience would arrive early, stay late.
I left my car, walked up to the steps. The stares I got from people outside the church reminded me to act the part as best I could. I dropped a recently purchased rosary around my neck, cleaned up my appearance. I adopted a more reverential demeanor as I entered the church.
In the foyer, music from the organ pipes gave the room a calm ambiance. Over by marble stoup, a line had formed as the believers, both Irish and Italian, crossed themselves with bowed heads.
The church existed for more than spiritual comfort; it was the one place in town people knew they were safe. Some had taken sanctuary there; they knew Marzio’s men wouldn’t cross paths with a priest. Not for religion, but profit. Sacrilege was bad business.
I took off my fedora, respectfully approached the stoup. I feigned the sign of the cross as I hastily walked into the chapel.
The room was narrow, small. A handful of pews lined up parallel to each other. The ceiling hung high. It was evident the congregation consisted primarily of the poor, the destitute. The altar appeared old enough to have been built by Christ himself. The organ player was an aged lady who performed the liturgy habitually, her eyes scarcely open behind her spectacles as her frail fingers moved across the keys.
Aside from the priest, who stood off to the side with a small, black book in his hand, only one person could be seen in the chapel in one of the pews furthest away from the front. The person’s head was cast down, their hands clasped together fervently.
I walked quietly over to them. As I grew closer, I became more certain it was Sean Blood. Then I got a glimpse of his face; the contribute look in his eyes indicated he prayed for deliverance, not merely from Satan or some unseen demon that tormented him. He prayed for salvation from himself.
Sean seemed unaware of my arrival as I sat down beside him. I grabbed the rosary I had bought at a pawn shop, two hours prior from my neck, grasped it with tight fingers I mumbled an incoherent prayer. My job had me cutting deals with God a lot, but religion wasn’t exactly my expertise.
“Mea maxima culpa, eh?” I suggested.
Sean’s hands lowered as he turned his head. He had that contrite glow in his face. It was a vicious cycle for him. He’d kill, then repent. Kill again, then repent. Sooner or later it’d stop.
His voice was weak, frail. “Why have you come here?”
I looked down at the Bible next to Sean, formed a subtle grin as I recognized the version.
“I need to talk to ya, kid,” he said. “Ya don’t seem surprised that I knew where to find ya.”
“You’re a smart man. And I’m not what you would call unpredictable.”
I suppressed a chuckle as I reach for a cigarette, only to remember I was in church. I suppressed the strong desire for tobacco as I nudged Sean gently.
“I don’t how to tell ya this, kid, but ya bumpin’ off the wrong people.”
Sean didn’t answer right away. He continued to pray silently.
“I’d say the right people are being killed,” he finally replied. “For the first time, the mob is afraid of us. Afraid of what we will do to them.”
“It ain’t gonna solve nothin’ this way, kid. Marzio’s just waitin’ for the appropriate time. He’s a patient bastard.”
“Don’t use that word in the House of God.”
“Sorry. Mea culpa.”
“You’re not Catholic, so don’t use those words, either.”
I laughed under his breath. “Why do I get the feelin’ ya ain’t a papist, either?”
Sean threw a fearful glance at him. His lips curled fretfully as he fidgeted in place.
“Why gave you that impression?” he asked.
“I’ve spent too much time with the wops and ya micks. Ya mackerel-snappers use the same Bible, and that ain’t the one.”
Sean looked away reticently.
“You didn’t come here to discuss my religious beliefs, did you?” he asked.
“Marzio’s thugs didn’t bump off those boys at Rantoul Street.”
Sean glared at me. I moved myself away slightly, unsure of how he would respond.
“I was there,” he insisted. “I saw it.”
“Ya actually saw ‘em gettin’ bumped off?”
“I saw the men getting dragged from their homes. Isn’t that enough?”
“Kid, ya got to listen to me on this one. Someone else did it. They’re pinnin’ the blame on Marzio for some reason. But it ain’t his goons. I ain’t sayin’ they’re above this stuff, but an acquaintance of mine said the ammo they used ain’t the same stuff. It’s military ammo. High quality stuff.”
“Why would someone else kill these people?”
“Easy. Use Marzio as the scapegoat. I think it’s a rival within his syndicate, possibly one of his capo régimes who hired brunos from outta town. No way to tell. But we ain’t gonna figure out zilch if ya runnin’ around with the rest of those micks shootin’ up every street corner with an Italian name on it, get me?”
“What would you have me do?”
“Work with me. I may need some help on this.”
Sean seemed to pray once more as he folded his hands. He gazed over at the priest as a man walked to the altar.
&
nbsp; “I will help you,” he stated. He looked at me sternly. “On one condition.”
“What is that?”
“When we find out who it is, I take care of them from thereon out.”
I grabbed the side of my head with my hand as I smirked. “Why do I get the feelin’ that I’m gonna regret sayin’ yes to that?”
“You know as well as I do that the police, your superiors, won’t do anything about it, even if you are able to prove someone else did it. If someone else was responsible, they will sweep all the evidence under the rug.”
The Beverly Depot clock chimed loudly in the distance. It was three o’ clock. A small crowd of people ushered into the chapel, filled up the meager number of pews. I couldn’t help but notice some of the men were armed, made no secret about it.
The priest didn’t protest. In fact, he seemed comforted by the sight of weapons. If anyone harbored violent intent for his flock, the shepherds would deal with them ruthlessly.
Had it really come down to that?
I turned to Sean. “Alright, kid. Ya call off ya followers, call the heat off Marzio. But ya do as I say. I don’t want ya killin’ witnesses.”
As Sean shook my hand he smiled subtly.
***
I held my breath as Pierre Forsyth entered the single-story house, shivering as he closed the door. He breathed deeply as he sucked in the warm air seeping from the fireplace on the far side of the room. He stomped his feet, rubbing his arms violently.
His cheeks were red, the rest of his skin as white as a picket fence. He touched his cheeks, felt the urge for a stiff drink that would bring some color back to his face.
He took off his green scarf, then his long brown overcoat. He placed them on the rough surface of the pine table situated next to the small open kitchen. He went to the cold closet and opened it up. Inside was a collection of old liquor bottles. He pulled out some moonshine, slammed it on the table, plucked a glass from the cabinet above the stove. He poured a small amount into the glass, then tossed it into his mouth, swallowed without letting a drop touch his tongue.
I waited until he poured a second round before I spoke to him.
“Where were you when I called last night?”
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