Tag Archives: Wayne Bruce

Act Three, Scene I, Part 1

May 10, 2024Crime Fiction, Crimefighter, Pulp FictionCrime Fiction, Crimefighter, Just Coincidence, Pierre Anton Taylor, Pulp Fiction, The Dark Knight, Wayne BruceNuallain House, Publishers

by Pierre Anton Taylor

From the wide window of his penthouse in the Legacy Arms, Wayne Bruce considered the whirling tempest. The wind whipped the flurry of flakes against the skyscrapers, obscuring them at times and then just as quickly revealing the ranks of tall buildings impervious to the onslaught. It was not a time to try out his aerial antics in search of crime in the inner city. He still felt the weight of guilt from his last foray, the deaths that had resulted in his breaching of the abandoned building where the drug lab had been housed.

Shock headlines had claimed that the inferno was the work of a vigilante, one who had been rumored operating in the East Central part of the city. Talking heads decried the lawlessness. The District Attorney was quoted as saying that taking the law into one’s hands only leads to tragedy. And that no matter how well meaning, the fight against crime was best left to professionals. She also vowed to apprehend the perpetrator of these attacks.

At the city paper news desk, a reporter with the byline of Valerie Vicks had written a feature article on the mysterious crimefighter who had so recently set out to battle rampant crime and corruption in one of the city’s poorest neighborhoods. Relying on witness testimony and rumors, the reporter had pieced together an ineffectual campaign against crime. She had pointed out a very significant flaw in the “pseudo crusader” plan. The unspoken truth was that it wasn’t a problem one man could solve. Even if he were the wealthiest man in the world.

But this late afternoon, with the snow storm shutting down the city, that wasn’t the only thing weighing on Wayne’s mind. Robin, with assistance from the engineers at BATS Lab, had been able to bypass the encryption allowing access to the laser disks from the old man’s surveillance system. The data load, they’d ascertained, was light, signifying that the system was relatively new or had been used only occasionally. There was a remote control wired to the recorder at the old man’s desk that would allow him to record meetings in his office at will. The time stamp on the recovered video displayed the dates they were recorded, going back a little over eighteen months and argued for its relatively recent installation.

When he’d viewed the material, what he’d seen was his father, Wallace Bruce, in meetings with his staff. And his brother, Harold, of course. Usually one of his secretaries would be visible taking notes. And when she wasn’t, it was an occasion for cigars and scotch, and as old Dad had once remarked, “when the real business gets done.” Linus Pall was present in many of the recordings. As his father’s lawyer and physician, it was to be expected. Then there were men he didn’t know or recognize, businessmen, corporate leaders, like old Bruce, and from the cut of their suits, they afforded luxury and privilege. Even meeting their ilk in person as his father’s protege, he’d felt the prickle of irritation at their mannered superiority. Whoever they were, they were serious in their disposition, severe in some respects, which had immediately aroused his suspicions. And there were no secretaries taking notes. The audio track had been corrupted in the process of extracting the visual data resulting in garble and white noise. Robin had assured him that the lab techs were working on reconstructing the data but it would take some time.

Seeing himself had been startling at first. He rarely went to corporate headquarters and to the old man’s eagle’s nest, or belfry, as he’d sometimes thought of it. He was too busy with his extracurricular activities. And the times he was present were generally social or ceremonial affairs judging by the cocktail glasses. Charlotte was in a few of those, as was Trish.

There was one instance Wayne remembered specifically discussing the trip to Mali. Dr. Fledermann was present as well, sour faced, wanting to object to what old Dad was saying, and recalled it as the moment that Wallace Bruce had appointed him as the director of the BATS Lab. He had not been aware of it at the time, but Feldermann was staring daggers at him when his father made the announcement.

For the most recent footage, it appeared that the recorder had been run continuously, activated by a motion detector, time stamped over a period just before and shortly after Wallace Bruce’s death. It appeared that the old man had been in his office late the day prior, and following there had been a flurry of activity by staff, frequent visitations from Harold issuing orders and looking over papers handed to him by old Dad’s confidential secretary. Dr. Pall made a few appearances, often accompanied by Harold. It didn’t seem unusual. His uncle was taking charge of the reorganization. Pall had been his father’s close advisor. They had reason to consult. In one instance their body language indicated a disagreement, a dispute in which Pall had placed a finger in front of Harold’s face, agitated and emphatic in what he was mouthing. Wayne read what Pall was saying. It looked like he was saying “Charlotte.”

Wayne had replayed the footage to make certain he was hearing what he was seeing. There was no doubt, Pall was distinctly mouthing Charlotte’s name but anything else was lost in guess work. Harold’s reaction had been just as vehement in the denial of what the doctor was insisting. He replayed the footage in his memory. What were they arguing about? The time stamp indicated that it had occurred on the day of the old man’s funeral. Pall and the acting head of Bruce Enterprise were meeting in his father’s office later that day. He could understand that they might want to conduct some post mortem business, strategize, but how did Charlotte figure into the picture? He had broken up with her, true. It was a decision he’d made upon his return from Mali. He wanted to reconsider their engagement. Although he enjoyed her company, her wit to his darker proclivities, their pairing was taking on an air of inevitability, as if it were following a script. And he had other ideas. Questions.

Who was he, and who did he want to be? Shouldn’t he be satisfied with the benefits of the wealth he was heir to? Or should he pursue the mission of justice for the sufferers of misfortune at whose root was the corruption and wealth of the privileged few? It left him sleepless, an insomnia that only death could cure. Sleep would only come with the resolution to the mystery of his father’s death. As for the end to the injustice in the world, nothing but a dream, a fitful ache that begins in the gut, the ancient seat of knowledge, and ends up between the ears as a throbbing obsession. It would be easy enough to continue as a prince of industry, and never question the path of his career, as a leader, as an innovator, perhaps? He had such ambition, his father’s spirit lived in him, only quieter and maybe more disaffected of the vanity that comes with privilege. Yet now at the prow of his future, he was being pulled into an undiscovered country, one that coupled compassion with a thirst for a specific vengeance against the oppression of capital. He could be a champion of those proud people who suffered at the whims and scorn of insolent corporate greed. That the disadvantaged should be returned their birthright, a freedom to live or die, to sleep, to endure untroubled dream’s advantage. It would be easy enough to let that inclination toward justice die on the vine. Was it really his to regret? He had made a commitment to Charlotte, and although he had broken their engagement, he understood that it could be easily repaired, attributed to the shock of his father’s sudden death. It would please his mother, certainly, and Pall would be placated, undoubtedly poised to insert himself at the beginning of a commercial dynasty. And Harold would be satisfied to helm Bruce Enterprise as president and CEO without any immediate threat from Wayne. But he couldn’t let a guilty conscience make him a coward, let his better instincts be overshadowed by overthinking. His short stay in the refugee camp had upended his world and he had resolved to make a difference, a momentous decision that could not be ignored as merely wishful altruism of a new money aristocrat. And there was his father’s ghost and the suspicious circumstances of his death.

Wayne had uncovered in the process of moving his wardrobe into the penthouse, the metal traveling case that had belonged to old Fledermann. It was sitting in the middle of the desk in the study. So much had transpired since his return from Africa. The metal case with its field notes had lost in importance. He had snapped the locks and opened the case that emitted a sharp acrid odor, one that he immediately recognized as that of the arid lands of the Sahel. A metal clipboard still gripped a sheaf of stained dogeared notes and lab reports. Vials of sand were secured in a row in the lid of the case. File folders wedged into the bottom along with a few prescription pill bottles that had nothing to do with the research. The old scientist had been having heart palpitation and other health problems, one of the reasons why Wayne was replacing him as head of the Lab.

Wayne flipped through the papers attached to the clipboard. Nothing caught his eye, the letterheads suggested that they were all interdepartmental memos. The clip board had a compartment on its back, and he undid the clasp. A manila envelope fell out and onto the desk. There was no addressee or return address. As he picked it up he saw the note that Harold had sent him via messenger on the desk. It was about the family meeting he had scheduled the next day before the reading of the will. As a postscript his uncle had added “Charlotte will be in attendance.”

That had left him conflicted. He didn’t understand why she would be present at the family meeting. And he thought he had been quite clear that his decision was firm, they would not be wed. It occurred to him that Trish and Harold might be trying to affect a reconciliation. He wouldn’t put it past Trish. And there was Linus Pall. He had a vested interest in their union.

Wayne turned his attention again to the sealed manila envelope. It was bulky, too bulky for documents. As he picked up the ornate letter opener from the blotter, his pager pinged. He knew what number was on the display without looking at it. It was the ghost of old Dad’s, calling him to the Battery Works. Someone was in trouble.

He dialed a number and punched in a code. It was something he had worked out with Robin. He changed into his bike leathers, checking the watch on his wrist. If he didn’t receive an answering page, he could assume that she would be in the parking garage in fifteen minutes. He accessed the service entrance to the penthouse and rode down to the basement in the freight elevator. He waited in the shadows of a pillar in the underground parking garage, a blind spot to the security cameras. Before too long, the distinct sound of a motorbike echoed in the cavernous space. Robin steered the bike to a dark corner and dismounted, leaving the keys in the ignition. She unfolded a large shopping bag when she reached Wayne and handed him the helmet, depositing her bundled riding gear into the bag. Undoing the ponytail, she let her long red hair fall to her shoulders.

“You know there’s a blizzard out there, right? And it’s freezing,” she said with a shiver.

“I’ll wait till you board the elevator before I leave. Take a cab back to your place and I’ll meet you there when I’m done.”

“You sure you don’t want me to ride with you? That seat holds two.”

“No, not this time.” Wayne watched in silence as a party of couples exited their parked car and strolled casually to the parking garage elevator. “Ok, here’s your chance.”

“I know I don’t have to say this but, watch your back,” Robin cautioned over her shoulder.

Once the elevator doors closed, Wayne rode the bike out into the traffic of the blustering snowstorm whipping between the concrete and steel canyons. If there were watchers tonight, they most certainly were seeking refuge from the storm, and their surveillance likely impaired. He dodged the cabs, and few limousines, lumbering commercial carriers and delivery vans until he reached the outskirts of the downtown area, and sped east toward the bleak snowbound fringes of urban decay. He knew that city would not deploy the snowplows until after midnight. He would have to make his own way through the drifts and snow banks. The wind was howling like a banshee, effectively muting the sound of the motorcycle’s engine. He wiped the accumulation of snow and ice off his visor. His approach would not be noticed. The streets were deserted, and he wondered who would even be out in such weather intent on inflicting thoughtless misery on others. Penn Quinn’s Tavern appeared deserted although a red knot of neon glowed in the small oval side window.

Wayne meant to access the Battery Works from the alley behind the shuttered candy store as he had done on his stealth missions several times before. The narrow rutted path was blocked by a drift. He dismounted and muscled the wheels through the snow. On the lee side, he made out an overturned shopping cart, tufts of snow caught on the metal ribs and covering the piled boxes and clothing in disarray. Someone homeless had abandoned their cart to seek shelter he assumed. Then he noticed the boots, and the legs attached to the boots, and the body stretched out against the wall. He recognized Laverne Early, the woman they called the cat lady. When he reached her she was still breathing. He sat her up and spoke her name. She cautiously open her eyes and belched a sour wine breath at him. And then, eyes wide with fright, she screamed, “What have you done with my Cat?”

Next Time: The Honey Of His Music

Act Two, Scene 2, Part 3

November 8, 2023Crime Fiction, Gothic, Pulp Fiction, Steampunk FictionCrime Fiction, Crimefighter, Just Coincidence, Pierre Anton Taylor, Wayne BruceNuallain House, Publishers

by Pierre Anton Taylor

Charlotte Taste was an enigma. She and her brother, Larry, were among the wealthiest siblings, barring royalty, in the world. Her wealth was old while Wayne was a second generation captain of industry, part time daredevil and rock climber, and himself an enigma. They’d been attracted to each other, he, not all that personable or outgoing as the old man, always on the sell, and she, just the opposite, impulsive, ready to jump at any opportunity, of which he was one, dark, brooding, masculine. She did not share his interest in high risk sports. Her high adventures were mostly cerebral. And she ran with a jet-setting Euro-trash crowd of minor aristocrats always on the lookout for new thrills and new playgrounds. Yet they gelled as a complimentary couple, as that was how they were depicted on the society page. “Post-debutante and popular hostess Lottie Taste seen here with young Wayne Bruce, antique car collector, world traveler, and Bruce Enterprise’s VP of Research and Development, having recently returned from a mining exploration in Mali for his daddy, Wallace “Battery Man” Bruce.”

Wayne had been all set to take his place on the board of directors and help steer Bruce Enterprise into the future. He was encouraged by Linus Pall, a member of the board, and the old man’s lawyer physician advisor. Linus was also Charlotte and Larry’s guardian and manager of their trust, having served in a similar capacity to the Tastes.

It would be easy to say they’d cooked it up, but Pall and old Dad thought that he and Charlotte should enter society as a married couple as an assurance to the stockholders that the company was in stable hands and the future of BE was in stable settled hands of someone intent on making a family. He had been struck silent by their proposition although not necessarily put off. After some good natured cajoling from his two elders, he agreed to consider the option of marriage. Pall insisted in leaking the news to the gossip column as soon as he got word he’d proposed to Charlotte.

Charlotte was coy, finding it quite funny and assuring him that she wasn’t laughing at him when he told her of the plan, but at the two old match makers so out of touch, it another fifteen years it would be the turn of the century and they were acting like some feudal lords. Yet she had agreed that it was a good idea because she felt safe when he was around.

He’d left for Mali shortly after the announcement and when he returned everything had changed.

A mottled metal service door creaked open and a dark shape exited in a shaft of light and heat before the door closed again. A flame lit the profile of a chin and nose, smoke inhaled and exhaled.

The wind coursing down the brick canyons of the deserted industrial district rattled the air vents on the roof where he was perched. Once he’d recovered from the landing and gathered his gear, he rappelled down the brick wall of the old cotton factory to the street below. The street lights had been neglected or damaged and except for the ambient light glancing off of stretched of drifted snow and plowed berms, shadows engulfed the deserted road.

He had questioned Bion about the drug operation he’d encountered in locating the drug laced Whacky Waxx. Being an ex-Marine, the black man was familiar with the particulars of reconnaissance. Besides, he’d laughed, everyone knew where the factory was or had moved to because no one can keep a secret. Some people just have to brag and word gets around.

Something else Bion related had caught his attention. The drug lab was under Joe Kerr’s protection, and whenever the narcotics squad raided a location, they always came up empty handed. The word was that Penn Quinn, the owner of the tavern directly across from the Old Battery Works, had somebody, a relative, on the police force, who always had information for sale. He acted as the middle man, the man in the know, for a cut of the action.

Wayne had been suspicious of Quinn from the beginning, a pair shaped man, bald as a seal. His tavern was a den of thieves and trouble makers from the rural lands on the outskirts of the district. He’d had Robin do a deep dive into the property and business records of Quinn’s Tavern. It had potential and he could consider purchasing it and turning it into a restaurant or diner catering to visitors at the Wallace Bruce Memorial Park and Antique Motor Car Museum, change the T in the name to a C as in Cavern.

He’d watched from the shadows of an alleyway. A mottled metal service door creaked open and a dark shape exited in a shaft of light and heat before the door closed again. A flame lit the profile of a chin and nose, smoke inhaled and exhaled. Wayne had come across lookouts at the front of the building and a car with a motor running down the street. If they were narcs they weren’t very subtle, but likely they were just one more layer of eyes around the perimeter. The man at the front entrance had stamped his feet in the after midnight below zero cold.

According to Bion, the factory was on the third floor of the abandoned apartment building. With few exceptions all the windows were boarded over with plywood. He had tested the rough brick edifice for irregularities gaging potential for toe holds and finger grips. He was just about to begin the climb when the door opened.

He recognized J-van by the size and the profile in the flicker of flame, and if he was at the drug factory so was I-van, out of the hospital and crutches. It would double his pleasure to put them out of business. I-van’s threat to kill old Rick still echoed in his recent memory.

J-van banged on the door with his secret knock after he’d tossed the cigarette butt. Wayne had waited until the door closed behind the large man to reestablish his grip on a nub of rough brick to begin his climb up the sheer face of the building.

When he’d voiced his suspicions about the circumstances surrounding his father’s death to Detective Gordon James, the older man had listened politely. His advice was to leave these matters to the professionals. For one, they would not be invested in following a narrative that was not based on the facts of the evidence. Speculation was out of their purview. His hands were tied in reopening the investigation. Hearsay was not enough. He could have the body exhumed but that would take a court order for which there was no real evidence or it could be requested by the surviving spouse in the absence of evidence, and even them the result woold likely prove inconclusive. Wayne already knew that Trish would never agree to it.

On the climb up, a toe perched on the ledge beneath a boarded window, he was able to peer through a crack between the planks. A dim light shown at a distance but not enough to discern anything but shadows. And finally gaining the roof burdened with piles of snow and ice, he had carefully made his way across the field of pipes and vent hoods. What looked like the remnants of a rooftop garden confirmed his suspicion that the roof was accessed from the interior of the building. A puddle was visible around the base of one of the exhaust vents emitting a sour fetid heat. He assumed it was coming from the drug factory below. Cigarette butts littered the old mounds of snow and ice and the frozen impression of footprints led to a door inset into the brick chimney enclosure.

He examined the metal fire door and the frame. It was almost as old as the bricks surrounding it, and just as sturdy. There didn’t appear to be an outside handle. The door had to be opened from the inside. He tried prying along the edges and the bottom on the chance it was not secure, but it wouldn’t budge. The smokers must have propped the heavy door open when they took their rooftop break. He considered dropping over the side and gaining access by removing boards from a window but the possibility of discovery was too great.

Wayne had come equipped for a different plan. From the small backpack that fit between his shoulder blades, he extracted a small vial of prank oil, often called skunk oil and sold in novelty shops along with poo-poo cushions and itch powder. Old Rick had a rack of such fare in a dusty corner of the candy store. He recalled the old black man complaining that the gag items never sold, that they were just there because Kerr’s sales rep made him carry them.

Also from the backpack, he recovered a spray can of insulating foam from the construction site at the old Battery Works. He unstopped the vial of noxious oil and prying one of the louvres on the ventilation hood open, reached in and poured the entire contents into the duct. He turned his attention to the exhaust vent, spraying foam into the opening, the white polyurethane billowing like a cloud of whipped cream effectively sealing the vent.

Wayne placed himself to one side of the door and waited. First he heard bumping and banging followed by shouts. He could tell by the noise that someone was trying to break open a window from the inside. Then he heard the distinct trample of feet on stairs amidst more yelling and retching when suddenly the door to the roof burst open. One person flew out the door, bent over, coughing, followed by another, almost crawling on all fours, gasping for breath, and running blindly into the first.

He slipped past them and descended into the brightly lit factory space, a filter mask over his mouth and nose. A woman, hair bound in a kerchief and wearing a dusty grey smock, was on her hands and knees, vomiting, He could understand why. Even with the specially designed nostril inserts, the smell of the skunk oil was nauseating. He wasted no time. Removing the thin cylinder of a battery operated atomizer from a pocket, he directed the spray at the powdery substance near a set of scales. The effect on the drug was almost instantaneous. The white powder turned an orange hue, a chemical process akin to oxidization that rendered the substance useless. He searched the surrounding tables and benches of the makeshift factory for more of the product. What he found were more Whacky Waxx wrappers and a hot plate on which a pot of a waxy substance bubbled. He ripped open a few more bags of the powdery drug and emptied them onto the table, and sprayed it with his chemical neutralizer.

The sobbing, retching woman had gotten to her feet and when she caught sight of him, screamed, knocking over the wax works as she ran for the exit at the far side of the lab. Wayne took a last look around at his handiwork and sprinted up the stairs to the roof. The two men on the roof had recovered some, coughing and wheezing, but didn’t know what to make of him, yet roused themselves to come after him. Just as one of them was close enough to grab him, Wayne dropped over the side of the roof, the man almost following him over. The line he had secured there held, and he let himself be guided down the length of rope in a quick repel.

The commotion had brought a crowd of factory workers and residents of the derelict squat milling around outside in the freezing AM street. There was loud talking and exclamation of disgust and a lot of swearing. Wayne slipped from shadow to shadow distancing himself from the scene as the men on the roof were shouting warnings of the intruder to those below. But it was too late. The damage had been done, and he’d accomplished what he’d set out to do.

The reasoning behind the stealth of his action, the risky wingsuit flight from the penthouse, other than another opportunity to recharge the adrenaline, was that he was certain he was being watch, followed. Even as he made his way to the Battery Work along the deserted streets, the sirens wailing in the distance, fire and police, he stayed out of sight, reversing his path, scaling walls, cutting through alleys. He saw no one, but then the temperatures were freezing in the dark AM.

The alert doorman at the Regency had made a comment in passing as he’d exited the lobby out to his waiting car recently. Wayne had greeted the man with his customary “what’s new?” but this time rather than replying “every day is a gift,” the doorman had observed that the phone company was back fixing the problem they hadn’t fixed the last time, giving a slight nod of his head in the direction of the pale blue van near the open manhole across the street. A man in olive green coveralls had emerged from the service access. Something didn’t fit about the manner of the man and who he was supposed to be. He had a sixth sense about these things. He was not a workman, an engineer perhaps, upper management, but not your run of the mill tech.

He’d asked his secretary once he got to his office at Bruce Enterprise to check with the phone company and inquire about any telephone repair work being done in the vicinity of the Regency Arms. The reply came back negative. And when he used his own transportation to travel around the city and out to the Battery Works site, he’d begun noticing a pattern of utilitarian vehicles floating up into his rearview and then dropping away to be replaced by different yet similar sedans with maximum horse power under the hood. Someone was investing a lot of manhours in tracking his routine which varied little, occupied with the business of renovation at the old Battery factory and his duties overseeing the BATS Lab. On the other hand, there were some activities he didn’t want others to know about.

Wayne approached the silent darkness of Penn Quinn’s Tavern, a red neon knot in one window flickering. The two story brick building consisted of the bar and some storage space on the bottom floor and a quartet of residential units above the business. One of those apartments looked out across the intersection where Central butted into Battery and directly across from the candy store, its door and windows boarded in plywood to prevent vandalism. The graffiti was to be expected. It was from that window above Quinn’s Tavern that the witness claimed to have seen someone, a kid, exiting the store after old Rick was shot.

He loped across the dark street and into the alleyway behind the candy store and down to his access over the wall to the newly refurbished Lab satellite office building where he kept a private suite that included a wardrobe and facilities with a whirlpool tub.

He had taken to prowling the neighborhood, often in disguise, and at night, trying to get a feel for the dereliction and neglect that poverty had visited on the once thriving district. What he saw was petty crime and the hooligans that perpetrated it. A few times he had stepped in and thwarted whatever lawlessness he could, but he was not the police. Nor was the police much in evidence especially as the nights grew darker and colder. The press had stopped obsessing about the outlaw vigilante terrorizing the citizenry. And listening to Bion and the construction crew, he could gauge what the word on the street was saying about a foiled robbery at a mom and pop grocery store or a scotched mugging. The bad guys were a little more cautious in their criminal activities and looking over their shoulders for the phantom in black who would put the hurt on them in no uncertain terms.

Wayne was awakened by the alarm clock early that morning before the crew arrived to begin work. He started the coffee and turned on the television in what would eventually be the employee lounge. The morning news show was working a breaking story and had gone live to the scene of a three alarm fire in the industrial district. As the on-scene camera panned across the flashing lights of the fire equipment and the fire fighters directed their hoses at the smoke and flames erupting from the upper story, he knew immediately what he was looking at. It was the building he had left several hours ago, the Whacky Waxx drug factory. The on scene reporter was telling the camera that three bodies had been located in the abandoned building as it had been being used by squatters seeking shelter from the cold. Firefighters were conducting a search for more victims but were hampered by toxic smoke possibly from chemicals illegally stored on the premises. They believed that the fire was started by an overturned hot plate.

Wayne stared out the window at Bion sliding open the gate to allow the crew access to the grounds of the Battery Works. The realization that he was at least partially responsible for those deaths alighted on his shoulders like a dark winged specter.

Next Time: Interlude

Act Two, Scene 2, pt.2

September 26, 2023Crime Fiction, Gothic, Pulp Fiction, Steampunk Fiction, Western FictionA Dark Knight, Crimefighter, Just Coincidence, Pierre Anton Taylor, Pulp Fiction, Wayne BruceNuallain House, Publishers

by Pierre Anton Taylor

Crime occupied his mind. Not just petty crime or corporate crime. Murder. He had little doubt. The lab tests were inconclusive. It didn’t matter. Whoever was behind his father’s death was sophisticated. It was made to look like a heart attack. Not uncommon for a man of his age. Wayne wasn’t convinced. It didn’t pass the sniff test.

And old Rick’s death was murder, there was no question. The police had yet to apprehend the suspect because they didn’t have a suspect. Robbery was the motive, they claimed. The candy store had been doing better business because of the construction and renovation of the old Battery Works next door. Someone was envious. Or greedy. Or both.

Wayne Bruce looked out over the night scape of the city at his feet from the penthouse terrace. Christmas decorations and neon advertisements brightened the streets of the business district below. A skating rink had been installed at City Center. The sound of voices and music, caroling, could be heard faintly, carried by the frigid wind. He had slipped the extreme weather mask off his face to sit above his forehead. The collar of his jet black jacket was sealed by the mask’s overlapping skirt. The lightweight thermal gloves sealed at the wrists kept out the below zero chill. Knuckles reinforced by a granular composite packed to punch. His tightfitting downhill racing leggings, also black, topped a pair of solid custom made steel toed boots.

His pager sounded in the pocket of his jacket. He didn’t bother with it. He knew what it was. The ghost number. His ghost father was calling him to revenge. To avenge his death. And that of poor old Rick. To serve justice to those who would do evil. He would go, out into the frigid night, down to the ice and slush of the darkened streets. There he would face his adversaries.

Turning to reenter the penthouse, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the wide darkened glass of the sliding doors. It was a silhouette, a lithe dark shadow, the mask rumpled on the top of his head gave the impression of tiny protrusions resembling a pair of horns or ears. He was an avenging angel, he thought, or something else with wings.

Sliding open the door to the penthouse to retrieve his parajump gear, he was reminded of what the maintenance man had said, complaining when the door jammed off track and allowed the December wind to whistle through and snow to pile up on the expensive carpeting. “This suite’s got problems with doors.”

He was surprised. He was unaware that there was a door problem.

“Oh, a couple of times. Before Mr. Bruce died. I told them they needed to replace the whole thing because it hadn’t been installed properly when they changed the casing from French doors to double sliders.” And as an afterthought, “The door to the service access, right about the same time. The key pad failed. I had to call the company. Never had that problem with a lock and key.”

Apparently a minor inconvenience. “They, the Electrolocks Company, sent a technician out right away and he just replaced the entire unit, didn’t take more than fifteen minutes.”

Wayne had been given the grand tour of the Legacy Towers security setup. It was adequate without being intrusive, mostly motion detectors and remote cameras monitored after hours by the night manager, and by a concierge and assistants morning to evening. The service access keypads allowed entry to the upscale suites and flats whose activation triggered the ceiling camera, recording, time stamping, and alerting the monitoring staff. State of the art, the general manager had assured him.

“That’s one of the reasons it took them so long to get in here when the accident happened. That keypad stopped working again. The new overnight man didn’t know how to enact the bypass. Or hadn’t been told how to. It was a mess, as you can imagine, the fire department, the ambulance, the cops.”

What were the odds of a keypad failure so soon after replacement?

“They’re a big company, Electrolocks, they service most of the buildings in the downtown district. They had a good rep. I mean, until this happened. But I know their service supervisor went nuclear, accused the plant staff of tampering with the device, using unauthorized parts because he was sure he was going to be sued because of a malfunctioning keypad.” But for the hint of self-satisfaction, there was more. “When he was told that his guy had installed it, he claimed that they had no record of the service call and no tech had been dispatched to this address. The concierge was tearing his hair out by then. And if that wasn’t enough. The door to the penthouse elevator started acting up,” confiding, “I don’t do elevators.”

There was the drop as if the wind had been caught by surprise and the blur of lights and shadow until the wing snapped taut and lifted him above the roofs of the tall buildings below.

Wayne dragged the equipment out onto the terrace overlooking the city night skyline and set it at the edge of the parapet. The maintenance man had made the point.

“They had to call the elevator company to send a repairman out. It wasn’t the usual crew, just a couple of guys who said they were sent from the main office because it was a priority job. They knew what they were doing. Didn’t take them long. It looked like a cheap plastic ballpoint pen, or something like that, had got caught up in the track. Probably one of the cops or firemen dropped it when they were milling around after they found Mr. Bruce.”

A cheap plastic pen had lodged in the elevator door track impeding it’s closure. What happened to it? Was it discarded at completion of the repair? Returned to the shop accompanying the repair report? And then discarded? Nor was there any certainty that it was a plastic pen, it just appeared to be a clear plastic tube shattered at one end.

Wayne unzipped the large duffel and extracted the wing suit, a prototype he’d had the BATS Lab put together, the product of long discussions and brainstorming with fellow base jumpers and sky divers, some of whom were aeronautic engineers. The sheer wing panels unfolded and tail piece stretched in place, it looked like a paper airplane ready to be launched by a rubber band. So much for high-tech, he thought to himself. The object was to hang under the wing structure and glide down, the body webbing of the suit providing the drag and extra maneuverability.

The surveillance system and laser discs in his father’s office the Smith Brothers had uncovered still remained a mystery. The material could not be accessed without a combination of letters and numbers typed into the keypad and so the expectation of learning what the old man had recorded was muted. One of the electronic techs at the lab was of the opinion that it might take a while, but it could be done. It appeared to be a custom proprietary system. He’d asked Robin to work with the tech. If anyone could come up with a novel approach, it was Robin.

But other than that big surprise in the middle of his discussion with the Smith Brothers about the source of the salting of the grounds at the old Battery Works with toxic substances, the question was who had the most to gain from declaring it a toxic site and getting the government to pay for it. It was serious fraud and it likely required some collusion between interested parties, first dun the feds, and then sell it dirt cheap to developers and investors. It sounded like good business, and a lot of hands needing to be greased. He wondered how much old dad knew about that arrangement. Had he been killed for his opposition? Supposing he had opposed it.

Wayne had stepped on that idea with both feet. It was instinct. He wanted to preserve a memory of a beginning, the grounds for Wallace Bruce’s successful business empire, but also his early memories of it as a thriving community, a family of sorts when everybody knew his name or nicknamed him Triple A or Battery Boy. That’s what he was holding on to. And by converting the old battery factory site into a battery museum as well as a showcase for his antique car collection, converting the old office building to a satellite office for Bruce Advanced Technical Systems, he would begin the slow restitution of a neglected, bombed-out part of the city to the vibrant community it once was. That was the plan at least, the Bruce Give Back plan.

He had given the Smith Brothers, Rosy and Goldie, the information that Robin had learned about JKR Corp. That was a company owned or at least fronted by Joseph Kerr in partnership with Riddler Corp. There was a lot of background of Kerr and Rosy knew some of it. “A place to start,” Rosy had commented. “Riddler is a different proposition, a front company behind another front company, it’s an enigma. We don’t know who we are dealing with,” he’d cautioned. but the brothers, arrogant as ever, had laughed it off. “This is our meat!”

The wind whipped at him as he lifted himself onto the stone parapet that ringed the penthouse terrace. Harness cinched tight across his chest, he slipped his feet into the stirrups of the tail piece, the wing frame rattling at the frigid gusts. He did not look down, a rookie mistake, and let himself drop forward, angling into the thin freezing air. There was the drop as if the wind had been caught by surprise and the blur of lights and shadow until the wing snapped taut and lifted him above the roofs of the tall buildings below. The controlled flight pressed the arctic weather mask against his face, modified goggles keeping his vision clear as he maneuvered his descent toward the blinking rooftop beacon in the distance.

In the past week he had extended the distance of his night flights. This was the third and longest of his attempts, bringing him closer to the outer city district, less than a mile from his base at the Battery Works. Bion Ripley had installed the beacons at the different locations. Now that the work at renovation of the office building on the old factory grounds had progressed beyond the rebuilding phase, Wayne had employed him as a manager and neighborhood advisor. Bion was enthusiastic about Wayne’s plan to revitalizing the area. Otherwise, he knew that if something wasn’t done soon, and the neighborhood was further degraded due to drugs, delinquency, petty crime, and homelessness, then it was only a matter of time before the city razed the district and sold it off to out of state, or even foreign, investors. That, and an affection for old Rick, made them collaborators.

At the last minute, he caught hold of the brick ledge with one hand but not before he was vaulted over the side and slammed into the side of the building.

And Bion had learned something disturbing surrounding the shooting at the candy store. He was convinced that the murder of the old man was not the result of a robbery. There was still cash in the register drawer, not a lot, because it appeared that Rick had moved the midday take into the hidey-hole, and it was still there. It was the other thing that was disturbing.

“When they were done with the crime scene, I went in and took a look around. I found the stash in the hole, behind the candy counter, where he always dropped it, untouched. And I looked around for anything that was missing or out of place. At first I missed it because I didn’t pay a lot of attention to the display. But then it hit me, there was candy missing!”

It was difficult to believe that someone had killed the old man over a candy bar.

“It wasn’t a candy bar. It was the Wacky Wax. All of it!”

Even so, to shoot someone over an off brand wax candy seemed, at the very least, deranged.

“I know it sounds crazy, killing somebody over crappy candy. So I asked around, and someone offered to sell me some Wacky Wax. And the way they told me, I knew. They were selling drugs and using the same packaging as the wax candy.” Bion had shown him the package and it looked exactly like the original except that an extra X had been added to the name. Bion had explained, but Wayne quickly grasped the reasoning. Someone had access to the manufacturer of the ersatz candy, the packaging at least, and was using it to sell drugs.

“I copped some of the Wacky Wax with the extra X and here’s what I found. You snap open the wax candy and there inside is a little lozenge of the drug. And it’s cheap. People are getting strung out behind this junk, whatever it is, and it’s flooding the district.”

There was no question as to who was behind it. One of the many enterprises that could be laid at Joe Kerr’s doorstep. Wayne had sent a sample to his lab. The initial analysis had confirmed his suspicions. It had properties similar to morphine and heroin, but effective in miniscule amounts. He had said nothing when he read the report. He knew very well where he had encountered that substance before. Not that he’d had anything to do with it. It was Charlotte Taste’s party drug of choice. On the street, it was known as Wacky Waxx. In the elite circles that his ex-fiancé traveled, it was known as TDF, To Die For. But what did they care. If things got out of hand, they just checked in to a clinic, like the one Linus Paul operated, got themselves a full body blood transfusion, and they were as good as new. On the street, Wacky Waxx left you to die in the gutter like so much dust and debris.

Thinking about Charlotte always scattered his concentration. He was right on top of the beacon and he had to act right away. He yanked on the ripcord to release the rigid wing and felt himself drop toward the rooftop, but too quickly. He had misjudged. The heavy wingsuit now was just a liability. He landed on both feet and rolled. He was too close to the edge of the roof. The momentum was carrying him over. At the last minute, he caught hold of the brick ledge with one hand but not before he was vaulted over the side and slammed into the side of the building. It knocked the wind out of him although the wing suit had cushioned much of the blow. Still he was dangling five stories above the deserted street below. With a great effort he grabbed the ledge with his other hand and pulled himself back up onto the roof and lay there letting his racing heart calm down. A thought crossed his mind. Charlotte would be the death of him.

Next Time: A Dark Knight Disrupts The Wacky Waxx Factory

Act Two, Scene 2, pt.1

June 6, 2023Crime Fiction, Pulp Fiction, Steampunk FictionA Dark Knight, Crime Fiction, Just Coincidence, Pierre Anton Taylor, Pulp Fiction, Vigilante, Wayne BruceNuallain House, Publishers

by Pierre Anton Taylor

Harold had called an emergency board meeting, It almost turned into an intervention with Wayne as the focus. Present were his mother, Trish, and Dr. Linus Pall. Two other members of the board were out of reach and two others were connected via conference call. Harold had returned from DC and the news was not positive. The contract was officially under review. He assured them that it was just a technicality but Wallace Bruce’s sudden death had sent up flags and because the agency was itself under congressional review, they were going to proceed according to the letter of the law and order a full audit of Bruce Enterprise. An outside accounting firm would have to be engaged and it would be costly. “The PR office will be on the alert for any adverse publicity that could affect the company’s place in the standings and putting a positive spin on anything that might reflect badly on the brand.

“Wall had been pushing hard on expansion and acquisitions and took some risks. But he fought hard to be in the running with fierce competition from companies with offshore manufacturing in Indonesia. He was very proud that he could stamp American Made on our products.”

Harold went on to explain that negotiations were ongoing so no need to panic although Wallace’s death could not have come at a more critical time. And that, more than ever, the company’s future depended on research and development represented by the work being done at Bruce Advanced Technical Solutions.

Eyes rested briefly on Wayne. He set his jaw and met their gazes. He had been briefed on most of what Harold was saying when his uncle had returned from DC. The mention of BATS replayed a conversation he’d had with the lab supervisor regarding the sample taken from the carpeting in the penthouse where old dad had died. The high concentration of acetate was still unexplainable and inconclusive.

It had occurred to Wayne during the repeated viewings of the footage of the elevator to the penthouse and his father entering it alone the night of his death, that if there was any foul play it would have occurred in that box. But how? Unless the elevator was the killer.

He steeled a glare at Dr. Pall. He may have been the last one to see his father alive if what Charlotte had said was true. His attempts to meet with the good doctor face to face had been canceled or rescheduled as if he were being avoided. He was sure it had to do with his breaking off the engagement with Charlotte. Pall had been outraged by it.

“I’ve put on retainer a security consultant, Smith Brothers Security, to investigate the circumstances surrounding the designation of the old battery works as a toxic site and look for signs of impropriety. Any hint of culpability must be minimized to zero. If you understand what I mean. That we are taking the initiative on this matter will be further evidence that there was no attempt or intent to defraud the Toxic Cleanup Fund.” Harold paused to look at the notes in front of him.

“They were represented to me as an entirely reputable and reliable investment in the specialty toxic cleanup business.” Linus Pall adjusted the water glass in front of him to line up with the top right corner of the blank notepad in front of him at a forty-five degree angle. “I tendered my resignation as soon as I learned of the allegations. I’m on a number of boards, charitable organizations as well, and for the most part I’m just another hand at the table.” He smiled as if to himself secretly. “I’m in the business of business. That’s what I do. I’m a physician, and attorney, and I’m also the director of a world renowned rehabilitation clinic catering to an exclusive international clientele. Membership on various boards allows me access to potential clients that we can best serve.”

Pall lifted his gaze from his hands folded in front of him and addressed Wayne. “I was your father’s physician so you can imagine my shock at his heart attack. I knew him to be in good health for a man of his age although he did disregard my advice on his eating and drinking habits, not enough of the former and too much of the latter. And as his personal attorney I was his close confidant and advisor. I am positive that Wallace Bruce had no foreknowledge that there might be anything improper about the toxic site designation at the abandoned battery factory. He was in fact appalled by the report of toxic chemicals after all this time. He was diligent about ensuring a safe environment for his workers and abiding by the disposal regulations. He did admit that some contamination could have occurred and might have been missed when they closed the old plant down. ‘There’s no clean way to make a battery’ I’ve no doubt you’ve heard him say many times before. Yet he believed that the future was in portable energy, that it would power the technology of the future. He was nostalgic about the old battery factory even as it became a liability. Again, being an astute businessman, he resigned himself to having the cleanup done, razing the old brickworks, and selling the land to developers to recoup the cost.

“Walace is the reason Bruce Enterprise exists today. It is his legacy and that is what is at stake, as is the fate of the company. We must move on and not waste any more time or resources on the trivial matter of the Battery Works. It may have been his humble beginnings but it is dwarfed by the stellar accomplishments of his later years. He was a force of nature, but his wind has died down.” Pall wet his lips with the water in the glass and returned it to the exact same spot.

“Fortunately Harold is at the helm now. This has always been a family enterprise. Your mother understands the need for a united front if the BE brand is to have a future and continue as an innovator in portable energy devices. You have an opportunity to contribute by presenting yourself as a corporate leader, a responsible businessman following in your father’s footsteps, not a mountain climbing sky diving martial arts playboy with nothing better to do than dabble in philanthropy with a valuable piece of property in a misguided attempt to appease his guilt. Going through with the marriage to Charlotte Taste would have been more of a level headed decision for a captain of industry and an indication that you voted for the future of Bruce Enterprise. Yet you insist on wallowing in the past. Tell me what will this memorial do other than inflate your ego. What good will your defiance of common sense do? Forget this obsession and get your life back on track! Otherwise, it is madness!”

“And why does it have to be in the most crime infested part of the city?” Trish added. “Drive by shootings, muggings, drug dealing. I can’t imagine a more unsavory location. And the police still haven’t caught that vigilante terrorizing innocent people.”

Wayne had heard his mother’s complaint before. And his argument was that the kind of crime that was committed in East Central was due to poverty. And he’d wanted to add that it was the kind of crime that occurred in corporate boardrooms that was responsible for that poverty and was rarely if ever prosecuted.

Celia Grove, one of the longest serving board members and someone he had grown up knowing as Aunt Celia, chimed in. “You speak of legacy, Linus, and your focus is strictly business, but Wallace Bruce’s legacy also includes charitable work, philanthropy, the repaying the service and work of his employees. That legacy of giving back to the community makes him an honorable man. And what Wayne proposes honors his father and does it by bringing jobs back to the depressed area. And I might add that as his father’s heir he has the latitude to pursue that aspect of the corporation’s mission.”

Dr. Pall fidgeted, staring at the black box in the center of the table from which the voice emanated. “We already know that, Celia!” Linus and Celia were rivals, hardly friends, perhaps because it was believed that at one time Celia had been old dad’s paramour and that both she and Linus could claim exclusive rights to a certain intimacy with the deceased.

Trish spoke up. She disliked Celia for obvious reasons as well as what she deemed was the woman’s holier than thou attitude. “Celia has a point. Wallace particularly enjoyed that aspect of his wealth. He reveled in the ritual of giving his money away not so much for the good that it might do but because it made him feel god-like, that his generosity could affect so many people and that they would see him as a benefactor in their lives, name their children after him. It solidified his moral ground. He was on his way to being a bronze statue of himself, anyway. That said, I agree with Linus. The renovations at the old battery factory is a distraction. Wayne, dear, you must understand that our focus must be solely on weathering this awful audit.”

“That brings up another issue,” Celia interrupted from the box at the center of the conference table. “We just did a full audit not more than two years ago, I believe. Couldn’t we just amend that audit, bring it up to date?”

There was a pause as Harold took a deep breath and rolled his eyes.

“I mean, it would get it done quicker,” Celia added, “and it wouldn’t be as costly.”

Harold nodded his head impatiently as if she could see him. As he was about to answer, the low whistle of snoring was audible as the remaining board member indicated his presence.

“Celia, yes, we’ve already said that. I don’t know why you brought it up again when we had already discussed it earlier and I explained to you why what you suggested will not satisfy the review committee.” Harold signaled to his secretary who was hovering outside the glass door to the conference room. She opened the door partway to announce, “The Smith Brothers are here.”

Wayne had known the Smith Brothers, Trey and Mark, when they attended the same elite prep school. Back then they were known to everyone as “Rosy” and “Goldy.” Trey’s ruddy complexion resulted in that moniker. Mark’s almost platinum locks named him. Wayne had run into them socially a few times since their school days. Trey, William Smith III, was still ruddy complected but had lost the baby fat and had acquired the broad shoulders of an athlete. Mark sported a buzz cut, gone was the disco look of an earlier time. That they had matured might have been an overstatement. They had certainly settled into adulthood, hardened by a cynicism that comes from dealing with others they considered inferior to them. The schools they attended had made clear the dividing line between them and the others. And Smith Brothers had made it a business in keeping the others at a distance from those like them who could afford their security services.

Smith Brothers Security had been founded by their father, a former police detective with ambition, and his brother, a well-known defense attorney. In that way Wayne and the Smith Brothers were alike—they both toiled in their fathers’ figurative vineyard. Otherwise, he had nothing in common with them.

After they had been introduced to the board and pleasantries exchanged, Harold had adjourned the meeting. He was confident that Wayne would brief the brothers on the details of the matter. Trish and Linus left deep in conversation, with Linus offering a parting shot, “Keep in mind what I said, Wayne.”

There was an espresso bar in the anteroom of the executive office which the executive secretary had served them in the inner sanctum. The brothers and Wayne sipped from their demitasses, Wayne seated in the large leather armchair usually occupied by his father and opposite the glass topped low table where Trey sat in the adequate leather couch. Mark leaned against the edge of the large desk commanding easily a quarter of the space.

Trey set his demitasse on the table and made a show of taking in the grandeur of the large windowed office. “Nice digs, Way. Is this where you hang out?” “Way” was a nickname he had acquired in prep school where it was usually paired with “out” or “no.” And as a privileged class no one used the word “work.” In their world one created a presence, like the gods of myth, by hanging out and making things happen.

“No, this is the old man’s. I have an office at the BATS Lab. And I’m renovating the old office at the Battery Works so I can hang out there while I supervise the conversion of the property into a showplace for my antique car collection.”

Mark had wandered over to the wide windows overlooking the surrounding high-rises and rooftops of the downtown business district. “Nice view,” he remarked, mostly to himself. Then turning to them, “Hard to believe you’d trade this in for that rundown ghetto around the old factory.”

“Was that when you discovered the toxic waste problem? What led to your suspicion that the report was falsified?” Trey asked after glaring at his brother for being so undiplomatic.

Wayne considered his answer. He didn’t trust the Smith Brothers. He wondered how much Harold had told them. He understood that they were merely window dressing, a cover designed to give the impression that the company was being proactive. He was certain nothing would come of it.

“Two things. One was that I was surprised that there was any toxic material at the site. My father prided himself on a clean operation. One of the reasons he shut down manufacturing at the old plant was that he could no longer guarantee that the safety guidelines were met. The other reason is that the old battery works has an historical value in the growth of this city and the neighborhood it supported.”

“Ah, nostalgia,” Trey nodded, “Nice when you can afford it.”

Mark had wandered over to stand in front of the wide set of bookshelves and their leather bound volumes, nodding in appreciation. “Your old man had good taste in literature. This is quite an investment in intellectual capital. All the great minds gathered in one place. Right at your fingertips.” He turned and smiled at Wayne and his brother. “And it looks like he invested in a state of the art surveillance system as well.”

To Wayne’s surprise Mark ran a hand along one edge of the bookshelves until he found what he wanted. With a faint hum a panel of books slid forward and dropped down to reveal electronics, a flat narrow box with a tiny green light glimmering in one corner.

“There’s a camera there,” Mark said pointing to a spot in the ceiling overlooking the desk. “I’ll bet I can find a mic in the desk. And probably one in the light fixture where you’re sitting. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a camera too.” He laughed. “Your old man had this place bugged!”

Next Time: What The Discs Reveal

Act Two, Scene 1, Part 3

April 10, 2023Crime Fiction, Pulp Fiction, Steampunk FictionA Dark Knight, A Dark Prince, B.A.T.S., Battery Man, Bruce Advanced Technical Systems, Crime Fiction, Just Coincidence, Pierre Anton Taylor, Pulp Fiction, Revenge, The Battery Works, Wayne BruceNuallain House, Publishers

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

February 19, 2023Crime Fiction, Pulp Fiction, Steampunk FictionA Dark Knight, A Dark Prince, Battery Man, Crime Fiction, Just Coincidence, Pierre Anton Taylor, Pulp Fiction, Wayne BruceNuallain House, Publishers

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 Two, Scene I, Part 1

January 7, 2023Crime Fiction, Pulp Fiction, Steampunk FictionA Dark Prince, Crime Fiction, Just Coincidence, Pierre Anton Taylor, Pulp Fiction, The Dark Knight, Wayne BruceNuallain House, Publishers

by Pierre Anton Taylor

The tattered crime scene tape in front of the shuttered candy store fluttered in the brisk wind. Dirty snow piled up along the curb and in shallow drifts against the brick wall of the old Battery Works now scrubbed clean of graffiti and ivy creepers. Wayne Bruce steered his black 1960 Plymouth Fury out of the secure gate and turned onto Central driving the few blocks to Basin Avenue. The tall steeple of Second Emanuel Sanctified Church in the distance on the crosstown thoroughfare stood out like a stiletto against the expanse of a steel gray wintery sky. He turned into the chain link fence enclosed parking lot adjacent to the historic old church. A small group of people were gathered out front dressed in dark overcoats and hats, some held purses, dabbed their eyes, spoke somberly, and shook their heads in sorrow.

He recognized one of them as Bion and apparently, by the wave of his prosthesis, he had been recognized. He parked at the far end under the basketball hoop that served as a half court when the lot was empty. On the other side of the fence was the windowless brick expanse at the back of the St. George Gospel Mission. He locked and set the alarm to his classic car before heading to the front of the church and the awaiting mourners. It was his second funeral in a month, and for someone else he held a deep affection. It made him angry. It made him mad.

Bion Ripley, in a brown suit and sober red tie, acknowledged the troubled countenance with a nod and said, “Come on up, they’re just about to start.”

By the entrance to the old wooden church a tattered lightbox marquee proclaimed in bold black letters, Funeral, Mr. Richard Richards. Beneath the name of the church and affirmation of its history, Est. 1922, Reverend Warren Locke, Pastor was simply stated. The funeral goers were mostly elderly, some attended by younger relatives or caregivers. He and Bion appeared to be the youngest of the mourners in attendance, and Bion was easily a decade older. His presence was noticed and he was side eyed and blinked at curiously.

Despite the fact that he should have been honoring the memory of the avuncular Mr. Rick, he was puzzling over his meeting with Charlotte Taste and what she hadn’t told him of his father’s last hours.

After introducing himself from the pulpit to those gathered there who knew very well who he was yet the occasion called for formality, the Reverend talked about travelling through the valley of death before seeing the light of salvation.

Wayne let his gaze wander across the sparse yet tastefully appointed vestibule, the large gold cross set up against the back toward the peak of the roof where a set of amber windows let in a celestial light, the spare marble altar, nothing more than a marble slab crossed by a white linen runner.

The Reverend declaimed what a selfless decent man Richard Richards was, cantankerous at times, but someone you could count on to do the right thing, a man with a strong sense of justice. “Alas, poor old Rick, we knew him well!” he exclaimed

A loud noise sounded at the back of the church as if something heavy had fallen. Wayne craned a glance over his shoulder. An older woman in a shabby brown overcoat and round fur hat pushing a walker tried to maneuver into a pew at the back accompanied by a slender young woman in a short leather jacket, tight jeans, and dark knit cap pulled down even with her brow. She stared back glowering, insolent, at those turning at the commotion. The reverend had not missed a beat and cued the choir of five women and two men dressed in similar vestments to start in on their version of Amazing Grace.

Wayne knew he’s seen that angry glare before but events of the previous day intruded. Despite the fact that he should have been honoring the memory of the avuncular Mr. Rick, he was puzzling over his meeting with Charlotte Taste and what she hadn’t told him of his father’s last hours.

They had met at Ciro’s, the trendy upscale eatery in the Pavilion Arcade, the equally upscale shopping district a few block from his downtown penthouse at the Legacy. She had been sitting alone at a table for two overlooking the promenade behind the restaurant’s plate glass panorama. Blonde, strikingly beautiful in a dark linen pants suit, a puffy fox fur coat draped over the back of her chair, she looked serious, almost sad, and maybe a little tense, not the customary nonchalance of the wealthy she usually exhibited. She’d given him a wistful smile when she saw him approaching.

As he seated himself opposite her, she’d said. “Black suits you, but you’ve always worn black haven’t you?” with a crooked smile. “It’s like you’re in perpetual mourning.” She could be cruel. And she’d seemed refreshed, combative, as she always did when she just returned from cures and which indicated that she had been using again and felt the need for her periodical “oil change.” But then she had the money to accommodate her whims..

He’d answered with, “perhaps you’re right,” and then asked if she had met with his father the evening of his death. At the Joker’s Wild?

She’d denied it, tilting her head to the left to make the calculation, averting her eyes. That he knew about her encounter was clearly unexpected, and she sought to deflect when he told her he had a witness.

“You’re crazy,” she snapped. “You have no idea what you’re talking about! Whoever witnessed what they think they observed in the club parking lot saw me with an older man, not a usual club goer, and you automatically made the leap that it was your father. It wasn’t your sainted father, Wayne, it was my former guardian, Linus Pall.” Then she’d set her jaw as that was all she was going to say.

“It’s all your fault!” The voice, angry, a woman’s, came from behind him.

Linus Pall, lawyer and medical doctor, had leveraged himself onto various boards across the business and non-profit community, famously as a deal maker and fixer, although no one could ever accuse him of practicing either medicine or law. He was old Dad’s confidant and to keep it confidential, his lawyer. And he was always ready with the right medical advice or prescription. As he was also Lotte’s doctor, he had once been her and her brother’s guardian as executor of the Taste Estate before they’d reached their majority. She’d admitted that he had confronted her on her relapse into drug use that evening, and that she’d promised to reenter the clinic, of which he was the founder and director. And then the old man had died. She’d waited until after the funeral to go in for the cure. She’d been incognito and not answering calls over the last few weeks. And now after the necessary transfusions, she felt much better.

At the level unemotional gaze of one who understands they’re being lied to and the heavy silence of disbelief, she felt compelled to offer an explanation. It was just by chance that she was in the parking lot partying with a few friends when Pall’s limo had driven by and he’d recognized her—there had been a pile up on the Arnold Expressway and the driver had taken a short cut to their destination on the surface streets through the warehouse district where the club was located. They’d waved and giggled when the limo came around to stop in front of them thinking that a celebrity had arrived to go clubbing. She’d been startled almost sober when she’d faced an angry Linus Pall who proceed to berated her in front of her friends. He’d told her that if he hadn’t been in such a hurry for an urgent meeting he’d have shipped her off to the clinic immediately. And then he left. There were other men in the back of the limo, businessmen she thought, and one of them was old Dad.

After the choir’s soulful rendition of Mary Don’t You Weep, Reverend Locke extracted a final “Amen” from the gathering and the congregation stirred from their mourning pews and shook themselves to their feet, a few with audible moans and grunts, and straggled back down the aisle toward the exit. Wayne and Bion rising from their pew exchanged glances with the understanding that there was more to talk about outside.

The Reverend was already at the portal greeting several of the mourners that he knew, shaking hands, blessing them, shaking hands, thanking them. He smiled large when Wayne approached, extending both hands in fraternal greeting. “Mr. Bruce, so nice of you to come. Mr. Richards would certainly appreciate the honor of your presence at his memorial.”

The Reverend’s squeaky obsequiousness required a further appraisal. The man was not short on style although short in stature, well-coiffed, manicured nails, soft hands grasping his, in a stylishly expensive suit beneath the equally stylish robes of office, tasteful touches of gold and maybe make-up, and the smell of sandalwood, a scent Wayne found unpleasant. He nodded solemnly, “He was like a great uncle to me, family. I cherish his memory. He. . . .”

“It’s all your fault!”

The voice, angry, a woman’s, came from behind him. He turned and recognized the woman in the large brown coat and fur hat, a she-bear with her cub, steel gray hair down to her shoulders, and pushing her walker toward him.

“It’s all your fault!” she repeated, the young girl with her, smirking and mocking, as if his reaction to the woman’s accusation was hilarious. “You are the reason old Rick is dead!” She pointed an accusing finger at him.

Wayne took a breath, looking at both Bion and the Reverend to gauge if they were as surprised as he was at the outburst.

“Old Rick is the first domino to fall. I curse you, Wayne Bruce, old Rick’s ghost will be revenged!”

The Reverend stepped forward, “Now Laverne, you behave yourself and show a little respect. Mr. Bruce was Mr. Richards’ beloved friend. Why are you casting aspersions at a time like this?”

“Doesn’t matter!” the older woman retorted, “What he thought he was doing was good was actually bad. If he hadn’t started in on doing all that work, tearing down and building up, evicting all those poor critters off to the inhuman society where most likely they’ll be euthanized, and all of a sudden old Rick’s smelly old candy store which was ready to die all on its own gets brought back from the dead. . . .”

The young woman at her elbow sneered a chortle, “Zombie candy store next door to a bat factory. . .dark, ma.”

The older woman paid no noticed to the interjection. “Because he was getting new customers from the work going on at the factory and all of a sudden he’s doing business and business means money, something a lot of people around here don’t have, and money attracts the criminal element who think they can take what they want, and it’s not just the down on their luck, some who already have, they want it all.”

“I hardly see. . . .” Wayne started to say.

“You hardly see? Here’s what you need to see, Mr. High and Mighty Rich Man. You may think you’re doing the community a favor by coming in to revitalize! These dribs and drabs you are doling out are just tokens like some lord passing out his benevolence. But you see, there’s real people you’re dealing with, some living in shabby rundown apartments, some living in basements, coal bins, in their cars, or on the street under the Central Overpass, and there are consequences for meddling in our lives.

“All of a sudden you drop down from above in your antique toy car and think you’re going to make everything better. That candy store and that cranky old man could have struggled along until they just wasted away in the way of nature intended and then the city could come and tear it down, that and that pile of bricks next to it. He didn’t deserve to die the way he did. It’s all your fault! You provoked the change! Things will never be the same. Old Rick is the first domino to fall. I curse you, Wayne Bruce, old Rick’s ghost will be revenged!”

The Reverend leapt in, “Now, now, that’s enough, Laverne Early, I will not allow cursing in the House of the Lord! I demand that you leave immediately! You have committed a sacrilege! I will pray for you to find solace in your bitter feral soul, but you must go,” and pointing to the door with an outstretched vestment draped arm assumed the classic pose of expulsion, clearly distressed and embarrassed.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Ms. Early.” Wayne said, a little perplexed but still feeling the sting of her accusations. “Old Rick told me that you were once an employee at Bruce Enterprise, is that right?”

Laverne glared at him with smoldering hate. “Old Rick was a fool! Out of my way! Come on, Cat, we’re leaving!”

“The police say it was a robbery.”

Wayne watched the woman negotiate the steps with the help of her daughter, saddened by her anger. He wanted to acquit himself of the accusation that he was responsible for Rick’s death. The words had stung and his motives, seeking justice, had been challenged, put into question.

The Reverend assured him. “Pay her no mind. Laverne has seen some hard times. She is without a home, a roof over her head, much of the time, particularly at this time of year, and having a hellion for a daughter has only made the pain, the bitterness, the sense of futility and injustice, worse.”

They watched as Laverne Early pushed her walker across the cracked concrete of the sidewalk, never glancing back, although her daughter, Cat, managed a couple of surreptitious smirks in their direction.

“But while we are on the subject of youngsters and at risk youth,” the Reverend had laid a manicured hand on Wayne’s arm, “I would like to invite you to visit our Youth Guidance Resource Center and Recreation Hall. With your offices soon to be located in our area, your interest in the wellbeing and practical education of the next generation of our community would be a greatly appreciated. We offer counselling, job interview orientation, tutoring, home economics, household repair, and apprenticeship programs. All these activities require staff and that is an ongoing expense.”

“I understand, Reverend Locke. I would be happy to make a recommendation to my mother’s Be Well Fund.”

Locke grinned, pleased, and gave a nervous laugh. “Thank you so much, Mr. Bruce, can I call you Wayne? We have been blessed by a grant from the Be Well Foundation for which we are exceedingly grateful. It helps us keep a roof over our heads and our space, the recreation hall and offices, functioning. But as the saying goes, the devil is in the details, so it is in the incidentals of the center’s day to day operation. Your interest, perhaps as a member of the board, would be a valuable addition to our out-reach mission.”

There was no mistaking the drift of the preacher’s spiel, and Wayne smiled to himself. If you’re going to grift, do it for a good cause. “I’ll talk to my attorney and get back to you.” He shook the reverend’s hand and faced his eyes. “I would be glad to help when I have the time. I’m certain that we can come to an accommodation. Mr. Ripley,” he indicated Bion waiting at the bottom of the steps, “can reach me if necessary.”

Bion chuckled under his breath as they walked to the entrance to the parking lot. “You can always count on the Rev to pass the plate. Praise the Lord who help themselves help themselves.

Wayne grinned. “You have to be bold to save some souls.” They’d reached the curb by the chain-link gate. “So what’s the word on the robbery on the street? It hasn’t caught much coverage in the newspaper and almost nothing on TV. I talked to the Assistant DA, Ray Tso, an old school friend, but he can’t say anything. The detective I know at Robbery Homicide said he’d like to tell me but as it is still an ongoing investigation, and he can’t divulge any of the details. I can’t even get a copy of the initial police report. What I’ve pieced together so far is that someone heard the gunshot and called it in. I’m guessing it was someone in the apartment above Penn Quinn’s tavern. The report in the paper was that he thought it was a backfire at first, and then looked out the window to see a couple of kids tear out of the front door of the candy store. He thought it looked suspicious and called the cops. The cops found Rick shot in the throat bleeding out behind the counter. They checked the register and it was empty so concluded that it was a robbery. Does that sound like what you heard?”

“I don’t want to rule out the possibility of something malicious. Did someone have it in for him? His shooting was a grave injustice. Otherwise it might just be as Laverne Early said, my fault.”

Bio shook his head, remembering, “I was coming back from the hardware store with some door hinges and locks for the office remodel and drove up just as the cops were getting there, like I told you at the hospital. I went right in behind them. I knew it was bad when I seen him. See enough of them and you know which ones are going to survive. But there’s one thing that still bothers me. That it was kids. Now old Rick had a rep for being a hard ass old cuss, but he looked after them kids, and some of those kids had kids of their own that he looked after too and over the years he earned a kind of grudging respect from even some of the most stubborn of the bunch. I don’t think none of the kids around here would have done it. They needed the money, old Rick would have loaned it to them. No need to shoot him.”

“The police say it was a robbery.”

“Because they found the register empty.”

“That’s right.”

“But was the register opened or closed?”

“Good question.”

“If it was open there’s reason to believe robbery. Buit if it was closed? What robber would close it after grabbing the cash. It’s an extra step.”

“What are you saying?”

“Ol Rick had what he called ‘the hole.’ It was a hole in the floor behind the candy counter. He’d rigged that pipe railing along the wall so he could get around without his canes. One of the pipe footings was loose and he could swivel it to uncover the hole. When business was good, two or three time a day he would tally the register and roll up the bills and stick them in the hole. Saved him a trip of having to go to the safe in the back room. After closing, he’d take the money out of the hole and put it in the safe. And he slept with a shotgun in easy reach just around the corner.”

“So if the drawer was open, it was a robbery but they might not have got much, and it wasn’t likely to be local delinquents. If the register was closed, it was what, on purpose, an accident, revenge?” Wayne recalled I Van’s threat to kill Rick the night before the shooting. But as far as he knew, I Van had been in the hospital, and J Van was walking with crutches. It might have been others in the gang who had taken their revenge. But Ripley didn’t need to know that.

“What are you saying?”

“I don’t want to rule out the possibility of something malicious. Did someone have it in for him? His shooting was a grave injustice. Otherwise it might just be as Laverne Early said, my fault.”

“Naw, man, that’s crazy talk. I mean she said some things that you got to understand about how the underprivileged are kept down by the overprivileged and their so called humanitarianism. They only give because it makes them feel good, absolves them of the guilt of all that accumulation of exploited wealth. And sometime, as she said, it does more bad than good. You just have to get used to the fact that no good deed goes unpunished.”

Over Bion’s shoulder, Wayne watched a large black Town Car sidle up to the curb.

“You just have to accept, “Bion continued with a grin, “ that all the money you got is just going to make you suffer one way or the other,” and stopped to follow Wayne’s eyes to look behind.

A large man exited the front passenger side and adjusted his oversized overcoat around his wide shoulders before lumbering to the rear of the Town Car and opening the back door.

“Looks like we got company.”

“Well, you were going to have to meet up with him eventually.”

“Oh yeah, who’s that?”

“Joe Kerr.”

Next Time: Act Two, Scene I, part 2

Act One, Scene 1

June 5, 2022Crime Fiction, Pulp Fiction, Steampunk Fiction, Western FictionA Dark Knight, A Dark Prince, A Familiar Fiction, Antique Cars, Battery Man, Bruce Advanced Technical Systems, Candy Store, Crime Fiction, Just Coincidence, Masked Crusader, Pierre Anton Taylor, Pulp Fiction, Wayne BruceNuallain House, Publishers

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.

“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.”

“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.

Wayne 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.

Wet 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.

Dime Pulp

Serial Fiction Magazine

Tag Archives: Wayne Bruce

Act Three, Scene I, Part 1

Next Time: The Honey Of His Music

Act Two, Scene 2, Part 3

Next Time: Interlude

Act Two, Scene 2, pt.2

Next Time: A Dark Knight Disrupts The Wacky Waxx Factory

Act Two, Scene 2, pt.1

Next Time: What The Discs Reveal

Act Two, Scene 1, Part 3

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

Act Two, Scene I, Part 2

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

Act Two, Scene I, Part 1

Next Time: Act Two, Scene I, part 2

Act One, Scene 1

Next Time: Unfortunate Son