The Lost Angel

by Adam C Mitchell

  The Lost Angel

  By Adam C Mitchell

  For Holly

  A little Dame that stole my heart.

  Acknowledgement

  I would like to thank my amazing wife who has put up with me while I've written this I know you have wanted to throttle me at times. All my friends on Facebook your help has been amazing.

  Especially Sharon and Michelle you have been god send’s

  You have all been great. To all the people whose names I forget, thank you. This book's for you.

  Copyright info

  The Lost Angel

  Copyright ©2015/2016 Adam C Mitchell

  Revised Edition

  Digital Edition First Published January 1st 2016

  This is a work of fiction. Names, Characters, Places and Incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental..

  Cover art done by Sharon Lipman of Fantasia covers

  Email: fantasiacovers@gmail.com

  Published in the United Kingdom – Shropshire - Whitchurch

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Part One

  I glanced around the bar, checking out the punters as the barman refilled my glass. Whiskey topped up, I focused on the man perched at the far end; fat, sweaty, early forties. His hair was dirty blond and thinning on top, his clothes expensive but unkempt. Fatso wore a dull blue striped number, crumpled shirt and scuffed leather shoes. He was spending money like it was going out of fashion. His drink of choice was Old Forester. He drank heavily, trying to buy friends in the process, showing off and bragging like he was Lord of the keep.

  After downing my drink, I moved towards him. He turned on his stool and gave me a toothy smile. “A drink, my friend?”

  I pulled a handkerchief from my jacket pocket and wiped the man's spittle off my cheek. He spewed his words and drooled like a lout. He was ten sheets to the wind and getting more inebriated by the minute. His name was Tony and he was a drunken big-spender and barfly at most of the clubs and betting establishments around the city.

  We met for the first time a year back. He latched on to my doll, giving her a drunken advance and a below the belt grope. We fought. He got the doll and I got the heave hoe and a night in the cell.

  Tony ordered a whiskey and pushed it in front of me. I didn’t want it but played along. In truth, I was checking him out. His pockets were going to feel real light soon. The tarnished fob watch nestling in his loose, stained waistcoat might be worth something. It didn’t look like nothing special but it’d be easy to fence or sell down the markets. They didn’t care where their stock came from so long as it sold.

  He raised his glass to his lips, which is the exact moment the breath froze in my throat. There, beneath the loudmouth's jacket, hung a brown holster and a gun. I groaned. Trouble was the one thing I didn’t need. Not right now.

  Downing the two fingers straight, Tony smacked his lips with a satisfied gasp and put his hand on my shoulder. “The name’s Tony Santeeni. I’m celebrating a new job, you know, working the door of the Lost Angel club,” he slurred. “I’m coming into money. A big deal. Then, pal, I’ll be on easy street.” He swayed in his seat and I caught sight of the brown paper parcel stuffed in his jacket pocket.

  Without warning, he slugged me clean off the stool. I landed on the floor with a thud. He must have remembered my face from our last encounter. For a long while, I made it my business to make sure every black-and-white in the area stopped by and gave him a little visit. If not that, maybe the almighty slap my former doll gave him across the chops. Tony drew the gun from its holster and waved it in my direction. “You’re trying to get me drunk and get in on my big score!” His arm swayed and the gun went off, blowing a hole in the floor by my head.

  I pulled my gun out and fired back. Instinct, nothing more. I hated packing heat, but the club scene and the city made it a must. You either carried heat or died by it.

  Tony slumped over the bar, bleeding from a hole in his head. The bar emptied of customers as I got up. More than likely expecting a visit from a copper or reprisal from the barkeep. Everyone knew about the shotgun kept behind the bar in case of trouble. I holstered his weapon and relieved Tony Santeeni of the parcel. He didn’t need it where he was going.

  Five men rushed inside, all square-shouldered and broken-nosed. They hurried to the bar. Lord knows who they were. Likely people Tony owed money to and more than likely working for one of the crime families. Seeing the parcel in my hand, they made a b-line in my direction.

  I fired twice, just to keep them away. They flipped a table over and dived for cover. I dived too, but towards the door at the back of the bar.

  II

  The unforgiving night closed in. The crisp cold air stung my face and burnt my lungs. Dim street lights bathed the maze of seedy back alleys in a ghostly light. I stopped to catch my breath. The grim silence was deafened by heavy breathing and my pounding heart. Taxis and trams distant passing permeated the stillness. Then, the silence was broken. Footsteps approached, urging me on; fear pushed my aching legs, despite the pain shooting through them.

  Turning a corner, I clambered over upturned dustbins and an old damp fence. Arriving on a broad street, I pushed my legs harder. They gave way and I tripped, falling to my knees and sliding on the wet cobbles. Pain raced through my left knee, a distant reminder of the Bastogne and life in post-war limbo.

  The cold forced panicked tears to well, got me moving again. I ran down steps, through a rusted iron gate and stopped. It was a dead end.

  Something heavy scraped against the other side of the wall. A moment later, a thud ricocheted off the bricks, echoing inside the nothingness of my escape. Beads of sweat formed on my brow. I blinked the sting away. A moment later, they were on the street above me. I pressed tight against the wall, hugging the shadows. Biting my lip to mask the pain in my leg, I lowered my hat and focused on the top of the steps. My hand moved to my ill-fitting coat and into my pocket. The feel of cold steel brushed my sweating palm. My friend. My Colt. I checked the chamber, one bullet. I made a mental note to kick myself for not reloading, it was a rookie mistake. I knew better. I’d bought a little extra ammo that day, not much, but some, and then thinking I didn’t need to go in hot, left it behind. One bullet would be of little use against a group of heavily armed men.

  The running stopped. Clicking replaced the uneasy silence as the men cocked the hammers on their guns. Looking up, I saw the outline of a thin wispy man at the top of the steps. Sweat trickled down my face. I licked my cold, sore lips, tasting salt. I had a choice to make.

  Make a stand, fight and maybe buy the farm, or run and take a bullet in the back. Tough choice.

  I pointed my Colt at the shadow. Waiting scared me, but I did it. Staring at the wispy shadow I tried my best to control the wave of fear.

  “This way!” The words echoed from further up the street. The running began again, pounding the wet flags and getting faint. Seconds later, they turned the corner and were gone. I tucked my gun in my trench coat and climbed the eleven stone steps, looking down the long street to the corner. I headed in the opposite direction. Eddy Kovakx, you are one lucky guy.

  III

  At my lodgings in the poorly named Sunrise apartments, I took out my gun and spun the barrel, a ritual I’d always done for luck, and put it under my pillow. The drab room was thick with du
st. Sickly green wallpaper hung from the walls, revealing damp underneath. It was poorly lit, with only a working table lamp. I pulled out the brown paper bundle from my jacket. Whatever the package contained, those men nearly got it, and me too.

  I ripped the crumpled paper off a sleek wooden black ebony box. Inside was a roll of banknotes as thick as my wrist, maybe a thousand dollars. Some old sheets of paper were wrapped around the wad. I tossed them aside but then noticed the writing on them. Tony had been so drunk he’d made little sense, going on about his ‘big job’ and ‘a grand score’. A few more minutes and I’d have gotten a lot more information out the shmuck. The bullet stopped that.

  I laid the papers on the bed. They were plans, scribbled plans for a robbery. The layout of the new jazz club. The doors and windows, the times of openings. Everything. The job was set for three days’ time and I was going to be there.

  At the bottom of the page, written in sloppy handwriting, was a name: RUDY VANNETTI - HEAD BARMAN. I figured he was the inside man, Tony Santeeni’s contact. The plans talked about a drop-off but the time was missing. Vannetti didn’t know it yet, but he was about to get a new partner

  * * *

  The Lost Angel was new and exciting. The sounds of the jazz club filled the early evening air as I crossed the traffic rich street into the dim alley. I couldn’t go through the main doors, not with those ogres lording it over everyone. But the alley had a side door where the band did their comings and goings. It was also my way in.

  Inside, the heady cocktail of music from the ‘Sensational Kimmie Saint Claire’ and the smoky light and vibe of the chatter filled my senses. I made my way to the bar like a moth to a flame and sat down. I looked around the packed club, taking in the small tables. Finding one in a corner, I sat down.

  I asked a cocktail waitress if she had seen my old friend, Rudy. She pointed to a guy in a low lit corner booth. He was twenty-something, with greasy hair and skin and a day-old shadow around his cigarette clad mouth.

  Old before his time, this city could do that if you let it. I ordered two whiskeys, went over and placed a murky glass in front of him. Rudy looked up.

  "You wouldn't be Rudy, would ya? What’s kicking?”

  Rudy drank the whisky in one without a word or a thank you. An evil devilish smile crossed his spotted, pocked face.

  He motioned for me to take a seat. My right hand stayed inside my old overcoat pocket, on my colt. Just in case the deal went sour.

  “So, what can I do for you, buddy?”

  I placed my battered fedora on the table. “Your partner bought the farm. His bragging got him in hot water if you catch my drift. I saw the package and took it, better me than the goons chasing after him.’ I leaned forward. ‘I saw the wad of presidents and the plans.”

  “So, Tony’s a cold lump of meat. I hear you, but what’s that got to do with me?”

  “Listen, Rudy, unless you want me to rat you to the thirty-fourth and get you a reservation at Sin Sing, I want in. Not the measly ten per cent you offered Tony though, I want it cut down the middle.”

  Rudy looked dumbfounded. His eyes glazed open and his cigarette fell from his slack-jawed mouth, I could see the beads of panic running down his forehead. Like a weasel trying to bolt he looked at me, around the club, then back at me, a worried look on his face. After an age, he said, “How do I know you’re not a cop or a hitter?”

  I couldn’t help but let out a sarcastic laugh. “Coz if I were, you’d be dead alongside your pal or in the birdcage by now.”

  The greasy weasel let out an uneasy but relieved sigh. “True.”

  “Let’s say I’m interested. How do I know you won’t do a George C. Parker and con me out of the loot? Or worse. How do I know I can trust you? Or that you’re on the level?”

  Ruddy grabbed a drink from a passing waitress. I tossed the wad of bills to Rudy, hoping to sweeten the pot. I could tell this slick wily was biting. “The way I see it, pal. You need a second. A bagman. So, unless you’re Harry Houdini, you need me to pull this off. Now, you’ve got those presidents to help you think, so I’m going to grab a scotch and wait for you.”

  In the time it took me to walk to the bar, order and return, I could see he’d come around.

  “Okay. Say I’m interested. Tony drank too much anyway. What d’you want to know?”

  After ordering him another drink, I answered, “Well, buddy, the drop-off and cargo would be a start, and how the hell are we meant to get out of this town? This is Victor’s place. If we steal from him were looking at a trip down the Burbank River in our near future. You get me?”

  Rudy rubbed his chin. “The time’s midnight Saturday. The cargo is green. Cold hard cash. Eighty grand to be exact, and we get out fast, as fast as we can. I know whose joint this is, and frankly, for that payout, I’m ready to take a swim. Besides, we’ll be in the city’s dust before our pal Victor wakes up.”

  Eighty grand. I had always been a small-time crook. This was big for me. Rudy explained the money was dirty and would be well guarded on the night. I whistled at the thought of what the money could do for me.

  Rudy led me into a back room behind the bar. “We’re going to need firepower to pull this off.” Opening a locked cupboard he pulled out a large duffel bag. In it was two Thompson Sub’s, two pistols and a boatload of extra brass. I held the Tommy; it was new, in factory wrappings.

  I smiled, and with a cheesy put-on mob voice, said, “These were lifted by a pal of mine from an Army base down Frisco way. It’s 1946. We got to have the best, to be the best.”

  Taking a coin from my pocket, I tossed it in the air.

  “We don’t know what we’ll be up against on the night?” Rudy said.

  We needed a car for the getaway, so I used the cash I had stowed at my apartment to buy a car. The one Rudy got had black-and-whites looking for it. If we used that we’d be in hot water the second we turned the ignition. I got a small, but fast, blue Lincoln Coupe.

  Saturday night came and I met Rudy at the back of the Lost Angel. The club was busy out front; taxi’s bringing people from all over to the fresh feel of the club. But here in the alley, where it was quiet and still, it was near-dark, lit by only two lamps, one at each end. I snapped in the round Tommy Magazine and flipped off the safety. Parking the car about fifty yards up the alley from the door of the club I knelt on the running board of the coupe. I was sweating and my hands tensed on the gun’s small but powerful trigger.

  “Cool it,” Rudy said, tapping me on my shoulder. Five minutes. Be ready. We hit them hard. Get in fast, grab the cash and we are in the wind. Gone.

  A crimson Sedan interrupted my thoughts as it turned off the street into the alley. “Wait till the club’s heavies are out,” I said. “We need them in the open.” Rudy nodded. I pulled my hat down, bringing the gun to my shoulder. I flipped the gun to auto and eyed up the club door. I took a slow deep breath. The car stopped and four large men got out, all with Austen SMG’s, proving these big guns weren’t playing.

  This wasn’t going to be easy. All we had was surprise. They heard Rudy’s footfall. I fired on the nearest man. The driver returned the fire, alternating his aim between Rudy and me. The driver hit Rudy hard and loud. He dropped like a sack of spuds. Rudy hit another guy but not before the shmuck fired back, killing Rudy in seconds.

  I sprayed the car with a hail of bullets, emptying my gun on them. It was over in moments. Three men lay dead in the club doorway and a fat man slumped in the car, bullets where his eyes once were. I ran over, pulled the bloody leather bag from the fat guy’s limp, lifeless hand.

  Running back to the Lincoln, Rudy’s dead eyes stared up at me. Screams came from the club door. I threw the bag inside the Coupe car and jumped inside, driving as fast as I could to get out of there.

  ***

  Thankfully I was near the edge of the city. Fields of corn, farmland and rows of trees greeted my line of sight. These roads were alien to the concrete roads of the city fading from view in my rear-view
mirror. When the panic and excitement gave way to clear thought, a searing pain coursed through my left arm. I pulled over on a trackway hidden by a coppice. I had taken a slug to my thigh. There was blood everywhere and it hurt like hell but would have to wait. I had to put some space between me and the city.

  By the early hours of the morning, I was many miles from Central City, touching eighty down coastal lanes and sea bound cliffs. I slowed down as I approached a small fishing town. I didn’t want to draw unwanted attention. The last thing I needed was some Hill-Billy country cop trying to give me a blasted ticket. With the first light of day, autumn leaves fell onto the hood of the car. Birds sang a sweet melody. It lifted my spirits a little.

  I sped north towards Liberty city where I have folks and a place to lie low. The sodden roads were covered with red, yellow and gold autumn leaves. I wish I hadn’t slowed down. The pain in my leg was getting worse, and when I raised my foot to apply the brake to take a corner, the pain intensified. The car skidded sideways, veering off the road. I slammed into an old wall that had been hugging the road. It looked like it had been there since time began. I yanked the steering wheel right, shot left and everything went black.

  When I regained consciousness, it was late morning. The road was empty and all was quiet. The undercarriage of the car pressed on the remnants of the prehistoric stone wall. I was jammed in the car with the moneybag in my lap. I opened it up. I had never seen so much money. Ideas of how I would spend it came to my mind. I’d made the big-time and got clean away. Well, almost. My arm needed fixing. But I was in the middle of the boondocks, many miles away.

  I shifted in my seat and the wall crumbled beneath me. The car lurched forward, which is when I noticed I was on a cliff edge, with the promise of a long, deep drop. The car teetered on the edge, rocking back and forwards. The pain in my leg blurred my eyes. I figured I had to do something fast or die on the razor-sharp rocks below. My heart pounded in my throat as I edged sideways. Money in one hand, the door handle in the other. The car rocked again.