Honorable Assassin

by Jason Lord Case

  “Abel, I regret that I was forced to halt immediate operations as a result of a tactical diagnosis.”

  “Whatever do you mean, brother? I simply called for the extermination of a very annoying little scorpion. He has taken up with the Valkierie Motorcycle Club and I took the logical step in calling for the extermination of them all.”

  “But, Abel, I think if we examine the circumstances, we may discover that there is more to the arrangement than we imagined. The choice of locations, for instance. Most of the bikie clubs use kind of a stockyard layout, you know like a bunkhouse for ranch hands, with the stockade fence. This club house is an old resort hotel set in the back wall of a cul-de-sac canyon. It’s a trap. I will not allow men to so much as enter that canyon. Let me spread a little butter and in a couple of days we’ll know everything we need to know without the bloodshed. This Terry Kingston is better than we gave him credit for, but he is not better than us. Remember, divided we fall. Are you with me?”

  “Of course. I admit, I got a little hot. One of our best men is dead and three others are missing, ostensibly kidnapped by the Valkieries. It upset me momentarily and I over-reacted. Thank you for your attention to logic. I will call off the assault.”

  “I already have, but thank you for your acquiescence. I will initiate the information gathering program and keep you in the loop. It would be best to watch the bulk of this gang, just to determine where they frequent and what they do. I will use discretion, as bikies are often speed heads and it makes them jumpy.”

  “This man has not shown up at his Sydney apartment. He also rents a room in Orange but he has not been there either. He is with the degenerates. He has not only assaulted us, but he has betrayed us, and I will not stop turning Heaven and Earth to find him until I hear his screams of agony. And to think, we had him in the basement once.” Adam could not see that Abel’s eyes were shining with a kind of madness as he spoke.

  Gordon MacMaster was just about to pack up the microfilm he was scrolling through when a headline caught his eye. It was from the day in question, the day George Kingston had been murdered on his yacht. There had been another killing, in the town of Greenwell Point and a related shooting that had left a man critically injured. It did not immediately make sense, there was no evident connection between the two events, but that sort of coincidence was rare. MacMaster decided to dig a little deeper.

  According to the newspaper, Albert Cohen a prominent jeweler who resided in Greenwell Point, but did not do business there, was shot through the spine, hospitalizing him in intensive care. The unfortunate incident happened as three or four men attempted to rob him at gun point. To his credit, one of the men never made it out of the neighborhood as the citizen blew his guts out with a .44 Magnum.

  “Have you ever heard of Albert Cohen?” Gordon asked Terry when he had returned to the hotel room.

  Terry replied in the negative but Ginger started shuffling his feet and looking at the floor. He obviously had something to say but it was not going to come out by itself.

  “Ginger, are you having a hard time finding a way to say what you need to say?”

  “Ah, I’m just putting together the words. Why do you ask about Albert?”

  “I was doing some research and ran across his name.”

  “Albert and I never got along, even before. Something in our make-up led us to despise each other, even though we’re kin.”

  “Kin?”

  “Aye. Albert is my half brother on my mother’s side.”

  “You mean I have another uncle?” Terry was leaning over with his palms planted on the table. His face was getting red and almost looked swollen.

  “Aye. Albert Cohen was the first born son of my dear mother. She had a fling with a man when she was still too young and gave birth to Albert. From what I understand they had told Albert his mother had died in childbirth when they took him into the closed little world of Jewish money and diamonds. He and George got together in their early twenties and formed some sort of relationship. I only met him once and saw no reason to meet him again. We were raised under different circumstances. Me and him, we would never have got along. It was immediately apparent.”

  “Is there any reason you can think of, why he would have wanted your brother dead?”

  “Oh, we got the killers. They’re both planted in the ground years since.”

  “That’s not what I asked. I asked if there was a reason Albert Cohen wanted George Kingston dead.”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “The news, that means probably the police as well were convinced it was a robbery. Cohen never recovered from his coma and his obituary is printed a week later. This article was printed in between however.” Gordon unfolded a sheet of paper from his pocket and smoothed it out on the table. It read “Man with Suspected Ties to the Sydney Mafia Hospitalized During Robbery.”

  Terry snorted, “Mafia. There is no fucking mafia in Australia.”

  Ginger ignored his nephew and read the article word for word. When he was done he said, “I had no idea he lived in Greenwell Point or I would have made the connection. I find it unlikely that he would pay to have George killed. It looks more like George interrupted something he was not supposed to see and his poor timing cost him his life.”

  “I thought he was killed for doing the Felix Ribbaldi job,” Terry said.

  “I think it may have had something to do with it,” Ginger said thoughtfully. “Look here. Third paragraph down. ‘Mr. Cohen has reputed ties to the Ribbaldi crime family and was reported as being on the list of suspects for a money laundering scheme.’ In case you wonder what that means, it means Ribbaldi ratted out his boss and Cohen was about to do the same. That’s why he’s been planted. They probably thought George was going to do the same.”

  “Would he have done that?”

  “No. I’m sure that was not where he was going. I still don’t know why he was there, in Greenwell, but that’s not important. It was his relationship with Albert that got him killed. I know it now. I told him he was no good, something about him smelled bad. But that’s not here.”

  “If you look at it,” Gordon said slowly but with authority. “George may have killed Albert and been killed for it.”

  “I’m thinking no,” Ginger countered. “He was killed later that day. It takes time to set up this sort of thing. He was killed right after he left town and he was killed by professionals who did not know why the man had been targeted. That means he was a hired hit, not a knee-jerk killing. Someone knew where he was and where he was going. Terry, what can you tell me about that day, Mate?”

  “My memories are all chaos. I can’t remember anything clear and what I think I do remember came to me in dreams. You know I was all fucked up by it. I can’t say if what I remember is real or a dream. I think we left town in a hurry and I know we were chased by a speed boat but the Agamemnon was sunk well to the south so I may be wrong.”

  “I’m thinking they sailed the boat south and then sank it. You probably were chased out of Greenwell and George was killed there.” Gordon spoke softly, aware that he was treading on tender old wounds.

  “You know what? All this old rubbish is nothing now. All it means is I have another score to settle with those steaming piles of shit. I’m tired of playing, I want them dead.” Terry was starting to get flushed again and a steely resolve flowed from between his clenched teeth.

  ~~~

  Chapter Seventeen: Assault

  “Superintendent Barlow, you are not going to believe this. I think it may fit well with the series of events you are interested in.”

  “Well, I don’t have all day, Inspector, what is it.”

  “We got an anonymous tip that there was a body in the dumpster behind this old warehouse on Irving Street. When the constables got to Irving Street, we find half an army in the warehouse, dressed to kill and outfitted for the same.”

  “Speak plainly Inspector Slaughter. I know you fancy yourself a poet but I am not a literary critic.
Why was the army in the warehouse?”

  “Sir, the men in the warehouse were all dressed in suits. They were not the army. They were gangsters and they were all heavily armed. The weapons ran the full slide from brand new and legal to old pieces from before the license laws. Some of them were stolen pieces but the guns are not the real issue.” Chief Inspector Slaughter paused for effect.

  “I assume you are going to tell me the real issue some time before I retire?”

  “Yes, sir. The call said there was a body in the dumpster and there was.”

  “A dead body in the dumpster behind the warehouse on Irving Street where there was an army of gangsters armed to the teeth. Is that the issue?” Barlow was looking quizzically at his subordinate with one eyebrow arched.

  “Yes, sir. I thought you might like to know because this sort of set up interests you.” Slaughter was sounding a bit deflated now.

  “And you think this is a set up?” Though it was obvious, Barlow saw that he was embarrassing the Chief Inspector and needed to give him a little more string. Slaughter liked to crow and it seemed best to let him make a little noise.

  “It has to be,” Slaughter continued. “An anonymous tip that there is a body in a dumpster? The tip comes when there is a large group of individuals of questionable moral character? Armed as if they were going to war I might add. It was a set up. Unless I miss my guess, this is in preparation for something else.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know, yet. There is nobody left in town that can possibly be a serious threat to organized crime. Since the Chinese and Russians went at each other, it’s been quiet.”

  “What about the gang that muscled there way in there, in the vacuum that the gang war left?”

  “Unpredictable at best. It’s almost impossible to get an informer into the inner circles of these gangs and they don’t let the recruits, the younger members or the locos know what is going on.”

  “Any word on that woman?”

  “No, sir. Ms. Pettigrew has not surfaced. We have been trying to watch the Valkierie clubhouse, but it’s in a location that can’t be monitored very well. The old Aerie Hotel. They just picked this one up a couple of months ago and it looks like they chose it for tactical advantage.”

  “So where are the gangsters being held?”

  “We had to split them up because of the number of them. They wouldn’t fit in the local, so some of them went to the downtown jail and some to other locals. Oh, I thought you might like to know that Jimmy Cognac was among those in the warehouse.”

  “And they were taken into custody without incident?”

  “It was actually Jimmy Cognac that prevented bloodshed. I was not on the scene but the report reads that the constables were heavily outnumbered and outgunned. If Jimmy had not kept his head we might be looking at dead officers.”

  “Interesting. Bring Mr. Cognac to see me. We obviously have a similar interest.” When Chief inspector Slaughter had retired from the room, Barlow called the morgue and left instructions to bump the autopsy on the dumpster gangster, as he had been christened, to high priority.

  Superintendent Barlow had an hour to wait before Cognac was delivered to him. In that time, he reviewed the recording of the anonymous call. He looked up the location of the warehouse and did a little research on its owners, but did not go deep enough to discover the connection to the Troy brothers.

  “Mr. Cognac, please have a seat.”

  Jimmy was rubbing his wrists where the cuffs had been and was looking around him. He was alone with Barlow in the sumptuous office of the Superintendent of Police for the entire Province of New South Wales. Evidently the Superintendent was not worried about assassination, or at least not worried about Jimmy Cognac.

  “I have some cognac, but I’m afraid it’s not very good. I prefer scotch myself.”

  “Cognac will be fine, no ice.” Jimmy said suspiciously. His name had doomed him to drinking cognac his entire life, not that he saw that as a bad thing.

  Barlow made a show of pouring his guest a drink and then poured a scotch for himself. He thought it unlikely that the long time mob boss would loosen up, especially while in custody but there was always that possibility. After all, they were both civilized men.

  Cognac drank sparingly as they exchanged small talk. He was no brash young man to be fooled into thinking he was anything but a criminal under arrest and being interrogated.

  “Why do you suppose I’ve invited you into my office this evening?”

  “I suppose, that you’ve gotten sick of talking to ivory tower suck-ups and you need some real conversation. You could have gone to a pub.”

  “I could have but I doubt I would have such an interesting subject in a pub.”

  “So we’re not here to talk about rugby.”

  “No, I thought maybe you’d like to explain the corpse we found in the dumpster behind the warehouse you were in this afternoon.”

  “I dunno. I never saw it before. None of us put it there. We were on our way out for a hunting party.” Cognac was clearly not worried about the situation.

  “And what was it you were planning to kill with all that firepower?”

  “Rabbits.”

  Barlow had to reign himself in. He was starting to get angry and that would not do. “I believe we have a mutual enemy. I can only turn my back on the situation for so long before it comes back on me. Eventually the situation must be dealt with.”

  “You hate rabbits too?”

  “Mr. Cognac, we can work together or we can butt heads all day. I am giving you the opportunity to work with the finest police department on the continent. I am trying to help you eliminate a threat before it eliminates you and all the men you are working with.”

  “That hardly sounds like rabbits.”

  “You know what I’m talking about. I am offering to assist you in keeping yourself alive. There have been too many killings of late and though they have all been somewhat marginal members of society, they make the news. I have ignored the problem long enough and I feel it biting on my heels.”

  “You’ll have to release me, and my men.”

  “Perhaps, in good time. I need to know what you know about whoever is attacking your concerns. You can work with me or we can attempt to achieve the same goal in a parallel fashion and perhaps we will both fail.”

  “Perhaps we’ll talk about it more when you have released us from custody. I try not to negotiate from a position of weakness and you have me at a disadvantage. Release us and set up a meeting. We’ll talk.”

  “And what will we discuss?”

  “Rabbits.”

  “I wouldn’t call Terry Kingston a rabbit.” Theodore watched his captive’s face closely and saw what he expected. Cognac hesitated before he replied. His manner was still smooth but it was the first hesitation of the conversation.

  “Who?” came out too weak and too late.

  “I think you know what I’m talking about.”

  “Try looking at Thompson Barber. Maybe you have something in your files on him.

  Superintendent Barlow called the constable back in to escort Jimmy Cognac back to jail. He had not expected cooperation from the seasoned veteran of the streets, but he had gotten what he wanted. He knew for sure they were after the same man. They were just short on physical evidence linking him to any of his operations and Linda had not surfaced. Barlow was tempted to say it was a mob problem and he had no business protecting the mob. Terry Kingston disturbed business as usual, however. He was no longer the frightened little child they had fished out of the ocean. He caused major disturbances and the Superintendent did not like major disturbances.

  Barlow poured himself another scotch and wondered who was playing who. The body in the dumpster had no holes in it. He was a wise guy with a criminal record but he had not been shot, stabbed or beaten to death. The real cause of death would have to wait for the coroner but the fact remained that there were no holes in the body. Nobody noticed when a gangster disappea
red, except his family, and it was very rare for the bodies to ever surface. Turf wars were one thing but this was no invasion. It was another set up. Somebody had known the men were gathering there and had planted the body to implicate them. Terry Kingston was learning. He was becoming smoother, but he was also in the crosshairs of both the coppers and the mob. What did he hope to gain? Had the years of grief turned him mad?

  Barlow called for any files on Thompson Barber and then ordered some dinner. He called his wife to tell her he was working late and called Senior Sergeant Randolph Black. Sergeant Black would never get the promotion to Inspector he desired, but was more than willing to do whatever was necessary. He would seek that elusive promotion for years.

  Adam Troy sat in his sumptuous home on Unwin Street, in the Earlwood area of Sydney, and contemplated the situation that confronted him. First there had been a lot of money invested in the phantom businesses, but that money had been recouped and reinvested, primarily in legitimate businesses. Second there was a growing resentment within the population toward the gangsters. Third, his brother who had been so professional and so removed from emotional involvement in his younger years, was becoming less stable.

  The Troy Brothers were financially set for life. That was beyond question. The wave of anger against organized crime was in part due to the actions of the vigilante who had caused so much trouble and death recently. The real problem was the media, which had romanticized the lifestyle for years, and was now turning against the mob. As goes the news, so goes the populous.

  Adam Troy loved his brother as much as such a man could love anyone. Neither of the pair had much feeling for women and they had no children. All either of them had for a personal relationship was the other. Abel Troy had been a genius when it came to setting up the system that allowed the two of them to eventually take over the entire Australian black market. Adam had been more on the recruiting end of the business at first but his role had diminished greatly once there was a hierarchy in place. But, Adam feared his brother was no longer objective. He saw the actions against the organization as assaults against himself. He was starting to see himself as a general, commanding an army. The ‘soldiers’ were not military men however, they were just wise guys. They were effective at getting restaurant managers to cough up some cash every month. They could break a few jaws with brass knuckles and they could kill when they were asked to, but they were not an assault group. They could not be sent into a situation like they were the Los Angeles SWAT team. And that is exactly what Abel thought he could do.