Tag Archives: Battery Man

Act Three, Scene I, Part 2

Crime Fiction, Crimefighter, Pulp Fiction, Steampunk Fiction, , , , , , , ,

by Pierre Anton Taylor

Even with the correct code the reinforced storm door at the back of the old candy store adjacent to the Battery Works resisted Wayne’s efforts at first. Snow drifting up across the back step swirled in the wind. Once opened he hurried back to the dark shape against the brick wall and bundled it over his shoulder. The old woman was still conscious, but without knowing how long she had been in the snow drift he couldn’t tell how much danger she was in. He laid her out on the cot in what had once been old Rick’s bedroom office and storage area. Most everything had been emptied out, either after the first rash of break-ins or when repossessed by the distributors. What remained were an assortment of odds and ends, party supplies, and the dust that accompanied their life on the shelves. As well, a metal frame kiosk, it’s plastic gewgaws hanging from the hooks displaying soap bubble pipes, kazoos, ball and jacks, joy buzzers, itch powder, skunk oil, whistles, and yo-yos.

He found the light switch and flicked it. The room stayed dark. He retrieved a flashlight from a sleeve pocket of his leathers and shined the light at her face. Laverne Early moved her head away instinctively and mumbled something that sounded like “I’m cold.” True, the back room of the candy store was meat locker frosty but not the windblown minus chill of outside. He felt her bare hands. Icy. He slapped the backs, massaging them to get the blood circulating, and then set about removing her boots. The sock were wet and cold, the feet shriveled almost blue. He turned his head as she muttered, “Cat.” Eyes closed, she flinched in a kind of delirium and then seemed to gag before coughing and expelling a less than fragrant breath.

“Miz Early, can you hear me? Are you alright?” He felt hopeless for a moment when she didn’t reply. “Can you open your eyes and look at me? Look at the flashlight?”

Her eyes opened with a snap. At the same exact time the ceiling light burst bright with restored power. He was just as startled as the old woman was, but she was the one who screamed. He realized then that he had not removed his helmet. The cat lady’s fright turned to anger when he did. “What have you done with my Cat?” She tried to sit up and fell back struggling to remain seated. “You! Stay away from my daughter! Where is she?”

Wayne sat back on his haunches and contemplated the old woman, her disheveled appearance, head wrapped with a scarf in a ragged winter hat, the smears and stains of living in the same clothing for months, unwashed, stale, acrid. “What happened? Where is your daughter?”

Now her face contorted in pain and tears ran down the wizened cheeks. “Where you took her, you rotten bastard!” She bared her teeth. “You’re all the same. You just want one thing. Leave her alone.” And she tried sitting up again, successfully. “I gotta get out of here. Go find her.”

“Where, Miz Early, where are you going to look? I’ll help you.”

The old woman stared at him, puzzled. “Who are you? Where am I?”

“My name is Wayne Bruce. You’re in the back of old Rick’s candy store. I found you in the snow against the back wall of the battery factory. You could have died if I hadn’t found you. We have to get you some place warm.”

She shook her head violently, “No! Gotta find Cat, my daughter. Gotta go.”

“Where, Laverne, where are you going to go?”

“There,” she said, pointing toward the curtained doorway into the candy store.

“The store?” But at the shake of her head he understood that she meant somewhere beyond the store and he knew where. Penn Quinn’s Tavern.

He stood abruptly and flicked the light off at the faint sound coming from the front of the store. Maybe it was just the wind rattling the eaves of the old building. He let his eyes adjust to the dark, taking a deep breath and concentrating. It wasn’t the wind. Someone or something was at the front door. He stepped into the empty store and crouched low before the bare glass candy display, his eyes fixed on the doorway.

A shaft of gray light fell across the floor and with it a swirl of wind and snow as the door opened briefly to admit a shadowy hooded figure.

Wayne turned the flashlight at it and it held up an arm to block the light in its eyes.

“What are you doing here?” Ripley lowered his arm as Wayne directed the beam away. “I could ask you the same question.”

Wayne gestured him to follow him into the back room. He switched on the light and pointed to the old woman. “I found her in a snow bank behind the store. We have to get her some place warm, maybe a hospital. She could have frostbite. And she sounds delirious. Something about her daughter missing.”

Ripley knelt before the cat lady, held one of her hands in his and looked into her sorrowful eyes. “Laverne, it’s me, Bion, are you alright? What’s this about Cat? Where is she?”

Laverne shook her shoulders and sobbed. “I don’t know. They took her?”

“Who took her?” Wayne insisted.

Laverne stared at him with thinly veiled disdain.

Ripley stood up. “First things first. We gotta see if you are all right. So let’s get something warm into you.” He rummaged in a stack of boxes and held up an electric kettle. He grinned. “You’d think I’d packed this place up myself.” He filled the kettle from the sink in the next room and then set it on the little table by the cot and the electrical outlet. “Now I know there’s some tea and maybe some soup packages in one of the boxes.”

“You never answered my question, Bion. What were you doing here?”

Ripley held up a box of tea bags. “I thought so!” And then pointed it in the direction of door. “I got a page. It’s automatic. A trouble alarm from the Battery Works. I figured that it was the storm. Knocked the power out and thought I’d come and check it out. I live just a couple blocks over. And it is kind of my job. I saw the light in the candy store. Which brings me to my question of why are you here?”

“Wait a minute, you got a page?”

“Yeah, that’s the way it’s set up. If the power goes out at the plant or there’s some kind of electrical hiccup, the phone system sends out a page to the designated duty person and plant supervisor which most of the time is me. Don’t tell me that you got a page, too, and you came to check it out?”

“What does your readout say?”

“It’s just the phone number of the Battery Works.”

Wayne retrieved his pager from his jacket pocket and showed the display to Ripley. “Is this the number?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

The kettle whistled shrilly. But Wayne paid no notice. The number on his pager, his murdered father’s number, was the same as the one Ripley had received on his pager. How was that possible? Unless. . . .

Bion poured the hot water over the teabag in the cup he handed her. “Ok, Laverne, tell me what’s going on.” He sat on the cot next to her. “Where’s your daughter?”

The old woman blinked at the warmth in her hands. “We had to leave the shelter because them boys come in and started trouble. You know, J-van and them. They followed us and said they would buy us something to eat and drink at Quinn’s. Cat didn’t want to, but they took us in anyway, and it was warm and it was a while since I’d eaten. And then, I don’t know, I had a couple of drinks. They kept asking her questions. They were just pestering her because she’s a girl. And they are boys, stupid men.” She looked up at Wayne when she said that.

Ripley read his look and place a hand on her arm. “Ok, then what happened? Did Cat leave?”

“I don’t know, I must have fallen asleep. It was so nice and warm in there.” She looked up startled at a sudden realization. “I had to find Cat! They said she left. I have to find Cat. I didn’t believe them. She wouldn’t leave without me.”

Wayne nodded to Bion, he was thinking the same thing. Cat might still be at Penn Quinn’s Tavern, held against her will.

“They tricked me!” the old woman blurted, sobbing.

Wayne picked up his helmet. “She might still be there.”

Ripley shook his head. “They might be packing. And if Penn Quinn is involved in this, you know he’s got a gun.” He stood up. “I found this stuffed in the gate when I came to work last Friday.” He unfolded the square of paper he pulled from his coat pocket. “Thought you might want to see it.”

It was a handbill with a notice requesting information regarding the vigilante and offering a reward. It was made to look like an official flyer that might be distributed by the police. A framed shadowy figure stood out at the center below the bold letters demanding “Have You Seen This Man?” The contact number was for an entity he wasn’t familiar with, The East Central Merchants Association. A five hundred dollar reward was offered.

“Who are the East Central Merchants Association? And why are they so concerned about the vigilante? Isn’t he some kind of crimefighter?”

“Bion shook his head. “Word is that it’s a front for Joe Kerr and his band of crooks. Quinn is one of them. And the thugs at the appliance store that got busted for fencing stolen goods. All of them rotten apples. And like Kerr, dangerous.”

Wayne smiled at the handbill and folded it to put in his pocket. “I’ll keep this in case I run into him. If it is a him. Right now I’m going to find Cat.”

“All I’m saying is be careful.”

Lavern Early, revived by the hot tea, glared at Wayne. “Stay away from my daughter!”

Ripley turned to the old woman. “Now hush, Laverne. We’re trying to help you. No need to talk like that.”

Wayne strode to the corner after donning his helmet and examined the wire frame kiosk with the assortment of toys. He lifted a couple packages of yoyos from their hooks. At Ripley’s questioning look, he shrugged. “Never know, they might come in handy.”

In disbelief, Bion shook his head. “Yo-yos?” he questioned the shadowy figure of Wayne Bruce exiting the candy store.

Laverne Early leaned forward holding the steaming cup to her lips and followed Ripley’s gaze. “Who does he think he is?”

Act Two, Scene 1, Part 3

Crime Fiction, Pulp Fiction, Steampunk Fiction, , , , , , , , , , ,

by Pierre Anton Taylor

Wayne made his way through Joe Kerr’s warehouse maze of shelves and bins alert to any hint that he was being followed. The door to the street was unsecured. He slipped the lock and stepped out onto the pavement before glancing back. No one was there. He pulled the collar of his long black overcoat up around his ears and set out into the blustery freezing afternoon. He didn’t expect Kerr or his goons to offer a ride back to the Battery Works.

He’d received a message on his pager when he’d been talking to the crime boss. He glanced at the readout. He knew the number. He would call Robin on a secure line when he got to the satellite phone the Lab had installed in his Plymouth Fury. Otherwise, he was looking at a slog back through the neighborhood to the Lab’s temporary office.

Trash piled up along the curbs only emphasized the squalid conditions of the old neighborhood. He’d walked these streets as a youngster reveling in the vibrant activity of manufacturing shops giving machine rhythm to his pace. Most of those were now empty lots and crumbling bricks adorned by mounds of old gray snow. Cars raced by screeching around deserted corners in a hurry to get away from nowhere going nowhere. In his memory, the streets bustled with people in and out of businesses when Central was a busy local shopping district. Now the storefronts were shuttered, their boarded windows and doors gathering litter and graffiti. A pool hall in the middle of the block was still functioning as a meeting place for truants and delinquents looking for opportunities that would likely get them arrested. He passed by giving barely a glance at the wide windowed entrance where dim overhead lighting picked out hunched shoulders and silhouetted cues.

He rolled to the ground as the sedan sped past, gunfire bursting from the passenger’s side.

On the opposite side of the street between two abandoned cars a group of youngsters were playing an improvised game of hockey on a wide patch of ice, the result of a leaking pipe from the used appliance store closed by the police as an outlet for stolen goods. They paused their game to consider the lone dark figure striding toward the bright entrance of the Korean convenience store, neon liquor logos beaming a sour red. Adult foot traffic was unusual unless they were derelicts or lost. Too easy to get jacked on foot. Anyone who was anyone had wheels even if it was just two on a board.

As Wayne approached the end of Central where it teed into Battery, Penn Quinn’s Tavern was a grimy oasis of light illuminating the dark peripheries of a fading winter afternoon at the dead end occupied by the Battery Works. By the number of cars parked along the curb, the tavern was doing good business undoubtedly drawn by a televised sports event.

A car pulled up at the corner, idling as he approached. He changed his course and crossed the street between the unoccupied parked cars. If he had to, he could duck into the bar. He was naturally suspicious, and if it was paranoia, he’d count it as a survival skill. He didn’t slacken his pace, judging the distance from the curb in front of Quinn’s to the deserted candy store across the street and further down the block to the secure gate of the Battery Works. He wasn’t going to be intimidated. He wasn’t lacking in pride which often overrode caution. His best option was to keep to the cover of the few vehicles and the abandoned van parked near the old apartment building behind the tavern.

Wayne tensed as he heard the engine rev up and glanced back in its direction. The dirty white Trans Am maneuvered slowly onto Battery, cruising slowly past as he stepped into the shadows of the abandoned van. Once the Trans Am reached the dead end of the street and would have to turn around, he planned to make a run for the gate.

His move had been anticipated. As he stepped out into the roadway, the muscle car accelerated in reverse, tires smoking. He rolled to the ground as the sedan sped past, gunfire bursting from the passenger’s side. He could hear the thud of the rounds hitting the side of the van as he made himself small and dove between the parked cars. He poked his head up to peer over the front fender of an old 50’s Dodge dreadnaught and saw the Trans Am squeal to a stop, its front end rotating ninety to point back down Central. A few more round erupted from the driver’s side before it sped away narrowly missing a motorcyclist turning onto Battery.

He stepped back out onto the roadway, the single headlight of the motorcycle bearing down on him. He put up his arm to shield his eyes. The motorcycle skidded to a halt as it reached him skidding a half circle. He recognized the 1980 Suzuki Katana and the green, red, and yellow leathers of the rider. Robin.

The visor of the black helmet went up and a smirk appeared. “Let me guess. You forgot to tip.”

“We need to follow the shooters. Find out who they are!”

Robin nodded and handed him the backpack. “Ok, hop on. You get to wear the hump.”

Wayne donned the backpack and settled in the saddle behind Robin, The Katana reared on its back wheel like a trusty paint and sped after the shooters. Their taillights were visible racing down Central. Then the brake lights blinked briefly as they took a corner and disappeared. The Suzuki was at the corner in no time at all, cutting in behind a passing car making the turn. They were headed toward the Arnold Expressway. The Suzuki was closing fast as the Trans Am made for the onramp. At the last minute it swerved off, jumping the low barrier, and sped down the surface street running under the overpass.

The Suzuki leapt the divide to follow, fishtailing as it landed, Wayne gripping the frame with his knees and clutching the sides of Robin’s leathers.

An arm and a shoulder appeared out of the passenger side along with a muzzle flash and then another. Wayne tapped Robin on the shoulder and pointed to the side of the road, “Pull over!”

As they watched the car speed away, Wayne shook his head. “Not worth getting you shot over this. I have an idea.” He pointed after the car disappearing from view. “They’re heading for the gravel pits and the abandoned asphalt plant. There’s no exit in that direction. Maybe they think we’ll follow them and they can ambush us.” He indicated the dirt track going up the side of the embankment. “I used to ride dirt bikes up that way as a kid. The main rail line from the cement factory is up there too. They’re going to have to take a detour around the gravel pits and pass under the railroad trestle bridge before they get to the asphalt plant. That’s where they’re likely to make their stand. If we go offroad we can beat them to the bridge.”

Robin didn’t need any urging, goosing the Suzuki up the narrow dirt path among the frozen weeds and the low tangle of wiry shrubs. The ground was muddy in spots but they crested the rise and came up to the railroad track. The gravel and rock along the rail bed was enough to give them traction and the Katana raced toward the trestle bridge that crossed the ravine and the unpaved road below.

From that vantage Wayne could see the Trams Am skirting the largest of the water filled gravel pits the size of a small lake. He hopped off the saddle and sprinted to the edge of the bridge, searching for something. He bent down and found a large black railroad tie that had been abandoned at the side of the tracks. He ran back to Robin. “You wouldn’t have a rope in that backpack would you. And I’m going to need your helmet.”

“No rope, just some cargo bungees I use to tie down the bike with in the back of my pickup.” Robin unclasped the chin strap, pulling the helmet up and letting the cascade orange hair fall to her shoulders. “I hope you’re not thinking of jumping off the bridge. This is a very expensive helmet.” Concern didn’t show on her rosy cheeked pale complexion.

Wayne has zipped open the backpack and removed the two long bungee cords. “What are these, three footers?”

Robin nodded, “Yeah, and they’ll stretch to twice that length. You’re not thinking of doing what I think you’re going to do?” she asked with bright surprise.

“That remains to be seen. What else have you got in here?” Wayne held up a can of black spray paint.

Robin blushed, accentuating her robin breast red hair. “Uh, a little hobby I indulge myself in my off hours.” She laughed and then, “A girl’s got to have a life, especially after dark. Besides, someone’s got to save the world.”

Wayne could see the Trans Am taking the final bend around the gravel pit and heading toward the trestle bridge. Then he heard it before he saw it, the large diesel engine with its bright cyclopean eye taking up the horizon of the tracks and sounding a few warning hoots of its horn.

Helmet on his head, he collected the bungees, slipping the can of spray paint into his pocket, and raced to the trestle bridge. He lifted the nine foot long railroad tie to his shoulder and then walking the rumbling rail like a tightrope to put himself directly over the road below. The large diesel hooted frantically as it approached, a shriek of brakes being fruitlessly applied. He could see through the gaps in the rails that the Trans Am was still kicking up dust as it began passing under the bridge. He had to time it just right. He let the tie drop, and not waiting to gauge the impact, loosened the two bungees, hooking them together with one end attached to the gleaming smooth steel of the rail. He jumped.

It was easily a thirty foot drop and he had to release his grip when the bungees reached full extension, not before, and not after it began retracting. But the diesel didn’t allow him that choice. He felt the tug as the bungee caught but almost immediately as it passed overhead, the slack as he fell the rest of the way to the road below. He landed hard rolling forward to lessen the impact as he’d been taught in sky diving practice. His right shoulder and the helmet caught the brunt of the shock in the somersault to land him shakily on his feet.

Wayne snatched up the weapon and pointed it at the kid trying to squeeze himself past the wood pillar.

The dirty white Trans Am had skidded to a stop further down the dirt road, it’s front end hanging perilously over the ice caked waters of a gravel pond. The railroad tie had impaled the roof just behind the windshield like a toothpick through a club sandwich.

Wayne reached the driver as he staggered out from the wrenched open door of the skewered muscle machine. He was a short stocky man in a red hooded sweatshirt with a chrome .45 in his hand. He appeared bewildered, looking back at his wheels with the creosote ornament and then at the dark helmeted figure nearly on top of him. He raised the gun at Wayne. He did not expect the cloud of misted black paint to blind him. He shrieked clawing at his eyes.

Wayne head butted him sending the man to his knees. He kicked the gun out of the driver’s hand and it skittered across the frozen dirt of the road, over the berm at the edge the gravel pit, and settled on the thin ice crust which gave way under its weight and sank from view.

Wayne heard the yells, and calls for help, from the passenger trapped inside the two door sedan. He ducked his head in to catch a glimpse of the inside and a shot brushed him back. The passenger, a big overweight kid with a short dark ponytail, was stuck with the choice of opening the door on his side over the frigid waters of the pit or crawling out through the driver’s side. The railroad tie was blocking one option. The dirty white hardtop was on the verge of tipping into the gravel pond from the passenger’s struggle with obstacle.

“Help me out, please, I promise I won’t shoot!

“Throw you gun out and then we can talk.” Wayne kicked the rear bumper for emphasis.

“Okay, okay!” The chrome pistol careened off the door frame before dropping to the ground.

Wayne snatched up the weapon and pointed it at the kid trying to squeeze himself past the wood pillar.

“No, no, don’t shoot!” he pleaded falling back against his door and causing the car to wobble a little more.

Satisfied the panic was genuine or he would have used another weapon if he’d had one, Wayne tossed the chrome to join its twin in the drink. Hopping on the trunk and then the roof, he set his shoulder on the protruding tie, wrapped his arms around it and pulled up. It didn’t budge. The tottering car shifted forward.

The shooter inside screamed, “What are you doing?!”

Wayne tried again, giving the tie a twist and another tug to loosen it, and pulled it up part way. He jumped to the ground as the kid scramble to get his bulk across the seats for the open door. The combined motion of the two caused the Trans Am to shift its center of gravity and the front end slowly started sliding into the pond.

The kid began a panicked wail as Wayne edge to the door and tossed in one end of the bungee cord. Bracing himself on the berm, he held tight and pulled when he felt the tension of the bungee in the kid’s grip. The Trans Am lurched sideways, the right front submerged. Stretched to the limit, the line allowed the kid to pull himself free from the sinking sedan scrambling through the pond’s edge. Wayne hauled him up and over the berm like an old truck tire.

He set his boot on the large boy’s back as he tried to get up. “You made a mistake. Whoever put you up to this made a mistake. Killing someone is a mistake. Missing them is an even bigger mistake.”

“No, no,” the kid protested, “we wasn’t supposed to kill him! Just scare him is all.”

“You should be the one who is scared. Vengeance is swift for those who commit crimes on my turf,” he growled, “I’m the new boss and what I say goes. Pass it around.” Over his shoulder, the Trans Am continued in its icy baptism by showing its underside, lurching forward, sinking deeper.

Later that evening, the East Central precinct sent a patrol car to investigate the report of gunfire near the railroad overpass on the road to the old asphalt plant. They found two men secured to the beams of the trestle bridge with bungee cords and a sedan that had been reported stolen earlier in the day partially submerged in a gravel pit.

Next Time: Act II, Scene 2, Part 1—The Case For Murder.

Act Two, Scene I, Part 2

Crime Fiction, Pulp Fiction, Steampunk Fiction, , , , , , ,

by Pierre Anton Taylor

Wayne’s curiosity got the best of him when the man named Joseph Kerr had requested a word with him. He had approached the open Town Car door with the human pylon standing next to it with cautious determination. The man in the back seat was wearing a camel hair top coat, a somber Homberg of darker caramel and a pair of round lens dark glasses, the kind that blind men are often depicted wearing. His nose was thin with a slight bulb at the end and the lines around his mouth were those of someone who laughed a lot.

Joe Kerr, in fact, wanted more than just a word and suggested that they sit down and have a talk about business. He was a businessman and Wayne Bruce was a businessman. They had a lot in common. Kerr suggested his office a few blocks away in the warehouse that housed his novelty distribution center.

Wayne remembered it as the space occupied by a machine and metal shop when he frequented the area as a youngster, a large square brick building with high windows and wide doors. Ripley had thrown him a worried look when he had accepted Kerr’s invitation. He’d handed Bion the keys to his Fury and told him he would pick it up back at the Battery Works before climbing in next to the man with long narrow fingers wrapped around the head of an ornate cane depicting a grimacing gargoyle.

Now he was being given a tour of the large space occupied by the ranks of shelves and bins, crates bulging with synthetic dayglo colored plastic shapes representing the merest abstract anthropomorphic configurations. The rows and rows of girly magazines and video tapes in a caged lockup on the one side and the off brand candy and snack aisle on the other. Anything advertised in the back of men’s magazines or the back covers of super hero comic books came from places like Kerr’s warehouse. The magic trick manuals or water babies or itching powder, poo-poo cushions, hand buzzers, glowing yo-yos, and skunk oil. As they approached the lighted enclosure of Kerr’s office, he stopped and held up an object from one of the racks and held it up to show Wayne.

“I got a whole warehouse of plastic junk. Want to know what outsells just about everything in this warehouse?” Kerr waited as if he were expecting Wayne to know the answer. “With the exception of the X rated smut, that’s in a class of its own.” He held up an object in a cloth bag with draw strings at the top. “This!” He squeezed the bag and the sound of  a diabolical obnoxious laughter was emitted by the mechanism inside. “The Laugh Bag!” he said triumphally, virtually mimicking the laughter of the gadget. “The best seller by all. I’ll bet there’s a Laugh Bag in every village, every town, every city all over the world. It’s the Kilroy Was Here of the novelties!” When Wayne did not tumble to the reference, Kerr smirked and extended his arm to usher him into his office.

“Can I offer you a drink?” Kerr indicated the cadenza displaying the square cut glass decanters.

Wayne politely declined with a shake of his head. Even if he did drink he wouldn’t likely imbibe until later in the day, unwind after a long day of activity. This was in no way the kind of wake he’d imagined for old Rick Richards, the candy man.

Kerr poured his own few fingers and indicated the creased leather couch fronted by a glass topped low oval table. Kerr took his seat in a large leather chair that engulfed him like a giant hand behind the wide sturdy desk with multiple telephones strategically placed across the top indicating that he didn’t use a secretary. From this position he had a full peripheral view of his surroundings. Mounted on the wall behind him was a large brass disc at whose center was the gargoyle represented in silver on the head of his cane. It was also safe to assume that one of the large rings on his long slender hands depicted the same mocking contortion of derisive laughing.

Wayne was curious. He wasn’t in the least intimidated by Kerr’s grandiose theatrics and lack of couth, his repulsive undisguised greed. The associates, the driver and the bodyguard, had stayed outside the office but in plain view beyond the door to Kerr’s office. He was a hoodlum, boss of his cover operation from which he controlled the less than legal schemes and enterprises. Nothing happened in the East Central district without his say so. And Wayne had not asked him for permission.

Robin had done a deep dive on him, looking into his finances, his police record, his business associates, past and present. To begin with, JKR, the drayage firm whose bid had been accepted by Bruce Enterprise for the toxic cleanup of the old battery site was owned in partnership by Joseph Kerr and Riddler Corp. Robin had yet to track down who owned that offshore account.

Kerr had a criminal record as a younger man for extortion and GBH but had flown under the radar for the last couple of decades. Robin seemed to think that his low profile was due to the fact that he was being groomed for leadership in the organization and had protection at least politically. He’d been associated with some known mobsters in the East and had recently setup shop one state over before expanding into the East Central district with his novelty distribution center which appeared to be his only legitimate enterprise on this side of the state line.

There were accusations of fraud and bribery, obstruction of justice, witness intimidation, none of which were ever charged and taken to court. He had set himself up as the boss of his territory of rundown tenements and abandoned business and was buying up property cheap and bringing in other investors from the East. He had allies on the city council who wanted to raze the entire area and offer it to developers cheap for generous kickbacks.

Wayne had already scuttled the plans to demolish the old battery works. A lot of money was at stake, and he had just stepped on their toes.

Kerr held the narrow metal cylinder up accusingly. “This was found in an apartment not far from here. The scene of an altercation in which a young neighborhood man was severely injured and may never walk again.”

Kerr looked up from his drink with a satisfied smile. “I only met your old man a couple of times, but I could tell that he was a real straight shooter. He didn’t waste no time on formalities. And I’m gonna assume you’re the same way. So lemme tell you why I think we should work together. You’re a business man and I’m a business man and we occupy the same turf, if you get my drift. No reason we can’t work things out.

“I think you got a good idea there with the antique car museum on the old battery factory property. This area needs some culture. And it would revitalize this side of town decimated so long by street crime.” He made a grimace that was meant to be sad but was only halfhearted. “Property values are gonna sky rocket, and that benefits a lot of investors.” He paused to look at his hands and the drink in one. “I understand the city council still has to vote on the go ahead of your proposal. I don’t think there’ll be any problem, do you?”

Wayne regarded the thin man in the fashionable pinstriped suit wearing a wicked smirk with thin disdain. “I’ve been assured that the votes in favor are there. Everything is above board. And the project will be approved.”

“Aren’t there some members of the council who are skeptical, maybe even hostile, about your proposed museum art gallery community center park? They believe it is a waste of valuable commercial space. That your plan is an ill-advised joke, a rich kid’s folly, an unneeded extravagance.”

“I’ve read the criticism in the paper. As Bruce Enterprise has made me sole custodian of this corporate asset, I can do with it as I please.”

“What if I told you I could guarantee that you could get a unanimous vote for the memorial to your father?”

“I don’t need a unanimous approval, just a majority.”

Kerr formed a pained grin. “One of the arguments against your plan is that this district is a high crime area and visitors will be put in harm’s way if they venture to your park and museum.”

“There’s crime because people need jobs to survive, not robbing candy stores. I plan to create jobs.”

“Not if there’s an upsurge of crime in the district.  There have  been sightings of some kind of masked vigilante character harassing and attacking people in the neighborhood. All of these factors could conceivably swing the vote the other way is all I’m saying.”

“I’m quite aware of that. You apparently believe that you have a solution .”

Kerr cackled, eyes narrowed on Wayne with a particular venomous glint. “You might say that. My idea is that we form a partnership. I help you get the votes for the memorial to the old man and you help me clean up on the real estate. Everybody’s happy, they get what they want.” He gave a smug grin. “You see, there’ll always be a need for real estate just like in this world of gadgets there’ll always be a need for batteries.” He gestured expansively to his warehouse. “Energy and property will always have a future!”

“With due respect, Mr. Kerr, you and I don’t appreciate the value of money in the same fashion. You amass money to gain power over others, enslave them with your filthy lucre. I use my inherited millions to defuse power, to lessen the impact of the exploitation of resources, animal, mineral, or vegetable. That is the difference.”

“You’re just as hard headed as your old man, and a bleeding heart do-gooder to boot!” Kerr exploded.

Wayne fixed his gaze on the narrow framed man vibrating with anger, the direct opposite of mirth. “He must have told you to pack sand as well.”

Kerr reached inside his suit coat and held out a slender metallic object. “Ever see one of these before?”

Wayne shrugged. “A pen? Although it appears too large to be practical.”

Kerr pointed one end at him and a blinding bright light ignited at the tip.

Wayne blocked the light from his eyes with his hand. “A penlight, that’s nothing new.”

“This one is special. Beside the intensity of the light. See when I twist the end, the whole flashlight becomes a strobe. And when I give it another turn, the light beam is red, and then when I give it a final twist the strobe is also red. Trippy as the youngsters say. I’ve seen a lot of penlight gadgets in my business but I’ve never seen one quite like this.”

“Where did you get it,” Wayne asked certain that he knew.

“Someone gave it to me. Right away I wanted to order a case of them for my inventory. Only one problem with that. They’re not for sale because nobody makes them!” Kerr grinned mischievously like something was tickling him up his sleeve. “I had one of my more technically adept guys, former safe cracker, take it apart. There’s a serial number inside the battery casing that incidentally holds two triple A high capacity Bruce Batteries, and the guy says they’re rechargeable. That must be something brand new because I never heard of such tiny batteries being rechargeable. It took some digging but we traced the serial numbers to the manufacturer. Their records showed that this lot of casings was sold to Bruce Advanced Technological Systems.”

“I’m not surprised. The BATS Lab is always engineering new and innovative battery gear. The rechargeable batteries is something else the Lab is working on. Right now they’re trying to work out a glitch that causes the batteries to catch fire if they’re left activated for too long.”

Kerr glanced down to the penlight in his hand and quickly turned it off.

“This is probably a prototype of some kind,” Wayne explained. “Where did you say you found it, again?”

Kerr held the narrow metal cylinder up accusingly. “This was found in an apartment not far from here. The scene of an altercation in which a young neighborhood man was severely injured and may never walk again. He and his friends were in the apartment when they were attacked by a masked man. The young man who sustained the injury was thrown from the second story to the street below. The masked man left this device behind so whoever it is has some connection to your BATS Lab, I would guess, to be in possession of this one of a kind item. Don’t you agree?” Kerr’s grin was diabolical in its glee.

“Not necessarily. The Lab produces hundreds of prototype and when they think they have something with commercial viability they send it out to consumer protection organizations for testing and review. When the testing is done, the devices are returned with comments by the individuals who tested them. This one was not returned, apparently.” Wayne’s calm smile seemed to enrage Kerr.

“What if I turned this thing over to the cops and told them that it belonged to Bruce Labs? They could probably lift fingerprints off it.”

Wayne shrugged. “The cylinder is knurled, I doubt that they can retrieve prints from it.”

Kerr’s brow clouded. “The city council would be interested in the fact that the masked vigilante is using a prototype Bruce Enterprise device and that maybe he is an employee of Bruce Advanced Technology Services.”

Wayne pursed his lips to keep from laughing. “That would be quite a stretch. I think your friends on the council would expect more from you in the way of incriminating evidence. And while we’re at it, I would like to thank you for recovering Bruce Enterprise property.” Wayne stood up and held out his hand. “I can take charge of the prototype and return it to its proper section at the Lab. There might even be a reward. I’ll give my secretary your particulars. ”

Kerr reacted by pulling his hand away then thought better of it, handing the penlight to Wayne.

“Right now I think our talk, businessman to businessman, is over, and I hope that we have come to a mutual agreement not to have to do so again.” Wayne stepped to the office door and turned the handle.

“One thing I can tell you, Bruce, is that you’re not going to get the votes for the project,” Kerr called after him. “You can take that to the bank!”

Wayne turned his most blasé face to the narrow man. “If at first I don’t succeed I will try, try again. Besides I have lawyers! Any adverse finding by the city council with end up on appeal and in court.”

“Problem with lawyers, “ Kerr screeched after him as he exited the office and past the two men guarding the door, “they’re not bullet proof!”

Next Time: Scene I, Part 3  The Drive-by

Act One, Scene 1

Crime Fiction, Pulp Fiction, Steampunk Fiction, Western Fiction, , , , , , , , , , , ,

By Pierre Anton Taylor

The old neighborhood had changed for the worse. The high brick wall that had once been a part of his father’s factory was covered with ivy creepers, mottles of lichen, and faded graffiti. Sickly yellowing weeds grew between the cracks in the broken sidewalk. At the curb, obscured by plastic trash and piles of leaves,  stood an old sycamore whose roots has caused the cement to buckle, a last remnant of when the area had been tree shaded, thriving, catering to the employees from the battery works..

He stood in front of the candy store he had frequented as a youngster. It hadn’t changed much, just become a little shabbier. The white paint on the double front doors had bubbled and peeled. The storefront windows near the entrance, repaired with duct tape and cardboard, looked as if a hole  had been punched through it.

JCA1S2“That’s quite an antique.” A square shouldered black man on the step leading up into the store spoke the words. He was referring to the black sedan parked at the curb.

“It’s a 1960 Plymouth Fury. Fully restored.”

“I know that. I was about your age when I would have given my right arm for one of those.” He held up the stub of his right arm. “Instead I gave it for my country in Vietnam.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” The young man grimaced. He always felt uncomfortable saying it because it was such a cliche. “Thank you for your service.”

“Wasn’t your fault. I just got careless. Ripley’s the name, by the way. I didn’t catch yours.”

“Wayne, Wayne Bruce.” He felt a little awkward as he extended his hand, but the black man grasped it firmly with his left.

“And what brings you to this neighborhood, Mr. Bruce? Lost? Or looking to pick up some cheap real estate?”

Wayne Bruce shook his head and glanced around again, reorienting himself after so many years. Abandoned buildings and the apartment towers that used to teem with activity now appeared worn and past their use by date. The brick enclosure to the crumbling factory site he used to think of as towering had retained some of its respectability if not its height. The candy store abutting the wall emitting a faint single source amber light, the tavern on the corner across the street where Central teed into Battery, neon beer sign sputtering in the dark round window open for business.

Ripley kept his gaze fixed on the young man, a lithe six foot two, tangle of dark hair framing a square face and jaw, dark intense eyes under darker eyebrows, and with a deferential confidence to his manner. A tailored black gabardine three quarter length coat with attached cowl draped snugly across the broad shoulders. The crew collared dark gray jersey clung to the shape of the angular torso topping a pair of slim black slacks and casual half boots.

Bruce then smiled and indicated the candy shop. “I used to come here when I was a youngster. My favorite candy was a Chunky bar. Mr. Rick still the owner?”

Ripley showed a frown and squinted at the tall young man. “You know old Rick?”

“Sure, he made the best egg-cream around.”

Ripley’s frown intensified, taking a closer look at the white man who had just parked his antique Plymouth on one of the roughest streets on the east end of the city. “No, he don’t do that no more. Hasn’t done that in a real long time, make egg-creams. Kids today don’t know what egg-cream is. But you are right, he made the best.”

A stiff breeze rattled the branches of the sycamore and persuaded some of the last leaves to release their grip and float reluctantly to the concrete. Both men looked in the direction the wind had come, at the lead gray mass hovering over the tall spires and square silhouettes of the downtown district, the tawny streak of late afternoon sky crushed by darker clouds at the horizon.

“You say Bruce? That your name? Like this place here?” Ripley pointed to the grim shadows hovering above the wall and the sign that had been creatively overwritten.. “Bruce Battery Manufacturer? That you?”

Wayne nodded. “My father.”

candystore1“The Battery Man. I remember the billboards. Nobody Beats A Bruce! You that kid? I heard about you. Come on, come on in.” He pushed the door open and the hinge squeaked like a cry for help. “He’s in the back, come on.”

Bruce didn’t need urging to step up and in. The candy store was familiar though smaller than he remembered it. The counter with the white scale, now a nicotine yellow, atop the display case of penny candy, jaw breakers, licorice whips, and candy bars. A diagonal crack mended with yellowing translucent tape ran across the display glass. On the back wall by the cash register the slotted black shelves of tobacco products mostly empty. There were plastic toys and odds and ends household items, clothespins, wooden matches, boxes of plastic forks and knives on shelves along the opposite wall. A rack next to the shelves displayed an assortment of flimsy plastic Halloween costumes and masks from the holiday a few weeks past. Boxes, some unopened, some empty, were stacked on the floor toward the rear of the small space where a doorway was covered with a threadbare flowered green curtain stirred by the sound of shuffling behind it.

“Yo! Rick! Hey! Old man! Somebody here to see you!” Ripley’s grin was mirthful, glee ringing his eyes.

A grave low voice answered, “If it’s Kerr, I already gave him my answer. What don’t he get about ‘shove it’? The curtain parted to a frown under a head of close cropped silver wool and a mean squint distorting the dark brown face. Pale framed thick lensed glasses held together at the bridge by a bulge of masking tape sat on a crooked nose, the tip of which appeared lighter than the rest of the ebony exterior.

The old man came to a stop, a walking cane in each hand, and craned his tall torso forward. “Who are you? You don’t look one of Kerr’s. . . ?” He gave a sidelong glance at Ripley who was trying to maintain his composure and not burst out laughing, and then turned to face the tall young man in black. A smile slowly cracked the harsh demeanor exposing red gums and missing teeth. “It’s you, ain’t it? I’d know that canary eating grin anywhere.” To Ripley, he snapped, “What you laughing at? I don’t see nothing funny!”

Easing himself behind the candy counter, Richard Richards, Mr. Rick to most of his customers, took up his iconic position in the eyes of the young man. “Lemme guess. A Chunky bar.” At the young man’s nod, he slide open the rear door to the display case and reached in. “You remember how much you used to pay for one of these?” he asked as he set the foil wrapped candy on the top of the counter.

chunky1Wayne paused to recall. “A quarter.” And then, “But I remember when they went up to fifty cents because I came in one day and all I had was twenty five cents, two dimes and a nickel, and you told me that the price had gone up. But you sold it to me anyway, that I could pay the rest next time.”

The old man chuckled. “That’s right. And you shoulda seen the look on your face when you realized you didn’t have the right amount. You mighta cried.”

“Did I ever pay you back? I don’t remember. I hope I did.”

“I don’t recall either. Not that it matters after all this time.” He held up the silver square. “Nowadays one of these will set you back five dollars! Think anyone can afford that?”

Ripley nodded in assent, “Not around here they can’t, that’s for damn sure!”

“This young man here used to keep track of my inventory. He knew every candy I carried and how much of it I had. He’d come in here with his daddy and name off everything I had in the case. I carried newspapers back then, and Mr. Bruce would come in for his morning and his afternoon edition. He always had this one in tow. Go straight to the glass and put his nose up against it.” He shook his head in recollection. “Time’s are gone.” And addressing young Bruce, “I’m sorry to hear of his passing.”

The tips of Wayne’s ear’s reddened, darkening them, and he twisted a grin in agreement and acceptance of the condolences. And as if to offset the tension of the emotion, he pointed to the soda vending machine’s garish edifice over to one side in the corner, the only thing that seemed out of place. “I remember the big red cooler you used to have there. It rattled whenever the compressor came on. The first time I heard it I nearly jumped out of my shorts. That and the treasure hoard of candy were my first impression of this place. And you used to have a comic book rack over there too. I spent a lot of time sitting on the floor reading them. Those are good memories, Mr. Rick.”

“Aw, you were a pest, always asking questions, you were curious about everything. And then you went away to school, somewhere, some place foreign I heard. Your mother sent you off to get a proper education. And you’d come by every once in a while when you were home visiting, and I seen you were developing into a fine young man, taking more after your ma than your husky pop, though. She only come in here with you a couple times I can remember but I could tell she was high toned.” He lowered his eyes at the memory, “She doing well, is she?”

Wayne gazed out at the failing light of the darkening street. He nodded, “Yes,” as if to himself. “Mother is doing well as can be expected. Dad’s brother, Harold, is taking care of the details, managing the Bruce business empire.” A hint of bitterness in his attitude. “Life goes on even if not for Wallace W. Bruce.” He erased the frown with a bright smile as if it had never been there. “I thought that while I was in town for the funeral I’d see if I could still get a Chunky at the only place I know that sells them.”

Rick gave an appreciative guffaw. “Well, you are in luck, this is the last one! I stopped carrying them half a dozen years ago when the price went up to two dollars. I didn’t think anyone would ever want a square of chocolate, nuts, and raisins that bad. I kept this one as a souvenir of when candy was cheaper than crack.” He pointed to the shelves behind the display glass. “You see anything in here that reminds you of a Zagnut or Good & Plenty or a Clark Bar, Abba Zaba, Big Hunk, JuJuBes, Milk Duds, or Pay Day?”

“You had those little wax bottles with fruit syrup in them. . . .”

“Yeah, Nickle-A-Nips, go for over a dollar now. I can’t get a lot of those old candies anymore. It’s my distributor, he carries all these off brands. You ever hear of a Ball Park? it’s shaped like a frankfurter, made mostly of sawdust as near as I can tell, and held together with a chocolate tasting glue. Bigga Jigga? I don’t even want to think what it’s made of, but I heard somebody lost a tooth biting into one, pulled it clean out of his gums. And Plenty Good? Just a box of hard candy pieces swept up off the candy factory floor. O’Hara’s? Some kind of high fructose soybean glop, and Dummies, just little pills of color flavored chalk. This Wacky Wax? It’s just artificially sweetened wax. That can’t be good for your gut.”

Ripley nodded vigorously, “Eat enough of that, stick a wick up your butt and call you a candle.”

“You might need a new distributor.” Wayne offered with an understated chuckle.

Rick shook his head. “No, can’t, Kerr controls the East Central District. He has a say in just about everything that gets bought and sold in this neighborhood. His guy makes me carry these knockoffs and threatens me when they don’t sell! He made me install that drink vender. It’s expensive, besides. Has to stay plugged in all the time, uses more lectricity than the rest of the shop! Usta carry his girly magazines but it just attracted the kids, and they’d want to shoplift something, sometimes because they thought they needed it, other times just because they thought they could. Sell ‘em under the counter now, you gotta ask to see ‘em, and if you’re asking, you buying one.”

“Kerr? Where have I seen that name, from around here?”

“Joeseph Kerr. That’s his warehouse down the block, in the old garment factory, you mighta seen the sign painted on the side of the building when you turned down Central coming into the neighborhood.”

“I did. Kerr Novelty, Inc. Big letters.”

“Big crook, if you ask me. Came from out east about ten years ago. He’s got his fingers in other pots, too, buying up real estate. He owns Quinn’s, the tavern across the street, and the old folks apartment building next door. I heard he was partnering with some developers for a project down at the other end of Battery. Bound to be a boondoggle like most projects in this town.”

“Calling the cops ain’t gonna do no good. They take forever to get to this end of town. Kerr’s probably paying off somebody at the precinct to lay off in his turf.”

“And he’s been looking at the old factory site, your pop’s place.” Ripley spoke up. “Heard he wants to move his operation to over there.”

Rick threw him a quick glance. “B, you know that’s just a rumor. Ain’t no truth to that.”

“Yeah, that’s what I overheard at Q’s. And you know why that’s bad news for you.”

“Yes I know, but no need to talk about something ain’t gonna happen until after I’m dead.”

“You see, man, this building, old Rick’s crib in back, the candy store, they all on the factory property. Somebody buy that factory, they get the candy store in the deal.”

Wayne cocked his head to one side, “Is that true? I’d have to look up the property deed in the company archives.”

“No, no, Bion is right. This is part of the factory property. It had been the foundry foreman’s residence before the site was converted to  Bruce Battery Works. I was one of your old man’s original employees back when he started out. Then after the accident, well, he helped me. . . .”

“Here, here,” Ripley was pointing out the window as the streetlights sparked to life at the encroaching gray, “The Up To No Good gang, I’Van and J’Van. I haven’t seen them in a while. Somebody musta bailed them out.”

Rick concurred. “They on the prowl early, looking for a stray bird. They must be desperate.”

“You know them?”

Ripley nodded solemnly, “We had occasion to get close.”

Rick chuckled, “Bion ripped open a case of whupass on those boys. They know not to mess with him.”

Bion pointed with his stub. “The redhead? That’s I’Van. He’s a nasty piece of work. The other one, the kid, J’Van, he’s dangerous because he doesn’t know how strong he is. But he’s a follower, not a leader. They do muscle for the local numbers guy, and strong arm the unwary for their nickels and dimes. They try to intimidate everyone else. Those that cross them usually end up in the hospital.”

“The bookie is in Kerr’s pocket. He couldn’t operate without his say so. His boys are the neighborhood pit bulls.” Rick added.

“And they’re taking a close look at your Plymouth at the curb. Might not be too wise to leave it parked there for long. I can go stand by it. They’ll know enough to steer wide.”

Wayne held up his hand. “No, please, I don’t think that will be necessary. Thanks for the offer, Bion, is it? An unusual name if you don’t mind my saying.”

“Naw, man, that’s cool, everybody trips over it. I got it in Nam. It’s because of my last name, Ripley. The guys in the platoon used to call me Believe It Or Not, and it got shortened to BION, and then just B, what most folks knows me calls me.”

“I don’t believe it!” Rick was leaning forward on his canes glaring out the window. “Just this minute, coming down the steps, it’s old lady Winslow, I’m sure of it.”

“Her daughter musta forgot to lock the apartment door again,” Ripley said, a trace of concern in his voice.

“She thinks she’s going shopping, got her purse and her shopping bag. . . .”

“Wait till she gets around the corner to find that the market been closed for two years now.”

“If she gets that far. I didn’t think they’d do that. They are lower than scum. Knocked her down, one of them has got her purse, laughing.”

“Call the cops!” Wayne had started toward the door.

“Calling the cops ain’t gonna do no good. They take forever to get to this end of town. Kerr’s probably paying off somebody at the precinct to lay off in his turf.”

“She might be hurt!” Ripley raced through the door, “Call for an ambulance!”

Rick replied to Wayne’s questioning look, “He was a medic in Nam. He’ll see to her till the meat wagon arrives.”

“The men, they’re gone, where. . . ?”

The old man looked up from dialing the phone, “Can’t have gone far, mighta ducked into Q’s to divvy up the loot.”

Wayne became very quiet, overcome by an ominous calm. He glanced at the Halloween display, the black domino mask with peacock feather eyebrows in its cellophane bag. He unclipped it from the rack and held it up. “How much?”

Rick shook his head. “Try it on first. See if it fits.”

Wayne ripped open the bag and plucked off the feathered decorations and slipping the mask over his eyes. “Better call for a second ambulance.”

He strode down the steps, skirted the rear fins of the Plymouth Fury and stepped quickly across the darkening street pulling the cowl up over his head as the first of the rain began to fall.

quinnsWet occupied the air and chilled it. In the yellow-brown light of the doorway to Quinn’s Tavern, the rain striking the concrete jumped like sparks off a hot griddle. The door opened quietly, disturbing neither the wide shouldered man with the bar towel over his shoulder, gaze intent on the square of color TV mounted above the bar, who laughed along with the track, a rheumy asthmatic rasp, or the other two hunched over in the shadows of a back booth, laughing, giggling, but not at the TV, a sitcom about people who frequent a bar similar to this one although certainly less sinister.

The young one looked up, questioning at first and then frowning his face into a growl at the perceived threat. The redhead jerk his eyes up from the emptied contents of the purse like a dog guarding a bone. He was about to raise his head and bark when two rigid fingers jabbed the larynx causing a choking spasm gasp for breath at the same time the base of a palm slammed into the apex of his nose with enough force to render him unconscious. As the dark haired man boy rose to defend his partner, a well-placed kick to the sternum knocked him back into the sitting position with his head bouncing against the tall booth, an open target for the elbow that struck him full face and broke his nose. The man behind the bar had just brought up the shotgun as the round glass ashtray that had been between the two unconscious thugs struck him on the bridge of the nose knocking him down.

A black gloved hand gathered the pile of belongings in the middle of the table and returned them to the purse. There wasn’t much to the loot: a change purse, a wallet stuffed with grocery coupons but no legal tender or credit cards, a lipstick tube, hair pins, an empty pack of spearmint gum, a sheaf of letters held together by a ribbon, the scent of lilac.

No one paid attention to him as he set the purse on the stoop to the apartment house where a few neighbors had gathered with umbrellas to shield the old woman who was sitting up now, looking around bewildered, rubbing the elbow she had hit after being pushed down by the hoodlums. A siren sounded close.

Ripley glanced up once to see the tall cowled figure, eyes shadowed by the black mask before the ambulance’s flashing red and ambers saturated the rain dark street. After the medics had taken over, he stood in the soaking downpour and stared at the empty curb in front of the candy store. He sensed that it was just the beginning, a perfect storm of coincidences gathering at the horizon that would rain down justice and injustice alike, and transform the lives of those who lived in the decaying industrial fringe of the city, a city whose name had always resonated as a cesspit of crime and corruption.

Next Time: Unfortunate Son