Men Who Walk Alone

by T. J. Martinell

  “I wouldn’t,” he warned.

  His eyes turned pure white. He stumbled backwards, gasping nosily. The Vigilante followed him, his trench coat tightly bound around his waist.

  The other officer standing there would have gone for his pistol, but when he saw the Vigilante’s decomposed face, his hand fell as though all the strength in his muscles had left.

  “My God,” he uttered.

  The officers stepped back alongside Walter. Although they were heavily armed, within a no-miss range of the Vigilante, and he had no weapon presentable, none of that was able to preserve their bravery.

  The second masked officer, the thinner one, remained nonchalant as he held up a hand.

  “You may stop there,” he said to the Vigilante.

  The living corpse did so

  “I am glad you came,” the second masked officer said. “I am eager to get this whole mess sorted out.”

  “Mess?”

  “I would call in confusion.”

  “There is nothing confusing about it. Police officers murdered innocent civilians. They were charged with upholding the law, yet they violated it for no reason. They were killed in return. What is confusing about that?”

  “Question the morality of my men’s actions as much as you wish—and you quite clearly have—but you cannot deny its effectiveness. In a matter of weeks, the entire city has been aroused from a decade of apathy. The Irish and Italians have made peace with each other. Marzio’s mob has been weakened. Why destroy this? Why destroy this unity?”

  “Because it’s all based on a lie,” the Vigilante replied. “It won’t last.”

  “I find it ironic that you detest our methods, which are not so different from your own.”

  “How so?”

  “You saw the rampant crime that has engulfed this city. You saw an incompetent police force unable to deal with murderers and rapists and mobsters. So you took action. And, I must regretfully state, you succeeded. We are doing the same by showing people what the mob does. This goes on all the time. It just occurs in small instances. A murder here, a murder there. But scores of deaths in one location at one time by one entity? That was what was needed. You demonstrated what would be required to defeat organized crime. To do so, the populace must become proactive. If some must die for that to happen, better than to see those lives be smothered in silence and without notice.”

  The Vigilante seemed amused, if it were possible. “I have heard people say they are like me before. They are not. I don’t know who you are or what your ultimate desire is, but I can already tell by the arrogance in your tone that a lust for power drives you. You see something you want, but can’t have. You kill innocent men to get it.”

  The second masked man cocked his head curiously.

  “What did you call this meeting for, then, if you don’t intend to resolve our conflict?”

  Stepping back slowly, reentering the fog that blanketed the vicinity, the Vigilante glared menacingly. “I didn’t know before if it was only Walter Shoupe here, or a greater conspiracy. Now I see it goes much further than him. He did not act alone. He acted on orders.”

  “And so you came here to find out?”

  “Yes. And to get a good look at you.”

  “Why?”

  The Vigilante’s eyes flared like twin suns. “When the time comes, I want to make sure I’m killing the right men.”

  He then abruptly vanished inside the fog.

  The first masked officer hastily went for his revolver again, unable to let him get away. This time he did not freeze. He emptied his gun rapidly, screaming for the officers to open fire. Not understanding any of the incoherent words, they mistook his gunshots as hostile and started firing back at him.

  Walter grabbed him and brought him to the theater lobby, where he ordered the officers to stop shooting. After repeated shouts, they finally listened. The first masked men, unable to restrain himself, ran out into the fog, hoping to find the Vigilante dead on the steps.

  “Where did he go?” the second masked officer asked.

  The cops from the rooftop came down and began scouting the area. After a minute or so, one of them called to Walter.

  “Come here!”

  The three men followed the voice. They came to one of the alleyways. Penetrating the dense fog, they found two of their men dead, their throats neatly cut.

  The first masked officer was hysterical. His composure had fallen through. He paced around animatedly as his eyes burned with hatred.

  “We must hunt this man down and kill him! We cannot allow him to ruin everything!”

  One of the officers chuckled.

  “Ya better know what ya doin’, then.”

  “Wat?”

  “Well, ya ain’t the first one. Everybody’s tried to get rid of him. What makes ya think ya got what it takes?”

  “Because we’re not going to kill him,” the second masked officer stated, peering into the shrouded environs eagerly. “Not anymore. He’s too valuable to be killed. He has something we will never have.”

  “What is that?”

  “He is loved by the people. As they say, it is best to be both feared and loved. We are feared. He is loved. Combined, we will be stronger than Marzio could have ever dreamed.”

  “I don’t think he will be so easy to convert to our cause,” the first masked officer remarked.

  The second masked officer smiled.

  “If the Vigilante won’t convert, then we will simply find someone another man to take his place behind that mask. And I think we already have the right man for the job. And he doesn’t even need the mask. Isn’t that right, my friend?”

  Out of the blackness stepped Ross Noble, a terrible, yet resolute expression on his scarred face. Dressed in the Vigilante outfit, he nodded his head subtly, his eyes blazing with a thirst for vengeance.

  Part IV

  The Wind that Shook the Barley

  It happened the same way every time. The boy walks down the street with his parents, after they have just left the city’s Christmas festival.

  It is Christmas Eve, 1921. They walk back home to celebrate the night with their friends who are waiting for them. As the boy walks ahead of his parents, his mother sings a Christmas. Her lovely voice fills the street with the joyful chorus. The father walks beside her, wrapping his arm around her.

  Snow falls heavily, but silently, landing onto the ground with a graceful motion. The night sky is a murky white, the blend of clouds and blackness. Aside from the distant noise of automobiles and the echoes of people celebrating in the main square, the street is quiet.

  At some point, the family comes across a good friend of theirs at the corner of an intersection, who greets them enthusiastically. He sees that they are heading home, which is on the same street he lives on, and advises them to take another route. He leads them down the street and to a bridge underpass, which he claims will save them time getting back home.

  The boy follows his parents and their friend with a preoccupation mind.

  As they go under the large, forbidding bridge, the parents and their friend hear quiet whispers up ahead of them. They then come across two men speaking to each other. Their backs are turned towards the family and their friend.

  Sensing trouble, the father holds onto his wife’s arm more tightly. He calls his son to his side. As they walk closer they see the two individuals standing next to each other, their tones harsh and fierce.

  Suddenly, one of the men pulls a gun from his coat. He fires the other man dead, who falls to the ground without a sound. It all occurs instantly and tersely.

  The mother screams, alerting the man to their presence. Realizing they have become witnesses to his crime, he turns the gun on them. The father lunges forward to stop the man, taking a knife from his coat as his friend follows right behind him.

  The man fires two shots. While the family friend immediately crumbles to the ground, the father struggles as he clutches his stomach, reeling forward. Almost amused, t
he man allows him to walk until he finally collapses.

  The wife screams and rushes to her husband’s side.

  The man fires another shot. The wife joins her husband and their friend on the street.

  The boy watches all of it with widened eyes. Motionless, snowflakes begin to land on his cheeks. They melt and slowly fall down his face like tears.

  Breathing heavily, the boy looks up at the man.

  The man looks at the boy and sees the fear in his eyes. He puts the gun away with a cackle.

  “Consider it an early Christmas gift,” he laughs. “Ho, ho, ho.”

  Feeling no threat from the boy, the man starts to walk past him. He is stunned, however, when he hears a scream rattled his ears, followed by a powerful blow to his gut. He gasps, looking down to see the boy with his fists held high, his blue eyes blazing with righteous indignation.

  Enraged, the man pulls his gun out again and cocks it, placing it between the boy’s glassy eyes.

  Just as he is about to fire, he is flung backwards at the sound of a shotgun blast. With red spots on his chest, he falls like a lifeless doll and joins his victims.

  The boy does not even look behind him to see who his savior is. He instantly runs to his parent’s side and begins to shake them, begging for them to come back and take him home. He does not weep. He continues to shake them.

  A firm, warm hand places itself on the boy’s shoulder. The boy turns and sees a stranger with a smoking shotgun in his hand.

  The man turns the boy around, away from his parents, and embraces him in his arms. The boy hugs him tightly, not out of love, but out of the need and want for comfort, comfort his parents can no longer provide.

  The man speaks to him with a soft voice, repeating the same thing over and over again.

  “It’s alright boy. It’s alright.”

  ***

  December 23, 1933. It was always night and always dark when Sean left his workplace, whatever job it happened to be. On this particular night he had washed dishes in a restaurant kitchen. Given four hours of work, it had left him with enough time to grab some bread and cheese before leaving his home, which he always did at the same time each night.

  His shift had been shortened as an alternative to wage cuts. He hadn’t complained to his supervisor, who had made the decision that same day. Sean was known by everyone he worked for or with as someone who did not complain. Whether word or deed, nothing he did not offend anyone around him.

  Shutting the front door to his house behind him, Sean walked down the street, stuffing the remainder of bread with slices of cheese on it.

  On 13th Street, the next street from him, he walked past several scenes; one of a pimp beating a prostitute; a dark figure placing a questionable object into the back of his automobile; a man running across the street as he threw something into a dumpster.

  Each time Sean turned his head away and continued walking as though there was nothing there, and when a scream resonated from the other side of the neighborhood, he did not react.

  Instead, he looked up at the sky, whose murkiness made everything, even the snowfall, look as black as coal. He could see nothing, except for the flakes that fell onto his face, melting like tears on his cheeks.

  Coming upon a nondescript house, situated between several other small similar structures, he stepped up to the door. He knocked twice and waited patiently, as if he did not expect the door to open right away.

  Evelyn Malone, the sister to his best friend, Patrick, peeked through the opening. She was wearing robe with her nightgown underneath.

  When she saw Sean’s face, she smiled, and he smiled back at her. They did not speak as Sean walked inside and embraced her. He noticed her winced.

  “How is Patrick?” he said.

  “The same as yesterday,” she said.

  “Did he go to work alright?”

  “Yes, but he was still affected by it.”

  “How bad was it?”

  Her eyes swelled as she covered her mouth.

  “He yelled,” she said. “He yelled and shouted some more.”

  She lowered her head and cried. Sean put a hand on her shoulder and brought her close to him. She trembled as she spoke, wiping the tears from her eyes with her fingertips.

  “He’s in the living room. He’s already drank half of the bottle that he dinna manage to get through last night.”

  Sean nodded, looking down the short hallway.

  “I’ll speak to him,” he said.

  “Be careful, Sean. Please. He’s gettin’ worse.”

  “How worse?”

  “I can’t say exactly, just worse.”

  “I will try to speak to him about it. He’ll listen. He must.”

  Sean took off his flat cap and coat and hung them up on a hanger in the hallway before he walked through the corridor and into the living room. He held Evelyn’s hand as she followed behind him.

  Patrick sat on the sofa, his hand on a bottle of whiskey. He drank from it in intervals. His face was flushed in red. His eyes roamed about as Sean approached him. Evelyn stopped in the middle of the room as she gazed at her brother. Whimpering, she stood on the opposite side of the room.

  “Sean, me boyo!” Patrick said as he got up from the sofa. He stumbled at first, but then regained his balance and hugged Sean with one hand. They both sat down on the sofa.

  Patrick, laughing a bit, offered the bottle of whiskey to Sean, who declined it with a hand gesture.

  “What is the matter with ya ma head?” Patrick asked. “Ya not off the drink still, are ya?”

  There was a short pause. Evelyn and Sean exchanged glances before Sean turned to Patrick.

  “Aye,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “I donna want to discuss it. Not now.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I donna feel like it is the best time to discuss it. We discussed it before.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I donna want to, Patrick.”

  Patrick stared at him for a while. He then suddenly shoved the bottle into Sean’s face. Sean pulled his mouth away, but Patrick persisted until Sean brushed it aside with his hand.

  “Drink, damn ye!” Patrick said. “Only cowards and gacks donna drink hard tack!”

  “I donna want to,” Sean said.

  “Ye will!”

  “No.”

  “Why? Is it not good enough for ye, to drink me hard tack? Do ya drink others, or do ye not drink at all?”

  Sean glanced at Evelyn. She had placed herself in the corner and now played with her doll, which she always did whenever arguments arose. He tried to go over to her, but Patrick struggled to his feet and placed himself in the way. Sean tried to go around him, but found himself blocked every time.

  “I donna want to fight with ye, Patrick,” he said. “Ye me best friend.”

  “Fine. Ya come up with a better thing to rabbit on about, and ye might get off the hook for refusin’ me gesture.”

  “‘Bout ye, then?”

  “Ha! I couldna get any worse! Evelyn’s enough of a chore that makes ya have to pull ya socks up at any time of the day. I canna go to work without having to worry about her.”

  “Is she feelin’ ill?”

  Patrick stumbled backwards, grabbing his head. He leaned against the sofa with his hand to support him.

  “Bah! It’s whatever happened to her when those bastards came! I just took her to the doctor and they wouldna listen to anything I said unless I had money to show them. Do I look flahulach, like I can just toss about money like that! Do I look like one of those rich gaffers to ye?”

  “No,” Sean said.

  “And then, ma boss keeps tellin’ me that I need to stop showing up to work like an alco. He said that I am always actin’ strange and not doing my job.”

  “I donna see why that would be a problem.”

  Patrick jumped up from his seat, flaring with wrath.

  “Problem? Problem? Ye tell that to me when ye have to deal with
a sis that donna know how to take care of herself when she’s nearly eighteen!”

  Evelyn continued to play with her doll, hugging it whenever Patrick mentioned her. With it pressed against her face, she looked up at Sean, who glanced over at her.

  “Patrick,” Sean said, “I need ye to calm down.”

  Patrick scoffed, threw a hand at him.

  “Ye tell that to me when ye has to deal with the all of this. I donna want anyone judgin’ me for what I do. I do it because there isn’t anythin’ in this town for an Irishman to do besides join up with the O’Brien gang or get blown to pieces by them. Nobody likes us here, Sean. We shouldna left Ireland. We shoulda stayed in Cork.”

  “Donna talk like that, Patrick. Ye know as well as I do that we’re better off here than there. And it isn’t our home anymore. This be our home. I donna want to go back.”

  “Maybe ya don’t know, but when ye are left with what I have, then maybe ya bloody will!”

  “What have I got that ye donna have?”

  “Ya donna have to worry constantly about ya bloody sister goin’ off her head at any random bloody time. That’s somethin’ ye will never have to do!”

  “I’m here all the time, Patrick. I take care of her as much as ye do. Please donna get onto this topic again.”

  “I’ll bloody talk about whatever I bloody want to talk about!”

  Patrick threw the bottle of whiskey against the wall. It shattered into pieces and then crashed down on the carpet. Evelyn curled up into a ball and hid near the chair as Patrick stood up, peering at Sean who remained in his seat. Sean tried to place his hand on Patrick’s side.

  “Let us not fight, Patrick,” he said. “Why do ye have to get so angry?”

  “Because ya donna seem to care about what I do!”

  “If I didna care then I wouldna be here now.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Ya still refuse to drink my hard tack,” Patrick said.

  “I donna want to drink ye whiskey.”

  “Why not? Ye da drank my da’s all the bloody time!”

  “I’m not me da.”

  “Damn right ye not ye bloody da! Ye a bloody coward!”

  He punched Sean in the face, knocking him down to the ground. Evelyn dropped her doll, running over to Sean’s side. Patrick moved away stumbled more, rubbing his face with both hands. He grabbed his hand with his head, leaning to his left and then to his right as he closed his eyes. He opened them once more, watching his sister cry for the third time that hour. He responded by looking away, staring at the wall for a long time, at one of the pictures of their family before their parents had been murdered.