Chapter 14: Rex

Rex was just sitting at his kitchen table eating some toast when they came for him. 

One minute he was spreading some strawberry jam over his breakfast, the next he had a bag over his head and his hands cuffed behind his back and getting stuffed into the boot a car. He had no idea where he was being taken but the fact that he was still alive had to be a positive sign, right? Rex tried to keep a clear head but deep down he knew that there was no getting out of this. He was being taken to either Silveri or Soong. They probably just wanted a few minutes of face time to gloat before the put his feet in cement and tossed him in the river. Rex had accumulated dirt of both of them, if he just had a few more weeks he was sure he could have crippled both their operations, and that gave him some small solace when he was pulled out of the trunk and ordered to march. They walked him up some steps and sat him in a chair before pulling the bag off from head. The bright light blinded him, and for a few seconds Rex struggled to determine who the blob sitting in front of him was. He was surprised when his vision cleared and it was an old man in his pajamas, and he didn't seem to be in any better a spot that Rex was. The man was staring back at him, clearly trying to figure out who Rex was. He was about to say something when Rex heard the sounds of a large heavy door open behind him and slow heavy footsteps accompanied by the telltale taping of a cane started to close in.

Rex couldn't bring himself to turn his head. The old man's face contorted in confusion as he spoke.

"John? John what's the hell's going on? These men broke into my house and pulled me out of my bed, did you ...?"

"Shut your dirty whore mouth O'Mally!" the voice was deep, and filled with intense sense of betrayal.

The voice's owner walked around to sit in a large comfortable leather chair between the both of them. He took off his black bowler and set it on an end table beside him, then leaned forward on his cane to glare at both men.

"Leave me with them." he said, and for the first time Rex realized there were a half dozen men in the room with them. They all filed out obediently without a word.

Rex was confused. He had been sure either the gangsters or the triad had kidnapped him, it took him a few moments longer to start to put the pieces together. O'Mally was Judge Ryan O'Mally, who had famously dismissed all charges against Flo Silveri a few days ago. As for the other, even though Rex never met the man or had ever really seen him up close, was none other than John F. Hylan, the Mayor of New York who's son had been kidnapped and beaten half to death by the Soongs goons just a few days ago. But if that was true then why was Rex here. He had saved the boy's life! Mayor Hylan just sat there staring at both of them with a look Rex could only describe as cold fire. 

Judge O'Mally tried to speak again, "John what's ..."

He was cut off as the mayor awkwardly half-rose from his seat and swatted the judge with his cane until the Judge fell silent.

Having spent his rage, Mayor Hylan collapsed back into his chair breathing heavily. The Judge had seemingly learned his place and sat in silence. It took a while for the mayor to catch his breath again. He was still red faced when he continued,

"My son... my baby boy is lying in a hospital bed, he'll never walk again. He'll be lucky if he can eat a meal that isn't through a tube" the mayor's voice trailer off as he chocked back a tear.

"Dammit O'Mally he's your Godson and you let those ANIMALS... I gave you people a lot of leeway. I thought when they repealed prohibition everything would settle down. Well it's over, do you hear me! Over! Before the sun goes down every speak-easy, every brothel, everything you bastards have ever owned will be gone. And you two, I have a special private slice of hell saved for the both of you."

"But why" Rex found himself saying before he could think. He had saved the boy, "I helped him, I saved his life."

The Mayor eyes slowly rolled towards Rex. The weight of his gaze was palpable, suddenly Rex was a little boy again shrinking away when his father drew his belt.

"What did you save him for? So he could live his life as a cripple. With nurses bathing him and wiping his ass. What woman will want him? What kind of man could he possibly become? Not only did you stand by while they broke his spine but then you suddenly grew a conscience. Why? I asked you a fucking question boy. Did you want to make sure he suffered longer? Force him to live out his life as a fucking gimp. ANSWER ME!"

Rex was totally speechless, Mayor Hylan didn't wait very long for a response.

"This time next week all your friends will be in prison or under the ground. I'll call in the army if I have to but I am ending this. Let the hippies scream about the Fourth Amendment all they want, I am ending this."

Despite the fear that gripped Rex he couldn't help but feel elated. A crackdown on the Triads and on the mob was exactly what he wanted. It was why he had been turning them against each other and gathering evidence and scheming all this time. Now this man was going to do it all for him, could it be that easy?

Rex felt the smile creep across his face and by the time the laughter starting flowing he just couldn't stop himself. He didn't even care that he was tied up or that the rage was palpable on the Mayor's face. He forgot about plots and back stabs and all his plans and lost himself in the pure joy of success.

"He's gone bloody crazy" Rex didn't know who said it, but he was too happy for it to matter.

"Do it, burn them all, I can help you. I have everything you need, names, aliases, addresses, everything you need to track them down. That's all I every wanted."

___________________________________________________

Rex sat in the room that had been provided to him. It was comfortable, with a bed a comfortable chair and a library in case he got bored. The curtains almost completely hid the metal bars over the windows so it was easy to forget that this room was in fact a cell. The fact that such a room existed at all in the mayor's estate didn't escape his notice but question of 'why' didn't seem all that important right now. Rex had spent the first few hours of his incarneration sleeping like a baby he felt as though a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. It amazed him, by now the police would have collected all his financial notes, his Rolodex and photographs and everything they needed to find all the mobsters Rex had been working with. Mayor Hylan still mistrusted him greatly, and it seemed he still resented him for what happened to his boy, but he seemed willing to take his help at least. Most people who were being held in custody would be a bundle of nerves, but compared to his life the last few years this actually seemed quite peaceful. There was no clock in the room but the Sun had set and rose again so he figured he'd been in that room for 24 hours when he finally heard the lock turn on his door. When it opened two officers walked and told him to get into the corner while they searched the room. When they were satisfied that Rex hadn't somehow snuck anything in they bellowed out the all clear.

One of the officers sat Rex down in the chair and kept both of his meaty hands on his shoulders as Flo Silveri himself walked into the room with a smile on his face like he'd just won the lottery. Rex felt the color drain from his face. 

"That there, that's the look I live for kid."

Flo lit a fresh cigar and took a few long slow puffs before continuing,

"I told you I had this city in my pocket kid, it was a dump thing to do to try to take me on. I wanted to thank you though. Margery told us you had a bunch of dirt on Soong but we didn't know where you kept it until you told us. Soon enough we'll be the only game in town and it's all thanks to you."

Rex could only manage to stammer, "M... Margery?"

"Don't feel too bad kid." Flo responded, "You ain't the first to fall for the ol'Honey Pot and you won't be the last."

"But the mayor, his son!"

"Is in our custody, thanks to you. Another of Margy's ideas. That dame's quite a catch. It's true what old Hylan said, you should have just let the kid die. You didn't though because you're too soft and that's why you'll always be a nobody."

Rex couldn't process any more. He felt himself to try rise. He wanted to reach out and choke the life out of Silveri but before he could even get to his feet a meaty fist cracked across his jaw sending him smashing to the ground. A few swift kicks to the ribs for good measure and Rex's world faded to black. The last thing he saw was Flo flicking his cigar to the floor.

"See you around kid" and the door slammed shut.

Chapter 13: Cyril Van Dine

Cyril Van Dine was in heaven. June Bug’s last clout to the side of his head had put him there.

Soft warm light filled his vision. He smiled and drifted toward it. It looked so inviting.

A blast of cold water to his face brought him back to cold dark hell.

For at least a day Cyril’s hell had been a small brick-walled room in the basement of a building he could not hope to identify. Through the tiny barred window near the ceiling in the far corner of the room he had seen the sun set and rise again since he had been there. Though he had been conscience when they’d brought him there, a bag had been over his head and he had made the trip in the trunk of car.

Throughout the entire ordeal, at least during the times he had been conscience, June Bug had been there. Though he never said a word it was clear his one job was to make Cyril miserable. It was a job at which June Bug excelled. In the twisted world where torture was an art form and Cyril was the canvass, June Bug would have been considered a Renaissance master.

Powerful but precise, and fiendishly creative, June Bug knew the exact amount that he could wrench Cyril fingers back without them breaking. He knew precisely when to release his chokehold so Cyril would not blackout. And nine times out of ten he could hit Cyril’s knee caps with a baseball thrown from across the room. When he missed it was usually worse.  

As far as Cyril was concerned June Bug could even read minds. He knew where Cyril was most ticklish. He seemed to know exactly when Cyril was thirsty so he could pour water on the floor. He knew when he was hungry so he could eat and lick his meaty fingers clean. And worst of all, he knew when Cyril most craved the burn and he would reach into his pocket, unscrew the flask and run it under Cyril’s nose. Though the physical pain had made him scream like a newborn baby, it was the aroma of rye so close to his lips that had finally brought him to tears.

Water dripped from Cyril’s nose as his head lolled forward again, his chin coming to rest on his chest. Most of his body felt numb. The parts that didn’t itched. Behind his back, tied to the chair on which he sat, he could feel his wedding ring digging painfully into his little finger. One of the three rubies inset into its outer face had turned just the wrong way sometime during the night and he was sure it had gnawed his pinky to the bone since.

Inside he cursed the day his brother had ever met Margery. Cursed him for ever having gone off to war and for having been dumb enough to have drowned that day when so many others had been saved. He should have been better than that.

The ruby-studded ring, like the wife, had been his brother’s before it had ever come to him, a gift from Jim Soong. An heirloom, he claimed. Soong apparently hadn’t let Crispin take it to war with him and had passed it on to Cyril that cold February day when he had come calling.   

Cyril had not seen Jim Soong since the bag had been placed over his head in his kitchen and he had heard his voice only once. After he had been brought to the room and tied to his chair, but before the bag had been removed, his voice had come from across the room, free of the silk that had laced it in his home.

“He is the husband of my only sister and a member of my family,” he had said, presumably to June Bug, and Cyril had momentarily felt comforted. “Keep him presentable.”

A door had closed and when the bag was taken off only June Bug remained. Cyril presumed Soong had been busy finding Carr, and Margery, ever since.

Wherever he was, he had not come back to follow up on June Bug’s progress and, since there was no mirror in the room, Cyril was unable to make his own assessment as to how well June Bug had held up his end of the bargain. If he looked as bad as he felt, there wasn’t a snowflake’s chance in hell.

Snow, he thought and closed his eyes and imagined it on his lips, that would be nice right now. With his bottom lip he half-consciously tried to catch a bead of water that clung to the tip of his nose. He was still trying when he felt a new sensation grip his scalp.

Hair pulling, one strand at a time, had been one of June Bug’s first games. Cyril stiffened and his eyes shot open. June Bug was at his side, one hand on the back of his chair near his bound hands. Cyril caught a glimpse of a black comb buried in the other hand. June Bug was running the comb roughly through his hair. An itch in his scalp that had been eating at him for ages was suddenly soothed and Cyril almost groaned aloud.

“What the heck are you doing?” Cyril asked cautiously.

Cyril had never expected an answer and, true to form, June Bug simply pocketed the comb and walked to the door at the far end of the room. The door was thick and heavy but silent on its hinges as June Bug swung it open and then shut again, ducking under the frame as he exited. The only sound Cyril heard was a thin squeak and a soft thud as the door was locked from the other side.

Within a minute Cyril was asleep.

**************

Cyril was jolted awake by what sounded like gunshots. He had no idea how long he had been asleep, but pain lanced through his neck as he pulled his chin off his chest and looked to the small window, seemingly the source of the sound. After a long moment, when no further shots were heard, Cyril began to wonder whether he had dreamt the sounds.

Awake and with the room still devoid of June Bug Cyril finally to a moment to inspect his prison. Apart from brick walls and the tiny window, its only features were the door out of which June Bug had departed, a second door in the wall to his right, and a dark window on the same wall, beside the door and to his immediate right. The room beyond that window seemed dark and he could make out nothing from within.

He flexed his wrists testing his restraints. Rubbed raw over the past day his skin felt as if it were on fire as he pressed against the rope. Cyril winced and was about to cry out when he felt something loosen. The pain momentarily forgotten, he pulled again. Cyril could hardly believe his luck when the rope seemed to unfurl like a snake releasing its suffocated prey.  

June Bug, he thought as he pulled his stiff arms free of the chair and stood up. Cyril could not fathom why the giant would have let him go.

The black window to his right suddenly lit up and Cyril dove to the floor to be out of sight.

“Cuff’em to the chairs,” he heard followed by some commotion. When he glanced up a man he had not seen before stood looking in the window. From where he lay Cyril was in full view of him but the man seemed to look straight over him. As Cyril watched he adjusted his neck tie and then used a gloved hand to massage one end of a thin mustache.

Cyril had read about one-way glass in funny books as a kid, but he had never seen one in real life. Not completely believing it, as the man turned around, Cyril crawled to the wall and peaked through. Three men were leaving the room while two more sat cuffed to chairs. The one on the right seemed unconscious while the other looked drearily from side to side and into the naked light bulb swinging gently from the ceiling above him. His eyes finally settled on the other man.

“Ron,” he said in a harsh whisper following by something Cyril couldn’t make out. The other man roused and looked around himself. They began to talk in hushed tones.

“…my mess,” he heard one say. The other one mumbled something and then returned, “Where are we?”

At that Jim Soong entered the room followed by two men, one of them the man that had been grooming himself in the mirror only a moment before.

“You’re in a private office reserved for my use at the Second Third Bank,” Soong replied and Cyril could see the building in his mind. He knew the area well. One of his least favorite but cheapest drinking establishments was in an alley across the street. He used to enjoy going there until he and his big mouth had learned the hard way that many of Soong’s men did too. Wallack’s Theater was only a few short blocks away.

“I know because I put you there,” Soong continued as the two suits blocked Cyril’s view of his fellow captives.

At the far end of his own room Cyril heard the deadbolt sliding open. He glanced back to his chair but knew he would never make it before the door opened. His heart beat faster as a yelp from the other room told him the inevitable beatings had begun. Cyril stood up but otherwise remained frozen as the door swung open. June Bug ducked into the room, looming so large that it took Cyril a moment to realize that his wife had walked in behind him.

“Don’t say a god-damned word,” she said before Cyril had a chance to reattach his brain to his tongue. “That glass ain’t that thick and we don’t have the time besides.”

In the other room Cyril heard the words “triad bastard” and knew screams would not be far behind.

“What the hell is going on?” Cyril hurriedly whispered as the predicted screams erupted from behind the window.

“There isn’t much you’re deserving of,” Margery replied, “but you don’t deserve what you’ll get here. This was never part of the plan.”

“Plan?” Cyril repeated, but Margery cut him off.

“The door is open,” she gestured. “From here on out, you’re on your own.”

Something in the way she said it let Cyril know Margery was not just referring to today. They stared at each other. In the other room someone screamed, “I was following your cunt sister!” and it broke Margery’s gaze.

“What have you…” Cyril managed but the voice from the other side of the window continued, cutting him off.

“That’s right,” it said dripping with contempt. “Your sister just got off the phone with Flo Silvestri and then jumped in a car with you.”

Margery’s eyes found his again and she took a deep breath.

Cyril ran for the door.  

“Ain’t that the cat’s pajamas?” he heard the speaker say just before he passed through the door and into the hall. To his right he found a staircase and a hallway. An unholy scream erupted from the door behind him and from down the hallway simultaneously. He made for the stairs but, his legs still stiff from confinement, he missed the first one and crashed heavily onto the metal steps. Picking himself up he scrambled on all fours until he reached the point where the stairs doubled back on themselves. He was making the turn when he heard the bark of gunfire and pieces of brick tickled the right side of his face. He didn’t stop.

Looking ahead a door stood at the stop of the stairs, solid and closed. He could only hope it was unlocked. Time seemed to pass slowly as he stumbled his way over the top of the last stair and reached for the handle. It turned and he burst out into the warm evening air. The sky was purple above the alley and red at its end, where it met the street and where Cyril saw people ambling by. He started running toward them as shouting erupted from the stairwell as the door slammed shut behind him.

He was not thirty feet from the street when he heard the door crash open behind him and he tripped and fell. Skin tore from his palms as the cobble stones, rougher in the alley than on the well worn street, rudely massaged his battered body from head to toe. Getting back to his feet he stumbled closer to the street, ducking to avoid the gunshots that he knew would inevitably be coming. He had just reached the corner of the building when the first one jolted him and he tumbled onto the street.   

 

New York 1923 - Chapters 11-12

11. Harlan Stout

Harlan Stout woke up on his old couch at sundown.  He had intended to take only a light nap, but he was exhausted and slept right through the afternoon and on into the evening.  Harlan hacked and coughed,as he always did after waking up and braced himself over his dirty sink.  After a particularly violent shuddering cough, he produced a brown phlegmy loogie that he promptly spat and watched it slink viscously into the drain.  As he watched his loogie's travels, he thought about switching cigarette brands to one of those doctor recommended ones.  His eyes darted from his murky reflection to the pack of cigarettes on his coffee table and back again.  Maybe when I'm done this pack, he thought for the twentieth time.   

With no time or desire to shave, Harlan gargled some cheap whiskey and swallowed.  He threw on a shirt, trench and hat and walked out the door, wishing he could just be at Margery's door already.  He had told her to stay put.  It was time to see if this broad could follow orders.  

Detective Stout arrived in the hotel lobby, nodded to the bell boy and made his way unopposed to Margery Van Dine's room on the third floor.  By force of habit from years as a private detective, Stout took off his shoes and made his approach, gliding down the carpeted hallway silently and coming to a stop just outside her door.  He was beyond feeling bad for evesdropping on anybody. He didn't even expect to hear anything at all.  He stealthily put his ear to to the door and heard Margery talking.  As he bent down to place his shoes neatly beside the door, he could clearly tell she was on the phone, as he only heard her side of the conversation.

"Oh, poor baby. Is he okay?"

"I meant Arnold," Margery said happily.

Harlan smiled empathetically.  He didn't want to interrupt what sounded like nice conversation, especially if it provided her some measure of relief from the insanity of the last 24 hours.

“Good." Harlan could hear the smile in her voice.  "I’ll see you both tomorrow night then, warts and all.”

Harlan wrinkled his nose.  Warts?  She better be kidding.

“See you then, Mister Silveri.”

Harlan's jaw dropped and he let out a silent scream.  He nearly lost his balance and fell over.  He needed to put some distance between her door and his person.  NOW. 

Harlan's mind raced as he reeled from the implications of what he just heard.  Adrenaline coursed though his veins, causing his legs to shake.  As he made his way down the stairs to the small bar in the lobby he nearly tripped at least a half a dozen times.  He sat at the bar fumbling through his pockets.  His hand groped the cold steel of his sidearm before finding his pack of smokes.  His hand trembling, he pulled a cig out and fumbled with the matches.

"Need a light, friend?"

Harlan's gaze shot straight out, expecting to come face to face with a pistol.  Instead, it was the barkeep with a pack of matches ready to light.

"Please." Harlan mumbled, still unable to calm himself down.  "And get me a stiff one, would ya?"  Before he had finished his first drag, the bartender carefully placed the drink was in front of him.  Stout gulped it down focusing on the slow burn in his chest, stifled a belch and tapped the glass for another.

"You alright, chum?  You look like you've seen a ghost."  The bartender asked cheerily.

"I'm good.  Just got some bad news from a family friend is all."

The bartender, genuinely concerned, opened his mouth to sympathize.  Before he could get a word out Harlan quickly followed up curtly: "It's private."  The bartender understood well when a man needed time to think, placing the drink gently in front of the detective and moved to the other side of the bar.

Harlan lit up another cigarette only to find that he still had half a smoke in his mouth.  Goddammit Harlan, get a grip, he thought.  He rapidly puffed away his first cigarette and butted it in the ash tray as he took a slower drag from the one he just lit.  

This was big.  If Margery was connected to Silveri, then what the hell was she hiring him for?  Was he merely a pawn in some sick game?  He resolved to go back up and see Margery so she wouldn't suspect anything and only after enough time had passed so as to not raise any suspicions that he may have heard anything.  He looked down at the floor in concentration.  Harlan broke out instantly in a cold sweat.

His shoes.

He stared at his bare socks as he realized with a creeping horror that he might be dead man.  Slamming a dollar bill down on the table, Harlan made his way back up to the third floor with as much dignity as a rattled shoeless man could.  Bounding up the stairs and looking down the hallway, Harlan saw his shoes, laying where he had left them beside the door.  Again he stealthily made his way to Margery's room and slipped on his shoes.  He took a breath, relaxed, exhaled and brought his hand up to knock gently.

His knuckles should have rapped on wood, but instead they hit air as the door opened.  

"Oh!  Detective Stout!"  Margery squeaked, surprised. 

"Mrs. Van Dine!  I, uh, I..."

"Did you just get here?  I had almost given up on seeing you again today."  Something about the way she asked the question immediately bothered Harlan.  Was he just being paranoid?

"Why yes!  What a coincidence, heh, I was just about to knock and there you go opening the door.  Do you read Tarot cards as well?"  Harlan joked awkwardly.

"Tarot cards?" Margery smiled, not quite getting it.  

"Nevermind."  Then, regaining his compsure.  "May I come in?"

"Certainly detective.  I was just going for some fresh air, but I'm glad you're here."  Van Dine said cheerily.

I bet you were, you lying whore, Harlan thought.  Lets play.

Harlan made his way back to his apartment, his mind running a hundred miles an hour.  He was so deep in thought he didn't even think of pulling out a cigarette.

He had spent a good hour and a half talking with Margery Van Dine.  Talking about her relationship with her brother, Jim Soong, trying to find an angle.  At the same time, he baited her with subtle questions that clearly revealed she was being elusive.  Something was going on, that much he was sure about.  

Harlan had left her that night saying that he thought she should stay in the hotel for at least another two days.  She needed to lay low until the heat was off.  Harlan told her that he needed a few days to work and that in 48 hours he would be back with his findings.  He pre-paid for room service for the next two days.

Of course he knew Margery wouldn't stay put, despite her assurances.  He saw her in a new light now.  She wasn't naive, far from it.  This dame was a sharp as a tack and dangerous as a king cobra.

Harlan spent the rest of the night preparing.

Harlan set three alarms for 4 pm the next day.  He woke up, shaved, put on his best clothing usually reserved for weddings, and strapped on his two revolvers in matching hip holsters.  In his sock he concealed a Derringer 2,0, otherwise known as a ladypistol and strapped his combat knife from the Great War to his leg.  As an afterthought, he carefully placed his straight razor flat in his breast pocket.  Stout grabbed the day's paper and began his stakeout of Margery Van Dine. 

Sitting almost a block away on a park bench with a clear view to the entrance of the hotel, Harlan waited.  Years of honing his patience paid off as he observed a brand new black Cadillac pull up to the front of the hotel.  An elephant of a man stepped out of the vehicle and opened the rear passenger door.  Margery Van Dine gingerly emerged from the front of the building and hopped in.  

Harlan frantically waved down a cabbie and showed him a crisp 5 dollar bill.  "Follow that black Caddie and this is yours."

"Yes sir!" the cabbie responded, and sent the taxi lurching forward in hot pursuit.

After 20 minutes of pursuit, the Cadillac squeezed through an alley and finally came to rest at the rear entrance of the classically designed 2nd 3rd Bank of New York.  Once again, the giant man opened the door of the car and Margery Van Dine stepped out and quickly ducked into the building.

"Thanks pal, now beat it."  Harlan dismissed the cabbie, eyes fixed on the rear entrance.  Figures they'd use the back door.  Harlan spat.  Scumbags.

Finding another park bench with a clear view to the alley and a partial view of the back door, Harlan waited.  This time of evening was busy in New York City.  Harlan figured he blended right in as he staked out the Bank, waiting for anybody to come in or out, hungry for clues.  This was even bigger than Mindy Jimmerson.  This was the head of the giant, the king of the underworld, the right hand of...

*click*

Harlan froze as he felt the muzzle of a very large handgun dig into the base of his skull.

*click* The second click told him the gun was cocked and ready to fire on a hair trigger.

"Don't turn around, don't say anything.  You so much as pass gas and it'll be a closed casket at your funeral.  Let's go for a walk."

Harlan kept his cool and heard the rustle of a newspaper neatly folded over the magnum resting against the back of his head.  As he stood up, the concealed gun kept contact with his lower back.  

Looking straight ahead, he was escorted toward the alley linking the street with the back of the bank.  Harlan thought about his options.  He could take his chances on the gun jamming or the gunman hesitating.  He could run or try to fast draw his own weapon.  His hopes faded further as he noticed a handful of men emerge from the shadows of the alley.  If he could just position one of the other men in front of him, he could possibly get his captor to shoot one of his own men. 

He counted 5 men in cheap suits when he felt a blunt force blow connect with the side of his head.

The world went black.

12. Ronald Crispin

Crispin held up a trembling hand to request a break. He removed the bit of wood between his teeth and took another swig of mint julep. The side of his face had been painfully cleaned and bandaged, but that was the easy part. The bullet lodged in his lower back was the real problem. The little whiskey Rex had given him wasn’t nearly enough to deal with the pain of semi-amateur surgery. Ronald had asked for more when they had reached the hidden clinic, but with an embarrassed apology, the doctor explained that mint julep was the only alcohol he had been able to get his hands on.

Taking a deep breath, Ronald bit down on the stick again, he did his best to brace himself and signaled the doctor to continue. The back alley surgeon plunged his tweezers into the bullet wound again, provoking a moan of pain that Ronald couldn’t have suppressed if he had wanted to. The pain only worsened from there, tearing through the thin veil of comfort provided by the unpalatable hooch.

“Boy, it’s really stuck in there,” grunted the doctor.

“How long is this going to take?” Rex’s voice, laced with boredom, drifted through Ronald’s mental haze.

The pain grew exponentially and in another moment, the world went dark.

Crispin came to slowly. He felt drunk, but his pain remained intense. He opened his eyes slowly, discovering a set of blurry rafters slowly rotating above him. Or were the rafters holding still and he was the one spinning?

“Welcome back,” came an unfamiliar voice. “Take it easy, you’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“wheerr,” Ronald slurred, “wheeerrrr emmmmmmm…”

“You’re at my clinic. Johnson’s clinic.”

Ronald struggled slowly to an upright sitting position, swaying dangerously in every direction.

“Easy now,” the doctor repeated.

“emmm coaths…” Ronald continued, then worked his tongue around his mouth trying to clean away the accumulated paste. He felt his cheek sting and touched it gingerly with his hand, feeling bandages from his ear all the way down to his mouth.

“Your what?” asked the doctor politely.

“Cooooooaths!” Ronald demanded, attempting to fix the doctor with a stern look, but only succeeding in swinging his head in a wide arc that left him feeling nauseated and dizzy.

“Your clothes, of course. Let me help you.”

With the doctor’s help and seemingly infinite patience, Ronald eventually found himself dressed. The dizziness was gradually fading away and he was finally able to focus his vision, more or less, in one direction at a time.

Surly, his body aching in pain, and barely able to walk, Ronald soon found himself navigating with enormous difficulty through an alley, heading toward what he assumed was a street. Finally emerging from the alley, he ambled along, not really sure where he was going or how to get there.

With no understanding of how long it took him, Ronald finally came upon a phone booth. He fought with the sliding door for a minute or so and finally made it inside. He grabbed the ear piece and after a few failed attempts, succeeded in forcing a nickel into the slot.

"Hello, how may I direct your call?"

“carr,” Ronald muttered into the mouth piece.

“Car? Are you calling for a taxi, sir?”

“No, CARR,” he replied angrily, then clutched his cheek again. “Rex Carr.”

“Are you referring to Rex Dickson Carr or Rex Stuart Carr?”

“REX DICKS CARR” he yelled into the phone, suffering a faint tearing feeling under the bandages.

“There’s no need to yell, sir,” scolded the operator. “I’ll connect you now.”

“Rex,” came a familiar voice after a few rings.

“Rex,” said Ronald with relief.

“Ronald? Is that you?

“Yeah.”

“You sound terrible, where are you?”

“new york,” he muttered.

“No kidding,” Rex sighed. “Look, I’m glad you survived the operation. Now get home and get some rest. You’re no good to me half-dead.”

“Hmm, rest…” Ronald mumbled back.

He hung up the phone and stepped back on to the street. He stood still for a moment, contemplating his bed. Resting sounded good. He put a hand to his lower back, feeling the deeper wound. As addled as his brain felt, it was still registering a lot of pain. He didn’t like the idea of agonizing in bed. He hesitated, unable to decide.

A yellow cab driving past brought him back to reality and he registered it just in time to raise a hand to wave it down. The cab pulled over and stopped abruptly. Automatically, Crispin climbed in.

“Where to, mister?” asked the cabbie casually.

Ronald thought for a moment. He decided he didn’t want to go home. He wanted something to dull the pain. Perfect time to head to his favourite speakeasy, the Fish Tank.

“da fesh tank” Ronald muttered and leaned back against the seat. He closed his eyes and tried to relax.

“What’s that?” asked the cabbie, turning around to better understand his passenger.

“Said da fesh tank,” Ronald mumbled back, struggling to make himself comfortable.

“Second third bank?”

“da tank,” Ronald agreed, finally settling into a position that eased the pain in his back.

“Alright, then.”

Ronald tried to take slow, deep breaths, but couldn’t help wincing and grinding his teeth as the cab bounced along the road. The drive felt like it lasted for ever, but he relaxed, knowing comfort was at the other end. The cab finally stopped and Crispin handed the cabbie some money, hoping he wasn’t overpaying.

He climbed out and took a moment to get his bearings. Where was the Fish Tank again? As he looked for familiar landmarks, it slowly dawned on him that he was in the wrong neighborhood. He looked back and saw the cab driving down the street.

“Rats,” Ronald thought to himself. “Rotten cabbie just took me for a ride.”

He stomped his foot in rage, causing a wave of pain to run through him and making him even angrier. He glanced around, furiously looking for any excuse to yell at someone. He caught sight of a man in a trench coat leading a man in a black suit around the side of a nearby building. As he glared, his muddled brain recognized his old partner, Harlan Stout.

“What’s that bastard up to?” he thought to himself. “I’m going to give him a piece of my mind,” he decided.

He gruffly barged through a group of businessmen and saw his quarry disappear into an alley. With renewed determination, he fought through the pain and fast walked after them. He turned the corner just in time to see the man in the black suit pull a pistol out from under a newspaper and smack Stout on the side of the head. Stout went down immediately.

“YOO DIRRY BASRARD!” Ronald yelled indistinctly, despite himself.

He couldn’t stand the sight of Stout, but if anyone was going to pistol whip him, it was going to be Ronald Crispin, not some stiff in a suit. He reached into his coat for his pistol. It was only when he grasped at an empty holster that he remembered the Van Dine dame had stolen it.

The man in the suit reacted to Ronald’s movement by spinning around and firing. Stone chips burst from the wall near Crispin’s head, causing him to belatedly attempt to dodge the bullet. He dove out of the way as the man fired a second time. He landed hard and felt the stitches in his cheek and back rip. Stunned by the sudden pain, he could do little more than moan and writhe helplessly. A moment later, he became aware of black shoes standing around him.

“I didn’t even hit him,” said one voice.

“He’s definitely bleeding though,” said another.

“Let’s get him inside,” said a third. “You’ve drawn enough attention as it is.”

Crispin felt two sets of hands pick him up under the arms and drag him deeper into the alley. He felt a sudden surge of pain and then nothing.

* * *

“Ron,” came a familiar voice. “Ron, you dumb mook.”

Ronald opened his eyes. The alcoholic haze was gone now, but the pain was so much worse. He opened his eyes and found that he was in a brightly lit room. He tried to move his hands, but felt cold metal handcuffs digging into his wrists. He was sitting on a chair. He managed to look around and found the source of the voice. Harlan Stout sat in a chair beside him.

“Harlan,” Ronald croaked. “You rat bastard.”

“How the hell did you get yourself into my mess?”

“Long story,” Ronald answered evasively. “Where are we?”

Before Harlan could answer, a door at the other end of the room swung open and in walked Jim Soong, followed by two of the large, black suited men Ronald had seen in the alley.

“You’re in a private office reserved for my use at the Second Third Bank,” he answered calmly as he closed the door behind his goons. “I know that because I put you here,” he continued as the suits positioned themselves behind the detectives.

Soong contemplated his prisoners for a moment before giving a tiny nod. Ronald felt a meaty fist smash into his bandaged, bloody cheek and gasped in pain. A simultaneous shout from Harlan implied he had received similar treatment.

“What I don’t know,” Soong continued, “is why you are here.”

“I was following him,” said Ronald, painfully inclining his head toward Harlan.

“What?” Harlan shouted back at him. “What the hell were you do--”

The sound of another meaty smack cut Harlan short. Ronald couldn’t help but smile, although the pain in his cheek made him regret it immediately.

“I’m the one asking the questions,” Soong explained quietly. “So, Mr. Stout, what are you doing here?”

“None of your goddamn business, you triad bastard,” Harlan growled back defiantly.

Ronald turned his head just in time to see one of the suited men grab a hold of two of Harlan’s fingers and wrench them mercilessly. The resounding cracks and the scream of pain left no doubt that they had broken.

“You really want to know?” Harlan spat between gritted teeth. “I was following your cunt sister.”

“What?” it was Ronald’s turn to shout in surprise and get punched for his trouble.

“That’s right,” Harlan continued. Ronald could see a shadow of confusion on Soong’s placid face. “Your sister just got off the phone with Flo Silvestri and then jumped in a car with you. Ain’t that the cat’s pajamas?”