Fist First

by Nigel Mustard

  He gazed into the distance, his eyes glazed and jawline noble. Music plays softly in the background.

  The chief understood. ‘I understand, Frank. But we need to get to the bottom of this. You've got to return to the city.’

  Stoker shrugged. ‘Hmph. You think I don’t know that chief? I’m coming, and I’m bringing the fisting of a lifetime. Magnelli and the reprehensible Johnny Spang will wake up in hell – DEAD.’

  Stoker slammed the phone down on the receiver. In his rage the phone didn’t quite catch on the base and fell to the floor. Stoker coolly picked up the handle and placed it on the phone base. No mistake this time.

  Stoker threw a fifty dollar bill on the floor and wrote a note:

  ---

  For booze, board, and for the damn door.

  F.W.S.

  ---

  He threw the note on the camp bed and strode out of the cabin, and into the night.

  Shortly afterwards Stoker realised that fifty dollars was unrealistically generous and returned, coolly replacing it with a twenty and a curled up five.

  He span on his heels (like a jackbooted Nazi) and strode out of the cabin, this time for good, and into the night.

  Chapter 22

  Tommasso Xavier Magnelli was born fifty years ago in Sicily, an island near Italy, Europe. His father, Boris Magnelli, was a cobbler. An honest man, Boris’s life was made a living hell by the cruel Mafiamen who were abundant on the island of Sicily. Boris tried his best to turn an honest dime and resist the Mafia, but eventually was strangled with a pair of bootlaces in his own shop by the local Mafia boss, Dicky Margherita. By dying, Boris unintentionally left his only son, four year old Tommasso, to be raised by an ugly but demanding wife named Priscilla.

  To cut a long story short, Priscilla died.

  Tommasso was sent to an orphanage in the biggest city in Sicily, which was in the quiet part of that particular city. He swore revenge on Dicky Margherita and indeed any Mafiaman he could find. He lived in the orphanage for ten years, until his fourteenth birthday, when a local priest, playing to type, attempted to molest him.

  He killed the priest by strangling him with rosary beads. The nuns heard the screaming from the gurgling molester and ran into the chapel.

  Tommasso Magnelli was gone, and the only body in the room was a dead body – the body of a dead corpse which previously had been the living, breathing sex molester.

  Later that evening, Dicky Margharita was found in an alleyway in the busy part of the biggest city in Sicily, with his nose, penis, toes and eyelids sliced off. He was completely dead. The coroner declared it a murder.

  They never did find the killer.

  Thirty six years later, Thomas Magnelli (who was the small boy mentioned in the preceding story) cracked his knuckles in his office at his warehouse. He knew something wasn’t right and he didn’t know who to trust. He had learnt to distrust everybody. In his line of work, trust was a currency that was simply too dangerous to deal in. Trust was a glass from which he never drank. Trust was a key which opened a door which was simply not there.

  He stared at his oriental monster Hitoshi, who was standing on his leg(s) with one of his arm(s) in a sling.

  ‘Jesus, Hitoshi, he really did a number on you. You got anything to say for yourself?’

  Hitoshi replied with a foreign accent: ‘Hitoshi, shamed. Hitoshi, die.’

  He pulled his trusty five foot samurai sword from the holster behind his back and prepared to commit the ancient Japanese pastime of ‘Hara Kiri’. Hara Kiri is the tradition of skewering one’s own bowels until one’s own death. It is an ancient Japanese custom, and is still widely practiced today by unsuccessful Tokyo businessmen, or shamed computer game designers.

  Hitoshi swung the sword around his head three or four times, the weapon floating gracefully. It cut through the air like a knife through butter. The near weightless air really did offer no resistance. He was nearing the end of the routine, and soon he would drive his blade through his belly, to the hilt.

  Magnelli watched, spellbound by the beautiful dance. He almost let Hitoshi go through with it. Almost.

  ‘Stop. Stop. You’ve been working for me for twenty years, and this is the first damn time you’ve let me down. I have more respect for you than for anyone I’ve ever worked with. And you’re the only person I can trust to have near me if that ice cold madman Frank Stoker comes calling. Just don’t ever let me down again.’

  ‘Hitoshi... understand’, said Hitoshi, understanding. He sheathed his deadly blade back in the scabbard from whence it came.

  A single tear fell from the duct at the corner of Hitoshi’s eyehole. He walked out of the room, turned right along the balcony and walked down the steps overlooking the main hall of the warehouse.

  Magnelli rested his endangered crocodile skin boots on his rainforest-fresh mahogany table. He lit an enormous Cuban cigar, too big for even the vilest smoker to puff in one smouldering session.

  He gingerly stroked a photo of Eddie Crawford he had carefully cut out of a magazine and stuck to the corner of his Personal Computer Visual Display Unit.

  Could he trust Crawford?

  Probably not. He had scared that pathetic coward one too many times in the past and he imagined that the pitiful worm would take any chance he saw to bring Magnelli down – or help another man do it and keep his filthy hands clean as mustard.

  The phone rang. It was Spang. The rest of Magnelli’s body gleefully relaxed as his ears did the work. Stoker’s friend, the (African) American cafe owner, was dead. Good. One down. He would love to see Stoker’s face when he found out. Magnelli screeched with laughter, quietly.

  Could he trust Johnny Spang?

  Maybe. But then again, maybe not. On the other hand, of course, maybe. Spang was a businessman but also the leader of the most acrobatic criminal gang in China. He was ambitious. Could he be aiming to take over New York? Magnelli shook his head, disagreeing with his own self… or was he? Could he actually be believing what his own self seemed to believe? Could Spang be making a move?

  He had to make a contingency. He had plenty of old friends in this city still, and he knew exactly where to go to build an army.

  One of the most deprived damn hell holes in the whole of New York State, New York.

  Chapter 23

  Lowenstein sat at the wheel of his hybrid automobile and furiously scribbled on a legal pad. He had recently been toying with a new theory of astrophysics in his brain, and had, in an instant, just cracked it. He was being pestered by some of the brightest minds in the country (America) to help with something – something that for him was just a hobby. They needed to revolutionise their fusion engines in order to revamp the International Space Station… Lowenstein was just about the only person on the planet who could help them.

  Astrophysics was just another hobby for Lowenstein.

  Lowenstein was very intelligent.

  Then, from nowhere, Lowenstein’s ears were filled with the sound of his phone shouting a ringtone at them (his ears).

  RING RING

  Lowenstein picked up the phone with his right hand before calmly switching it to his left, flicking it open, then returning it to his right and raising it to his left ear.

  ‘Reuben Lowenstein, Legal Attorney at Law?’

  Lowenstein’s mouth shut up for a minute whilst he apparently listened to the person on the other end of the line. He eventually spoke:

  ‘A pertinent development. Without doubt this is a perplexing turn of events, but something that we may be able to use to our own advantage.’

  Lowenstein’s smirk crawled over his pale face sinisterly, like a malevolent leech.

  ‘Within two days, I guarantee to have New York in the hands of the rightful person - you. All the pieces of the puzzle are perfectly aligned.’

  Lowenstein again ceased talking for a short period, before, at the end of this period, starting talking again.

  ‘Excellent news. Yourself can expect to hear from myself in twen
ty four hours.’

  Lowenstein closed the clamshell phone in his left hand. During the call, he must have switched which hand he was using to hold the phone.

  He smirked to himself. (He had no choice, he was alone in the car.)

  Lowenstein breathed slowly, in the normal way.

  Who had he been talking to? (Obviously, Lowenstein knew, but we (as in, you (I, the writer know)) don’t know.)

  He returned to his astrophysics.

  Within a damn minute, he had solved it.

  He smiled at the A4 or A3 sized paper (the size is inconsequential) covered in equations and sums, before crumpling up the piece of paper into a ball and throwing it into the back of his car. Maybe he would call NASA tomorrow. Maybe he wouldn’t.

  His hybrid car purred as the engine turned on quietly. The car was as comfortable as it was economical, and Lowenstein had unequivocally made an excellent choice in purchasing a hybrid. He didn’t need a flashy new BMW to prove he was a real man, and preferred the satisfaction of excellent fuel economy to the satisfaction of stealing another innocent man’s wife.

  Chapter 24

  Stoker’s journey from the cabin was uneventful and boring, and as such we skip straight to him arriving at his apartment at midnight in the heart of New York City.

  Stoker thought about dropping in for a low-level but reassuring conversation with Moe about soul music but thought better of it. Despite his wounds healing at a surprisingly quick rate, Stoker still didn’t look 100% and didn’t want to shock his old friend. He decided to simply go home to read some fine prose and get some damn rest.

  He took the stairs quickly, sometimes even two at a time but mainly just one at a time in the normal way.

  If he had been able to hear like one of those new robots he may have heard the gentle breathing of a man lurking in the shadows behind him as he got to his floor.

  He couldn’t, so he didn’t.

  He walked to his door and coolly flicked his key from his pocket into his left hand, grasping it between thumb and forefinger in a standard pinching motion.

  That’s when he heard the footsteps behind him.

  ‘Klippety Flip, Klippety Flip.’

  Stoker shrewdly decided not to panic, and waited until the footsteps were within what his Sensai, Sensai Wilson, called ‘The Punishment Proximity’.

  When the footsteps were close enough, he swirled round like an annoyed tornado and kicked the legs out from under his would-be assailant, driving his fist into his belly as the young man windmilled 360 degrees in the air in front of him.

  As the body flew back into the wall, the man exhaled violently and looked up with petrified eyes. Stoker leapt forward and pinned him to the floor by his throat.

  ‘You picked the wrong damn cop to fuck with, buddy’ announced Stoker, about to drive his key into the eye socket of the aggressor.

  ‘STOKER… it’s me, Janney, from the Mayor’s office!’

  It was Michael Janney, the handsome former body guard of the Mayor!

  The key dangled menacingly above the eye skin of the eyeball of the young man. It was tense.

  ‘You got about ten seconds to tell me what the hell you’re doing here, Janney.’ Stoker was in no mood for foreplay, and was craving the main act.

  ‘I’m here to warn you. The Mayor… Mr Crawford… is mad with power. He’s going to sell out the city of New York, the city I love, to the highest bidder. And he’s working with wicked, wicked men who intend to kill you. ‘

  ‘Why the hell should I believe you?’ He released his grip on the kid’s neck, but Stoker had been tricked before by undercover corrupt cops and kept his dominant pose above the younger guy.

  Janney looked up and stared straight into Stoker’s eyes. Janney’s pupils were bright blue and his hair long, clean and blonde. He breathed deeply and solemnly issued these words:

  ‘Because I swear on my life and on my honour as a Marine.’

  Marines are subaquatic soldiers who work for the US government. They are known for never lying and would never swear upon their honour unless they meant it. Being a learned reader, Stoker knew all this.

  Stoker immediately nodded, jumped to his feet and helped the young man up. They embraced, and shook hands.

  ‘I understand kid. I understand. So what’s our next move?’

  Janney responded, with very good humour:

  ‘Well I wouldn’t mind a steaming hot cuppa joe!’

  Joe means coffee in New York.

  Stoker laughed – oh it had been such a while since he laughed – and embraced the kid again.

  Yes, you could say that Stoker was beginning to like Michael Janney.

  Minutes later they were sitting next to each other on Stoker’s beat up sofa. Janney talked about how he came to work for Crawford and talked about some of the shit he had seen whilst in the employment of the greedy coward.

  Stoker listened, sipping his coffee and asking intelligent probing questions.

  Eventually Janney came to the more relevant information about Magnelli, Spang and Crawford’s diabolical plans.

  Stoker wasn’t fazed. He’d seen it all before.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like this,’ announced Stoker. ‘The level of collaboration from these three maniacs may just mean the end of this city. Unless I can stop it.’

  ‘Unless we can stop it,’ shot back Janney, putting emphasis on the word ‘we’.

  Stoker put his hand on the kid’s thigh.

  ‘Look, kid, you’re young and have your whole damn life ahead of you. I’ve got nothing to live for…. I don’t care if I live or die.’

  Stoker had finished speaking, giving Janney the opportunity to reply which he seized with (both of) his large and well-proportioned hands.

  ‘Stoker, if you’d seen the things I’ve seen, you’d want to take down Crawford yourself. I’m through with him, and I’m through with being a coward any more. We’re a team now.’

  Stoker suddenly became the opposite of relentless and allowed Janney to join him.

  ‘OK kid, OK. You say that Spang is planning on hurting my friends and family? Well I haven’t got any damn family, and last I knew I wasn’t on Facebook.’

  Stoker’s reference to the popular modern social networking site Facebook was extremely funny to Janney and, correspondingly he ejected a laugh.

  Stoker continued. ‘But I guess there are a few people who I would consider friends.’ He put his arm over the shoulders of the young man and looked into the distance of the corner of his flat.

  ‘Look kid, I was popular in school, sure. I was tall, tough, and a few dames have even called me handsome.’ Stoker said, modestly. ‘But I was an outsider, even then. I didn’t play sports, refusing to join the pantomime, and I sure as hell didn’t join any societies. I walk alone, and I walk tough. I haven’t got the inclination to socialise.’

  ‘Who are the few people who they might target?’ Enquired Janney, thoughtfully.

  ‘You read my mind kid… I hope you aren’t tired because we’re heading straight out.’

  Stoker had only caught fifteen minutes of shuteye on the shoulder of a fat woman on the bus, but he didn’t have time to feel tired.

  ‘First stop is downstairs – my old friend Moe Brown who runs the café.’

  ‘You’re a white cop and friends with a poor black café owner?’ Asked Janney, rhetorically. Stoker had just gone up even further in his estimation.

  They finished their coffees – albeit Janney left a small amount in the bottom of his mug, Stoker’s Ethiopian Arabica being a bit strong for his taste – and ran downstairs to Moe’s Place.

  Stoker was the first to see the dead body of his old friend.

  It was a damn butcher’s job. Moe had been sliced and diced like a damn bell pepper.

  Stoker punched a table which promptly exploded into splinters.

  But there were no tears. Stoker was saving his tears.

  Janney and Stoker embraced.

  ‘Shit. If they got to Moe then I
guess they might go after others.’ Said Stoker.

  ‘Who else is there?’ Replied Janney in reply.

  ‘Maybe Rooster, I guess… but there’s no way they’d know about him…’

  ‘Rooster?’ Janney said his name because he wanted to know who Rooster was.

  ‘Rooster is a homeless informant, who is my ear on the street.’

  Janney’s face became all thoughtful. ‘Hmm… is there any way Magnelli could know about him? We need to protect him.’

  ‘Perhaps, kid. You’re right. Let’s go.’

  Chapter 25

  Steam filled the air. The four walls of the tiled room were slick with the condensation from vaporised sweat. The room was dark and sordid. But it was private.

  ‘Crawford-san, you have behaved well so far. I am impressed. Continue, and you may find me very grateful indeed.’ Spang’s lips were dry, but his words were wet… with blood.

  Spang, Crawford and a third man sat in the backstreet bathhouse, wearing only small towels around their abdomens. Spang also wore his trademark bowler hat, which helped to distinguish him as a character.

  Crawford issued a response, his pale jowls dangling from his jaw like some kid’s jello carton being held upside down by some retarded bully in a school playground.

  ‘I recognise a good business man, Mr Spang. I recognise a professional who wants to make money. You know how I recognise one? I wake every damn morning by looking at one in the mirror. I look at the reflection of a good business man every day, when I look at my damn self. I guess what I’m saying is that I consider myself a good businessman, Mr Spang.

  ‘Ha. Ha. Ha.’ Laughed Spang. ‘You are a wise man, Crawford-san.’

  Lowenstein (who was the third man) interjected by interrupting:

  ‘It is apparent that these two potential adversaries are in fact amiable friends… I do declare that the triumvirate of fellows present may be able to upwardly mobilise our net worth through considered collaboration.’

  Spang nodded. ‘My scholarly friend here seems to speak the truth. Which brings me to my next and final point, Crawford-san… Thomas Magnelli. I understand him to be a sadistic man, and I don’t think the city of New York will mourn if he dies in a tragic accident…’