A gaunt man entered EJ’s Bar and looked around. His hair was graying at the temples and his moustache needed trimming. His suit was too big for him, and was several years out of style. He spotted a familiar face seated alone at a corner table and made his way over.
“Spike?” The slim figure asked the seated man.
“Who’s askin’?” Spike looked up with a scowl, then smiled with recognition. “Well, I’ll be! Trigger Doom, you old sonuvabith! How long you been out?”
“A few days. Mind if I join you?” Spike gestured to the empty seat next to him and Trigger Doom lowered himself slowly into it.
“You all right?” Spike asked.
“Eh, my joints give me trouble.” Doom explained. “Ten years of hard labor takes its toll on a body.”
“Cripes, has it been that long?” Spike asked.
“Ten years.” Trigger snorted derisively. “Can you believe that? I got ten years for killing Czar Rennis, a notorious crime boss, and Steve the Tramp gets out after only seven! He shot four guards during an escape attempt, and he’s still out before me.”
“You met Steve in the joint?”
“Yeah, but after he ‘reformed’. He was always going on about how we should turn our lives around, how crime doesn’t pay, how mixing it up with Dick Tracy was the best thing that ever happened to him.” Trigger shook his head. “The guy was a nut.”
“So, what are you going to do now?” Spike asked.
“That’s why I’m here. I’ve been checking all the old haunts, but everything’s different. The Bird Club, Club Gray, Nothing Yonson’s Place, The Minute Bar, none of them are still in business. I don’t even know who’s running the Outfit these days.” Trigger sounded desperate.
“Well, for one thing, nobody calls it the Outfit anymore.” Spike explained. “Now, it’s the Apparatus.”
“’Apparatus’? What kind of name for a gang is that?” Trigger scoffed.
“That’s just it, they don’t run it like a gang no more.” Spike spoke in a hushed tone. “It’s all run like a company now, with Presidents and Boards of Directors and lawyers on retainer and stuff like that. Some of the guys at the top have been to college even! They throw around their ten-dollar words and treat guys like us - guys with experience! – like garbage. Maybe we can work as muscle, but mostly they don’t want to know us.”
“Brother…” Trigger leaned back in his seat as a shapely young waitress approached.
“What are you drinking, mister?” She asked, with a squeaky voice.
“Right now, I’m drinking you in, doll.” Trigger flashed a grin and the waitress blushed in spite of herself.
“Why, you dirty old man…!” She said playfully.
“I’m just giving you the business, honey. Get me a scotch and soda. And give it legs, huh?” Trigger watched the waitress hurry back to the bar, looking at him over her shoulder as she went. “Speaking of legs…”
“Lay off it, Trigger.” Spike cautioned. “Dames are different nowadays. You’ve been out of commission a long time, remember.”
“Some things never change, Spike.” Trigger spoke with an easy confidence. “Once I get back in the swing of things, I’ll have a dozen girls like that hanging off me.”
“Sure, sure.” Spike sipped his beer.
“Seriously, though, who’s the top man around these days? I need to get back in the inner circle, you know?” Trigger mimed holding a rifle. “I’ve got valuable skills.”
“Ok, here’s what I can tell you. The guy in charge these days is a fella named William Millyun. But he goes by ‘Willie the Fifth’…”
***
Willie the Fifth sat in his office, going over his latest reports. Flyface sat in the corner, reading the newspaper. They both looked up as they saw the hydraulic platform lower from the bar above. Two men were standing on it.
“Jackie? What is this?” Fifth demanded.
“This ain’t my fault, Fifth.” The young man protested. “He’s got a gun.”
Trigger Doom stepped out from behind his hostage and showed the pistol in his hand.
“I’m sorry to intrude.” Trigger said. “I asked politely upstairs where I could find you, so I could introduce myself, but no one was cooperating. So…” Trigger indicated his gun.
Willie the Fifth looked Trigger up and down, took a drag on his cigar, and laughed. “Haw! How do you like that? He’s sorry to intrude! He wants to introduce himself! I call that moxie! What do you call it, Flyface?”
“Don’t call me ‘Flyface’.” The wrinkled man in the corner responded. “But, I’d certainly call him intrepid.”
“Haw haw! Intrepid! That’s a great word!” Willie leaned back. “What’s say we let our intrepid intruder introduce himself, huh? What’s your name, 'Mr. Intro'?”
“I’m Jimmy Doom. They call me ‘Trigger’.”
“What, like Roy Rogers’ horse?” Millyun laughed more.
“Yeah, like that. It’s real funny.” Trigger didn’t smile. “Are you Willie the Fifth?”
“I refuse to answer that!” Fifth spat. Flyface shook his head and went back to his paper. “Sorry, force of habit. Yeah, I’m the Fifth. Jackie, go back upstairs and let me and the horse here talk, all right?”
The younger man stood on the platform as it raised back up the to the bar. Trigger was impressed by the sophisticated device. He turned back to Willie, who indicated at a chair.
“Sit down, sit down.” Fifth puffed on his cigar some more. “Trigger Doom… I’ve heard of you right? From the old days?”
“Yeah. I just got of prison.” Trigger explained. “I got sent up for killing Czar Rennis.”
Willie pounded his desk. “That’s it! Czar Rennis! Odds Zonn used to talk about you!”
Trigger smiled at the name. “Yeah! How is Odds these days?”
“Oh, he’s dead.” Willie said, not losing his smile. “Dead a while now. But he always had good things to say about you! He hated Rennis, I’ll tell you. Always called him a smug bastard with his rigged slot machines.”
“Yeah, I thought that way, too.” Trigger began to relax. “He was no Big Boy, that’s for sure.”
“You worked with Big Boy?” Willie’s hat brim covered his eyes, but his tone of voice sounded impressed. “Now, there’s a name from the past. Might as well say you helped Ben Franklin invent the wireless!”
“That was Marconi.” Flyface chimed in. “Or Edison, depending on who you believe.”
“See, that’s why I keep him around. Always has the right answer.” Fifth leaned in to Trigger. “So, you’re out of the clink, and what? You want back in the rackets? A fossil like you?”
“Things can’t be that different. Crime’s still crime, right?” Trigger tried to sound confident.
“Crime is, maybe, but cops aren’t. They got radios that they wear on their wrists nowadays. Constant contact and 24-hour surveillance even. It’s a whole different ballgame. You got to know your rights, and what they can and can’t do.” Willie the Fifth sounded menacing. Trigger desperately tried to avoid showing weakness.
“I can learn. And you can trust me.” Trigger explained.
“Like Czar Rennis trusted you?” Willie asked, pointedly. Trigger was lost for words until Willie laughed again. “Haw! I’m just pulling your legs. Lighten up, Doom. I pride myself on the loyalty I inspire in my people. Right, Flyface?”
“Don’t call me ‘Flyface’.” He said, without looking up from his paper.
“I love that guy.” Willie beamed. “Tell you what, I’m dealing with a power vacuum in my smuggling operation out on the coast. There’s nobody I can trust to monitor our incoming shipments and handle the payoffs to the Shore Patrol.”
“I can do that.” Trigger said, eagerly.
“Good. I hope you like boats.” Willie pressed the intercom on his desk. “Olive, come in here and meet Trigger. He’s going to need some travel accommodations.”
‘Olive’, huh? Thought Trigger Doom.
-Years Later-
Constable Ferret sat behind a table in the bookstore. A long line of people had formed, waiting for him to autograph their copies of his latest memoir. His wife sat next to him.
“I wish the boys could have gotten out of school to see this.” Mrs. Ferret said wistfully. “They’d be so proud of you.”
“I know, I know.” Ferret replied. “But they need their education. And besides, I’m not done with this book business! Not by a fair piece!” Ferret gave his wife a grin and wink, and wiggled his handlebar moustache at her. She chuckled, just as she had for the past thirty years.
Trigger Doom stood in line, clutching a book to his side, waiting patiently. It wasn't Ferret's book, but the latest volume in a series of vocabulary builders that Trigger had taken to reading. He was determined not to place his hands on a copy of Ferret's book.
After the disappearance of Willie the Fifth, Trigger had returned to the city to take control of Fifth’s criminal operation. There had been rivals - younger men, mostly - but none of them were as determined or as vicious. They had underestimated the older mobster, and one by one they either fell or came under Trigger’s control.
None of them knew that Trigger Doom was their boss. He had adopted a new identity- Mr. Intro. One of his first goals in seizing power had been to eliminate anyone from the old days who might be able to identify him, and he had been very successful.
Today, he was planning to settle another old score. Constable Ferret had been instrumental in Trigger Doom’s downfall, and now the diminutive police officer had published another collection of memoirs, this one including the details of the Doom case. The book was already a best-seller (which many observers attributed its accounts of the Constable’s interactions with Dick Tracy, the famous detective), and Ferret had been relentless in promoting it.
Trigger was near the front of the line. He heard the woman ahead of him addressing the constable.
“Tell me, Constable,” she asked, “Do you think you’ll ever solve the mystery of your daughter’s death?”
Ferret sighed heavily. It was a question he had heard often. “Ma’am, I don’t know. Every day, the trail becomes more cold.” He turned to his wife, then looked back. “But, every day I feel myself become more resolute. Justice will be served for my poor dear daughter, either in this life or the next. I have every confidence of that, and I hope you’ll keep your confidence in the law.”
Ferret signed the woman’s book and handed it back to her. She clutched it to her chest and gave the Constable a watery-eyed goodbye. Trigger Doom stepped forward. Ferret saw the book that he was holding and raised an eyebrow.
“Say there, friend, you seem to have grabbed the wrong book.” Ferret picked a copy of his memoir off a pile on the table. “Here, I’ll sign this one for you. I know how the memory starts to slip as the years go by, after all…”
Without speaking, Trigger dropped the book in his hand, and pointed a pistol at Ferret. Ferret’s wife screamed as Doom prepared to shoot. As his finger curled around the trigger, a sharp pain shot up his arm. Trigger’s hand cramped and stiffened, and he cried out.
Ferret took advantage of the delay. Quickly, he lifted the open book off the table and slammed it shut around Trigger’s hand. Ferret twisted the book, turning Trigger’s arm around at the elbow.
Trigger shouted in pain again. Letting go of the gun, he pulled his hand from the book. He turned to run, but Ferret had vaulted over the table and onto Trigger’s shoulders. Ferret pummeled Trigger’s head with sharp blows. Trigger stumbled around until he was able to throw Ferret off him into a wire rack filled with paperbacks.
“Stop that man!” Ferret shouted as Trigger forced his way through the crowd and out of the store. Ferret staggered to his feet and chased after Trigger. By the time Ferret reached the entrance of the bookstore, Trigger had lost himself in the city’s foot traffic.
“I’ll remember you!” Ferret yelled, to no one. “I know your face! Criminal! Coward! I’ll remember!”
-Later-
Trigger sat alone in his office, looking at his appointment book. He’d be back on the coast next week, comfortable on his floating fortress. The girls would be there, many of them new but with a few of his very favorites still on retainer.
He felt secure on the boat. There were very few surprises or interruptions. The entire vessel was wired with cameras – some visible, some hidden – which enabled him to monitor all of the activity taking place around him. No one came on board or left without his personal approval, and everyone was subject to random, thorough body searches.
Trigger knew that some of his subordinates – his Board of Directors – were beginning to question his methods. They thought he was coming unhinged. But Trigger knew that he was exercising reasonable precautions. Besides, once his position became more secure, he would be able to relax. Perhaps start to delegate, if he found someone that he could trust.
“Mr. Intro, there’s a woman here to see you.” Gertrude’s voice came through the intercom, dripping the same seductive quality that had convinced Trigger to hire her.
“A woman? Who is she?” Trigger asked.
“She says you don’t know her, but that you’ll be pleased to see her.” Gertrude replied.
“Hmmm. Will I be?” Asked Trigger.
“I wouldn’t be surprised…” Trigger could practically hear the smirk on Gertrude’s lips. Trigger activated the monitor on his desk which fed him the image from the TV camera in the outer office. It was only a black-and-white monitor, but what he saw was striking nonetheless.
“All right, send her in.” Trigger placed the wire mesh mask over his face, then turned to face the door.
A shapely young woman entered. Her hair was platinum blonde and exquisitely coifed. Her make-up was similarly flawless. What most intrigued Trigger, though, was her clothing, inasmuch as she did not seem to be wearing any. Rather, her body appeared to be painted with a series of elaborate patterns instead of an actual garment. As she stepped closer, Trigger could make out traces of a bathing suit that covered her most private areas, but the woman was still practically naked.
“You must be Mr. Intro.” She said.
“I am.” Intro replied. “You’ll understand if I don’t offer you a seat, Miss…?”
“I’m called the Painted Lady.” She replied.
“Well, I can understand the Painted part.” Trigger grinned, though she couldn’t see it. “As for the ‘Lady’ element, you do not make a very strong case.”
“You’re a clever man, Mr. Intro.” The Painted Lady arched an eyebrow. “Or can I call you Trigger Doom?”
Trigger stiffened in his seat. “Who told you to call me that?” He demanded.
“I pieced it together based on a few rumblings I’ve heard, and what I was able to get out of mother.” She replied. “You see, if you ARE Trigger Doom, then I’m your daughter.”
“What?” Trigger was astonished. “Who…”
“A chorus girl, around twenty-two years ago.”
“There were a lot of chorus girls…” Trigger replied.
“This one got pregnant.” Painted Lady’s voice remained steady. “When mother found out that she was in trouble, she knew that she couldn’t have a life with you. She went back to my grandfather’s house, and he arranged for her to marry one of his business associates. He was wealthy but elderly, and Mother provided him with… companionship in his declining years.
“Then, when he died, we inherited his fortune.” Painted Lady concluded. “I’ve done quite well for myself, in fact. I own a successful nightclub here in town, as well as several hair salons and wig stores.”
“That’s impressive.” Trigger replied. “So what makes you so sure that I’m this Trigger Doom person?”
“Oh, little things I’ve heard here and there.” Painted Lady settled herself on the edge of Trigger’s desk. “Mother always said that you were ruthless, and destined for great things. Handsome, charming, with an eye for the ladies, but prone to… Panic, let’s say?”
“If this is flattery, I’ve heard better.” Trigger responded.
“So take off that silly mask and let me know who I’m dealing with.” Painted Lady entreated.
Trigger laughed. “I have people who’ve been working for me for YEARS that haven’t seen my face. You really think I’m going to show YOU?”
Painted Lady ran a finger under her bathing suit, exposing a patch of unpainted flesh on her breast. It was creamy and smooth. From under the fabric, she drew out a folded photograph. It was creased and worn, and the image had faded, but the faces of the man and woman were still visible. Trigger recognized himself, but not the woman.
“That’s Mother, with Trigger Doom, at Club Gray the year before I was born.” Painted Lady explained. Trigger looked from the picture, then to the woman in front of him. The resemblance was undeniable. He removed his mask.
“I look different.” He said. “Hard labor. And more than a few scrapes since then.”
“How awful for you.” Painted Lady’s voice held no sympathy as she tucked the photo back in its hiding place.
“So what do you want from me? Money?” Trigger asked.
“I told you, I’m doing all right, thank you.” Painted Lady said.
“Well, I hate to disappoint you, but I’m not really the fatherly type, so if that’s what you're after-“
Painted Lady cut him off with a sharp laugh. “Please! You really are full of yourself, aren’t you?”
“Then what’s this all about?” Trigger suddenly felt impatient.
“Like I said, I run a successful nightclub.” Painted Lady said. “Over the past few weeks, I’ve had a few bruisers come in looking for protection money. It’s annoying.”
“I’ll make it stop.” Trigger said without hesitation.
“No, you don’t get it.” Painted Lady huffed. “I want to stop it myself. I want to be able to tell these gorillas that I am Mr. Intro’s daughter, and they had better do what I say.”
There was a glint in the young woman’s eye that pleased Trigger as she spoke. “Taking up the family business? After we just met?”
“I have a few ideas for some new enterprises.” Painted Lady explained. “Having access to a vast criminal organization might be fun. Besides, some of these big muscle-bound brutes do have a certain animal charm. I’d like to see how they respond when they’re a little bit afraid of me.”
Trigger chuckled. “All right then. Go ahead and tell those thugs that you’re my daughter. I’ll back your story.”
“Because it’s the truth.”
“Who cares?” Trigger asked, putting his mask back on.
“Good point.” Painted Lady stood and went to leave. “I’ll call you if I need anything else.”
“Before you go…” Trigger called after her. She stopped and turned, placing her hands on her hips. “Look, I don’t have any family, or even people that I’m close to.”
“I see.”
“So, maybe sometime you’d like to come over and have dinner? I’ve got a good chef. He’ll make whatever I tell him to.” Trigger hoped that his voice didn’t sound as plaintive as he thought it did.
“All right. I can think of worse ways to spend an evening. I’ll call you.” Painted Lady went to go. As she put her hand on the doorknob, she turned back to him. “I’m assuming you’d like me to bring one of my girlfriends along?”
“That would be nice.” Trigger confirmed.
-Epilogue-
Spike sat alone in EJ’s bar. He had been out of the city for months once word got around that someone was killing any remnants of the old gangs. He had hidden at his sister’s place in Nebraska until her kids had gotten on his nerves so much that he couldn’t stand it anymore. He had returned to the city and was relieved to find that the killings had subsided. Now that Intro was gone, there was another power struggle going on in the upper levels of the Apparatus, and no one seemed to care about a small-time hood like him.
Spike was nursing his beer when he noticed a figure standing over him. He looked up.
“Yeah?” Spike said to the stranger, trying to fill his voice with menace.
“Spike? Spike, it’s me.” The man said.
“So what? Get lost. I don’t know you.” Spike replied.
“Spike, it’s me! Emilio Mocco!” The man insisted. “You know! Ribs!”
Recognition dawned on Spike and he stared slack-jawed at his old associate.
“Ribs! Holy Hell, you look terrible!” Spike said. Ribs sat next to him.
“Yeah, yeah, I know it.” Ribs took off his hat and set it on the table.
“Where’ve you been? You disappeared right after Big Boy went up for the last time.” Spike asked.
“The heat was on, so I went back east; took a job working on the docks. Union work, but I still broke my back for thirty years.” Ribs sighed. “Honest living, huh?”
“Brother, tell me about it.” Spike said. “So what brings you back after all this time?”
“I’ve been thinking about my reputation.” Ribs answered.
“You? YOUR reputation?” Spike was incredulous.
“That’s my point.” Ribs said. “I was always known as Big Boy’s flunkie, right? A no-account who never amounted to anything, then skipped town when the heat got too hot.”
“Well, some people say that.” Spike admitted.
“A lot of ‘em do. And they’re not wrong. But then I saw this.” Ribs slapped a newspaper on the table and pointed at the headline. “You seen this?”
“Everybody’s seen it.” Spike scoffed. “That crazy cop Tracy vaporized Intro’s yacht with all hands on board. It was a massacre. No one can believe it.”
“And no one got out alive, right?” A smile curled Ribs’ lip. Spike looked confused.
“What are you getting at, Ribs?”
“No one ever knew what Mr. Intro looked like, right?” Ribs said. “Or what his real name was? So he could have been anyone.”
“So what?” Spike asked.
“So, maybe some rumors get started.” Ribs’ voice took on a conspiratorial tone. “Maybe you heard that Mr. Intro was really Ribs Mocco, come back to town to take control of the rackets.”
“They don’t call ‘em ‘the rackets’ no more.” Spike explained.
“I don’t care what they call ‘em!” Ribs insisted. “I’m just saying maybe you start spreading the word around that Ribs Mocco wasn’t the sad sack that everybody thinks he was. Maybe Ribs Mocco was a big shot, with a yacht and a lot or pretty girls around, who finally went out shooting against Dick Tracy.”
Spike took a long, appraising look at the old criminal sitting in front of him. Ribs looked tired.
“Yeah. Yeah, Ribs. Maybe you were.”
End
No comments:
Post a Comment