Men Who Walk Alone

by T. J. Martinell

We dashed through the corridor as the ceiling collapsed behind them. In Marzio’s main office, I looked around for a possible exit. The thick, murky smoke forced us down to their knees. I handed Hardy a spare handkerchief, covered his face with one as well. We crawled up to the window, gazed down at the two stories below us.

  “Shit,” Hardy muttered. “This don’t look so good.”

  I caught sight of a downspout that ran to the bottom of the building. I smiled, motioned at it to Hardy. I used my elbow to smash the window, clear the loose shards. I then jumped up on the sill. The downspout was several feet away.

  The first thing I did was toss the folders down onto the ground. They landed on the pavement with a thin smack, slid down the road.

  At this point I wasn’t scared. If I was meant to have died, I would have been dead already.

  I leapt into the air, my hands held out desperately. I got hold of the downspout. My skin burned as I slid down it. Just as I reached the ground, I looked up to see Hardy make the same jump successfully. Heavier, Hardy hit the dirt roughly.

  I retrieved the folders with one hand, searched for a cigarette with the other. I smoked two as I followed Hardy to his car.

  “How did ya find me?” he asked.

  “Barker cornered me at the station,” Hardy said. “He demanded to know where ya were. He heard about the Vigilante showin’ up, wanted to know where he had gone. Somethin’ was wrong. I could tell right away. It was like he was afraid he had made a brodie, needed to cover it up.”

  “I’ll say he atoned for it rather well.”

  “Where are the G-men guardin’ Marzio?”

  “Dead, of course! What the freak did ya think happened?”

  Hardy opened his car door, stopped to pause. He looked at me. I knew what troubled him. He had gone out on a limb to save me. But he wasn’t a saint.

  “Elroy’s behind this,” I said. “Marzio was just the pawn.”

  “Hard to believe,” Hardy said, his eyes cast on the top of the car. He took off his hat, ran his fingers through his hair nervously. “What are ya gonna do?”

  I opened the trunk to the car, shoved the folders inside. After I had closed it, I approached Hardy closely.

  “We can’t wait for someone else to take care of this,” he said. “We gotta did it ourselves.”

  “What are ya sayin’, Seth?”

  “I’m sayin’ we issue a warrant for Elroy’s arrest.”

  Hardy’s incredulous chuckle was natural. It was unheard of to arrest one of their own. In the past, cops like that had been taken care of discreetly, without a fuss. I had just suggested we do it openly, officially.

  “No way,” he said. “I ain’t stickin’ my neck out like that. I may have saved ya, but I didn’t like Barker none. We had our ‘differences,’ if ya know what I mean. It went back for years. Just remember that. I didn’t go there just to save ya ass, no offense.”

  “I don’t care why ya did it. But we’ve got to do somethin’.”

  What can ya prove?”

  “Those folders have all the evidence. Once we get them to the DA, it’s all over, unless he’s dirty, too. Why else would Barker have tried to burn them?”

  Hardy sighed repeatedly, peered across the city skyline to where the police station stood like a symbol of order, justice. To me, however, it had become a symbol of Beverly’s corrupted state. As long as men like Elroy occupied it, it was just a farce.

  “If we don’t take him out now, it’ll start all over again,” I said. “He’s gonna be hailed a hero for this. The city won’t allow his reputation to be tarnished, no matter what kind of brodie he’s made. They’ll cover it up.”

  “You’re the saint, Moore. I ain’t. Never have been. I did what I could for ya back there. But I ain’t gonna do this.”

  I confronted him with a stern look. My hand dangled close to my revolver. He looked down at it, a tense line in his face.

  “Don’t do anythin’ stupid, Moore,” he said.

  We stared at each other hard. I couldn’t move on without his help. Despite his unpopularity, he still held considerable sway within the ranks. Some of the men would listen to me, but they wouldn’t be enough. We needed those loyal to Hardy, too.

  “This is the day to make up for all the brodies ya made in ya life,” I said. “Not a bad gig; ya help me bring in Elroy, ya sins are cleared. Better than anythin’ a priest would tell ya to do. Ya wanna say seventy Hail Mary’s instead?”

  “I’m not like ya. I look out for myself.”

  “I’m askin’ ya to take what little decency ya have left inside ya and put it to good use. Ya know if zilch happens to Elroy, he’s gonna find out somebody bumped off Barker. He’s also gonna know we know somethin’. How long ya think you’ll last in the department when they finish the autopsies on Barker and those other coppers?”

  Finished, I stepped back, let him mull over it for a while. Hardy seemed divided as we got inside the car. I handed him a cigarette. When he tried to light it, he tore it from his mouth, crumbled it in his hand like he wanted to absorb the tobacco through his skin. Even for a hood of a cop like him, a guilty conscience ate into the heart like acid.

  “I hope ya right on this one,” he stated. “I hope ya right.”

  A small grin appeared on my face as I stared down the barren road ahead of us. A graveyard of destroyed vehicles were strewn everywhere. Elroy’s handiwork.

  I realized then I had been wrong about myself.

  None of it was personal. It was simply justice.

  ***

  A handful of Italian militiamen entered the tavern with wary demeanors. The leader held a double barrel shotgun in front of him as he surveyed the gruesome scene. His moral outrage held him back for a moment before he proceeded farther into the nightclub. His men scattered as they searched the place for the perpetrators.

  Finding none, they headed to the bar counter, where Irishmen had been lined up and shot mercilessly. Appalled by the hideous entry wounds on the bodies, they all crossed themselves. Tears fell down the leader’s face as he seemed to recognize many of the faces, or at least the faces that hadn’t been shot beyond recognition.

  Lowering his shotgun, he dropped down to one knee respectfully. Speaking in Sicilian, he requested to one of his men that they fetch a priest to perform last rites. The man earnestly left, arrived a few minutes later.

  To their surprise, he returned with Alistair Sturges, a preacher. His plain clothes, as well as the nondescript cross necklace he wore, silently declared his Protestant beliefs. The solemnity that seemed to permeate the air around them, however, removed any resistance they may have harbored towards him.

  The pastor shook hands with the leader. Wrinkles ran across his weathered features. He had a resolute, but friendly demeanor.

  “Please, Mr. Sturges. Can you pray for dez men?”

  “I certainly can.”

  As they walked over to the bodies, Alistair suddenly collapsed. The leader offered to help him, but he declined as he moved closer to the body of Sean Blood. The unique nature of the clothes on it drew Antonio’s eyes as well. The Italians gathered around it.

  Alistair placed his hand on the Sean’s bloodied face as he wept. The boy appeared as though he had not died peacefully, nor had death taken him swiftly. The contorted expression on his face wouldn’t go away, even as Alistair attempted to soothe his features.

  “Who was he?” one of the Italians asked.

  The leader crossed himself again. His eyes glimmered as they filled with tears.

  “He was the Vigilante.”

  The Italians regarded the body as though it were that of a saint or a holy relic. They got down on their knees as well, looking to Antonio for guidance.

  Alistair brought the Sean’s head into his arms as he embraced him.

  “Oh, my boy, my boy,” he whispered into his ear. “What madness drove you to this?”

  He tried to recite the opening to a Psalm, but each time he started his voice gradually died as he broke in
to uncontrollable sobs. After he had exhausted himself from crying, he wiped the tears from his face, assuming a religious pose as he prayed.

  In the midst of it, a voice called out to stop him.

  “He’s not dead!”

  Frightened, Alistair stopped as they all turned to see where the voice came from. At the front door, Evelyn Malone rushed into the tavern, throwing herself at the young man’s side. Weeping, she placed his head in her lap, stroking his hair gently.

  “Please,” Alistair begged her. “Let me pray for his soul.”

  She cried all the more loudly and desperately.

  “He’s not dead!”

  Alistair looked up to see Patrick Malone appear at the entrance. With red hair and pale skin, he looked down at his sister with brotherly affection. When he saw Sean, his pale complexion reddened. Tears swelled in his eyes as he approached them, lowering himself down with shaky hands.

  Hesitantly, he reached out and touched the Sean’s hand.

  “Don’t leave us, Sean,” he begged. “We need ye.”

  Then Sean’s eyes opened. They were dark. A second later, they illuminated.

  Alistair fell back in shock. The Italian trembled as he helped Alistair stand up. The others retreated to the area in front of the doors. But Evelyn and Patrick watched with equal wonder and terror.

  Sean looked down at himself like he had woken up from a long slumber. He examined the knife wound at his side; the wound had fully clotted. He groaned as he tried to move.

  “Are ye alive, Sean?” Evelyn asked. She worked to remove his trench coat, so the wound could be seen more clearly. She used a handkerchief to wipe away the blood off his clothes, throwing the trench coat to the side.

  Sean nodded, only to touch his face and realize there was no mask there. What they saw was him.

  He did not appear to look at them specifically.

  “Who did this?” Patrick asked.

  “Elroy,” Sean uttered. “He did this, all of it.”

  The Italians immediately understood what he meant. Their demeanors instantly grew hostile as they stared at the wall.

  “You need to see a doctor,” Alistair said to Sean as he placed his hands on his shoulders. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you to a hospital.”

  Sean calmly took his hands off him.

  “No,” he said. “Leave me. I want to die.”

  Evelyn cried out in shock at his answer, her face close to his, while her brother gaped at Sean. She pressed her lips against Sean’s, her tears wetting his cheeks.

  “Ye can’t leave us,” she whispered, her eyes closed. “We’re a family.”

  With a dark, self-deprecating laugh, Sean lowered his head.

  “I wanted us to be a family. You two were all I had left. I did what I did all in the hope I could protect you two. And you…”

  He cut himself off, gazing up at Patrick crossly before he looked back at Evelyn. “But all I see is hopelessness and despair. Your brother has given up on himself. He drinks to forget the terrible things we’ve endured. And what has happened to you keeps you in the past so that you can’t live with me in the present. What right does anyone have to tell me not to give up on myself? I haven’t given up on myself. I have given up on any reason to live. At least I know when I die I will go somewhere better. I have lost hope in this life. What do I have to return to now but an empty home?”

  As Evelyn continued to weep, her had buried in Sean’s chest pleadingly, Patrick walked away and stood in a dark corner by himself. There, he stared down at the ground, as though meditating. He then glanced over at Sean, his eyes fixed upon the trench coat and mask. Without a word, he swooped down, taking them both in his hands, a sober and resolute expression on his face as he glanced at Sean as though asking for approval.

  It wasn’t clear whether or not Sean nodded or merely stirred.

  Giving no explanation or command, the Italians followed behind Patrick as headed out of the tavern. He first threw the trench coat on, then placed the mask over his head. Evelyn and Alistair remained behind to attend to Sean, who seemed disquieted by the sight of the Vigilante.

  The confidence the Italians seemed to display indicated that though they didn’t fully comprehend the new Vigilante’s intentions, they understood where he intended to go and, most importantly, why.

  Outside, murky clouds rolled across the sky as if to engulf the city.

  ***

  In his office at the police station, Elroy leaned back in his chair, placing his hand on his desk. Though he smiled, he couldn’t help but seem disquieted as he looked out the window, watching the rainfall drizzle down the glass.

  Noble stood quietly next to him. He was dressed in his Vigilante costume. As the hired men passed by the office, they paused in disbelief, peering at him to confirm they hadn’t mistaken him for someone else. When they realized it was the Vigilante, they gave Elroy a baffled look. Elroy returned with grin that requested their truth and confidence.

  The hired gunman inhaled collectively, then left. They were loyal to him, understood his mission. All the men in the building had been vetted individually. The process had eliminated any potential liabilities. The other officers had been “reassigned” days before the riots had taken place; incidentally, they had suffered the highest number of police casualties.

  Shoupe, as it had turned out, had been one of the liabilities. He had to go. As the sole living participant of the Rantoul Street killings, it was possible, albeit unlikely, that he could have used his knowledge to obtain immunity from the district attorney in the event he turned against them.

  A half-empty bottle cognac sat on the desk next to Elroy’s hand within easy reach. In his other hand, he held a recently emptied glass. Cigarette smoke stuck came out of his mouth in random puffs.

  Elroy looked abstractly at the cognac bottle as he brought the cigarette out of his mouth, holding it between his fingers. He looked up at the ceiling, cocking his head to the side. He then poured himself more cognac. He peered at the glass, then lifted it to his lips, throwing his head back. One swallow later, he brought his eyes back towards Noble, their vision narrowing in focus.

  “The press conference is scheduled for three o’ clock outside of City Hall,” he said. “I want you to be there when I give the announcement. I want those boys in the press to get a good photo of you and I standing together.”

  Noble nodded his head gently. His face glowed as he envisioned the scene in his head.

  “Then what?” Noble asked.

  “The most important thing is for you to let me do the talking. You are to say only what I tell you to say.”

  “Why?”

  “A part of it fits within the image of the Vigilante. He is not known for his words, but his actions. I will speak on your behalf. You will nod your head and not speak. It is critical the city understands that you support wholeheartedly my new policies, that you believe they will reduce crime and put an end to the gang violence once and for all.”

  Noble didn’t argue or quarrel. He conveyed the mind of a monomaniac as he paced around the office, mumbling the same words over and over again.

  “I just want to be called the Vigilante,” he said. “I want them to know I stand for justice.”

  “Of course, of course.”

  “I want you to find my father and make sure he is there to witness it.”

  “Certainly.”

  “And I want my mother released from the institution.”

  “I will see what I can do.”

  Noble then slammed his hand on the desk.

  “And I want those people I told you about executed!”

  Elroy appeared reserved as he put out his cigarette. “After you have rounded up the individuals on that list I gave you, I will give it due consideration.”

  Noble jerked himself around as he slammed his hands on the desk again, his expression erratic, impetuous.

  “And I want to be the one to execute them!”

  “All in good time, my friend. You canno
t rush these things. The city has been dealt a very serious blow. It must recover.”

  “They must die! They must all die, by my hands!”

  “And they will. But when I say so. And not a moment before, understood?”

  Elroy grabbed Noble’s trench coat, pulling him close to his face as he gazed at him sternly. His tone carried a sardonic sense of humor.

  “Just remember that it is only because of my compassion and mercy that you are still alive. It was I who pulled your burned body out of that warehouse. It was I who ordered the doctor to perform those surgeries that saved your life. It was I who footed the bill for such costly operations. It was I, and no one else, who fought to keep you alive. Barker wanted you to be thrown in the river. You owe me a life debt. Your life belongs to me. As long as you carry out my will, you have a purpose. The instant you deviate from that role...well...I’m sure you can imagine what will happen.”

  He then shoved Noble back. The young man’s scarred face wrinkled as he looked at Elroy with an embittered sparkle in his eyes. It conveyed pity rather than terror.

  “Very well,” he replied.

  “Good. Have you heard from Barker?”

  “No.”

  Elroy called Barker’s desk, didn’t get a reply. He then tried his subordinate. No response, either. Frustrated, he called numerous lieutenants within the department. None of them had heard from him since had left with a squad to the downtown district.

  “I don’t like this,” Elroy said as he glanced at his watch. “We only have two hours before the press conference. He can’t miss this. It’s going to be the most powerful moment in this city’s history. The mayor and the district attorney will be there. Why does he have to disappear right now? Couldn’t he have waited?”

  Elroy’s phone rang. The voice on the other end was vague. He thought at first it was Barker toying with him.

  “This isn’t the time for games,” he chastised. “Get down here, now! We’re prepping for the press conference as we speak.”

  The person cackled derisively. It wasn’t Barker’s voice; it was unrefined, unsophisticated. The scoffs were targeted specifically at Elroy as a person, not a commissioner. He had only heard that laugh before from one person.