The attack was over in seconds.
Three punks, two flick knives, and a .45 automatic.
No point telling them to stop, and I don’t believe in warning shots. Guns are not magic wands that make the bad guys swoon when you introduce them into the conversation.
The guy in the greasy ducktail haircut and grungy jeans was the leader. I shot him in the thigh.
A .45 blast in a narrow brick alley is loud enough to make your ears cry. Leader-boy dropped his knife and screamed like a little girl when he saw the blood pumping from the half-inch hole in his leg.
His compadres froze as the black muzzle of my gun swung in their direction.
I yelled, “Run.”
They ran.
While the leader limped away, dragging his leg. I searched the alley for my empty cartridge case. By the time I found it, he’d collapsed at the alley’s mouth, trying to stop the leak, turning his blue jeans red. As I walked past him, I said, “You should see a doctor about that.”
I wandered to my jalopy parked two blocks over on Grover Street. A 1941 Army brown Ford sedan, rust decorating the fenders, with a white star poking through the hasty attempt to turn the vehicle to surplus. On a good day, it turned over on the first crank. Today was an average day, and Betsy roared to life in a cloud of blue smoke on the fourth try. I double-clutched it into gear and headed toward the office I share with John Crow.
Our current facilities occupied the second floor of a crumbling office building in the rundown warehouse district, still carrying memories of prosperity before the crash of ‘29. We shared one twenty by twenty room divided in the middle by a false wall that stopped two feet short of the ceiling. On the chipped wooden door, we taped a piece of cardboard stenciled.
Black Knight Investigations Right Desk
John Crow Bail Bonds Left Desk
Hand-drawn arrows directed the illiterate to the appropriate desk.
I stripped the pistol on my desk and scored a mark around the barrel with the bayonet I use as a letter opener. From the top left desk drawer, I selected a new barrel and re-assembled my gun. I jacked a round into the chamber and topped up the magazine, giving me eight, two hundred and thirty-grain slugs. I set the safety and shoved the pistol into the holster on my right hip. I dropped the empty cartridge case into a pickle jar, and it rattled against the layer of used cartridge cases lining the bottom of my trophy case.
One of my buddies in the army was a supply sergeant who gave me a case of. Forty-five barrels, and I’d bought several complete guns back from the war in my duffle. There was no shortage of weapons or dead lieutenants in 1944.
When John heard the cartridge case clink, he came around the corner. The short wall between our desks allowed us to listen to the other’s business deals and provide mutual protection. We often worked together.
I’m no shorty, but John was huge. At least six-four, two hundred and fifty pounds with long black hair tied in a ponytail, flowing down his back. He loomed over my desk and nodded towards the pickle jar. “What’s that about, Tony?”
I leaned back in my chair so I didn’t get a crick in my neck looking up at him. “Some punks tried to jump me.”
His eyebrows raised. “And…?”
I grinned. This was as close to a smile as I ever got. “Two ran, and one has a sore leg.”
He nodded and sat in one of my visitor’s chairs. It creaked under his weight, and he flowed over the seat. He looked at me like a trolley car had run over his cat and cleared his throat.” I need to talk to you about something.”
I stopped the smartass remark from leaving my lips and leaned forward. “What’s on your mind.”
John took a deep breath, using up half the oxygen in the room. “The cops arrested my cousin Ernest and are holding him without bail.”
Now he had my attention. I liked Ernest, a happy- go- lucky guy who did odd jobs when he felt like working. “What was he pinched for?”
John slumped, and the chair groaned dangerously loud. “Armed robbery and murder.”
I sat bolt upright. “What? Ernest wouldn’t hurt anyone. What happened?”
My friend looked at my private investigator’s license framed on the wall and back to me. “When he called me from jail, he said he was walking along Front Street when this guy came up to him and offered him five bucks to stand outside the Imperial bank. His benefactor and two others entered the building. Ernest heard shots. Then the three men ran out the front entrance. One of them shoved a pistol into his hand, and the other cold-cocked him. By the time he regained his wits, the cops had shown up and arrested him. The robbers gunned down a guard, and the cops figured Ernest was the lookout.”
I nodded. “Where is he now?”
John took a deep breath. “In the Remand Center.”
I stood. “If he calls again, tell him to shut up. I’ll get Levi and see if he can spring Ernest. You get ready to post his bond.”
Levi Cohen graduated from Harvard Law school and was as much of a dandy as a man who represented clients with little or no money could be. I did investigations for him, and no district attorney enjoyed the experience of facing him in court, no matter how solid a case they thought they had. He’d saved my butt more than once.
I hoofed it one block to Levi’s office and waved to his wife Ruth, busy banging away on an old Underwood, as I barged into his office.
Levi smiled when he saw me and stood to shake my hand. “Tony, what’s wrong?”
I filled him in on Ernest’s situation. “We need your help.”
Levi listened and caressed the black mustache he nurtured under his nose. “Okay, let’s go.” He selected a new yarmulke from the bowl on his desk, and we traveled in my car to rescue Ernest.
The Remand Center on Fourth Street was an ugly place. Soot-stained grey stone with bars on the windows and the stink of despair floating in the air. I’d been inside under less favorable circumstances and didn’t enjoy my visit then and didn’t enjoy it now. Levi got us in to see Ernest, but we were too late. Ernest had confessed.
We waited in a ten-by-ten room with two chipped wooden chairs and a metal table bolted to the wall. Two screws led Ernest into the room, manacled and handcuffed, chains clinking. His face was lopsided and bruised. They had given him a ride on the Cherry Beach Express. When the cops weren’t getting the confession they expected, they loaded suspects into a paddy wagon and drove to Cherry Beach on Lake Ontario and used rubber hoses to convince the suspect of their guilt.
He smiled when he saw us, and his split lip dribbled blood into the stubble on his chin. “Hi, Tony. How’s it going?”
I had to restrain Levi from punching a cop. He looked at Ernest, then back to me. “I will speak with the lieutenant and learn who is responsible for this atrocity.”
When Levi left, I turned to Ernest. “Want a smoke?” He nodded, and I put a Lucky Strike between his lips and lit it with a match. He took a long drag and exhaled a stream of smoke from his split lips. I had a limited time to get the information from him because after Levi reamed out the Lieutenant, they’d throw us out.
I let Ernest have a few puffs before digging in. “Tell me what happened.” His story was the same as John had told me with one extra detail. He knew one of the guys.
He finished his smoke, spitting the butt on the floor and grinding it into the gray concrete floor with his heel. “Yeah, Timmy Turner promised me five bucks to stand outside the bank for ten minutes. Easy money.”
Timmy Turner was a follower, not the guy who planned armed robberies or shot people. The other two must be the brains. “Did you know the other guys?”
Ernest shook his head. “Never seen them before, but I think they were funny.”
“What do you mean by funny?”
He paused, then spat on the floor. The spittle had a pink tint. “Funny, like guys who like guys better than girls.”
“Describe them.”
He squinted, trying to recall. “White guys, sharp dressers. I didn’t get a good look at them as Timmy did the talking.”
Two bulls entered and filled the room. One put his paw on my shoulder, and I thought about tearing his arm off, but this wasn’t the time. The other guy yanked Ernest to his feet.
I broke free long enough to stuff the pack of cigarettes into Ernest’s pocket before my cop recovered and slammed me back into the chair. I allowed the cop to haul me into the corridor where Levi stood with a tight face and white knuckles clamped on his briefcase.
Two big cops frog marched us from the Remand Center and we didn’t speak until we were on the sidewalk.
Levi blasted an innocent flock of pigeons with language favored by drill sergeants. When he could speak in a normal voice, he looked me in the eye. “They’re charging him with murder one and intend to send him to the chair.” He walked to a garbage can and booted it into the street, scuffing his polished black oxfords.
Murder one. And the prosecutor would get it. Indians like Ernest didn’t do well in a white man’s court.
I walked over to Levi. “Ernest identified one of the robbers.”
Levi looked at me and raised an eyebrow.
I grinned. “I’ll have a chat with him.”
Levi nodded. He knew how I worked.
Timmy Turner hung out at the downtown Legion, telling anyone who’d listen that he’d been a paratrooper at Anzio. He didn’t have the haunted eyes of a combat vet, and I knew he’d spent the war in a warm Quonset hut, typing reports. When I sat at his table, beads of sweat grew on his forehead. I’m not known for my social skills.
I grinned and tried to look friendly. “Hi Timmy, can I buy you a beer?”
He looked at the front door, then back to me. “Sure, Tony. How’s tricks?”
While waiting for our beers to arrive, I offered him a smoke and chased the cigarette bobbing in his twitching lips with a match. The fingers of his left hand drummed on the table as he smoked with his right.
Our beers arrived, and I clinked bottles with him. “Your health.” That was the wrong thing to say. His hands shook as he lifted the bottle to his lips, but his eyes never left me.
I eased the mood by directing the conversation to his favorite subject, the ponies. After three more beers, the tension left Timmy, and he relaxed. When he went to the can, I slipped a Mickey Finn into his fourth beer and carried him out of the legion, explaining, My friends had too much. I’m driving him home. I threw him into my Ford, and we took a drive into the country.
My patience was running thin, and I almost splashed his face with water to wake him up but thought it would have more impact for him to wake up on his own and realize his situation.
His eyes fluttered, and he tugged on the ropes holding his arms to the tree. Then he tried his legs, same deal. His eyes popped open, and his head swiveled to take in the sights and sounds of nature surrounding him. He blurted. “Where the hell am I?” Then he saw me standing in front of him. “Oh, shit.”
I grinned. “I’m glad you appreciate your situation. If you feel like yelling, let it out. There’s no one around to hear you.”
His eyes bulged when I hauled out my .45 and snapped off the safety with an audible click.
“What do you want, Tony? I didn’t do nuthin.”
“Here’s how this works. I’ll ask a question, and if you don’t answer or lie, I’ll shoot you in a non-fatal place. You have eight chances to be truthful. After that, I’ll be out of ammunition and will let you bleed to death. Understand?”
He shook in his bonds and nodded, scattering the tears from his eyes.
I yelled. “Understand?”
He nodded harder.
“Good. First question, who were the guys with you when you robbed the bank?”
Timmy looked from side to side, but the cavalry wasn’t coming. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Why do these guys do things the hard way? I sighed and put a slug into the tree just below his jewels. “Damn. This gun is shooting low.”
A wet stain spread from his groin to his knees, and he sobbed. “Please, no. They’ll kill me if I tell you.”
“What do you think I’m going to do? Same question, but this time, I correct my aim.”
I pointed the pistol at his crotch.
After his shakes settled, he answered. “Jake Ackerman, and Dirk Ballista.”
I lowered the pistol. “Good, Timmy, that was a good answer. Where do they hang out?”
He shook his head, scratching his ears on the tree bark.
I raised the pistol.
He choked out an answer. “They got a place on Center Street near Riley Park.”
I got a detailed description of the apartment and cut the ropes on his legs.” Now, I’m driving you to the central police station, and you’ll confess your part in the robbery and tell the cops that Ernest is innocent. If you don’t, I’ll find you, and what happens after that will make you wish for the electric chair.”
He was sobbing but nodded. Timmy whimpered all the way into town.
I watched him walk inside the Central police station.
I staked out the apartment building where Ackerman and Ballista lived. As the sun sank and I finished the last cigarette in the pack, I got out to replenish my smokes and get a coffee at the local diner. As I walked by the apartment’s front door, they came out, and we almost ran into each other. I looked away. But they got an eyeful as they jumped into a 1952 Ford coupe. When they screeched away from the curb, the engine roared eight-cylinder loud. I watched them peel down the road and turn left.
While they were away, I let myself into their apartment with my picks. It was as messy as two guys can make it. If you let a gorilla loose in the room and they would never notice. Unwashed dishes in the sink, clothes scattered where they fell, and a rumpled double bed. Men’s suits and shirts, still wrapped in the store plastic wrap, jammed the closet. I found seven thousand dollars in a dresser drawer. They’d stolen ten grand, and the difference explained the new car and clothes.
I left and sat in my car, waiting for them to return. One hour later, they parked the Ford in front of the apartment and entered. I saw no reason to babysit them all night. I’d return in the morning and confront them when they left for breakfast.
They didn’t seem the type to greet the dawn, but I arrived at daybreak and took my position outside. I didn’t know how long this would take, and I suspected it could get ugly. So, I brought an extra pack of smokes and two spare magazines. At seven A.M., I saw movement behind the front door. It looked like two figures talking. Ackerman and Ballista burst out of the front door and marched towards my car.
They reached under their jackets.
Dammit they made me. I’m a sitting duck behind the wheel.
I shoved my door open and rolled onto the street at the same time as a shot shattered my windshield. They hesitated, not sure if they’d hit me.
This pause gave me enough time to crawl to the front of my car and take cover behind the engine while drawing my pistol. I popped up and fired two shots at the figure on the left. As I ducked, I saw him double up. Then all hell broke loose.
The other bad guy started shooting, and whatever he had sounded like a twenty-five pounder and the metal of my car pinged. A bullet passed through the body of my car and hit the open door—six booms, six slams, then silence.
I considered returning fire, but there were two shooters and two guns. I paused, then took a quick peek over the hood, and the taller man was helping his partner toward the Ford with one arm and pointing a large revolver at me with the other. I chanced three more shots, and two cracks from the gun smacked into my engine block.
If they got into the Ford, I’d have no chance of catching them with my tired six-cylinder against their new V8. I rolled from behind my car and emptied my magazine at their back tire, and rolled back undercover. A bullet whanged off the pavement where I’d been laying, and a deep gouge split the pavement.
After slapping in a full magazine, I listened and planned my next move.
A car door opened and slammed. Leather soles slapped the pavement, and a figure appeared at the front of their Ford. We had an unobstructed view of each other. I lay prone beside my car, and he crouched behind the front fender, shoving the big revolver in my direction. We cut loose at each other until our guns ran dry. White streaks surrounded me where his bullets nicked the pavement, and the side of his car had long slashes from my shots, and his rearview mirror exploded. But neither of us was leaking blood. He yanked the driver’s door of his car open and jumped behind the wheel.
I fumbled for my last magazine.
His engine roared to life.
I didn’t have a clear shot at the driver.
The Ford peeled away.
I jumped behind the wheel and cranked the old Ford into life. A block later steam poured from my engine, and then it seized. The car chase was over.
The cops, more or less, believed my story of two black guys trying to carjack me, and my shooting was self-defense. They let me go with a warning and restrained themselves from smacking me around after their sergeant explained that such actions had consequences. The sergeant and I were old pals, and he had cleaned up after me before.
On court day, dressed In our best suits, John and I sat in the front row for Ernest’s trial and watched Levi at work. He got the charges reduced to accessory after the fact, and Ernest received a three-year maximum sentence. The D.A. charged Timmy with armed robbery, and he received three years.
The fingerprints on the pistol used in the robbery matched a John Doe body, found laid out on the side of a highway outside Syracuse. They identified the body as Dirk Ballista, who’d died from gunshot wounds.
Jake Ackerman dropped out of sight, and no one ever saw him again. John didn’t ask questions when I dropped a cartridge case into the pickle jar after returning from a trip to Syracuse.
by 
Richard Bishop
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