Welcome To Central City

by Adam C Mitchell

  Morgan glanced from Grace who told him,

  “He’s in the parlor. Go on through, hun.”

  Morgan straightened up and went in. Sam Doakes was sitting on an upturned barrel, his chin resting on his chest as he played with his byre. He spoke without turning his head.

  “Hey cap. I hoped you’d get around to swinging by after your little adventure, buddy. Well, eventually.

  “Banner haul your ass over the fire?” he asked with casual but honest concern. Morgan sat without being asked and nodded. “In more ways than one, pal, we wanted to put me back on the goat’s girl if ya’ get me, most cops would love being given the push, but not me, I'm a homicide cop simple as that. Anyway Banner just offered it to me so I’d go away bother someone else. So rather than give him what he wanted. I took the whiskey walk, and quit” He meant that he was a male beat cop working vice. It wasn’t a bad role for a beat cop, except it made you cannon fodder in the break rooms.

  “So you quit, huh?” Doakes added.

  Morgan took out his broken pipe, thumbing it with tobacco.

  “Yeah I…” He stopped as the quiet chirp of the doorbell cut in. He heard Grace shuffle down the corridor to answer it, then the creak of the door as it opened. The unmistakable tone of Sean Costner flooded the small home. Doakes smiled inviting him in.

  “Come on in Sean. Ain’t you a sight for saw eyes? How longs it been, three months?”

  “Four, pal. But I’ll give your chapter and verse later.”

  Before Morgan could take a much-needed draw on his pipe, the curtains were brushed aside and another former dick, now hotel security heavy, walked in sporting yet another black eye named Finley Booth. Or Fighting Finley as he was known to his pals. Now the small parlor was crowded. Costner and Booth belonged to the same line of cops as Morgan and Doakes: natural born, tin shield carrying flat feet, all disillusioned, jaded, bitter, despite all going in different directions to make ends meet. All were still patriotic to a fault to a losing cause: justice. They were big men, broad shouldered and muscled with cold eyes and Jerry-can biceps. They had something that comes with a life and a badge, something that couldn’t be taught, old school grit and smarts. In a post war generation, that was becoming a rare thing. They were all alike in so many ways, mostly looks and personality, almost as if they’d all shard the same womb.

  “Come on Doakes. Drink? You gave that twerp Banner some solid advice from what I hear, Morgan. Good on ya,” Costner commented heartily. Costner had retired a year ago, taking the odd bit of body-guarding work for the so-called high rollers and so called stars, now and again. Booth now worked with a murky rep as a hotel security heavy, but even he too was close to the sack or a pension, whatever came first. Morgan nodded.

  “I couldn’t help myself,” he said slowly. “The sight of that pile of drak sitting there, lording it over everyone, Well… Well, I just snapped and I quit.”

  Costner sighed.

  “Shame about the pension though. This town needs cops like you, now more than ever. Central’s in terrible shape; it’s dying slowly and the cons are the virus. What Central needs is a whole new C.C.P..D. Christ, a dozen old timers could heal our old lady Central in forty-eight hours. Lads, I remember when Doakes’s old man was in charge…” Costner was right. It would only take two, three days tops.

  “Hey Booth, you’re still in touch with everyone from the old bull pen. How soon do you think ya’ could get em’ here for a good old school clean up?” Morgan had a new energy about him. He felt twenty again. He needed this new burst of energy after the last day or two. No one in that small parlor spoke for a long time, each veteran not wanting to rush in first. Each man weighed what Morgan had just suggested. Men like Morgan, Doakes, Costner and Booth didn’t take things like this lightly. They all had something or someone to think about, be it family, spouse or whatever kept a copper going after putting down most their life for the force.

  But that simple phrase clean up’ had weight!

  Eventually, Booth spoke up.

  “Morgan, do you mean pulling a Miller and gunning the gangs out?” Lt. Miller was an old cop from the twenties and an urban legend in the C.C.P.D, especially with the old timers. Miller took out an entire gang that had been flooding the city with snow with just two clips of ammo and a Bowie knife. The gang was gone, but Miller took a Thompson square in the chest, courtesy of the dead gang head’s brother. He may have died but the legend was born. Booth was talking to himself when Costner spoke.

  He knew he’d have to start the ball rolling.

  “Are you serious about taking it to them?”

  Morgan leaned forward, his voice sharp and commanding.

  “I mean to form a real department, being judge, jury and, when needed, executioner!

  To clean the virus and the symptoms of this city by taking up real justice, not the puppet justice we have had in recent times. We all know the problems. It’s not enough to just hit the gangs, hoods and small fish, haul them up in front a jury and hope the miraculous twelve believe what we tell them and hope they believe any evidence we shove in front of them, that’s of course if none have been bought off. We all know in this town that’s always fifty fifty, crooks like there god damn leverage. We all know who’s guilty and, at some point, we have all dealt with them in some way. But it’s come to a point where we can’t joke about it anymore. Costner, you’re a widower an independent view, if you will. What do you think?”

  Costner sat back, his eyes closed in thought.

  “To deal out justice, not puppet law ya’ say,” he mumbled to himself then a laugh came from his throat as he shot bolt upright. “Think it’s a damn good idea.”

  “Count me in boy’o,” Booth interrupted shaking his head. He looked towards Costner. “Not you, laddie. There’s your pension to think about. Doakes should be out, too. He’s got wee nippers and a wife to boot.”

  Doakes didn’t respond, just turned his head toward the door “Grace?” Steps approached from the kitchen and, after a moment Doakes’ ever loving wife. “Yes, hun?”

  Doakes looked deep into his wife’s eyes. “Grace,” he whispered, “Morgan’s getting an, UN-official tin shield brigade to take on the gangs and the like. They all may get hurt or worse doing this. Grace, what do you think about it, doll face we both know your the brains of this, hear family?”

  She took a moment, smiled and gave her husband a wink. “If he wants to go with you Morgan, he can. Our birds have flown the nest and I’ve been meaning to see my sister in Liberty. I can stay there. What you’re planning is a good thing. I trust all of you, especially Morgan. So, go get ‘em boys.”

  “Thanks, Grace,” Doakes said grasping her hand before she went back to the kitchen.

  Costner watched as Grace left. “Doakes, ya’ got one dynamite dame there. I have to admit I’m more than a tad jealous of ya.”

  “Four of us should be all the muscle we need,” Doakes said, dragging on his pipe. “We’re going to need a new chief to pull off this little tea dance, and I suggest Costner.”

  Costner looked out the window, still envious not having a woman like Grace by his side. Then, he let a deep burst of throaty laughter “Brilliant! I love it, Doakes! What a riot, me a chief! Well, what do ya’ think of that, Booth?”

  The Irish man walked to the telephone with a dash of mischief in his eyes.

  “I’ve just got a little business to attend to before I call another man chief. After all, I need to get me drinking money sorted first and severance is a wonderful thing. Oh, Doakes. May I?”

  Doakes smiled. “Sure thing, pal.”

  “Cheers!” He dialed the number, waiting for the tone from the receiver.

  “Ah, hello Doris. It’s Booth. How are you, lassie? We still up for Saturday night? Brilliant, I can’t wait to see them gams of yours and what they lead up to, hey! Be a doll and put me through to Mr. Lewisham, will ya doll? Hello, Mr. Lewisham. It’s Finley Booth here. I just need a quick word. Sorry, did I interrupt a meeting? This won�
�t take long, ya’ thick-headed, pig-faced, limp little God damn beard-slitter.” Costner’s explosive laughter took over again, drowning out the last of Booth’s parting remarks about a night he had with his former boss’s wife and a rather large bottle of Rose.

  “Fin, the daft Paddy,” Costner boomed, “is resigning!”

  “So, dames, we’re going to have to cut the night short. All right, Binky. You’re coming with us!”

  The Parisian slid to his feet, but the towering man didn’t react, thanks to an ever so slight shake of his sovereign’s head. Binky grinned, a gold cap catching the light. He tilted back in his chair and eyeballed the two veteran cops.

  “Don’t clown, cap. Take a load off. Here, I’ll get ya a drink. You got canned, didn’t ya? Sorry about that, but I did warn ya.”

  Morgan glanced sideways at his partner. “Okay, buddy!” he rasped, making a dive at Binky that sent the blondes scattering. The Parisian tried to earn his keep by planting Morgan with a hay-maker, but Morgan’s knee to his crown jewels toppled him. Morgan followed with a quick snap to the temple which laid him out cold. Despite his size, Morgan had the man cuffed and over his shoulder. No point leaving the garbage for these good people to sort, he thought.

  Binky was distracted and scared. Doakes caught him with a solid backhand and sent Three Socks barreling to the parquet floor. He made a half-baked attempt towards a hip holster, but all it earned him was a broken nose courtesy of a size ten boot heel, and a bruised jaw. Binky stole a glance at the pair and surrendered. They yanked him up like a sack of potatoes, and gifted with his own steel bracelets. Then, they dragged him out in front of everyone in the shadow of a heavy laden Morgan. Nobody tried to stop them or protested. They just turned a blind eye. This rat-king had fallen. Outside, rain had taken hold of the city streets. Binky started to protest when he saw that his ride wasn’t a standard official cruiser. That’s when it dawned on him there would be no lawyer ready to bail him out this time. Binky was in hot water and he knew it. But his protest died fast. Morgan mouthed something silently to Doakes before Binky was half beaten into the sedan and cuffed to the sparked Frenchman. The car came into life, roaring off as quick as its horse power would allow. They had to put some distance between them and the restaurant and as quickly as possible. Doakes drove, eagle eyes glued fast to the wet road. His chiseled haw tightened. Morgan sat sideways on the seat beside him. Morgan’s elbow rested on the back seat. His stony gaze locked onto the battered pair in the rear. In his right hand, he held a wooden nightstick he let it swing gently, suggestively. Binky saw the stick and terror gripped him. Some of his angry color seeped from his weaslish features.

  “Hold it, Morgan. Ya got no shield. Ya can’t do this buster,” he said with a defiant shrug. that sent the Parisian’s unconscious head onto his lap. Binky sighed, defeated.

  Morgan’s laugh hit him like a Steel City freight train. There was only menace it that laugh. Morgan’s face changed suddenly. “Sure I can, you pond rat. Granted, ya’ got me the boot from C.C.P.D, but I found a new force thanks to you, pal. Don’t worry, you’ll get a legit trial, but this time no bent lawyer’s to spring you. Get me, three socks?”

  The thug’s eyes almost left his skull. “Another force? What game you trying to pull?” he half gasped, half shouted. “What city paid your green? Who hired you, dammit! Where you taking me, captain?”

  “Taking you? Well, it’s a city that you came from, and one I’m sending you back to, courtesy of baby Chloe. Gomorrah, and we all know what happened there don’t we?”

  Doakes turned a corner and headed towards the dock district. He passed several blocks and took a few sharp, sudden corners to shake any possible tails. Once Doakes was sure they were safe, he hit the motor crossing to a row of large warehouses near the edge of the city’s estuary. Doakes stopped the car in a sea of black shadow that hugged the interior.

  As Doakes got out, he cocked his Colt. Morgan went around to the passenger side door where the Parisian had finally come to his senses.

  “All right, Binky,” Morgan growled, “pile out.”

  Morgan shined his flashlight in the rear and made the half alert Parisian flinch. Binky slouched in his seat until a bruised shin, courtesy of the night stick, sat him up. He almost bounced out of his seat, the dazed bodyguard with him. Binky said, “Come on, captain. Ain’t there some way we can square this beef? I know folks that can get you job back. What you say then?”

  Morgan stiffened his thin smile into a sickly grin.

  “So, you can get me the old desk back, eh?” he whispered softly in his ear. His voice changed abruptly to a savage growl. “Why you lousy—” Smack! It was only a back handed slap, but it floored Binky. Seconds later, they toppled The Parisian. It was Doakes who pulled them to their feet. He told them to follow Morgan, who strode through the dark shadows. The small glow of his flashlight painted him in eerie shadow. He looked like a giant from a fairy tale.

  “I wouldn’t irritate him, Three Socks,” Doakes suggested mildly. “He’s in good humor now, but he may get itchy if you get me.”

  Binky froze.

  Chills flowed down his spine. Following Morgan had suddenly become a good idea.

  Part Three

  Morgan’s path led him through a series of long empty rooms, down a dusty spiral stairwell and to a basement. He explored the floor for a few minutes, until he found what he was looking for: a heavy iron plate set flush with the cement. In a show of power, hooked his fingers through it and lifted the lid, revealing a black hole that vanished downward. He leaned forward and rapped a beat on the rim of the hole with the night stick. Then came the long, ominous silence as the echo petered off into the ether. The hole replied. Morgan smiled and prodded Binky with the makeshift drumstick. “Get down, rat.”

  He ordered. He saw the hesitation, so he added, “Get or I’ll push you down. Your choice.”

  They all went down the old ladder into the arms of Booth and Costner.

  Morgan came down last, pulling the iron cover in place after him. Binky noticed a broad grin on his face as he got to the bottom. “Binky, meet the rest of the boys.”

  Doakes swung his light so it illuminated the others. “Any luck?” he asked the fellow coppers.

  “A hell of a lot,” Costner laughed. “Come on. Follow me.” He led the way down an old-post war red brick tunnel. It was then Binky noticed the tracks. The tunnel’s floor was slimy under-foot. A brown oil streamed ran down the middle. The faint glow of their quartet’s flashlights showed dripping walls and subway signs long forgotten. Huge bats took flight, knocking Booth’s bowler hat into the slime.

  Then the Parisian shrieked in girlish terror. “Something stabbed my ankle!”

  Costner grunted “Rats, big, ruddy sewer rats. You best stick close. Wouldn’t want anyone to get lost. After all, they’ll likely attack a single man.”

  The Parisian huddled up to his employer like a child does a parent. The tunnel branched to the left hundreds of yards long. Costner tripped over something underfoot, accidentally smashing his flashlight on an overhead hatch above the floor of the tunnel. Thankfully a stream of light had trickled from above ground, helping them find their way. And they had supplies where they were going so it wasn’t a great loss. He gestured to the others to climb the iron rungs of the tunnel’s rusted ladder. Binky’s unease started to build again until a prod of Morgan’s nightstick made Binky and his scared companion move again until they found themselves in a square, dimly-lit, windowless room. It made Binky think of a dungeon in a King Arthur picture. In the room’s center was a makeshift table made from an upturned oil drum. Along two of the walls were large rusted winches. An old Seagram’s Whiskey bottle held a candle. Booth lit it and stowed his flashlight. A hidden draft from a lose brick made the single flame flicker, painting grotesque shadows on to the walls around them.

  Morgan seated himself at the table, taking out a small notebook and pencil from a jacket pocket. He fingered the stub of the pencil, whetted the end and l
ooked at Costner.

  “Have you told him, chief?”

  Costner shook his head. “You’re the judge,” he remarked.

  Morgan nodded soberly and nodded to his concerned prisoners. He looked them over and slowly spoke in an official tone.

  “You’re in the court of the new order, boys. Up in the city, you crooks run things; your bosses make and break judges, coppers even politicians. You and the corrupt lawyers rule the courts and city hall and bend the law to your will. But this old sewer was built during the prohibition days. It was abandoned when it didn’t fit their needs. For decades, it was just the love nest for all the city’s rats, so we figured it was fitting that we brought you here. Now, you’re under arrest and I promise you will get a fair trial. First, we want you to take the stand and tell us—”

  “Cut the crap, wise-ass!” Binky scoffed. “You have no clue what you’re letting yourself into the rain that will hit you after all this is done. I don’t mind going to court, but a real one not this, playground one. What’s all this about anyway? Or have you guys gone goofy?”

  Morgan sighed to himself. It had been a long night, and he was no spring chick.

  “You know the constitution. And because we are good, law abiding detectives, you can rest assured you’ll get a fair trial. But the Constitution was made way before pond scum like you came into existence and prayed on good city folk. It was intended to protect the innocent. You’re not decent folk, Binky, so you and your friend The Parisian can’t expect that sort of protection. So spill. Tell us everything, and to start with how about the baby killing in the Tanneries..”Binky hardened up. “Go to Hell. So what now? Beat me? Well, I can take it!”