Mystery Men (& women) Volume 1 Read online

  Cornerstone Book Publishers

  Mystery Men (& Women)

  An Airship 27 Production

  www.airship27.com

  The Badge of the Butcher © 2010 B.C. Bell

  Hell Hath No Fury © 2010 Aaron Smith

  Cridiron-First Down © 2010 David Boop

  The Sacred & the Profane © 2010 Barry Reese

  Meet the Mystery Men © 2010 Ron Fortier

  Interior llustrations © 2010 Rob Davis

  Cover illustration © 2010 Ingrid Hardy (from a sketch by Rob Davis)

  Editor: Ron Fortier

  Associate Editor: Charles Saunders

  Production and design by Rob Davis.

  Published by

  Cornerstone Book Publishers

  New Orleans, LA

  www.cornerstonepublishers.com

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright

  Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without

  permission in writing from the copyright holder, except by a reviewer, who

  may quote brief passages in a review.

  ISBN 1-934935-79-4

  978-1-934935-79-8

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  MYSTERY MEN

  –Table of Contents–

  THE BADGE OF THE BUTCHER.......................................1

  By B.C. Bell –

  The Bagman finds himself dealing with a new mob of killers made up of crooked cops.

  HELL HATH NO FURY.......................................................52

  By Aaron Smith

  When her husband is killed in the line of duty, Red Veil takes up the vengeance trail with a bloody passion.

  GRIDIRON – FIRST DOWN.............................................92

  By David Boop

  A star quarterback refuses to throw the game and pays the price, his body broken. From that pain, a new, shocking figure arises to mete out justice. His name: Gridiron.

  THE SACRED & THE PROFANE...................................135

  By Barry Reese

  The Fourth Nail, one of the most powerful religious artifacts is about to fall into evil hands and only the mysterious Dusk can avert disaster.

  AFTERWORD......................................................................177

  By Ron Fortier

  Meet the Mystery Men

  The Bagman:

  The Badge of the Butcher

  by B. C. Bell

  Chapter I

  Chicago 1933

  Frank “Mac” McCullough hadn’t even finished unpacking the morning deliveries when he heard something so stupid his head almost exploded. Mac’s Tobacco had only been open a week, and it was evident that he needed to hire some help. Mac had been working while politely half-listening to one of the customers. He’d only just torn the string from a bundle of new magazines when he heard the words:

  “— ‘cause ya know, mister, accidents can happen.” And then the man had knocked a rack of candy off the counter, which—as noted in the Dictionary of Racketeering—is translatable to only one word: Protection.

  The cigar store owner’s face snapped into a blank unbelieving stare. His body froze as if he couldn’t control his muscle movements and comprehend the depth of the man’s idiocy at the same time. The cover of the latest Detective Fiction Weekly remained pinched between Mac’s index finger and thumb, as the rest of the magazine tore itself away from the cover, in agonizingly slow motion, and dropped to the floor.

  Only a couple of weeks ago Mac, posing as The Bagman, had disposed of neighborhood crime boss, Slots Lurie, and already the local goon factory was fighting over the scraps. Or, as the case may be, the local vultures were just trying to con an extra buck into the till before the next kingpin arrived.

  “What’s your name, kid?” Mac asked.

  “Strother. Strother Cornbluth”

  Weird kid, weird name, Mac thought. “Who do you work for?”

  The local protection rep stammered. He’d had his speech all rehearsed and hadn’t left himself any spaces for questions. Mac didn’t know what the guy had been expecting to deal with, but evidently he was counting on the local merchants to roll over like a bunch of sheep herders in a Western B-movie. If Mr. Protection Racket had been expecting cowardly shopkeepers—he was in the wrong town. Poor little guy would’ve been killed and eaten by the time he’d made corner saloon.

  “I said, ‘Who do you work for?’” Mac repeated slowly, as if the racketeer had a hearing problem.

  “Mister Lloyd Everett,” the gangster replied, holding his head high like Mac should be impressed.

  “Stinky?” Mac said. “You work for Stinky Everett?” Mac circled the counter about the same time as the puzzled look came across the gangster’s face. “Mister, I’ve known Stinky since he was stealing paste from the nuns in second grade—and nobody called him Lloyd back then. You tell him before any cash passes hands, Mac McCullough wants to talk to him face to face.”

  Then he grabbed the man by the back of the pants and collar, and proceeded to give him the bum’s rush to the door. The would-be gangster managed to keep his feet moving as fast as the rest of his body for two long shaky strides before his knees buckled and he collapsed outside on the curb. When he got back up and dusted himself off, Mac was already looking down the street ignoring him.

  The would-be-gangster tried to stare down a passing junk vendor, but it was evident the immigrant on the wagon was a lot tougher than he was. The gangster-wannabe scratched his head, straightened his hat, and pulled the bill down just low enough to claim whatever happened—it hadn’t been him. He sulked off down the alley across the street. Mac continued to eye a Buick Club sedan parked at the next intersection.

  The car was parked in front of the First State Bank of Chicago, just down the block, where Lincoln and Marshfield formed a three-way intersection. Exhaust fumes wafted from the tailpipe, distorting the view in waves of summer heat. The driver sat behind the wheel, glancing back and forth, then anxiously back at his watch. Mac had seen a few wheelmen in his time, and all of them had looked pretty much like this guy parked in front of the bank.

  Mac stepped back into the store.

  When he came back out, he had a Colt Snubnose in the shoulder holster beneath his summer sport coat, and a felt hat wedged on his head. He hung the “back in five minutes” sign on the door, gave the wooden Indian a pat on the head, and then shuffled down the block with his hands in his pockets. One held a mask, the other a handful of braided twine from the cigar store’s morning deliveries.

  About halfway down the block Mac’s brisk stride began to slow down a little. He was still gleaning what was going on, and had little-to-no idea what he was about to do.

  So far the entire bank job was text book. The getaway driver sat just behind the bank entrance with the engine running, so he could pull out easily and be moving even as the robbers climbed into the vehicle. Mac could already sense a presence just inside the bank’s door. That would be the lookout. He’d be holding a shotgun. One other man would take inside by the counters; that guy would be holding a Thompson Submachine gun on the crowd, keeping everybody calm and in order, choosing the hostages if need be. That left at least one more guy to work inside the counter and get to the safe. A minimum of three armed me
n inside the bank.

  He couldn’t figure out a safe way to stop these goons. They were probably armed to the teeth—and, if anything went wrong; people were going to get hurt. Before he got to the corner, he stopped, pretended to look at his watch, and turned into the mouth of the alley across the street from where Stinky Junior had run. For a moment Mac considered firing his gun into the air a few times to alert the cops, but decided they’d only bring more stray bullets.

  McCullough hated banks as much as the next guy, probably more—which wasn’t necessarily an easy thing to do during The Depression—but thanks to his “extra-legal” background he’d never required the services of a bank for anything other than cashing a check until recently. But at the same time, this crime was a local job. This particular bank was in his neighborhood, where people he knew—mostly-good-people—kept their mostly-hard-earned cash. Never mind that Mac had twenty-grand in stolen mob money stuffed in one of the safe deposit boxes.

  He reminded himself the government had yet to declare any federal bank insurance coverage. And, knowing this neighborhood, the stupid bankers probably weren’t even covered. But it was ultimately the safety deposit box that made McCullough turn around. As far as Mac was concerned that was public money, money for The Bagman’s war on crime. And some minor expenses.

  He pulled the mask out of his pocket. He’d only had it a couple of weeks. It was made out of chamois cloth and fit over his head like a tube, covering his entire face except for the eyes. Before that he’d covered his head with a paper bag. The newspapers had called him The Bagman—irony being that he’d been a bagman for the mob at the time. It was a very private joke.

  He pulled the mask over his head, tugging at the laces on the sides to tighten it, and then wedged his hat on low with the brim snapped. He pulled his sport coat’s lapels up and strolled down the sidewalk, toward the bank, as if he were looking at his shoes, watching his step; anything but hiding his face and stopping a bank robbery.

  The bank’s location was not textbook for a robbery. First State of Chicago sat in-between—instead of directly on the corner of—two major intersections. Then again, the job itself might be pulled off without being noticed.

  The getaway was the problem. The bank sat at a T-shaped intersection, on top of the “T,” where the two streets met. To get away, the gang would have to pass the one-way street in front of them that dead ended in front of the bank. They’d have to drive a block to School Street. Then they’d be forced turn left and toward the lake, because School was a one-way street, too. Apparently, they were counting on the element of surprise.

  Mac looked up out of his coat only once as he approached the getaway car from the rear, skulking behind sidewalk displays and storefront entrances for cover.

  The wheelman was so busy glancing back and forth from the rear view mirror, to the bank and back at his watch, that he never even saw The Bagman coming. A chamois-cloth glove looped the braided twine around the wheelman’s neck from behind, like a garrote, and yanked hard enough on both ends to get drivers attention. You could see the wheelman’s head rise the harder Mac pulled. It reminded him of one of those acrobatic push-puppets, where you press on the base and Popeye or Krazy Kat spin around the trapeze.

  The driver gagged like he was going to throw up. Then a compressed sound, like a Bronx cheer gone wrong rasped out of his throat. His first thought was that the man had no face. Then, glancing in the rear-view, he realized the stranger was wearing a mask—and strangling him. His hands flew to his throat but the cords were already too tight. He reached for his gun, but the man with no face beat him to it, snatching the automatic from under the driver’s coat. Arms flailing, unable to breathe, the driver decided to call the job off, honk the horn. Something hit him between the eyes.

  Mac let go of the twine, shaking his right hand in the air to get the circulation going again. He hadn’t hit the guy, just cut off his air supply and watched him thrash around a little while. Same result.

  The wheelman was so busy glancing back and forth from the rear view mirror, to the bank and back at his watch, that he never even saw The Bagman coming.

  The Bagman stuck the automatic in his belt, and sat the driver upright again, with his hands dangling limply inside the wheel. The man was unconscious, not dead; it looked like he was sleeping—which Mac thought would be pretty funny when the rest of the gang hopped in the car.

  He may not have had a plan, but he had a sense of humor.

  A small group of people gathered catty-corner from the getaway car. Somebody yelled, “You! In the street! What are you doing? Is everything all right?”

  The Bagman finished propping up the unconscious body’s head and turned toward the crowd. When an older woman saw his mask, he could see her flinch. A man pointed at him. Mac couldn’t hear what the guy said, but he looked excited.

  “Hey buddy! Could you do me a favor?” The Bagman tried to yell and whisper at the same time, as if that would keep the people calm.

  The older woman screamed and pulled a hatpin out of her pancake panama. Wielding it like a knife, she sprinted to the middle of the block—toward a police emergency callbox. Mac groaned under his breath and strode gently toward the small group on the corner. The gawkers huddled into a bunch and shuffled off as one—backwards, still staring at him—and toward the old lady on the call box. All of them except for a tall, young man in a straw hat.

  “Hey, bud. Seriously, I’m trying to make sure nobody gets hurt, that’s all.” The Bagman reached into his hip pocket, and the boyish-man flinched.

  When Mac’s hand came out holding a ten dollar bill, one of the young man’s eyebrows disappeared with interest beneath the flat brim of his hat.

  “All you got to do is get down to that callbox while the old broad there is still on it. Tell ‘em there’s a grease fire--” Mac glanced past Marshfield Avenue and guessed at an address, “—Tell ‘em there’s a grease fire in back of 1622 School Street! It’s out of control in the back kitchen, and they’re going to have to pull up in the yard! You got that?”

  “Sure.”

  “There’s another ten in it for you if they get here in time.”

  The young man held his hand out.

  “IF they get here in time. You can pick it up from one of the clerks in that cigar store.” Mac pointed at his shop, then jogged back over to the getaway car.

  By now, the lookout inside the bank door had to have known something was going on. If Mac just barged in the door he’d be pouring buckshot out of his mask for a week. With no time, and no plan, he simply stopped—just standing there, halfway out in the street, staring at the unconscious wheelman and rubbing his leather-faced jaw with the inside of his hand. When he looked down the street, he realized he was a target. The gang might not be able to see him this second, but as soon as they left the building they’d be shooting Bagmen in a barrel.

  Any other man in this situation would have been sweating. Here he was, a masked, wanted man, standing near the middle of an intersection in broad daylight, about to face down a gang of bank robbers. People in the street were calling the cops. Bullets were about to fly. Most men would have frozen in panic, or run away. The Bagman just kept staring at the getaway car with his chin cupped in his fist. Then his eyes widened, and he inhaled deeply.

  He was thinking about Babe Ruth.

  “Show me a typical American boy and I’ll show you a boy with a pocket knife in one hand and a baseball bat in the other. Now you can get a knife in the shape of a baseball bat and I’m mighty glad it carries my signature. It’s a good knife and a good idea. Yours truly, Babe Ruth” Mac had seen the sign at Woolworth’s about two years ago. When his hand came out of his pocket, he was already flicking the blade out.

  It was a good knife.

  He took one last glance at the Babe’s autograph on the handle and cut the valve stems off the tires on
the street side of the car, where the gangsters couldn’t see. Then he jabbed the knife into the rear tire next to the sidewalk, yanking the blade out as he walked, rather than slashing the tire. He’d been afraid of breaking the Babe’s blade; and this way it would be a slow leak. Maybe the bank robbers wouldn’t notice.

  Then, the Bagman ambled toward the north side of the bank, ducked around the corner, and ran away.

  “We got hostages in here, and we ain’t afraid of shooting ‘em!” Somebody with a voice like torn metal yelled from the swaying bank door. After a long silence, a head appeared, looking both ways. “OK! We’re coming out!” the voice yelled as if he were actually talking to someone. “But if anything funny happens—we got hostages!” Machinegun fire blasted out the window. Bullets chopped holes in a dotted line down the street. There was another burst of gunfire. One of the gangsters screamed unintelligible orders, and another one ran out the door.

  The first man exited waving a Thompson Submachine gun and firing into the air. He spun around to make sure no one was hiding in front of the bank, then stationed himself outside to cover the others.

  A frail-looking man in a blue pinstripe suit stepped out of the bank after him. He had a woman in a headlock, the barrel of an automatic pressed to her temple. The next goon out carried a sawed off shotgun. He made for the passenger’s front seat, standing just outside the door, waving for the lookout with the machinegun to follow.