

### MADDOG

### By

### Tom Golabek

Copyright 2012 Tom Golabek with Inmrc. Inc.

Published on Smashwords

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All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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Acknowledgments

Special thanks to Mindy Sellers, Julia Burkiewicz, and my lovely wife Myrna Smith.

Also

Special thanks to Ron Mahon, my publisher. www.writerpublish.com.

Visit Toms Website at: <http://tomgolabek.com/>

Find out more about Maddog, and his sidekick. Read free chapters of each of his books, find all about Maddog 5. Toms Pictures for Nam, and sign up for his newsletter to keep informed about special pricing and deals. Visit Toms Website at: <http://tomgolabek.com/>

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Table of Contents

About MADDOG

CH 1 My Most Vicious and Cruelest Case. It All Started When...

CH 2 Mike's Nightlife of Blood and Gore

CH 3 Chaos at the Heavyweight Championship Fight.

CH 4 "Putting on the Squeeze" in the Locker Room.

CH 5 Getting Info at the Yonkers Police Department.

CH 6 Lola's in Trouble and "MADDOG" Arrives!

CH 7 WARNING! Don't Mess with Lola.

CH 8 Working the Case

CH 9 Finding Out the "Nuts and Bolts" of What Went Down.

CH 10 The "Beautiful Snake in the Grass."

CH 11 Broken Arms and Broken Heads.

CH 12 Working the Case, Part 2.

CH 13 Lookout Johnny Dragon..."I Wouldn't Want to Be You!"

Ch 14 Preparing for the "OK Corral."

CH 15 Death in 'Nam! Death at the Barn! Death for...?

CH 16 The Tables Are Turned. Who is "Mr. Big"?

CH 17 Revenge...Death in the Bronx.

CH 18 Epilogue

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Toms Other Books in this series

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About MADDOG

The novel details the latest case of Mike "MADDOG" Murdock, the borderline depraved crime-fighting private detective.

Follow the action as no-holds barred Maddog, fueled by a genuine rage against crime...busts his way through the mean streets of New York City.

The explosion of violence is more overt than the usual detective story, and leaves little to the imagination.

Written in the first person, Murdock describes his violent encounters with relish.

Action, Murder, Sex, interwoven with mystery and suspense will keep you reading.

Reminiscent of Mickey Spillane's adventures. A real page turner!

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CH 1 My Most Vicious and Cruelest Case. It All Started When...

Murdock is the name... Mike Murdock... six two, two hundred and twenty pounds. In my business, Private Detective, I rub elbows with some of the slimiest degenerates around. Those of you, who are familiar with the Bronx and Yonkers, know that to stay on top of the game you must be a tough S.O.B. I've become "hard-boiled" during my thirty-three years in the trenches, and readily admit that I'm not always on the "up and up." One rule I live by is that no one jerks me around, and walks away unhurt.

It's 1968 and the world is going nuts. Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy have just been assassinated. There are anti-Vietnam protests, and race riots throughout the nation. The price of gas has soared to thirty-four cents a gallon, and a new Chevy now costs almost three thousand dollars.

My last case was one of the cruelest, most vicious that I've been in, and I've lived through some very violent escapades. Let me give you a few of the facts about it, and you will see what it takes to stay alive the way I live... as a Private Detective in New York City.

It all started last March, when I walked into the pillbox that I used for my office, uptown in the Bronx on 238th Street. I eased up the steps to the first floor of the seven-story structure, opened the door reading "M.M. Murdock, Private Investigator," and strolled in to see what the agenda of the day was. There, sitting on a plump, tan leather chair behind her huge mahogany desk, with her feet propped on the edge, was my blond bomber of a secretary... SOUND ASLEEP!

I took off my coat, tiptoed to the desk, opened the bottom drawer, and pulled out my always-ready super squirt water pistol. The hem of her dress was halfway up her lovely thighs. Notwithstanding the temptation, I snuck up, stuck the water pistol between her shapely legs, and WHOOSH! I knew I shouldn't have done it, but just couldn't resist the urge. She came flying at me like a "bat out of hell," breathing flame and fire. There was nothing I could do but retreat to the rear like a faint-hearted coward. Before she cooled off I had managed to duck a bottle of ink, two pens, a paperweight, and the wastepaper basket, which were vehemently thrown across the room, aimed at my head.

"Lola baby" I said, "Can't you take a little joke? I love ya sugar. Make love not war."

Lola wasn't much of a secretary, but she was pretty good at my type of recreation. I noticed that her hard blue eyes once again regained their usual warm, tender look, as I held out my arms for her to enter.

She was a gorgeous, tempting, luscious, and loveable broad. You know, the kind you just want to "grab" on sight. As I gave her a peck on the cheek, I saw that all was forgiven, at least until the next time I pulled another "Murdock Special." She was getting used to my off-the-wall, carefree way of life. I've always felt you've got to roll with the punches, give a little, and take a little, unless of course it's me. I couldn't help but notice the flow of saliva in my mouth as I looked at her. She knew what I liked, and it didn't help matters any when she pulled up her dress to wipe off the beads of water that remained. However, this was neither the time nor the place. Business was to be had, money was to be made, and another new day was upon us.

The phone rang... Lola answered it. "It's for you Mike."

"This is Rico. Did you make those collections for me?"

That's right; I was employed at the moment by a bookie to collect a few debts for him. Don't knock me for that. Two hundred clams for collecting a few bills is alright. Every once in a while you gotta pay for the salami.

"Yeah," I shouted into the phone, "I had to break a Joey B's rib, and flatten Lenny's nose. They'll pay you from now on with no trouble. They learned their lesson the hard way."

After a few more words, I hung up, and looked at the sorted mail on my desk. The last envelope I opened contained two reserved tickets to Madison Square Garden for the heavyweight championship fight being held the following night. No letter, just two tickets. They were probably sent from Dennis Chiulli, the promoter of the fight. He owed me a couple of favors, and these sure did the trick. There was no doubt in my mind where I was gonna spend that night. I shoved them in my pocket and looked at Lola, who was bent over picking up a bottle of ink, two pens, a paperweight, and a wastepaper basket. Her rear view looked even better, especially with those clinging dresses she wore.

I yelled out, "Hey big busts, you feel like going to the movies tomorrow?"

She looked at me strangely, smiled, and squealed, "I'd love to."

"I don't. I'm going to the fights."

"Oh, you're terrible."

"OK! You can go with me."

Lola knew immediately she was going because I take her almost everywhere I go. She smiled, and ran to me squeezing her warm, firm body close to mine. So close that my mouth met hers. She was warm, enticing, and exciting, but as I said before, this was neither the time nor the place. I managed to force out, "Later baby."

She let go of me with a devilish smile on her face and said, "Any time is the right time with you Mike."

The weather outside was miserable due to the cold, rain, and fog. I pushed one of my Camels out of its pack, and flicked a light to it. Today was definitely not a working day so I decided to drop on down to Joe's Pool Hall, and shoot a game or two.

I told Lola where I would be if anything came up, and walked down the thirteen newly waxed stairs to the street. The wind bit through my sports coat as I dashed to my car, jumped in, turned the key in the ignition, and heard the 425 horses of my engine scream. I backed out my '65 Pontiac G.T.O., and sped toward Warburton Avenue in Yonkers. Reaching Warburton, I hooked a right into an open space with a fire hydrant in front of it. Before getting out and locking up, I took my little orange press card and placed it on the dashboard. That card had come in handy several times.

Joe's place wasn't exactly in the best part of town. It was a place where no sixteen-year old punks would rip up the tables, or distract the players. Joe also kept a tight rein on drunks as well.

I opened the door and heard the typical clatter of balls as I climbed the dusty stairs to the second floor parlor. There was Joe behind his brown wooden desk, with his hand out to greet me.

"Long time no see," he said.

"Yeah, I've been pretty busy Joe."

His hand was strong as I threw my paw into it. I jabbed at my pack of butts, shoved one in my mouth, lit up, and walked to table six where a big game was going on. Looking over everybody's heads, I eyed the two who were playing... Big Boo Boo Schaefer and Nick the Greek. They were two of the best, and the score was "nip and tuck" with Boo Boo on a thirty-six ball run as Nick stood in the corner nonchalantly watching the shots. One of the local punks tapped me on the shoulder and asked me if I wanted to shoot for a few bucks. I know my way around a pool table, and consider myself a semi-hustler at times. This looked like some easy money to line my pockets with. The kid must have come in from another billiard parlor looking for a hustle. If he had played here often, he wouldn't have asked me.

Joe grinned as he handed me my cue stick from behind the counter. I chalked up as the punk racket. As time went by, I had about a hundred and fifty clams of winnings in my pocket. That was about a week's pay and a lot of money for a working boy around here.

I could see that the kid was getting edgy, but I wasn't going to give him any slack. He called his ball, bent over, and positioned his cue. Only he positioned a little sloppy, and touched the cue ball with the tip of his stick. The punk must have thought I was a pigeon or something, and went on as if he didn't scratch. I don't like cheaters, especially the ones who think I'm a sucker.

I grabbed his cue before he followed through and spat out, "You touched the cue ball kid. You ain't playing with a blind man."

He pulled the cue out of my hand and said, "You're crazy turkey. You better see an eye doctor." I grabbed his thin frame by his shirt, picked him off the floor, and threw him against the wall. The punk was burnt up now. I saw his hand dig into his pocket and come out with something shiny. I didn't recognize what it was until the click sounded. A six-inch piece of cold, clean steel whipped out. The punk was cursing me up and down, and was threatening to cut me if I didn't give him his money back. What a sore loser!

Nobody gets tough with Mike Murdock, and walks away without bruises.

The runt with the knife looked like he was gonna take a fit when I spit on his puny, stupid face. He came at me with his blade, slashed, and looked pleased with what he did. The rat succeeded in slicing the sleeve of my blue blazer from the elbow to wrist' and managed to get a little of my hand.

I looked down at my paw... BLOOD. I get real mad when I see my own blood. It's times like these that earned me the nickname "MADDOG."

I edged around the table with the cue aimed like a spear in my hand. The young punk realized then that he shouldn't have pulled his knife on me, but it was too late to talk his way out of it now. I knew he could see the blood in my eyes, and sense the danger he had gotten himself into. Suddenly he tried another dash at me with his knife. I jabbed the cue at his head. The point of the stick met his face between the nose and left eye. As I pushed and twisted the stick, his eyeball popped out of its socket. It looked like a wet, slimy eel was trying to crawl into a hole in his face.

I don't think the runt realized yet that his eye was hanging down to his mouth. He tried another pass at me with the blade, but missed. This time I took the back of my hand, and backhanded the hanging eyeball. The blob of guts almost came loose from its stretched, torn muscles that had been holding it. The kid let out a scream now, but still tried another slash with his steel. This yo-yo had spunk, or else he was awfully dumb. His eye was no longer white. It was a dripping red mass of sewage.

This time, the punk ran the blade across my chest. Blood began to stain my shirt, and now I became the true "MADDOG" that I was noted for.

I rushed the early twenty-year-old son of a bitch. With my right hand going for the bloody clot that used to be his eye, I grabbed it, and gave it a yank. From twenty feet away you could hear the "PLOOP" as the eyeball came away from his body. About a quarter of a pound of gory, red strings of muscle and other indescribable garbage were attached to the eye. The kid went down to the floor with part of his face missing. I still had the slimy mess in my hand when the police walked in. I dropped it to the floor.

One of the cops was a plain-clothes man. As he came closer, I realized it was my buddy, Frank Komo, who fortunately for me was a Lieutenant in the Yonkers Police Department. During the questioning, the whine of an ambulance sounded in the street outside. Seconds later two men in white coats carried in a stretcher, fit the kid onto it, and wheeled him out. I called out to one of the attendants, "You forgot his eyeball," and flung it at him. He caught the pile of waste, and blood from the eye splattered his pretty white coat. What can I say... occupational hazard!

After the usual questioning of the witnesses and myself, I was told I could go. Five people had testified that the kid had pulled a knife on me, and that I was just protecting myself. I said sorry and so long to Joe, shook his hand and headed to my apartment to clean up.

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CH 2 Mike's Nightlife of Blood and Gore

My apartment is a comfortable place, complete with bar, pool table, and the largest bed in town. As you walk in, the first object the eye is drawn to is the large painting of a nude in the prone position, hanging on the wall. The furniture is not one particular style but assorted, with no fashion sense. I buy what I like. As one walks to the right and steps into the bedroom, he would be in awe of the ten by eight foot bed surrounded by a very expensive, a shocking pink rug made of llama hair.

To the left of the nude painting is the den, which is cluttered with a well-kept green felted pool table, a canary yellow couch and chair, and a fifteen-foot horseshoe bar which stands in front of a life size picture of Rocky Marciano. The rest of the joint is not too much to talk about, as the kitchen is small and the bathroom is just run of the mill.

Lola was home from the office, having completed a typical non productive day. Her most important duty of the day is to sort the mail. She also answers the phone, takes messages, and makes sure that there's beer in the refrigerator. The sound of her high heels clicking against the wooden floor as she crossed the room to open the door made their way to my ears. Her eyes went wide and her mouth dropped open when she saw what I looked like.

"Where the hell have you been?" she asked in her high pitched, squeaky voice.

Not in the best of moods, I brayed, "To the ballet toots. Quit asking questions. Make me up some chow."

She backed away slowly, and looked like she was about to cry from seeing my blood stained clothing. That was my Lola...the kind of broad that had a difficult time understanding the type of work I did.

I shuffled to the bedroom, shed my rags, and dove into the shower. The water hit my cuts sending a hell of a sting through my body. After ten minutes of fooling around in there, I dried off, and stepped into the bedroom to complete the rest of my normal clean up routine.

Lola had my pants and undershirt laid out on the bed by this time, and was watching my every move. She liked to see me dress and undress. What a dizzy dame.

She squealed, "The food is on the table." I gave her a slight smile, slapped her on the can, and followed her out to the kitchen where we gobbled down a couple of sandwiches within a few minutes. After the chow, I pawed another smoke into my mouth and lit up. Lola wanted to go out, and I could use the exercise, so we dressed up, and headed to our favorite bar. The Lotus Lounge, which is located a few blocks from my apartment, is a nightspot we frequented.

We hoofed it out of the apartment, and B-lined it to the car knowing the trip would only take a few minutes if the lights were all Irish. We plowed into the car and took off, this time the green being with us all the way. I pulled the machine over, rubbing the sides of my new tires too close to the curb. Damn!

When we walked in, "Dutch," the bartender, set up our regular drinks. Mine is a double of Four Roses, a smooth tasting American whiskey, with a short beer on the side. Lola's is a watered down sloe gin fizz which usually gets her watered down.

Dutch, a couple of the boys, and I were shooting the bull while Lola gabbed with one of the local gals. After a while, I asked Lola if she wanted to whiz up town to the Red Hat, another one of the bars on my route. The bartender there owed me some cabbage, and this would be a good time to collect my payment. Mix business with pleasure is my motto.

She nodded after making a sour face, telling me that she wanted to finish her conversation. I backed off, and told her to flag me when she was done. Ten minutes later, we slid off the stools, put on our coats, and muttered our "See ya arounds."

The cold night air felt good as we walked out the door to the street, hopped into the car, and roared up to Elm Street making a left onto Yonkers Avenue. I spotted an open space right outside the joint, and parked my G.T.O.

The Red Hat is what some people call a dive. It may have been small, and could have had a few negative aspects to it, but it was lively, and had an atmosphere, which caused a crowd to collect. I mean a "crowd." Not the stuck up noses or "Tuxedo Tom's." These were down to earth people, the heart of the city...the working masses, garbage men, brick layers, plumbers you know, the meat eaters.

I opened the chipped wooden door for Lola, and we made our grand entrance. There was a poker game going on at the table by the door, and a couple of "steadies" worked the shuffleboard. We eased into a couple of seats at the bar, and Roxy, the bartender, set up our drinks, which were the sloe gin fizz, beer, and a double of Four Roses. Roxy was a quiet guy in his late forties who was hooked on "the trots." He had a bad streak a couple of weeks ago and lost a bundle to the bookies, and since I'm a soft touch, I lent him some dough.

Without saying a word, he placed ten twenties beside my shot glass. The wink he gave with it told me that he made his "hit" at the track. After a couple more drinks, I felt it was time to travel, pulled out a ten, and slid it under my glass. Rox waved "so long" and we turned to leave.

Small drops of mist-like drizzle shrouded the city. From the side I saw something move. Then, that something muttered in a low deep voice, "Over here buddy." All I could see was a snub-nosed .38, which looked like a cannon. I cursed to myself, and shuffled to the shadows where Mister .38 was standing. Lola was shaking like a nude Hawaiian stranded in Iceland as she clung to my arm. That's what I like about these blonds... truly moral support.

A car pulled up in front of us with a shaky looking punk behind the wheel. This was when Mister .38 pushed his rod into my back, and shoved me toward the heap. Mike Murdock doesn't go any place he doesn't want to. It was apparent that these mugs weren't checked out on this fact. The jerk in the car opened the door for us from the inside by leaning over the front seat. Right there I could tell that these guys were amateurs.

Being the gentleman that I am, I allowed Lola to get into the car first. As she stuffed her ass in my face, I pushed it. She was savvy enough to grab onto the driver's neck as she went toward him, and caused him to be thrown against the other side of the car.

I drew back my elbow into Mister .38's body behind me, doubling him over. The trigger on his snub-nose was tripped, and I felt a sharp pain in my left arm. I was lucky that it was just a flesh wound, but it was the end of my brown blazer.

This guy got me mad now. I could feel the "MADDOG' sizzling inside me. My right hand went up for my .45 as I kicked the runt in the mouth. He was backed up against the wall of a building with my rod now aimed at his head. The mark of my toe was being washed from his jaw by his own blood. He got off another quick shot that hit the sidewalk beside me. I was so enraged I didn't ask any questions about who he was or where we were going. It was either him or me. This was the end for this guy. I squeezed the trigger of my gun, and it roared again and again. Six bullets left my rod.

The first three shells took the top of his head clean off. The next three splattered his face over the sidewalk. I could see what used to be his brain ooze down the side of the building. One less rat for the city to put up with. My face had a grin on it.

The squeal of tires sounded as the other punk pulled away. My blond bomber, having learned a variety of survival skills over the years by being with me, had pulled herself together and jumped free as the car pulled away.

However, when she saw the bloody pulp that was the mug's head a minute ago, she threw-up in the gutter. In fact, there were three or four spectators hurling at the curb as well.

I thought that I might as well show them their money's worth, so I let go with another slug into the mangled mass of lifeless flesh. A piece of his scalp went flying toward one of the bystanders, and she let out a horrified scream as the bloody piece of flesh fell on her arm. She waived her limb violently as if it was just burned, then knelt over and fainted.

The cops were on their way. They didn't have too far to go this time as the police station was just around the corner. The boys in blue broke through the crowd, and eyeballed the main attraction. Then they looked at me and recognized who I was so they didn't do any excessive pushing around. One of the veterans looked at the corpse as if he was saying to himself, "Now who the hell is going to clean up this mess?"

He turned to his men, told one to cover the mess up, and the others to take names and gather info from the crowd. Then he came over to me as I was putting my heater back into my quick action, leather holster. He grabbed my rod, and I was sternly told to follow him to the station house. Entering the police station, I saw Lt. Frank Komo. What a sight for sore eyes. He was behind his cluttered desk and said, "I should have known it was you Mike."

For the second time that day, I took the grounds of self-defense. Frank gave me the usual lecture about the pressure I was putting on him by getting myself into these scrapes. I said, "Stow it, the kid pulled a knife on me and I maimed the bastard. Any guy that pulls a rod on me had better kill me, or I'm gonna kill him. If you think I'm going to wait until a cop comes by...forget it. I'd be dead by then." He saw my point. I could see that he was trying to figure an argument against what I had just finished saying, however, he couldn't.

Komo led the way back to the scene, and went through his cop routine. After interviewing a couple of witnesses, who confirmed that it was self-defense, he cut me loose. Komo looked at me saying, "Here's your gun back. Beat it, next time you have to kill somebody, do it in the Bronx." He followed up with, "Don't leave town."

The meat-wagon, photographer, medical examiner, and other crime scene types started arriving.

I headed to Lola. She had just finished spilling her guts on the sidewalk for the second time. The blond ran up and wrapped her arms around my waist to greet me. It's an understatement to say she was glad that I was back. I kissed her, and helped her to the car. Lola never could stand violence, and usually became squeamish even if I swatted a fly.

We squirmed into the car, and headed home. The only words she spoke during the ride were, "give me a cigarette." I stuffed two into my mouth, lit them, and handed one to her. She awkwardly put it in her mouth, and dragged on it. I burst out laughing. Lola doesn't smoke. She realized what I was laughing about and threw the butt out the window.

I looked for a spot to park as we approached the apartment but there was none to be found. Finally, I came across a spot almost a block past my layout. I pulled in, got out, and locked up. It looked like we were going to have to hoof it back.

As we were passing one of the dark alleyways a few buildings from my shack, I heard a noise, and saw two figures looming in the shadows.

I yanked out my .45, pushed Lola out of the way, and hugged the wall. There was a streetlight behind me. I knew I was a perfect target so I had to act fast. The shadowy figures rustled in the darkness again. I pointed the barrel of my rod on them, and started to squeeze the trigger. Suddenly there was a shrill scream of a woman, and the two figures came forward from the dark with their hands in the air. I lowered the gun, and began to laugh so hard that my stomach started to hurt. Then Lola burst out laughing as well when she saw what was going on.

The shadowy twosome wound up to be a boy and a girl making out in the depths of the alley. Their eyes were scared and wide open. I don't doubt they crapped in their pants.

I holstered my rod, and walked off still laughing, leaving the couple with no understanding of what I was thinking. They didn't know how close they came to being splashed all over the cement. Looking back for a final glance, I noticed that they were shaking like leaves in a strong wind.

The doorman opened the large glass door for Lola and me. I flipped him a buck as we hustled up to the apartment. When we got into the pad, I hit the refrigerator and pulled out a couple of brews as Lola exited into the bedroom.

Some people say that a beer tastes at its best after a dinner...others say it's better after a hard day's work. I like mine the most after I kill some low-life creature.

Lola came out of the bedroom wearing the sheerest pink negligee on the East Coast. I guzzled on the beer to help me stop drooling; however, it didn't do any good. Those nylons clung to her body, and her hips swayed as she moved towards me. Her breasts were high, and stood out as if they were defying gravity. This was too much for one man to take. Now was the time and place. I picked her up in my arms, and carried her into the bedroom.

* * *

CH 3 Chaos at the Heavyweight Championship Fight.

I awoke with the sunlight from the window hitting me square in the kisser. Lola was still out like a log, sprawled across the bed with her cuddly, nude body on top of me. I squeezed my arm from under her breasts, lifted her leg, and pushed her shoulder off of mine. She rolled over still sleeping like a baby as I eyed her succulent body, savoring over the memories of last night. Ahhh yes, last night! Lola was pretty dizzy, but she knew how to treat a man. Needless to say, that's one of the reasons I loved her.

Knowing that there was plenty of choice grub in the kitchen, my stomach grumbled in want of some chow. Trying to diminish my hunger until I got to the refrigerator, I chewed on a smoke from the pack lying beside the bed, lit it, and shuffled to the kitchen.

Besides being a marginal secretary, a wonderful piece of recreation, and a good companion, she was an excellent food shopper...at least for me. I pulled out a couple of pans, and fired up the stove.

The smell of bacon, eggs, bologna, and home fried potatoes cooking, must have reached her, as she came staggering out with the look of hunger in her eyes. We dug in, and made with the usual small talk while slugging down the Java. I told Lola, I wasn't going to make it to the office, and for her to hang loose there in case anything came up.

After chow, we threw the dishes into the sink, walked to the bedroom, and got dressed. For the first time in two years, Lola finished dressing before I did. It was hard to call her dressed though, because her hem line was a good eight inches above her knees, nothing covered her back, and the "V" between her boobs drove half way to her belly button. I wondered what the hell held them up. The velvety smoothness of her dress left little to be imagined. We walked out of the apartment, hopped into the car, and headed uptown.

I dropped Lola at the office then headed for Luigi's Barber Shop on South Broadway by Getty Square. There weren't any other customers in the joint, so I picked up the newspaper, and piled into the chair. Luigi had his Italian music blasting out of a small radio in the corner. I showed him my teeth, and he shuffled to the squawk box to lower the volume. I leaned back in the chair, and looked at the headlines. The war in Viet-Nam covered most of the front page. Luigi began clipping my locks, as I flipped to the next page.

On page two, I saw the headline, Dennis Chiulli, fight promoter... MURDERED.

I had to re-read the headline four times to make sure that I had read it correctly. The column went on to state that he was shot twice in the heart with a .44 magnum in his own home. I looked at the date at the top of the page, which showed this was yesterday's paper. This meant that he was dead when I got the fight tickets in the mail. He must have sent them out just before he died. The article went on to mention that he was the promoter of the heavyweight championship fight being held tonight, and that the police were underway with a full-scale investigation.

Dennis was the kind of guy who would give his shirt away to anyone who needed it. I knew he had a wife and kid who loved him very much.

I heard a "Datsa finisho," peeked into the mirror, flipped Luigi a fiver, and walked out the door into the sunshine.

The story I read about Dennis was on my mind while I drove further uptown to the tailor shop.

When I reached Lockwood Avenue, I hooked a right, and pulled to the curb. Across the street, in a shabby run down building, was a tailor that fitted suits better than those thieves did on Fifth Avenue. You know what they say, "You can't judge a book by its cover."

I jumped out of my heap, and trudged to the shop. This tailor could rig a jacket so well that a couple of Feds couldn't tell if I was packing a rod. He sized me up, and said he'd have it ready in a couple of days, which was good, but I felt worse when he told me I had put another inch on my gut. It was time to cut down on the chow again, which was harder for me than knocking off a Mafia Don.

I walked out the door, piled into the car, and headed for home mulling over various diet plans.

The first thing I did when I got to the apartment was to phone Lola telling her to taxi her sweet ass home, and prepare for tonight. She was one of those dames who take half an hour to put on her earrings.

I took my clothes off, and hit the shower. I knew that if Lola got in it before me, I wouldn't have the time to take one. By the time I got out, my sweetie had just come in the door, gave me a big kiss, then headed to the bedroom to get undressed, and shower while I cooked up some chow.

Twenty minutes later supper was ready, and I yelled for her. The doll came out to the table with a bright pink towel wrapped around her. What a dame! She teased me every minute she could. I sat across from her munching on something, and not taking my eyes off the flesh that was squeezed out of that skimpy towel. She looked luscious and ripe, but if we were going to the fights, we had to get moving. After supper, she slipped back into the bedroom to dress. I pulled another Bud out of the refrigerator, lit up a smoke, and took it easy on the couch. When she came out an hour later, my eyes must have popped out about six inches because she started laughing at the way I looked at her. I stared at the short, tight baby blue suit she wore, licked my lips, and wished the fight was tomorrow night.

An hour after that, we finally walked out the door, hit the elevator, and made it across the lobby where I could see the "Wish I were you" on the doorman's face as he eyeballed Lola.

As we walked down the block to where I left the car yesterday, I chuckled to myself when we passed the alley where the lovers were.

We hopped into the heap, started up the powerhouse, and headed downtown through the thick traffic. It seemed like everybody and their brothers were going to Manhattan tonight. At least twenty two thousand of them were headed for "The Garden."

Driving toward the world-renowned arena, I saw seven or eight posters promoting the fight reading:

Rocky Ragino vs. "KO" Krasinski

Madison Square Garden 10 p.m.

Seats: $8, $15, $40, $100

Rocky was the champion, and an excellent boxer. However, the challenger Krasinski was my pick all the way. They didn't call him "KO" because he kissed his mother Goodnight. The big Pole won thirty-six out of thirty-seven pro bouts with thirty of them by knockouts. This guy had "cement block" fists with a brick jaw to boot. Krasinski stood six three, two hundred and thirty pounds, which was one inch and ten pounds over Ragino...and me!

I parked the car three blocks past "The Garden," and fought the crowd all the way back. Lola was pretty excited as I had only taken her to one fight before, and that one looked like a ballet. I showed the gatekeeper our tickets, and forged on into the huge arena with Lola's arm tight under mine. The crowd was packed like sardines waiting for the fight to start. We gulped down a couple of dogs, and headed for our seats.

The usher laid the seats down, dusted them with his rag mitten, and took off when I handed him a buck. We were sitting about fifteen rows back from the ring in the champion's corner.

I felt a streak of anger run through me as I thought of Dennis' murder. Here I was, about to watch the fight he had promoted, with the tickets he had sent me, and he was lying in a coffin with a couple of holes in him.

The lights over the ring brightened to an intense glow, and the announcer strutted to the middle of the ring as the pre-fight ceremonies began. Some of the greats walked up to the stage...Joe Diaz, Jay "The Singer" Dawson, "Big Fist" Goma, and many other greats of the boxing world. The crowd started to become restless, and so did I as the ex-champions exited the ring. There were cheers from far behind us, and everybody in the section stood to get a look at what the cheering was about. Coming down the aisle near us was the champ. His face looked like it had gone through a meat grinder, and put back together not too carefully. He was uglier than me and probably tougher as well. I don't say that lightly!

Cheers now came from the other side of the arena. A few seconds later, the crowd parted, and down the aisle came "KO." He jutted through the ropes, and faced the man he was going to fight.

The seats we had were good, but not the best. I took a pin from Lola, squeezed out my little orange press card, pinned it to my canary yellow blazer, and dragged her up to a couple of vacant ringside seats. I guess they were the seats reserved for Dennis and his wife. As soon as we moved out, a couple of kids moved into ours.

It was a lot better with the ring no more than ten feet away from us. The boxers looked in A-1 condition as they shook hands in the middle of the ring. Light reflected off of "KO's" glistening body. Ragino bounced in place. They listened to the ref as he gave the last minute instructions that they had heard so many times before.

The cigarette smoke was already filling the arena so that you couldn't even see the opposite wall. The fighters returned to their corners, and received their final orders from their trainers. The bell rang, and the fans jumped into the air. "KO" came out of his corner strong and fast, and landed a couple of quick beauties that momentarily staggered the champ. A few more blows were exchanged and "KO" had the first round chalked up for him when the bell finally rang.

In the second round, Ragino connected with several hard left jabs. Krasinski landed a hard left cross, and a blistering right uppercut to send Rocky onto his back for an eight count. It stunned the champ, and he spent a few seconds on "Weird Street." By the time round two ended, Ragino had a mouse over his right eye, and appeared slower.

As the bell rang to begin the third round, "KO" suddenly appeared weak, and staggered out of his corner. His face revealed he was experiencing some kind of torturous pain. He stood in the middle of the ring with his hands at his sides. "KO" stood there totally defenseless. Ragino threw a powerful left, and the challenger looked up to the ring lights, opening his mouth as if to scream, but no sound came out. The referee realized that something was seriously wrong, yelled a few words over to the ring doctor, but before the doc could respond "KO" keeled over, and hit the canvas like a rock. The sardines in the seats yelled and booed as they stood waiting and watching. "KO" was carried out of the ring on a stretcher. The crowd continued their mumbling and grumbling.

After a few minutes, the announcer pulled down the microphone from the ceiling, and darted some words into it. As if to hear God speak, the crowd suddenly dropped to their seats. Silence fell over the arena. The announcer repeated what he had said. It was hard to believe. KRASINSKI WAS DEAD! After that, I don't recall what else was said through the sound system. I looked around me at the women sobbing, the men with sorrowful faces, and the abundance of blank looks and stares. Next to me, Lola was crying, and trying to hide it. I found it difficult to understand what had just happened.

A couple of seconds later, a loud booming explosion erupted behind me. A bomb had detonated, and two rows of seats were spread over the section with at least six bloody bodies as well. Through the smoke and debris, I saw an arm without a body, blood spewing from the neck of a man standing motionless...a blank stare on his face, and the remains of a woman's head. Her blond hair was now a burnt crisp. People ran, crawled, and limped away from the scene. The smell of burning flesh, and ignited explosives filled the air. The concussion blast deafened my right ear. I could barely hear the screams of the crowd. Dust rained over the arena seats, spectators clothing, and the bodies of the unfortunate victims. Lola was knocked to the floor, a trickle of blood from her cheek caused by flying shrapnel. She was OK though. I picked her up, and helped her to a seat a section away.

The center of the blast came from approximately fifteen rows back on the champ's corner, which coincidentally was where Lola and I were supposed to be sitting.

People were scrambling around in a panic thinking that the "Mad Bomber" had returned to New York City. Moments later the police moved in, and were doing a poor job of doing whatever they were supposed to be doing.

Was somebody out to kill me here? I had too many enemies to pinpoint any one person or group. They numbered over a hundred. Why didn't they come out and fight me like men? No, they had to take out six or more innocent people who came here tonight to enjoy themselves. Only I, and whoever was trying to kill me, knew who that bomb was meant for, if that was the case.

First, the promoter of the fight was killed. Then the thug with the .38 tries to nail me. "KO" dies in the ring with barely getting hit. Then somebody blows up half a section where I was supposed to be sitting. It might have been a coincidence, but things smelled very fishy to me.

Medics, firemen, and the N.Y.P.D. Bomb Squad were filing in.

I dropped Lola a "ten spot," told her to beat it out of here, and take a cab home.

MIKE MURDOCK was going to look into this.

* * *

CH 4 "Putting on the Squeeze" in the Locker Room.

I knifed my way back to "KO's" dressing room. Outside it was a mob of news hungry reporters waiting to feed their typewriters with the trash they wrote. Krasinski had already been carried inside. I made my way through the vultures, and pushed the cop in the doorway of the dressing room out of my way. He grabbed my arm then let it go when I told him my name was Frank Krasinski, "KO's" brother. I opened the door, and raked in an eyeful of the action inside.

I've seen "KO's" trainer around. He's small, bald, and speaks with a lisp, which he had earned when he fought in the ring. A few years ago, he was accused of doing business with some shady characters, but nothing ever came of it. His name was Archie Bankoff, and right now, he was in the corner of the mildewed room getting the third degree from the N.Y.P.D. He appeared to be nervous, but I guess this was a good time to be nervous.

The damp room had a variety of smells in it...alcohol, sweat, leather, mold, jock straps, and oil. It was fairly hard to breathe. Krasinski's body was laid out on one of two wooden massage tables, his mother at his side, crying and praying. The white lead paint peeled off the walls of the dimly lit area. Banged up metal lockers ran across one wall, doors missing on some of them. A couple of four foot cracked mirrors adorned another wall. Water buckets, taped bottles used by the corner men, rubber gloves, and used towels littered the cement floor.

The door opened, and two medics entered with a stretcher. They moved "KO" onto it, and took off through the hounds at the door, with his mother, a doctor, and two cops in tow. The boxer's mother looked as if she was going to collapse. One of the policemen ran up, and took her arm.

The newspaper boys followed the small group, hitting them with questions, and taking pictures of the dead body. I felt like going out there, and tearing their lousy mouths and cameras apart. A cop at the outer door closed the dented, metal portal behind him as most everyone shuttled towards the ambulance. The only noise that could be heard now was the drilling of questions the plain-clothes cop was shooting at Archie. I grabbed a seat, and decided to wait until the detectives were through. A cop from the shadows appeared, and asked me who I was. I told him who I really was, and that I was employed by Mrs. Krasinski to investigate what had "gone down" here tonight. The jerk-off gave me a "fish face," nodded that it was alright for me to stay, and joined the other cops who were rifling questions at the trainer. Finally, they were through talking, and snaked out the door. Only Archie and I remained. I don't think he knew I was there because he jumped a couple of feet when the chair I was slouched in creaked as I stood up.

I eased over to him, grabbed the front of his shirt, and spat out, "I heard what you told the cops. I don't buy it. You had better talk the straight shit to me... now!"

He tried to wiggle out of my hand, but I tightened my grip and shook him hard.

"Now I'm going to ask you once, and only once, and you better give me the right answer. What's the real story on the episode that went down here tonight?"

The runt came back with an, "I don't know!" I drew back my right arm, and backhanded him across his ashen face, forcing blood to creep out of the corner of his mouth. I felt he was, in some way, behind Krasinski's death. Moreover, he knew that I knew. The slob was really sweating now. A nervous twitch in his mouth started.

I asked him again, and still got the same sorry reply. This guy looked like he'd talk if I got a little tougher, so I pulled out my rod, and shoved it deep into his mouth. He felt the cold steel barrel pressed into the back of his throat, and knew that if he didn't want to eat a bullet, he had better do some fast-talking. He was gagging, and I pushed the gun even further down his pipes. I let him up for air, and he blurted out, "He made me!"

"Who?"

In short choppy English he said, "Johnny Dragon... he made me. He said if I wanted to live I had better do what he said."

JOHNNY DRAGON! My mind sped back a few months. His brother was Steve Dragon, a kidnapper, pusher, thief, pimp, and everything else that spelled "scumbag." He'd rob his mother of a dime if she was on her way to the poorhouse, and probably slap her around for kicks.

Last winter I was hired by a wealthy client to get their kidnapped daughter back for them. I traced a lead on Dragon, and followed it up. I trailed the lunatic to a shack, and was just about to nab him when he pulled out his revolver, and put a bullet into the little girl's head. He had already received his ransom money. The lousy sadist did it for kicks.

I whipped out my rod, and shot him in the gut as I charged into the room. The bullet must have hit him in the spine because he laid on the floor appearing paralyzed. I picked him up, and tied him to a chair. Steve screamed out in pain, but I wasn't hearing him.

When I viewed the hole in the little girl's head, I turned into "MADDOG." I took the cigar that was on the table, and rammed the lighted end into Dragon's left eye. He pleaded for mercy but I didn't care. Smiling, I pushed the cigar into his other eye. A dark ring of burnt flesh circled his charcoaled eyeballs. The whites were now black, and ashes hid the once blue color. The mug was hurting now, but I wasn't through. I took my forefingers, and dug them inside his mouth, feeling the insides of his cheeks. Then I yanked outward, and his cheeks gave way under the strain. It sounded like the tearing of a rag. The blood poured out of the long gashes that extended from his lips to his ears. He'd be getting a new nickname now...Zipper Face! Bright red blood gushed from his cheeks, as his flesh hung, and his eyes were like hollow caves. Whatever he was screaming now was not understandable. Only then did I call the police.

Steve Dragon is still alive if you want to call it that. He's crippled, blind, and looks like he has four zippers running across his face. Plus, I'm the person responsible for him going to prison for the rest of his useless life.

Yeah, Johnny Dragon knew me. I'm surprised he hasn't shown up in front of me by now, or maybe he was smarter than his brother was. It was like taking Johnny's right arm away when I crippled and mangled Steve. They were two of a kind...two rats.

I said to Bankoff, "Johnny Dragon made you do what?"

The door opened behind me as I finished my last word. I swung around, gun in hand to face the person or persons who had opened the door. Two hoods walked in. Behind them was none other than Johnny Dragon.

The tall, blacked haired, mustached gangster spoke first, in a sarcastic manner.

"Well, well, well, if it ain't my good ol' buddy Maddog Murdock. What are you doing in this neck of the city?"

When his goons heard my name, a nervous twitch hit their faces. They knew who I was, and weren't eager to initiate any action. Every thug in New York knew the name "Maddog."

I said, "If you were behind the fiasco out there tonight, I'll make you look like your brother."

Dragon didn't like hearing that. His eyes widened to the size of half dollars. The hate he had for me was flowing over from inside him.

My gut told me that Dragon had been just the muscle of this operation. Somebody else was the brains. I was going to take Dragon apart, and find out the lowdown on this set up. With lightning speed, I pointed the barrel at the goons saying, "Slowly reach for your rods, place them on the floor, and kick them over here."

Realizing that I had the drop on them, Dragon reluctantly gave them the nod. Their .38's clanged as they hit the floor, and bounced to my feet.

I looked at Dragon and said, "You too fuzz lip."

Dragon slowly lifted his left hand, pulled out his rod using two fingers, and laid it on the rubdown table next to me. I've never seen a pistol like his before. The color was silvery platinum, engraved with swirls and curls, and sported a pearl handle.

I thought back to yesterday. Johnny Dragon's gun was a .44 Magnum, which happened to be the same caliber as the one that killed my good friend, Dennis Chiulli.

Rage filled my mind, and I found my hand in the thick of Dragon's hair, pulling him to the filthy floor. My rod was still trained on the goons. They were as still as statues. I raised my foot over my archenemy's tight face, and sent it crashing down with all my weight behind it. A "squish" sounded throughout the room, and I smiled. His face looked like somebody had done a tap dance on it. Yeah, I did a dance. They call it the "face stomp." Dragon's nose now tilted to the right, and blood freely flowed not only from his nose, but also from a gash of ripped skin on his cheek. His boys were going to get hell for letting this happen to him. I looked at my yellow jacket, and cursed after seeing blood splattered on it. Soon, I was going to run out of jackets. I was a little burned up about it.

Dragon looked helpless as I bent over, and reached into his pocket. Hate stretched across his face. I pulled out his wallet, latched onto a "C" note, folded it, and put it in my pocket. "You got blood on my jacket, and you're paying for it."

I was going to give him another hoof in the mouth to try to get him to talk, but the sounds of voices were getting nearer. I unloaded Dragon's gun, and dropped it on his bloodstained shirt.

"You better be using it the next time we meet Dragon." I regretted the move as soon as I did it. My "macho" ego was driving me, instead of my brain.

I put the muscle's guns into my pocket as reporters came scrambling in. They saw me standing over the thug with bloody torn skin on his face. I cut my way through the squawking reporters while one of them kept grabbing me, asking who I was, and what was going on. Every time I shoved him away, he came back for more. Finally, I wrapped my left hand around his pencil neck, took a step, and threw him down the hallway like a bowling ball. That made a strike with the rest of the reporters. After that, nobody asked me anything, or even followed me. Some guys just don't understand unless it's emphasized with some force.

I strolled down the street to the lot my car was in, handed the attendant my receipt, and waited for him to bring out the vehicle. A couple of mugs next to me, who were waiting for their car, were talking about the fight. One of them said that the champ hit "KO" with a blow that he couldn't shake off, and subsequently died from that punch. Too bad they didn't know what they were talking about. The best punch the champ got in was the left that put "KO" down. Moreover, that was when Krasinski was standing in the middle of the ring, with his arms hanging at his sides, defenseless!

My car came rolling out. The boy exited, smiled, and asked what I had under the hood. I flipped him a buck and told him, "More horses than you can handle."

Before I pulled out, I opened the trumped laker pipes installed on the GTO, by flicking the switch under the dashboard, and floored the gas pedal in neutral. The kid's face lit up like a Christmas tree when he heard the roar of the engine that spread throughout the block.

Down the street, a cop on the beat turned around to see what the racket was. I shut down the lakers, and puttered off.

On my way home, I was thinking of what had happened tonight. Dragon was sure to increase his efforts to come after me now. Thirty-three was still too young to die. I had to step up my vigilance on him. I cursed myself for not doing more damage to him.

I stopped the car by the river, jumped out, and threw the two .38's into the Hudson. Those two guns would never kill again. I got back into the car, and drove on.

The image of the .44 magnum kept shooting up in front of my face. I cursed myself for giving it back to him. Was it a strong coincidence that Dragon owned a .44 magnum? Was he the one who knocked off Dennis? In addition, why was he in "KO's" dressing room? Too bad the reporters came charging back so soon. He would have talked, or he would have been carried to the hospital. There'll be another time though.

I pulled the car into a space near my apartment, climbed out, locked it up, and strolled across the street to the twenty-story brick structure.

A car raced around the corner from the darkness. It was the same car that had tried to take me for a ride up by the Red Hat. A gun hung out the rear window, and started spitting its deadly lead my way. I hit the hard asphalt between a couple of parked cars, and rolled under them in one motion. My rod found its way into my hand as the phantom car sped away. It was gone before I could get off a clean shot.

I smelled something rank, looked down at my shoulder, and eyed a glob that was smattered there. Wouldn't you know that some sorry mutt had made a dump in the gutter, just where I had taken the dive? I brushed myself off as well as I could, passed through the lobby, and took the elevator up to my floor. Lola must have heard me coming because she was standing by the doorway. She ran up to me, pressed her body against mine, kissed my lips, and started to cry with happiness that I was home and safe.

Her nose crinkled and she blurted out, "Oh Mike, you stink." I said, "So do you baby," and pointed to the side of her face, which she had rubbed against my shoulder. She was so embarrassed that she ran back into the apartment slamming the door behind her. I turned the doorknob laughing my guts out. She was some dame.

* * *

CH 5 Getting Info at the Yonkers Police Department.

During the night, I had managed to fall into a stream of flesh eating piranhas. I didn't know how I got there, but I was too busy trying to escape to think about it. My rod was as useless as a fly swatter against these cannibals. Their razor sharp teeth tore into my skin as I tried to shake them off. Then the fish, the stream, and the jungle background began to fade. A voice came to my ears..."Wake up Mike." My eyes opened to find Lola shaking me, or rather wrestling with me.

I said, "Baby, the next time you wake me, please don't dig your nails into my skin."

She replied, "Mike, it's nearly noon already." I grabbed her, and said that she was the most beautiful piranha in captivity. She didn't know what I meant. In fact, she didn't know what a piranha was, but giggled and squeaked, "Mike, you're so romantic this morning."

I had to laugh out loud. How could such a beautiful girl be such a "ditz"? The bed moaned as I climbed out. I put on my knee length lavender silk robe that Lola bought me in Chinatown last Christmas. The smell of food rolled into the bedroom, and I jumped to the kitchen eyeing the meal Lola had prepared.

"Lola baby, who the hell cooked this?"

"I did. Who do you think...the milkman?"

"I thought he might have helped you."

She picked up the salt shaker from the table, and with the grace of a chicken, hurled it at me, hitting me square in the head. Immediately a lump appeared, and Lola began laughing. I thought it was pretty funny also. Here I am, the mug that doesn't take any guff from anybody, and I take a knock on the head with a salt shaker from a hundred and twenty pounds blond.

As I bit into the first piece of fried pepperoni, Lola snuck up behind me, wrapped her arms around me, and tenderly nibbled on my ear. I gave her a warm kiss. She sat down opposite me as I started telling her the things I wanted her to do today. It would take an average secretary less than an hour to do, but with Lola, I estimated four hours.

"Baby, take a cab to the office. I'll be there about two thirty. Before I get there, you get a hold of a few addresses. I want Dennis Chiulli's, Krasinski's mother, and Rocky Ragino's. I want their home and business addresses, and phone numbers. Got it?"

She said, "Will do," grabbed her white cotton coat, and purposely wiggled her sweet ass out the door.

I had some checking up to do as well. When my plate was empty, I stepped over to the bedroom closet, and perused the two jackets that remained. One was an eye shattering checkered tweed. The other was a maroon blazer that wasn't tailored for my rig. I chose the blazer anyway, slipped it on, and looked in the mirror. It appeared as if I was carrying a cannon under my arm from the bump in the jacket.

I gave the joint a quick check over, and walked out the door locking it behind me. Down the hall were two old ladies whispering. One of them looked my way as I was waiting for the elevator to come up. I heard her mutter, "That's Mr. Murdock from down the hall. He's a real vicious man, and has killed many people including women and children."

The other one came out with, "I have heard about him also. They say he killed people for laughs." The elevator hit my floor. As the doors opened, I turned to the two old bags, and made a mean face. I threw my hands up as if to grab them, and let out with a deafening roar. Both of them were immobilized. I noticed liquid rolling down the leg of the one on the right, and howled when a puddle formed at her feet.

I took the elevator to the lobby, and walked out of the building. My humor was sharp today, and now it was time to toy with the doorman standing under the canopy. I strutted up to him, and reached into my wallet, pulling out a fiver. He couldn't take his eyes off the bulge in my jacket.

I bellowed, "I am expecting a few mugs, probably five or six, to go up to my apartment. They will be carrying machine guns, probably in violin cases. If you see them, give me a ring at my office." There was a lump in his throat the size of a watermelon as he nodded. I shuffled past the short, plump fellow before I broke out laughing.

The avenue was packed with cars. I jockeyed my way past a couple, then skirted to the other side of the street where my car was parked.

My keys clinked together as I pulled them out of my pocket, and jammed one into the ignition slot. The engine turned over with a loud rumble. I cut the wheels toward the street, and headed out. The radio came blasting on with some wild music the kids went for today, and I turned the dial to another station.

I left a little rubber when I pulled out of the space, in fact, it was almost impossible not to, with the heap stacked like mine.

The Yonkers Police Department was my destination. I turned onto Yonkers Avenue, pulled into a spot, and headed for the station house.

I asked the Sergeant at the desk if Frank was on duty. He nodded, and pointed the direction to go, which I knew as well as he did. I opened the door to Frank's office, stepped in, and found Komo slaving over a pile of papers on his desk.

"Well, well, I could use another secretary," I remarked. "How about coming to work for me? I'll double your pay."

A frown grew over his face, and he spat out, "Who the hell did you kill now?"

"No one pal, not yet anyway."

"Half this lousy paperwork is over you, you son of a bitch. Why don't you stay in the Bronx, and bother those cops for a while!"

"I like Yonkers Frank. I like you too buddy."

"Well buddy, I don't like you."

"Alright, I don't like you either."

"Cut the bullshit. What did you come here for?"

"I'd like to see your files on a couple of guys...Archie Bankoff and Johnny Dragon."

He looked up from his papers, and eyed me as if I knew more about last night than him, or the P. D. downtown. I did.

"Why the info on Johnny Dragon?"

"Just a hunch, nothing solid to go on."

"I know your kind of hunches. They always turn out right, even when they smell wrong."

I wasn't going to tell him anything. Not yet anyway.

I grunted, "Can I see the files?"

Frank pointed for me to sit down, and pressed the button on his desk. A couple of seconds later a uniformed cop walked in, was told what to get, and closed the door on his way out. The cop reminded me of a humanoid.

I pulled a butt out of my pack, offered one to Frank, and lit up.

"Mike, who do you think is behind this?"

"I don't know!"

"What do you mean, "You don't know!". I know you better than that. If the Department had more men to spare I'd put a shadow on Dragon right now."

"You're crazy. I ain't got anything to go on. If I did I'd tell you."

The boy in blue came back in the office carrying two manila folders, dropped them on the cluttered desk, and scooted off.

I snuffed out my butt, stood up, and walked over to the Lieutenant's desk.

"Read all you want Mike, but I don't want any missing pages. Understand?"

I grumbled a, "Yeah," picked up the folders, and shuffled back to my seat.

Archie Bankoff was on top, so I looked at his first.

The first couple of pages listed his job history, family, and associates. The next one got a little more interesting. Back in '62 Archie was called before the Boxing Commission on suspicion of influencing one of his small time boxers to take a dive. The fighter had blabbed that Arch paid him three thousand clams to take the fall. He did take the fall, but was one of those guys who had a guilty conscience.

Not much else was in there. Then my investigation paid off. On the next page was a list of Bankoff's cohorts at the time of the hearing. They were Carmine Bonachi, Bobby Interdonato, and Salvatore Caro. These were the top three boys of the syndicate in Long Island. Down the list, I spotted another familiar name...Steve Dragon. Things began to add up. Steve supplied the muscle for the higher ups in the fight rackets. He got too thirsty for big money, and tried the kidnapping business for a quick buck. He found out it didn't pay enough after I got through with him. Steve couldn't do his muscle work anymore, so Johnny moved in to take over his brother's half. This had high-income potential. It had been going on for years. "Mr. Big" lays out some big bucks to several "books" on the underdog. He pays Dragon to put the squeeze on the favorite, and bingo...his money multiplies.

No evidence to nab anybody on anything though. These guys are smart, but they are not fooling around with the cops now. They are fooling around with Mike Murdock.

I closed the folder on Bankoff, and opened up the one on Dragon. His rap sheet was as long as the Declaration of Independence. The cops first nabbed the hood when he was seven years old for robbing and assaulting an old lady. You can say he started out young. The thug even spent a year in the Big House five years ago for manslaughter. He was in a fight with a guy, and killed him "accidentally." The report read that the victim fell, hit his head against the curb, and died from the wound thereof. The boy he killed happened to be "Kid" Ramos, a top flyweight contender a few years back. This seemed more than just a coincidence. I figure Ramos didn't want to play the game so he had to be made an example of, and eliminated. Manslaughter my ass! It sounded like premeditated murder to me.

This setup smelled worse the more I found out about it. There was no doubt in my mind now. The facts were right in front of my face. I wasn't only going after Dragon and his crew. Another gang would just take his place. I was going for "Mr. Big," the "Top Dog," and the brain behind the operations.

Too many questions surged into my head. How did Krasinski really die? Who killed him? Who set up the bombing? Who tried to take me for a ride? Who tried to gun me down in the street? Who was the brain behind this operation?

I closed the folder, walked over to the desk, and said to Frank, "It looks like I'm barking up the wrong tree."

He smiled contently and said, "I don't think Dragon had anything to do with it. One more stunt by him, and he'd have a semi-private room up the river for the rest of his life."

I nodded my head that he was probably right, lit up a butt and said, "Thanks for the peek at the files. Feel like sneaking out for a beer?"

He looked at his watch, eyed the work he had on his desk in disgust and said, "Yeah, but just a quick one."

We walked past the booking station, out the door, and stepped toward the Red Hat. There was dried blood on the sidewalk and the wall from the other night. I opened the door for Komo, and we took a couple of seats at the bar.

Roxy came over, poured us each a beer, and laid a double of Four Roses beside mine.

The bartender mumbled, "Mike, you're a money maker. People come in here just to see what you look like."

I looked around me, and noticed that the three guys at the end of the bar were whispering to each other while eyeballing me. A couple of women at the table looked at me as if I was a man-eating lion. I gave them all a sneer, and turned back to the barkeep.

"I ought to charge you for the drinks Rox."

He laughed and hoofed it to the other end of the bar. Rox joined the conversation with the three guys.

Frank finished his beer, slid off the seat, shook my hand, and walked out the door. A moment later, I realized that he hadn't paid for his drink. I always seem to get stuck with the tabs. I pawed out my wallet, shoved out a couple of bills onto the bar, waved, and walked out the door.

* * *

CH 6 Lola's in Trouble and "MADDOG" Arrives!

The sunlight hurt my eyes as I stepped from the dark recesses of the bar. I looked toward my car, and noticed some punk monkeying around with the rear tires. I wanted to see what he was going to do, so I leaned against a "No Parking" sign, and locked my vision on him. In broad daylight it appeared that the kid was stealing my mags and tires. He was unscrewing the lugs now, so I decided I had better put a stop to it.

The teenager didn't hear me come up behind him, but he knew it when I bent down, and put my hand around the back of his scrawny neck. I squeezed hard, and said, "What the hell are you doin' with my car, kid?"

The longhaired squirt jumped about three feet, and stuttered as he told me his story. I've heard some wild tales before, but this one took the prize.

"Some guy came by, gave me twenty bucks, and told me to take off the lug nuts on the rear wheels. Twenty bucks is twenty bucks. I didn't ask any questions."

I said, "Where's the twenty, kid?'

He pulled a crisp twenty out of his pocket and remained silent. His story now sounded more legit.

For some reason I liked the kid, and I think he saw it in my face that I wasn't going to hurt him. I reached into my pocket, pulled out a fin, and told him to tighten the nuts back up. While he was doing it, I leaned against the car, and lit up a smoke. The kid had enough balls to ask me for one. I not only gave him one... but also lit it!

I think I knew why I liked the boy. He reminded me of myself when I was his age. I was no angel as a teenager. In fact, I recall stealing a guy's tire when I was grabbed around my neck.

My memory reflected back about fifteen years. Yeah, the guy hoisted me up by the neck, and asked me what the hell I was doing with his car. The recollection came in clear. He was big, ugly, and you could tell he was nobody to fool with. The funny thing about it was, we became friends. No, it was more than that...he became my mentor. He was the meanest private investigator in the city. He taught me the ropes, the angles, and how to think. I might have been a bus driver if I had never met him. He's gone now, and I haven't thought of him in a while. We were two of a kind. Both private cops, both packed .45's, and both of us are and were known as the scourges of New York City. Only now, I was the only one alive.

A tug on my coat told me that the kid had finished tightening the lugs. I slapped him on the shoulder saying, "Kid, There is no way to make easy money, and not get hurt. Understand?"

The way I said it sounded more like a statement than advice. The kid gave me a look as if I was a prophet, and stretched out his hand. We shook, and he walked off. I hopped back into the heap cutting the wheels for the office.

The traffic was slacking off now. It was already four o'clock, and I was at least fifteen minutes away from the office. I hoped Lola would still be waiting for me. When I'm in a rush I seem to catch every red light, and I caught eighteen of the twenty I had to pass. The traffic going uptown was getting packed with suburbanites on their way home. I flipped a Camel out of my pack, punched the lighter on the dash, and lit up.

Reaching 238th Street, I hooked a right into the municipal parking lot, and locked up. I dug into my pockets for a nickel to feed the meter, but my hand came out with two quarters, a dime, half dollar, a Canadian penny, and a slug that some son of a bitch had slipped me. The slug was the size of a nickel though, so I pushed it into the slot of the meter. It worked! Now it was the city's problem.

I strolled across the street, and stepped towards the office. The hallway door didn't squeak for the first time in six months. The janitor must have finally gotten off his ass and oiled it.

I took the stairs two at a time as I usually do, and opened the door to the reception area. "Lola baby, the farmer is back from the fields."

At once, I felt something wasn't right. Lola was not at her desk, and the joint was clean. Usually she had coffee cups, lipstick, powders, and other junk lying around. I caught a movement to my side, but it was too late to grab my rod.

I heard a, "Up with your hands Murdock." There wasn't much I could do. I put up my hands, and turned slowly around to see where the voice came from. There were three of them, and they all had guns pointed at my gut. Two of them I had never seen before, but the third was the mug that was driving the car when I shot up his buddy in front of the Red Hat.

One said, "Over against the wall big shot." The smallest of the three came over and frisked me. He seemed a little nervous to come too close to me. As he reached for my rig, and pulled out my .45, I spit in his face. He jumped back, and wiped his puss off. "Short Stuff" wasn't about to make any move against me. The one in the middle appeared to be the leader of the three. He was big, and I could see that he was the only one who knew how to handle himself. The third goon was all smiles. He must have thought he was fooling with Tinker Bell. The big one said to me, "Let's go, somebody wants to see you."

"Who?"

"Never mind who. You'll find out soon enough." Smiley pointed his gun towards the door blurting out, "You first, Maddog. Take it easy, and you won't get hurt."

This guy was too much. He must have thought he was Humphrey Bogart. Some people watch too many movies.

I frowned, and walked to the door as the three goons followed. Humphrey Bogart was behind me shoving his rod hard into my back. Just as I was about to turn the doorknob, the door swung open, and in burst the janitor.

This was the time to make my move. What a break! I grabbed the poor guy's arm, and flung him into the muscles behind me. The goons were thrown off-kilter, and I knew just what to do. I grabbed the .38 from Humphrey, and ran out the door. I shrewdly made a sudden stop, and then a quick side step on the other side of the wall. Two of the goons jumped past the janitor, and charged out the door after me. They discovered too late that they had made a fatal mistake. The first one's cheekbone was smashed by a slug that came out the other side of his head carrying half his brain with it. The mess splattered against the wall like a splash of globby red paint.

The second thug was standing not more than six inches away from the barrel of my gun when I squeezed the trigger three times. The blast sent him flying into the air, and when he landed, his stomach was lying beside him on the floor. His guts looked like a pile of puke, mud, and wiggling reddish brown worms. I could see that the guy had eaten steak for lunch. One more was left, and he was still in the office. I stuck my head out from behind the door an inch to see where he was. A shot sounded sending a piece of lead whizzing past my ear. I fell to the floor. It was an academy award performance.

I laid there as stiff as a board, fighting to hold my breath. The jerk came out to see if he got me. What an amateur...and this is the one who I thought was experienced. He turned to see the severed bodies of his companions, and turned pale. That's when I made my move. His foot was near my hand, close enough to grab. I gave a firm yank, and he collapsed to the floor. His gun flew out of his hand, banged against the wall, and landed inches from my mitt. I scrambled to get my hands on it before the lone leader knew what was coming off. The gun was in my hand now, and I pointed the muzzle at him.

"Get up fat boy," I said. He grunted as he got up, and looked at me with eyes that begged for mercy. Sweat formed on his brow, and saliva flowed from the corners of his mouth. I pointed my gun towards the office door grunting, "Get in there."

I guess he was in a state of shock, for he was gazing at the spongy looking material oozing down the wall, and the bloody guts of his other buddy. The body parts smelled like a mixture of rotten eggs, and rancid garbage. It was getting to the guy, but I wanted it to be emphasized. I put my hand into his partner's stomach, and pulled his intestines out. The stench grew worse. With a smile on my face, I dropped the mass of bloody gunk onto the floor, and stepped on it. I could see in his face that he knew of my reputation. I wiped my hand on his shirt. If he had, a gun in his hand now he would have probably used it on himself. If he had hurt Lola, he would soon know what extreme pain was.

I pushed him inside the reception room, and shoved his body into a chair.

The janitor was still on the floor with his hands waving over his head, and a horrified look covering his face. I said, "It's OK pop, beat it."

The poor guy jumped up, and shot out of the office faster than lightning. I've never seen him move so fast. My door would probably never be oiled again after this.

The unarmed gunman was cooperating with me fully. I walked to my desk, opened the bottom drawer, and pulled out a bottle of Four Roses. The lip of the bottle entered my mouth, and I hauled back for a long one.

I looked at the slob and said, "Where's Lola?"

His lip started trembling. He couldn't push any words out of his mouth. Once more, I repeated myself. This guy was too afraid to tell me, and I was having a difficult time keeping control of my temper. I walked over to him, stood by his side, and screamed into his face, "What the hell have you done with Lola?"

With that, I lifted my hand, and the bottle of Four Roses went crashing into his face. It sounded like a rock hitting soft ground when the bottle met his nose. The bastard let out a howl, as his body slammed against the back of the chair, almost flipping it over. He pleaded with me not to hit him again. The goon's speech was barely intelligible. His nose looked like it was broken in at least three different places. I laughed, and this time when I asked him the question, he pointed to the inner office. Some guys you just have to handle rough. I walked to the door, opened it, and found Lola sprawled across the floor, blood flowing from her head.

I stepped to her still, lifeless body, brushed her bloody matted blond hair from her face, and called out her name. There was no response, no movement, not a twitch. I instinctively opened one of her eyes, by lifting a lid, and saw only emptiness. My hands gently lowered her head back to the floor.

She was dead.

I now became a "MADDOG." I slammed the door behind me, and returned to the front room. Never have I been so enraged. Flame flowed from my mouth, and hate beamed from my eyes. I was going to mutilate this guy so badly that it would make those hoods in the corridor look as if they were just suffering from a cold. What drove three armed men to kill a helpless woman? The goon was still in the chair. He would never walk out of this office. He knew that when he looked into my eyes. The slob made his last desperate move. He jumped out of the chair, and lunged towards the door.

I lifted the rod in my hand, and pulled the trigger... once...twice...three...four times. The roars sounded throughout the building. The pig fell to the floor moaning in pain, and he had a right to be moaning. Both his lower legs were hanging by hairs of sinew. I had shot the son of a bitch in the kneecaps.

I picked him up and dragged him back to the chair, listening to his cries of pain. The poor guy needed some comfort and attention. I don't know about comfort, but he was gonna get a lot of attention from me. The mug didn't know what pain was yet. He squirmed, and slid out of the chair onto the floor, gliding on his own blood. I reached down for his leg, or what was left, and twisted it. The strings of muscle and flesh snapped after several turns and yanks. It sounded like plucking a loose guitar string. The mug screamed, pleaded, and cried. The calf parted from the knee, and I threw it across the room. I tried doing the same to the other leg, but the ligaments held firm after two full revolutions. I dropped his limp foot to the floor, and smirked into the sorry bastard's face.

A pool of blood formed around the raw pieces of bubbling, fleshy stumps. The protruding artery hung out from the muck of glob squirming like a slimy worm ripped in half. The murdering bastard was wriggling in excruciating pain. The splintered bone protruding from his thigh looked like a giant maggot swimming in a pool of deep, dark blood.

I thought of poor Lola again, and I guess I went nuts. I pulled out my pocketknife, and jammed it into his eardrums. He shrieked the mother of all shrieks. Unfortunately, now he wouldn't be able to hear himself scream. This is as close to justice as I was gonna get. I needed to mutilate him... oh, how I reveled in it. Not for the sake of being violent, but for avenging the killing of my dear sweetheart. I grabbed his bottom lip, pulled it out, and sliced it off with a couple of sloppy strokes. My finger jabbed him in the eyes for good measure.

The sound of police sirens could now be heard. They were coming closer until they stopped outside the office. If I was going to finish this sucker, I had to do it now. He was on the floor, swimming in his puke, blood pouring out of his torn, shredded legs. His nose was grotesquely smashed. His lip was missing, and his ears oozed dark red fluid. My body towered over him. I visualized his head as a football. My legs stepped back five paces, and stopped. Through the window, I could hear the police getting out of their cars. I went rushing forward with every muscle in my body pitched to its peak, and brought my foot smashing into the cripple's head. SLOOP! Blood splattered everywhere. I looked at the remaining glob and muck. His mouth was open showing the ripped gums shedding their teeth, the tongue floating in a well of blood, and the cheeks completely ripped apart. My foot had connected at the cheekbone, and had sent parts of his head across the room. One of his swollen, blood-red eyes was in the flower pot on the windowsill. His mouth, or what was left of it, was gaping open as if it was a large mouth bass. I was glad I did it. It was a sickening sight to look at... that is, for anyone else but me. His head looked like a squashed, blood red cantaloupe... one that was over ripe.

Here I was, in the best of humor this morning, and not wanting to hurt a fly. I looked around me, and saw the brains, intestines, eyeball, and other parts of human anatomy flung around the office and corridor.

Then the police walked in.

* * *

CH 7 WARNING! Don't Mess with Lola.

There were four of them as a rookie led the way through the door. He had his pistol in his mitt, and it was pointed at me. I was tired of having guns pointed at my gut, but better sense told me to play along. I was pushed up against the wall, hands above my head, and frisked. The rookie reminded me of the Humphrey Bogart character lying in the hallway. He stood back a couple of feet from me, his gun aimed at my midsection. Damn, why did everybody want to point their guns at me? The rookie's face was full of power, lips tight, eyes slit, and a hint of a grin. The kid had the kind of face that I would like to smash just on general principles. He didn't seem to care too much for me either.

A couple of the veteran cops were checking out the remains of the bodies. One of them saw me standing against the wall with "itchy fingers" ready to shoot me if I breathed too hard. The cop hustled over with his hand outstretched, and I realized it was Bob Landry. He was a really honest cop who was in on a couple of deals that I had helped out on with the NYPD. I grabbed his hand, feeling his tight, warm grip.

The rookie was startled. He stammered out with a, "But this guy's a m-murderer," as he looked at the mangled corpses on the floor.

Bob holstered his gun, looked at the young apprentice and muttered, "You wouldn't know a murderer if you walked down death row. Go outside and keep everyone out of our hair." The rookie shuffled off muttering to himself.

I looked at my forty year old, muscular pal and wearily said, "Bob, is it OK if I wait till the Captain gets here? Then I'll do my explaining."

He nodded, turned around, and joined the other policemen checking out the carnage. I felt tired, and sat down in the huge leather chair at my side. Lola, poor Lola. She wouldn't hurt a fly, and now she was lying in a pool of her own blood. I should have treated her better. She was so fragile, soft, tender, and loving. People were going to die for this. At least one of those lifeless bodies on the floor used to belong to Dragon's crew.

I bent over, laid my cold face in my hands, and closed my eyes. Never would I feel her warm touch again. It was hard to believe that she was dead. With all the killings that I have done, and dead bodies I have seen, this was the first one that has affected me so heavily. I felt a strong sense of loneliness as I rubbed my fingers through my hair. The police didn't yet know that her cold, breathless body was lying on the floor in the other room.

I'd miss cuddling up with her at night. Who would I love and tease? I would sorely miss sharing the highs and lows of our business, and seeing the dancing in her eyes about the adventures we encountered. I stared at the door as if I could burn a hole through it. No sounds came to my ears; no movement came to my eyes. All I could do was to stare at the door, and think of Lola. I lost track of time. I just stared in sadness.

The doorknob turned. No, it couldn't have. Nobody was in there except Lola, and she was dead. My imagination was playing tricks on me. It turned again, and this time a click sounded with it. I jumped to my feet, wondering if I was in the Twilight Zone. The door swung to the side revealing who had opened it. There was Lola standing with her legs spread, and her hands on her bloodied head. My beautiful, ditzy, love kitten wasn't dead after all. She looked across the office at the mangled bodies, rubbed her eyes, and looked again. The first words out of her mouth were, "What the hell went on here?"

What a damn fool I was. I should have known that Lola could have been just knocked unconscious. A ten-year-old kid would have checked for a pulse, put a mirror under her nose, or at least put his ear to her chest.

She stumbled over to me, asked why I looked so astonished, and told me that her head was hurting. My mind was all mixed up. I told her, "I thought you were dead. When I opened the door, and saw you lying in a pool of your own blood, I knelt, and cradled you in my arms. I looked into your lifeless eyes, and my heart went heavy. Tenderly, I laid your head back down, and left the room in a blind rage for vengeance."

My arms closed around her, and my lips kissed her face. I felt new life in me, as I whispered words of love into her ear.

I yelled out, "Bob." Landry came from the hallway looking puzzled when he saw Lola. It doesn't happen often, but I was at a loss for words. I couldn't talk, so my finger pointed at her, and mumbled, "My sweetheart is alive! Ask her what happened."

He did, and Lola answered in her usual non-intellectual manner. She squealed out, "I was just watering the flowers, and those dead men on the floor were alive then. At least I think that's them. I can't really tell. Boy, they look awful."

Then she looked towards me and said, "Mike, my head still hurts."

I grabbed a towel from the bathroom, filled it with some ice from the fridge, and placed it on her head wound. Softly, I told her, "The ambulance will be here soon."

She began relating her full story to the cops. As long as she had somebody listening to her, she could talk for hours.

An ambulance whined to a stop outside the building. I walked to the window, looked out, and saw the janitor being interviewed. The Medical Examiner, photo boys, and other crime scene investigators filled the office.

The ambulance attendants came rushing up the stairs like they were going to a fire. Their eyes grew to the size of silver dollars when they saw the mangled body parts I had decorated my office with.

Lola spotted them, ran over, and asked in her high-pitched voice, "Hi, I'm Lola, and my head hurts because one of those dead men hit me in the head. That happened when they were alive. Can you mend me?" They looked at each other, then back at her like she was loony, but one of them attended to her, while the other sized up the situation on the others.

Reporters started to show up by the pairs bringing flashes and havoc with them. The police were trying to hold them back but were having a hard time. Finally, the cops gave up and let the news hawks in. They came charging in like a pack of wild elephants tramping over a tribe of helpless natives. Seeing that it was time to make my flight, I got up, grabbed Lola, the attendant, Bob Landry, and pulled them into the back office. Before I closed the door behind us, I glanced back. The reception area looked like Time Square on New Year's Eve. I cursed to myself, turned around, and shut the door, which cut off most of the racket and commotion going on.

I pulled out my pack of Camels, pushed one out, lit up, and sat back on the large soft sofa. Lola was sitting by the window getting her wound treated, as Bob sat down beside me.

The door opened letting in a cloud of smoke and noise that spread throughout the room. Through it charged Matt Zima, Captain of the Bronx Homicide Division. He was my age, and just as ugly and mean as me. Now came the storm. I've killed a lot of people in the Bronx, and that just meant more work for Matt. He was the toughest cop on the force, and he had the brains to go with his muscle. He also didn't like paperwork. If he wasn't working for the city, I would have taken him in as a partner.

Before I could blink, the tall, stocky dynamo was standing in front of me. He seemed too happy for a guy who had three bodies on his hands. His paws swung out towards me, and I shook it.

This wasn't kosher. He was usually screaming his mouth off after one of my killings.

The first words out of his mouth were, "Mike, now you have killed a total of sixteen people in the Bronx, and this is the first time I don't mind cleaning up your mess. You probably don't know who those boys out there were. One of them is a local, small time hood who has been getting in our hair. But he is not what I am happy about. The other two are wanted for murder in half the States in the Union. They were out of town boys from Miami. Those two worked as a pair, killing anyone for a price. They were contract killers Mike, and it looks like someone bought them for you. Somebody wants you dead."

I shot out, "Yeah, It looks that way."

"You got any ideas who it is?"

"Nope."

"Well, start from the beginning, and tell me what went down."

I told him everything except that one of the boys out there was part of Dragon's outfit. Nor did I tell him that Dragon must have been the one who put the contract out on me.

Matt pulled out his little notebook, and scribbled down a few facts as I lit up a smoke. I answered all his questions. His face tightened up at some of my answers, but after a half hour, he seemed satisfied. Matt closed his pad, and stuffed it in his jacket. You could tell this guy was a cop. His clothes were old, and out of style. Speaking of clothes, mine were full of blood. This time it wasn't so bad though. At least it wasn't one of my tailored blazers.

The guy who was working on Lola's noodle finished up, and we walked out the door. As the door opened, I could hear and see the animals trampling down my office.

Lola squeezed between Bob and me, and wrapped her arms around my neck. She nibbled on my ear and squeaked, "Gee Mike, I feel like I never even got hit."

I muttered, "Did it do any damage to your brain?"

"How am I supposed to know? You always say that I don't have a brain." She thought that was very clever. I smiled, and gave her a hug.

The third degree was over, and we all headed out of the room, Matt in the lead.

We were immediately attacked by reporters, but that didn't last long. I heard Zima roar, "Get these maniacs outta here." When Matt shouts, it sounds like a bellowing wild gorilla. The cops moved like lightning, for there wasn't a reporter in the office twenty seconds after he had yelled.

Matt saw the bottle of Four Roses lying invitingly on the floor, picked it up, and put it to his lips. A smack sounded from his mouth. I stepped over to him and whispered, "Matt, I could still use a partner like you. Why don't you come over to my side? There's a lot more money than you're making now."

I got the answer I expected, "No!"

Casually I said to him, "OK, I'm gonna keep killing in the Bronx."

The city had an efficient M.E. He had already taken the bodies away, eyeballs, and all. Too bad he couldn't take the blood and the stench that was left also. I could see that the joint was going to have to be painted again. Fumigation wouldn't do any harm either.

Matt gathered up his boys, told the reporters he would give them the story if they followed him to the station house, and left.

The newsboys followed him like a hound follows a rabbit, trampling down the stairs. I shut the door behind them. There was a sullen quietness now. My eyes looked around the room, and were tired of seeing guts and blood.

I walked over to the window, picked up my bottle of Four Roses, and poured a shot for each of us. It had been a frenzied and terrifying day, and I hoped the drink would help mellow us out.

The ambulance attendant had cleaned the blood from Lola's head, and had applied a number of butterfly stitches to her wound.

Before leaving, I called the janitorial service, to clean this place up ASAP. I'm sure that this would be a cleaning that the custodians would never forget.

Lola and I gathered up our things, shut off the lights, and locked the door behind us.

* * *

CH 8 Working the Case

I slept like Smokey the Bear during hibernation that night. The alarm was set for eight-thirty, but neither Lola nor I had heard it. When I finally opened an eye, it was ten-thirty. I jumped out of bed, hit Lola on the ass, and lit up a smoke I had shuffled out of the pack on the dresser. She opened her eyes, rolled over, and went back to sleep. Quietly I tip toed out to the kitchen, pulled out a glass from the cabinet, and filled it with cold water. And when I say cold, I mean cold. I snuck back into the bedroom, and whisked the covers off my nude sleeping companion. With a frown on her a face, her eyes opened to see me standing there with the glass of water, and a mischievous look on my face. She woke up alright. Her mouth was open, and with her high-pitched voice, she pleaded, "Don't you dare do it."

Standing over her, I held the glass, and tipped a few drops onto her breasts. She jumped up, hitting my arm, and caused me to spill the rest of the water on top of her. It was a pretty mean thing to do if I do say so myself. Who likes to have cold water poured on them, especially when they're in a nice warm bed?

She let out a bloodcurdling scream and grabbed for the blanket to wipe off her shivering body. Lola's teeth rattled and her flesh turned into goose bumps. She was mad now, and jumped out of bed to attack me as I fled into the living room. The blond bomber ran into the bathroom, and took out a can of shaving cream. The chase was on. If anybody ever saw this, I would never be able to live it down. Here was tough Mike Murdock, the most violent private detective in New York City, running around a couch holding a glass, being chased by a nude woman armed with a can of Gillett Foamy. This was something else. She could catch up with me eventually so I stopped, got on my knees, and pleaded, "Oh my dear Queen, I beg for mercy. Let forth thy just punishment."

She let it go alright. I expected some shaving cream on my head, but I guess that wasn't "just punishment." I saw stars. Lola smashed the can into my head, and then jumped me. This was not a good way to start the day, being clobbered with a can of Gillette Foamy, then getting mauled by a nude blonde. She had pinned me to the floor, her huge breast slapping me in the face. I had to laugh. Lola started giggling, and I grabbed and held her tight in my arms. She was a wonderful playmate. I kissed her, and caressed her soft white skin. We both became sexually aroused, and spent some quality time on the living room carpet.

After playtime I murmured, "OK baby, get dressed, How about cooking up some chow."

I showered while Lola slipped into a robe, and began cooking. As the chow was being dished out, I strolled over to the bedroom, and put on some clothes. My hand opened the closet door, and the tweed jacket stared me in the face.

I took it out, and laid it on the bed. The jacket hadn't been worn in about five years. It was tailored for my rig, but the dark brown color made me look like a common office worker. That was not the image I wanted to project.

I shuffled to the kitchen, sat down, and told Lola I would drive her to the office today.

After the bacon and eggs, I punched another smoke into my mouth, and lit up. Lola finished eating, walked out of the kitchen, and returned carrying my jacket from the bedroom. I put it on, and looked at myself in the mirror. "Damn, I look like John Jones, Accountant." I muttered.

Lola squeaked, "Gee, I think it looks nifty."

I spanked her can, and chased her out the apartment door. The hallway was empty, and I laughed to myself as I thought of those two old bags yesterday.

The elevator came up with the door opening like a giant mouth. We jumped in, pressed the "L" button, and listened to the whirl of the motors start as the elevator descended. The doors opened a few seconds later revealing the newly waxed floor of the spacious lobby.

Lola sounded like one of those Mexican dancers as her high heels tapped against the glistening floor. The doorman opened the portals for us then called out, "Mr. Murdock."

I stopped, turned, and then remembered the joke I played on him yesterday.

"What's up Bub?"

"Mr. Murdock, three shifty looking men came here yesterday. They got on the elevator, and I noticed they took it to your floor. A few minutes later, they came down, and I'll tell ya, they were acting suspicious. They wouldn't tell me who they were looking for, or what they wanted. I called your office several times, but all I got was a busy signal."

I slipped him another five, and told him to keep his eyes peeled.

Those mugs must have thought they would knock me off in my own apartment, but when they discovered I wasn't there, they went to my office. Why was there such a sudden increase of attention on me?

Lola was probably on the phone talking to one of her gabby girlfriends while he was trying to call.

My car was across the street sitting next to a new Corvette. Lola slipped her arm under mine as we crossed the avenue.

Piling into my heap, a tall skinny boy walked up to the 'Vette and hopped in. He lived in the same apartment building, and his old man had more money than he knew what to do with. The 'Vette blared out with a deafening noise as he stomped the gas to the floor in neutral, challenging me to drag. He looked at my car as if it were a Volkswagen. I pulled a fifty out of my wallet, crumpled it up, threw it through his opened window, and said, "You want to drag to the light for that?"

He was all smiles, and jumped at the chance to make an easy fifty. His head tilted a nod, and we pulled out into the almost deserted street. His new 'Vette was a powerful one, but my "Goat" was packed with muscle. The type of muscle it had included dual quad carbs, a three quarter race cam, and a bore and stroke job. The heap wasn't too good on gas, but its speed got me out of quite a few jams in the past.

The light turned green, and we wheeled out. The race was over in a few short seconds, and I beat him by a car length. I didn't even shift into fourth gear. I looked over at his surprised face, and laughed out loud. Two crumpled fifty-dollar bills flew through my opened window landing on my front seat. The 'Vette screamed off as the light turned green. I picked up the bills, and stuffed them in my pocket. That was just about enough cash for gas to run my car for a month.

I stepped on the pedal, and moved out, but at a slower pace. When we were a couple of buildings away from my office, I noticed the 'Vette pulled to the curb by a police cruiser. The 'Vette was a magnet for speeding tickets. There was an empty parking space in front of the cop car. As I pulled into it, a smile covered my face.

I wanted to make sure that Lola wasn't going to walk into a trap set for me, so I got out and led the way. We walked through the entrance, and brightly lit stairway. Everything looked normal. I picked up the paper the newsboy had left, flicked out the key, and opened the office door with gun in hand...expecting anything. I looked through the whole office. No traps. Lola ambled to her desk, and pulled out a sheet of paper. Much of the blood and guts remnants were cleaned up. However, some stains remained. The cleaning crew left a note that they would return with stronger agents and fluids.

"Here are the addresses and phone numbers you wanted Mike."

I took the paper and saw that I had some traveling to do. Ragino lived in the Bronx on the lower East Side. Dennis lived in the north part of Yonkers, and Mrs. Krasinski was staying at the Metropolis Hotel in Manhattan. It would probably take the rest of the day to check out one of them.

I picked up the phone, and dialed the Metropolis Hotel. The operator at the desk told me that Mrs. Krasinski was not in at the moment, but that her room was 440, and that she would leave a message that I had called. I said, "Thank-you," and hung up.

The next call was to Ragino, and I had better luck reaching him. A pleasant female voice swept out of the receiver, "Hello."

"This is Mike Murdock, private investigator. Is Mr. Ragino in?"

"Yes, just a moment."

I heard her call to him, and the sounds of footsteps were heard through the phone.

"This is Ragino. Can I help you Mr. Murdock?"

He had a surprisingly high-pitched voice.

"I was at the fight the other night. The sports writers have said some nasty things about you. I'm in the position where I can clear your name of any sort of foul play. Can I talk to you tomorrow about my services?"

"I don't need them."

"I'll be at your house tomorrow at four to discuss whether you do or not. You'll like what I have to say. See you then."

I hung up before he could reply.

Lola was behind her desk with the newspaper sprawled all over it, reading the funnies. Something in the paper caught my eye. The headline read:

K.O. KRASINSKI'S TRAINER DIES IN SUBWAY ACCIDENT

Yeah, Archie Bankoff was dead. I grabbed the newspaper, and read the article. The story went on to say that he fell in front of a subway express at 49th Street. Fell, hell. Dragon must have not liked the way he was handling the situation. Bankoff was either on the verge of breaking down, or maybe he tried to play it slick, and demanded more money.

This is what made New York stink. People are bumped off by racketeers. Guilty people...innocent people...the syndicates didn't care. Money came first. Maybe someday people will be able to walk the streets of this town without being afraid of walking into a bullet. That someday was a long time away though.

I decided to drive uptown to Dennis Chiulli's house, instead of calling. Even if I didn't get anything done I could still pay my respects to his wife and family. I folded the paper with the addresses, shoved it in my pocket, and blurted, "Lola, I'm going over to Chiulli's house. If anything important arises, call me there."

She looked up briefly from the comics and nodded her head. What a secretary! She'd forget what I said in less than an hour.

I opened the door, and walked out. The brightness of the sun blinded my eyes as my feet met the sidewalk.

I hopped into my gondola, cut the wheels, and headed out. A butt found its way into my mouth, and I lit up.

The noise of the city beat at my ears. Hundreds of men and women surrounded me. How many had a gun pointed at my head? Dragon was sure to send more men. I wasn't too worried about them though. There wasn't a thug in this city that was man enough to knock me off.

The Lotus Lounge was on the way to Dennis', so I pulled into a parking space, and hopped out. I walked through the huge glass doors, and was gobbled up by the darkness inside. The joint was empty except for a bum at the far end of the bar. I flung my coat onto a hook, and strolled up to the barfly.

"Where's Dutch?"

"He's in the back room with a couple of guys."

I wasn't going to wait for Dutch to serve me, so I walked behind the bar, and served myself. As I grabbed for the whiskey I noticed a strange looking bottle with an odd name on it. I took the cap off, and sniffed. It had a smell similar to mineral oil. Even I didn't have the stomach to drink this crap. I put the cap back on, replaced it, and reached for the Four Roses.

Dutch came out as I was setting up my drink. A shadow revealed that there was somebody following him, and Dutch pushed him back into the room when he saw me. I heard him say, "Go out the back way." I didn't think anything of it. Maybe it was a bookie or someone he didn't want to be seen with. Dutch walked toward me, said hello, and got behind the bar. We talked about the weather, and shot down a couple more drinks. I glanced at my watch, and noticed it was noon. I said "so long" to Dutch, picked up my coat, and strolled out.

I stepped to my hot rod, jumped in, and turned the steering wheel. Dennis' house was about fifteen minutes away. I slowed for a red light, and noticed a car shooting around from behind me. Something in my head told me to hug the floorboards. Just as the dark coupe raced up, I dove. Two shots rang out into the air. A splintering noise sounded above me. One of the bullets missed the car completely; the other split the top part of my steering wheel.

A squeal of tires sounded as the death-dealing machine rounded the corner.

I eased off the floor, brushed myself off, and looked at the damage. People who didn't know what had happened were lined up behind me in their cars honking for me to move. I put my foot on the accelerator, and rolled out. They must have thought a couple of firecrackers had gone off.

Dragon was desperate to send his boys out to shoot me in broad daylight...especially on Broadway in front of scores of witnesses. But then, he had a right to be desperate. He knew he had better kill me before I got a hold of him. One thing bothered me though. How did he know where to find me? I knew I wasn't tailed from the office. I drove on not thinking about the incident. K.O. Krasinski popped into my mind. How did he die? Were the police holding back information?

* * *

CH 9 Finding Out the "Nuts and Bolts" of What Went Down.

I could see Dennis' house as I turned the corner to his street. It was an upper middle class section, which was out of reach of the rotten smell of the city. Huge elm trees overlapped the grass-lined sidewalks. I pulled the car to the side of the road, shut it off, and climbed out.

The house was a modest bricked split-level structure with a manicured lawn surrounding it. I had known Dennis a number of years, but had never managed to meet his family, or visit his home. Three small slate steps led to the front door. A "bing-bong" sounded as I pressed the button. The door opened slowly showing a middle aged, long dark haired, pleasantly plump woman. I could tell that she had been a beauty in her younger years.

Her eyes were encircled with brown rings that revealed little sleep. The eyes themselves were red and swollen from shedding many tears.

My voice sounded funny as I stammered, "Mrs. Chiulli?"

She looked at me quizzically and said, "Yes?"

"I'm Mike Murdock, a friend of your late husband. May I come in and talk with you?"

Her eyes opened wide, and she appeared pleased when she heard my name.

"Come right in Mr. Murdock."

I walked into the large living room, shutting the door behind me. The interior took me by surprise. It was by no means modest. A grand piano and a twelve-foot mahogany stereo console gave class to the huge room. The plush carpet felt like walking on a mattress, and the portrait painting of Mrs. Chiulli on the wall was stunning in its gold frame.

"Have a seat. Would you like a drink, Mr. Murdock?"

"Yeah, a whiskey." then plopped myself on the long comfortable sofa. She puttered to the liquor cabinet in the kitchen, clunked a few ice cubes around, and returned.

I took the drink, and sat back. It looked like she was drinking the same, except that hers was on the rocks. She sat down opposite me in one of those oversized vibrating recliners. I was just about to speak but she beat me to it.

"It's rather amazing that you showed up just now. I've heard a lot about you Mr. Murdock. My husband had mentioned your name many a time, and besides that, your name is in the newspapers quite often. I was going to call, and ask if you would look into my husband's murder. It's questionable whether the police are getting, or will get anywhere, and you have made a name for yourself that you find out things the police don't. Dennis has left me well off. He would have wanted me to hire you. Will you find out who murdered him?"

"That's the reason I came here Mrs. Chiulli."

The business was settled a half hour, and another drink later. Since it was Dennis' murder, I made it cheap. The fee was eighty dollars a day, plus expenses. That wasn't even half the fee I would charge others.

I put down my glass, buttoned my jacket, and stood up. Mrs. Chiulli led the way to the door. As she was reaching for the knob, the door opened and in walked a girl about nineteen years of age, with a face like an angel framed by long, flowing, raven black hair. She was introduced to me as Linda, their only daughter. She struck up a conversation with me as Mrs. Chiulli walked to the other room. Linda had the body of a full-grown woman, and I could tell she knew it by the way she moved it around. I didn't know her except for her name, but she knew me. She even knew that I packed a .45. Most of it she read from the papers. It appeared that I was her idol. We finally got around to saying goodbye, and shook hands. Her mother was in the kitchen now. Linda's hand squeezed mine, or rather caressed it, as she pulled herself against me. Her eyes looked into mine seductively, and she half whispered, "Please stop by again Mr. Murdock, or shall I call you Mike?"

I really didn't know how to answer her. She was certainly appealing, and had "SEX" written all over her face. I couldn't believe her behavior though. Her father was just murdered, and she's acting oblivious to it. If Dennis could see this, he would roll over in his grave.

"Call me Mr. Murdock, sweetie."

Her face and eyes went cold. She snapped her hand away from mine, turned her back to me, and left in a huff. It looked like I lost one of my fans.

I finally left the Chiulli house, my watch reading two fifteen.

The next stop was the Bronx Police Department. I hopped into the car, turned the ignition, and pulled out. The sun seemed to wink at me through the rustling leaves of the towering elms that lined the street. Someday I will probably move to a section like this. It wasn't far from the city, but it was far enough to enable one to breath fresh air. Kids were playing catch in the street, women pushed baby carriages, and young lovers strolled up and down the sidewalks.

It was a big change from where I used to live. I was raised in the Getty Square area of Yonkers. Instead of kids playing catch, they were stealing cars. Instead of women pushing baby carriages, they were pushing heroin. And whores took the places of young lovers. A kid learns fast about life living in a dump like that. If I was raised in a section like this, I might have turned out to be a brain surgeon. I could be one now if I wanted to. I qualify! I've seen more brains than some of those skull doctors. There are only two ways that we are different. One is that he uses a scalpel while I use a heavy .45 automatic. The other is that I splatter them; he mends 'em.

I found myself on Main Street turning onto Broadway. The station was still a good ten minutes away.

I pulled a pack of Camels out of my pocket, and searched for a smoke with my fingers. Empty! The pack crumbled under my palm, and flew to the floor. I reached to the glove compartment, pushed the button, and pulled out a fresh pack. I tore at the butts, and punched out a smoke as I stopped for a red light.

I thought of Dennis' daughter again. How could he have raised such a sexpot like that? She didn't seem to care about her father's death. The world is full of all kinds of people.

The police station was right up the street now. Of all the money the Bronx has in its treasury, it seems odd that they never built a parking lot in the vicinity of the station house for the public. I had to park another block down on a side street.

The delicious smell of Italian food from a spaghetti house on the corner swept through the whole area. I swiveled out of the car, and got a hunger pang before making it to the police station.

Dozens of men in blue uniforms were bustling in and out of the station as I walked in. These cops looked busier than bees in a hive. I climbed the stairs to the large open lobby doors, and entered.

About eight kids were lined up against a pea green colored wall ignoring a cop who was lecturing them. Five or six men and women, probably the kid's mothers and fathers were yelling at my buddy, Jim Falotico, who happened to be the police sergeant behind the desk. I caught the drift of the screaming. The kids stated they were playing basketball on a vacant lot when a scuffle broke out. Scuffle my ass! That was a polite way to put it. They were in a gang fight. The punks had no ball, and there was no backboard on the lot. They would say anything just to irritate the cops. Whatever they were doing, one of them got stabbed in the chest, and another received a memento slashed across his face.

I pushed a couple of parents out of the way, and made it to the front desk. The sergeant was glad when he saw me, for I was his excuse to get away from the melee. He pulled me to the side and groaned, "Mike, glad to see ya. You practically saved my skin."

"What's the matter Jim? Can't you handle the heat of the kitchen?"

"You try to sit up there for a day." Everybody and their brothers bring their beefs to me. By the way, why are you here? You kill somebody else?"

"No, I just came to see Matt. Is he here?"

"Yeah, go right in."

I walked down a narrow corridor, and opened the door reading "Homicide." Matt had an office to the right, with his door ajar.

Hot Shot was behind his desk reading this month's issue of True Detective. Yep, he was a real cop. He looked up from his magazine with a smile on his mug, but when he saw me his smile disappeared, and his usual stone face took its place.

He screamed out, "Who did you kill now Murdock?"

Why does everybody ask me the same question? I spat out, "Nobody, but the next one could be you, big mouth."

He was relieved that I didn't cause him any more work, and a smile came back to his face.

"You come here for a social visit...or to verbally abuse me?"

"Neither. I want to know how "KO" Krasinski died. I know, that you know, so you might as well shoot it to me now, because I'll find out sooner or later."

His voice was firm and strong. "It looks like you're gonna find it out later. That's privileged information Mike. I'd get my job handed to me if anyone found out I told you."

This burned me up!

"You'll lose your job?" I laughed at him in mock. "You wouldn't be El Capitano if it wasn't for me. Remember when I had figured out the Mindy Sellers murder? You got the credit. Then there's the phony suicide I solved for you. Don't forget those two gangland murders, and all the other information I have fed you over the years. What do I want in return? One lousy question answered."

"Look Mike, I can't tell you this. The detectives downtown are tight lipped regarding the evidence for reasons I don't know. If it slips out, it will gunk up their operations! I was surprised I was even told."

"You think I'm gonna run to the papers, and spread it all over New York?"

I bent over his desk, and pounded my clenched fist on it. "You really surprise me Matt. I think about you being my partner, but you can't even trust me to keep my mouth shut. You sure know nothing about gratitude. You're stabbing a good friend in the back."

My last sentence must have got to him because his jaw tightened. Matt sprang out of his chair, walked around the desk to where I was, and grabbed my shirt with his right meat hook. His face was strained and red as he put his nose up to mine and muttered, "I'm gonna tell ya, but if there's a leak, you're the one I'm gonna blame. Got It!"

"Yeah, spill."

He let go of my shirt, pointed at a seat for me to take, and walked back behind his desk.

"Krasinski was killed by suffocation."

I shifted in my seat and snickered, "Look Matt, I ain't got time to play games. Give me the dope."

"Shut your damn choppers, and I'll tell you. Krasinski was one of those "old school" boxers who do a full nude body "grease down" before the fight. It's designed to promote flexibility, endurance, agility, and improve performance. They're given a rubdown with mineral oil, vinegar, salt, turpentine, or some other sort of liniment to elevate their muscles to their peak. About an hour before the bout, Bankoff, KO's trainer, gave him his normal prefight grease down. Only he didn't use the usual concoction. It was a technical grade heavy mineral oil substance called "Voltesso N36B." Voltesso forms an oily film over the skin locking in the carbon dioxide and other wastes, while inhibiting normal respiration by keeping oxygen out. If the entire body is covered with this stuff, the skin can't breathe. The result is death by what is called "epidermal asphyxiation." When the fight began, Krasinski started to sweat. With every step he took, and every punch he threw, he needed more and more oxygen. None could get in, no carbon dioxide could get out, and finally his body couldn't take it any longer. He died.

My head rolled back thinking what a clever murder this was. I lit up a butt as another question popped into my mind.

I said, "If this Voltesso is a type of mineral oil, how did the Medical Examiner discover it?"

"As far as I understand it, Voltesso N36B has a bleaching agent component which causes a chemical reaction to take place when it is exposed to ink. All ink, no matter what color it is, bleaches out. Unfortunately, for the killer, Krasinski had a tattoo on his arm. When the examiner saw a bleached out effect of KO's tattoo he checked his books, and the rest speaks for itself."

I let out a soft whistle, and stuffed out my butt. There is always something could nail you. So now, I knew how he was killed. There still wasn't anything to put the finger on Dragon, or the "brains" behind him though.

I looked at Matt and asked, "Do you have anything on the Bankoff or Chiulli murders?"

"No. We think Bankoff committed suicide when his conscience caught up with him."

I surmised that Bankoff was pushed from the subway platform. He wasn't the type of guy to commit suicide.

Matt stared at me and said, "If you've got any info, don't hold any back from me. I'd like to make Chief of Police someday, and you're gonna help me make it."

I lifted myself out of the chair, walked to the door, and said, "Not when I spread to the papers what you just told me."

My face turned into a giant grin, and I split from the office before he shot me.

The verbal sparring was still going on in the hallway at the sergeant's desk. His face was in his hands trying to shut out the pandemonium going on before him. It was time for me to win another Academy Award so I strutted up to the desk and roared, "SHADDUP." I continued, "You people get over there, and sit down, or I'll throw the pack of you into the cooler for the rest of the day."

One of the punks yelled out, "On what charges, pig?"

I looked at him, then at the other peas in the pod, and bellowed, "You see this floor? It was just waxed, and you dirt bags are trampling all over it. That's destruction of civil property. Then there's inciting a riot, disturbing the peace, and a half dozen other petty raps we could slap you with. Now sit down asshole!"

My voice echoed throughout the chamber with authority.

The herd fell into a hush. The only noise to be heard was the shuffling of their hooves to get to the long, worn, wooden bench against the wall.

Jim's eyes were wide with amazement. I waved "so long" and walked out the door.

The aroma of the spaghetti house wafted to my nose as soon as I hit the street. I walked down the block, turned the corner, and hopped into my heap.

The engine turned over and I headed for the office.

* * *

CH 10 The "Beautiful Snake in the Grass."

It was about five o'clock when I reached 238th Street. I pulled the car to the curb, got out, and climbed the stairs to my office. The doorknob made a clicking sound as I turned it. There was Lola behind her desk...filing. Not papers...her nails! You would think that the amount of time she spent on her nails, that she was a safe cracker.

She squealed out a, "Hi Mike, what's happening?" Her smile was from ear to ear. I droned out, "I've been down to the employment agency to get a new secretary."

Lola's smile vanished, and her lips became pursed. Her two big beautiful eyes were staring at me in sorrow. She didn't know whether I was kidding or not. I thought I had better say something before she started bawling.

"Take it easy baby, I'm only pulling your leg. Nobody could ever take your place."

I have never seen the moods of any broad change as fast as Lola's.

"Get your bag honey, and let's go home."

As she reached across the desk for her bag, the valley between her breasts stared me in the face. Her low-cut dress was really low-cut. She could have walked around the damn desk for her pocketbook, but she wanted to tease me. I'll have to admit that she did a good job of it. Her knee length leopard coat was hanging on the stand, so I plucked it off, and held it out for her to squeeze into. She squeezed into it alright. Right up against me. What a sex crazy dame. I gave her a kiss on the neck, and caressed her buttock. That leopard coat really showed off her round, firm features.

I grabbed for the door, opened it, and followed her out the building. A cold wind was settling in, lifting the smog of the city.

We reached the car, turned the ignition, and spun out.

Lola really knew how to mold herself into a bucket seat. She'd probably rather sleep in a bed shaped like one.

There was a sense of peace in the city, and surprisingly few cars moving on the street considering the time of day. It was noiseless. The radio was off, the windows were closed, and Lola had her trap shut. It was calm and beautifully quiet.

Then it happened. It was too good to be true. She squeaked, "Gee, it's hot in here." Her right hand rolled down the window and let the noise of the city intrude on my serenity. Then with her left hand, she turned on the radio. That wasn't enough. She started blabbing.

I shut off the radio, cranked my head toward her, and said, "Lola, please, let me have some peace and quiet. Close the damn window." She closed it in two seconds flat.

In a lowered voice, Lola asked, "Mike honey, I don't feel like cooking tonight. Would you please take me out?"

I said, "OK, but let's take a shower first."

"Sounds good to me."

My apartment building was facing us now, so I pulled over to the side, and turned off the engine. Lola dragged herself out, and met me on the other side of the car. We dashed across the street, into the building, and through the jaws of the elevator. A few seconds later, we ambled off the lift. She beat me to the apartment, pulling out her key to unlock the door.

I shuffled to the refrigerator, and pulled out a couple of cold Buds while she turned on the radio. Sitting down on the couch, I asked Lola to take her shower first. She skipped off to the bedroom, and got undressed. The music on the radio stopped, interrupted by the news. The voice in the box announced KO Krasinski would be buried tomorrow.

That meant that I had to talk to Mrs. Krasinski tonight because she probably wouldn't be in any shape to talk business tomorrow. I guzzled down the last of the beer, and joined Lola in the bedroom.

She had just stepped into the shower. I shed my clothes making a pile on the floor. The edge of the bed creaked as I sat on it to wait until Lola was done. She hopped out a couple of minutes later with a bright purple towel wrapped around her lovely body. I let out with a soft wolf whistle, and strolled into the shower. The water stung as it hit my body, but it felt good to be clean. I wished I could wash the dirt of the city away as I washed the dirt from my body. Yeah, the dirt...the scammers...the hustlers...the scumbags. They sucked money out of honest people like leeches suck blood. They kill for the joy of it, but now they were messing with the wrong man. I have dealt with them before, and they were the ones who ended up hurt. When I find out who the big man behind this boxing scam is, he'll wish he was never born. The same went for Dragon. When the right time comes, he'll find out what pain is. He'll beg for mercy, but I won't give him any. Some hoods would rather face the Devil than Maddog Murdock.

I turned off the water, and strolled into the bedroom. Lola was still wondering what dress to wear even after I had finished dressing. I walked to the kitchen, pulled a couple more brews out of the fridge, and opened them up. The first bottle was empty by the time Lola walked out of the bedroom, wearing a tight navy blue dress with a hip hugging belt around her waist. She knew how to dress. I finished off the other beer, and we walked out the door.

Two men in the lobby couldn't take their eyes off of Lola. Who could blame them? She was delicious looking. The doorman opened the thick glass door for us, and we exited.

I was in the mood for some off-the-wall type of food tonight, so we hopped into the car, and headed for 225th Street. There was a place on the corner that had the best kielbasa in the Bronx. The name of the joint was "Stashu's." It wasn't a high-class place, but it wasn't a cockroach barn either. We took a table by the window, and opened the menus. The waiter came over asking for our order. I ordered for both of us. Lola didn't know the difference between a hotdog, and a knockwurst. I said, "Let me have two orders of boiled kielbasa, a side dish of borscht, and two kishki. Also bring a weak sloe gin fizz, and a draft beer." He nodded his head politely, and took off.

A few minutes later the drinks came. By the time we finished them the meal was being served. I ordered a couple more drinks, and we dove into the meal. The food was great, and we ate like it was going out of style. I left a twenty on the table, and walked out the door with our bellies full.

We hopped back into the car, and made tracks for the Lotus Lounge. A police car was in front of me so I took it easy on my way uptown. I pulled into the parking lot for the customers, and got out. Lola clung to my arm as we walked through the doors of the Lounge. The place was quiet. I didn't know how they made money. There were seldom more than ten people in it at any one time. I noticed a group of kids in one of the booths, and a couple of the local hookers sitting at the far end of the bar. I said, "Hi" to Dutch and threw some money on the bar. He set up our drinks, took a couple of bills, and dropped some change back. I thought it was a good time to call Mrs. Krasinski, and shuffled to the phone booth in the other room.

I found a dime in my pocket, and poked it into the little eye of the phone. Someone answered after a couple of rings. I asked for Mrs. Krasinski, and waited a few seconds. A woman's voice answered, "Yes?"

She listened very intently while I told her that I was willing to be retained to find out the truth about her son's death. I didn't want to soak her too much so I gave her a nominal charge of $1,000 lump sum. She agreed, and I said I would have a report for her as soon as I secured further information. With that, we said our goodbyes and hung up. I wish all my clients were as easy as that. It was worth a thousand clams to find out who killed one's son. I wouldn't have charged her anything, but I had those bills on my desk.

I squeezed out of the phone booth, and headed back to my barstool. Two guys were sitting next to Lola, one on each side of her, and she appeared to be bothered by them. They must have come in while I was on the phone, and thought she was alone. One of them grabbed her hand, and when she yanked it away, they started making some obscene remarks. This I didn't go for. I walked up behind one guy, grabbed him by his collar, and yanked him off the bar stool...onto the floor. The other slid off his seat, and came at me with his fists clenched. I brought up my leg into his lower abdomen. The punk doubled over in pain. For an extra thrill, I landed a haymaker uppercut. My ring tore into his chin. A piece of his skin was left on my diamond as he dropped to the floor. He'd need a few stitches to sew up that gash. The other meatball picked up a shot glass off the floor, and threw it at me.

Lola screamed, and I ducked just in time. I was blocking the only exit for him, so he backed toward the corner. He could see in my eyes that I was gonna do a job on him. I grabbed his neck with one hand. With the other, I shot three quick jabs into his now bloodied face. He cried out in pain, but I didn't hear a thing. I took a step back giving him another jolt in the kisser for good measure. Whamo! Two teeth fell from the bloody hole in his face. He wouldn't be eating any corn on the cob tonight. I turned to the other guy. He was still on the floor trying to shake off the cobwebs in his head. He wasn't having too much luck. I picked them both up, and dragged them to the door. With a push, both of them went flying onto the sidewalk outside the joint. They looked like drunks who had just got through partying.

I walked back into the place, returned to my stool, and looked at Lola. Her eyes were bright and proud. I think that sometimes she starts things just to see me fight. Lola had a thing for tough guys, and I fit the bill.

I finished off my drink, and ordered another. Dutch came over, and we started talking about last week's Giants game. Lola was really soaking down those sloe gins. About a half hour passed by, and she could hardly sit on the stool. She leaned over, and whispered into my ear to call her a cab. Lola said it was time for her to go home, and hit the sack. She pointed out that there was no need for me to escort her home, and that I should stay here with my friends. In fact, she insisted. I phoned for a cab. The taxi arrived about five minutes later. Lola clamped onto me all the way to the door of the hack. I pulled a five out of my wallet, and told the cabby to make sure that she got to the apartment alright. He nodded, and they took off. I walked back into the lounge, knocking off the rest of my brew.

A cold wind blew past me as the door opened to let in one of the most beautiful dames I had ever seen. She took a seat a couple of stools down from me. Her hair was a soft chestnut brown that shined like satin. The dress she wore looked like it had been painted on, and the diamonds around her neck glistened against her creamy skin. What an eyeful! She looked the picture of innocence. Yet, she had the glint of the devil in her eyes. I turned back to my drink, and then heard a woman's voice, "Do you have a light?"

I answered her with a, "Yeah," and flicked out my lighter. The flame lit up her face revealing flawless and stunning features. I started up a conversation like any normal male would.

"Do you come here often?"

"I have been here a couple of times." How about you?"

With that, she moved to the barstool next to mine. Our chatter continued, and we got pretty chummy. We danced a couple of times, and she held me as if she wanted to become part of me. Finally, she asked me to drive her home. I'm a good sport, but she wasn't fooling me. No gorgeous broad was going to come in a joint like this, by herself, unless she was here to sell her body, or for some other sinister reason. In addition, she especially wouldn't pick out a face like mine to start a conversation with. I had a feeling she was one of Dragon's girls. It smelled foul, but I was gonna play along whether she was, or wasn't. We slid off the stools, and walked out the door. She held my arm as we strolled to the car, and when we entered, she molded into the bucket seat even smoother than Lola. I said, "Where to?"

Her lips parted and said, "South Ponfield Road in Bronxville." I turned the wheel, and hit the gas.

The ride lasted about fifteen minutes. Not many words were spoken, but she had love glowing in her eyes. Maybe she wasn't one of the Dragon's girls after all... Nah! Just before I stopped at her apartment, I noticed, through my rearview mirror, a car pulling over about a hundred feet behind me. I was walking into a trap...but what a tempting trap.

She looked at me seductively, and asked if I would come up for a drink. I viewed her body. The babe fluttered her eyes, and puckered her lips. I knew that I was coming up even if it was a trap. We got out of the car, and walked into the large, white marbled lobby. I followed her to the elevator watching her little ass move. She pressed the third floor button, and we whizzed up. I took the key from her hand, and opened the door. Let me tell ya, she lived in a very swank layout.

I took off my jacket while she mixed the drinks. When she turned around, she acted surprised when she saw my rig in the shoulder holster. She eased toward the couch, and beckoned me to it though she knew I didn't need any urging. I heard a faint rustle from the other room, but acted as if I didn't. I turned the light out, and we commenced with the kissing. My arm reached around behind her, and I pulled the little zipper down. She pushed me off of her, stood up, and took off her dress. My eyes must have been bugging out of their sockets. She laid back down on the couch, and asked me to come to her again, but this time I said, "Wait a minute I have some nasty business to do first."

I eased over to the door of the room from where the noise had come. My .45 made its way into my hand, and I rammed the door open with my shoulder as if I was a linebacker. He must have been ready to pounce on me, because when I flung the door open, it sent him flying. That was too bad for him. The old saying goes, "He who hesitates is lost." I didn't know who he was, but he had a .38 with a silencer attached, in his fist. I kicked it out of his hand, and put my .45 between his eyes. Instead of killing the thug, I rocked the semi-automatic into the bridge of his nose. It sounded like a piece of iron hitting a tire. He was out cold.

But now I had another problem. I felt a piece of cold steel in my back, and it wasn't a pipe. I turned around to see the babe with a gun aimed at my gut. It looked so cute. There she was half-nude, with a little .25 in her hand. I slapped the rod out of her mitt before she knew I had even moved.

I threw her on the bed. On her own initiative, she removed the rest of her undergarments. She was better looking with her clothes off. This was gonna be a pleasure, and she laid there, with her legs apart, waiting for me. Before I jumped in bed with her, I walked over to the clown on the floor, and gave him another knot in the head with my .45, so he wouldn't wake up in the middle of something. I took off my rig, and locked the door. She just laid on the bed watching me. I could see in her face that she was excited, and ready for action.

* * *

CH 11 Broken Arms and Broken Heads.

After our little tryst, I climbed out of bed, and got dressed. She had a look of satisfaction on her face. The babe came out with, "I'm glad you turned the tables on that cockroach on the floor. I'm no killer. I'm a prostitute. Just a prostitute. I like you Mike. That son of a bitch made me do this. He killed my girlfriend when she didn't do what he wanted. He threatened to do the same to me. I would be dead now if I didn't go through with it." Fear and hate wove in and out of her voice, as she rattled on.

I understood her situation. She was frightened for her life. Many times, I've seen vermin like him force others to do their bidding. I decided to go easy on her, and tough on him. The guy on the floor was still out like a light, even after I finished putting on my clothes, and strapping my rig back on.

I picked up the mug's gun. It was heavy at the muzzle due to the silencer. Instead of killing him, I felt that it would be justice if he lived out the rest of his life in pain. I aimed the silencer at his right knee, and pulled the trigger. A muffled "pop" sounded. His knee jumped up, and a circle of blood began to expand on his pants. A grimace covered his face, but he didn't fully "come to." I had always wondered if a guy, who was knocked unconscious, would wake up if shot. So far, the answer was "no."

Another test was needed to be sure. The muzzle kissed the pants covering his left kneecap as I squeezed the trigger. Another muffled "pop." This time, the mug let out a groan. The sound of the kneecap cracking was as loud as the groan. His eyes opened briefly, but then shut tight.

One thing for sure, he wouldn't be running any more hundred-yard dashes. I wasn't finished with him. This mug had intentions of putting me in a body bag. He was going to pay for that.

Standing over him, I pumped out two more slugs, one into each elbow. His arms flailed up, and came to rest in a distorted position. Blood gushed out of the left arm with exceptional force. Oops, I must have hit an artery. Anyway, getting back to my experiment, he still hadn't regained consciousness. It became clear to me that if you knock a guy out, then shoot him, he's not likely to wake up.

The babe sat on the bed, watching my scientific experiment. She had a look of fear on her face. Or was it worry? Was she terrified what he would do to her, when and if, he came to? Or was she tense over me dealing with her next?

I faced her saying, "Relax, I'm giving you a pass. If he survives, he may not" The thug on the floor now laid in four separate pools of blood. He was still, but was breathing. Removing a pillowcase, I cleaned my prints off the gun. I looked at the babe, placed the .38 at the edge of the bad, and muttered, "Do what you feel you have to do. I'm leaving."

I took the service stairs down to the main floor, went out the rear entrance, and snuck through the alley to the street. From the darkness, I could see the two guys who had trailed me, standing by the house phone in the lobby, apparently waiting to be called up to dispose of my body. Their car was doubled parked, and not far from mine. I eased over to it, and almost noiselessly let all the air out two of the tires by jabbing my pocket knife into the sidewalls. Then I hopped into my heap, and pulled up in front of the apartment building. My horn honked two loud beeps. They turned to see me laugh at them. Two clowns! They came charging out of the lobby after me. Before they could get to the door, I was roaring halfway down the street. I could just imagine them trying to tail me in their car. Amateurs! When are they gonna learn that I'm nobody to mess with.

It was almost three in the morning, and I had to get some sleep. All this violence made me tired. I lit up a butt, and headed for home.

About fifteen minutes later, I parked the car across the street of my apartment. The doorman had split hours ago. I took the elevator up to my floor, and opened the apartment door. Lola was laid out on the couch fast asleep. She'll have a heavy hangover tomorrow, but her job isn't exactly brain surgery.

I let her continue sleeping on the couch. It would feel nice to have the bed to myself, and wake up in the morning without her body on top of mine. Occasionally anyway.

My hands wrestled to tear off my clothes. I jumped into bed, and pulled the covers over myself. Soon a black cloud slowly settled over my eyes.

Sunlight from the window sliced its way through my eyelids. I blinked, struggled for consciousness, and sat up. The clock on the dresser read eight-fifteen.

I wouldn't be able to get back to sleep, so I got up and dressed. Lola was still laid out like a sack of potatoes. If I didn't see her move, every so often I would have taken her for dead. I left her as she was, and walked out of the building.

I jumped into the car, and rolled out towards Yonkers. My stomach told me it was chow time, so I cut off onto a side street, and headed for Jo-Jo's Hash House, situated down by the waterfront. I could smell the stench of dead fish as I neared the Hudson. It was a different city here. Strong, burly men surrounded the area. Ties and jackets were unseen, and tall office buildings were out of sight. Warehouses and piers took the place of the skyscrapers, and trucks, crates, and bales cluttered the area.

I pulled over into a parking space near Jo-Jo's.

The place was opened twenty-four hours a day, and was never less than half-full. I weaseled out of the car, and walked inside the joint. The Hash House reeked with the aroma of fried fish and shrimp.

If I didn't know what time it was I wouldn't have ordered breakfast. In this place, breakfast was served at night, and supper was served at dawn. It was a dizzy world here. I took a seat at the counter next to a mug that looked like he was cloned from a gorilla. He was chomping away on a slimy liverwurst sandwich. I guess I would have grunted too, if I had liverwurst for breakfast.

One of the waitresses came bouncing over, and asked in a high voice, "What'll you have handsome?"

She must have been looking for a tip. "Kill a couple of eggs, and fry up some bacon. Well done. Bring a cup of Joe along with that as well."

She strolled off, yelled the order to the cooks in the back, and drew my coffee. This dame was a prize. Her short, curly, bleach-blond hair looked like wire, and she tried to make herself look younger by putting on more makeup than she needed.

I grabbed a newspaper from the counter, turned to the sport section, and read as I slowly slugged down the coffee. The N.Y. Giants had lost another game. What a bunch of bums.

My meal came, and I dug in. I shoveled it away in less than two minutes, then ordered another of the same. When it arrived, I threw the paper aside, and tore into order number two. Another cup of Joe washed down the remains as I reached for my wallet, and pulled out a ten.

"Makeup face" came over, and asked me if I wanted anything else. I stood up, gave her the ten, and said, "No, but keep the change, and buy yourself some soap to take that garbage off your puss."

Her face showed that she was insulted, so I added, "You're a good looking tomato. You don't need any help."

She was flattered then. I turned, walked out, and got back into my ride. I started it up, and headed for Lockwood Avenue.

A butt pushed its way into my mouth. My watch read ten o'clock on the nose.

As I drove, the city I knew emerged once again. Hundreds of people were on the streets. How many of them were racketeers? How many innocent people would die before nightfall? Mobsters, I hated them. I hated them because they were vultures preying on unsuspecting bystanders. Some people call me a killer...a ruthless killer...and I guess I am. I kill. But only the guilty. I kill killers. They knew it too. That's why they shudder when they hear the name "Maddog."

I found myself steering my way to the top of Lockwood Avenue. The tailor shop was to my right, so I wedged the car between two others, flipped open the door, and walked into the place.

The tailor was behind the counter sewing the button onto a suit.

"Ah, Mr. Murdock, my best customer! I have your three jackets ready." He shuffled into the back, and returned with my assortment of colorful blazers. It would feel good to wear my style of clothes again. I took my jacket off, gave it to him, and said, "Keep it. You'll look better in it than I do."

He took the ugly piece of material, and handed me my bill. It came out to two hundred clams. I dug into my wallet again, and pulled out two "C" notes. He ought to be a retired with the business I've given him. I shot the tailor a "Thanks," grabbed the blazers, and got back in my heap.

My time was free until four o'clock when I was planning to see Ragino, so I turned the wheels toward Joe's Pool Hall. I thought I might find somebody with some lose money in their pockets.

I pulled in front of the place ten minutes later. The sound of balls hitting balls knifed its way through the windows above me. I got out of the car, locked up, and stepped inside the joint. The usual musty odor attacked my nostrils. Joe was behind his desk again with an uneasy look on his puss. He appeared somewhat anxious to see me.

"Hi Mike. How ya been? See that guy on table four? He asked me about when you come in here." I looked toward table four. Behind it was a man the size of King Kong. Not many people are bigger than me, but this giant had at least six inches and a hundred pounds on me. That's not a hundred pounds of fat either. He reminded me of a professional wrestler. A large scar crossed the middle of his forehead. I turned to Joe asking, "Who is he?"

"Who is he? Fast Eddie recognized him when he came in. Dat's Jaguar John from San Fran, buddy. He's a hired gun...a contract man. You ever hear of that madman. I don't know what he's doing here."

I turned to Joe, and spat out, "He came to Yonkers to kill me."

Joe sat back in his chair. He wasn't sure if I was kidding or not, until he saw the seriousness on my face. I picked up a stick from the rack, and walked to table four. Jaguar looked up and saw me. His stare was cold and deadly, and he was playing it cool. I heard about him, and I'm sure that he's heard a lot about me as well. He has killed almost as many people as me, and just as viciously.

I chalked up my cue and said, "I'm the guy you're supposed to kill."

He followed through with his shot then answered, "I know."

"Yeah, but I have news for you. You're not gonna do it."

He looked up from the table, and very cockily grunted, "Look Murdock, Jaguar John never misses."

I didn't like the sound of his voice. "Maybe so," I shot back, "but you had better get off the first shot, or you won't be getting off any."

"Murdock, you're all mouth. You're as good as dead."

I don't like anybody threatening me. It gets me mad. I don't know what he expected me to do, but he wasn't ready for what I did.

The small end of the cue was in my mitts. I swung the heavy end around my shoulder, and with the style of Mickey Mantle, crashed it across the bridge of his nose. The bone made a loud snap as it split into little pieces. The big hulk fell over backwards. He rubbed where his nose used to be, and felt the sharp splinters of the bone. Blood was spilling over his face but I wanted him to see the rest that was coming. The big man from San Fran didn't look so big anymore, and I gave him a few second to get his bearings back. The front of his face was a bloody red gash. His mind cleared, and by instinct, his hand reached for his rod, but I was faster. I snapped out mine first, and pulled the trigger filling the room with one, two, three thunderous blasts, sending the smell of gunpowder throughout the pool hall. Jaguar's forearm was lying on the floor, detached from his body, due to the surgical accuracy of my marksmanship. He stared at it, and then looked at his mangled elbow in disbelief. It was a mass of bone and flesh with dark red liquid spurting from it onto the floor. Stench took the place of gunpowder...burnt flesh that smelled like rotting eggs. I like to mangle and deform killers. Shooting his arm off was no mistake. I was thinking of doing the same thing to the other one.

The killer didn't moan or groan, nor scream, or cry out in pain. He was in a state of shock, and smiled. His smile turned into a laugh. Then suddenly it stopped, and he looked up from his lifeless limb. Jaguar directed his eyes toward me. His stare knifed its way through the gun smoke showing bitter hate and revenge. He knew he had seen the end of the road.

I gritted my teeth into a smile and said, "Now you know why they call me Maddog. How the hell did you get the name Jaguar? It should have been kitten."

A thought came to mind, and I laughed. I laughed like a maniac for here before me was the top hit man in the country. The most dreaded murderer in the U.S., and here he was, in front of me, with his nose splattered across his face, and his arm severed beside him. Some terror! I leveled my gun at his face letting the barrel swagger an inch from his forehead. He was at my mercy, and my mind raced for a decision to kill him or not. I thought of all the collateral innocent people he must have killed, all the widows and orphans he had left behind. I also remembered that he came to kill me. I reached my decision, and it looked like I was going to have to make an example of this guy.

I wanted him to know what he was going to look like when he was dead. His eyes watched every move I made as I took out my pocket knife, cut off the tip of a bullet, and placed it into the chamber of the gun. A homemade dum-dum. He knew what I had done, and what the bullet would do to his body. His head was turning from side to side with his mouth open. The pain in his nose and arm was forgotten.

The barrel of my rod once again took its position an inch away from his forehead. My grin was stretched tight for I was going to enjoy this.

He screamed, "You're mad, you're mad. You wouldn't kill me like that. Not in cold bloooooo..."

I should have let him finish his sentence, but my finger squeezed the trigger, and another deafening blast sounded. The bullet ripped through his forehead tearing through the bone of his cranium, leaving his brain and skull splattered across the wall. I heard pieces of bone hitting the floor on the other side of the room as deep red blood was splashed on everything I could see. The smell grew stronger. He lay sprawled on the floor, half of his head missing. I couldn't tell where his brain was, but I really didn't care. Pieces of it were scattered from one wall to the other.

The sound of police sirens broke the silence. Joe must have called them when I shot Jaguar's arm off. Cars screeched to a halt outside, and the trampling of feet running up the stairs made their way to my ears. I turned and faced the entrance. The first cop through the door was mad...no, more than mad. Steam was coming out of his ears. His face was blue from holding himself back from what he wanted to do to me. I never saw this guy so fired up. The cop was Frank Komo.

* * *

CH 12 Working the Case, Part 2.

He walked around, looked over the scene, stooped to examine the body, and then headed straight for me. I could see in his face that he didn't want to hear what I had to say, so I just held out my .45 to him. The first thing Komo grabbed was the cannon. The second was his handcuffs. I cooperated, and held out my paws. The cuffs clinked, and tightened around my wrists. Frank called another cop over. They both grabbed my arms, and pulled me out of the hall. Other investigators were showing up. As I passed Joe, I noticed he was gobbling down a couple of aspirins. The police car was outside the joint with the rear door swung open. I was pushed in, and found myself between Frank and another flatfoot. Komo treated me as if he didn't know me. The shrill siren whistled through the air as the police car sped toward headquarters. I turned my head toward Frank but he was looking straight ahead, and had a face on him like a guy who had a pile of work waiting for him.

I shouted a question to him. "What's with the grim reaper look?"

No answer.

Trying again, "You still my friend? Or did you suddenly turn into a mute Gestapo?"

Still no answer. Frank acted as if I had not spoken. There wasn't any sense in me talking to him further, so I sat back for the rest of the ride.

A minute later, the driver pulled up to the entrance of the stationhouse. Frank opened the door, and dragged me out as the other cop watched every move I made. I felt like a convict.

I followed the Lieutenant into the building, and to his office where he ordered me to sit down. Komo turned to his apprentice dismissing him, then turned to me, and yelled, "You know I'm going to have to book you for murder."

I tried to look shocked, and shot out, "Is that what you're so worried about? Sticking a murder rap on me?" A smile covered my face. "Stop worrying. It was self-defense."

"Self-defense my ass. I don't know who he was, but he still had his gun in his holster. I suppose you're going to tell me he was going for his gun, but you beat him to it. That's a hard rap to beat even if it's true, but I'll help you all I can though it doesn't look good."

"That's right, he did go for his piece, but unfortunately he didn't know that I was the "quick draw" of New York. Don't forget that I also have a witness, and I'll let you in on a little secret. The crumb I shot was Jaguar John from the West Coast. Now, where's the murder rap? I should be awarded a medal.

His memory flicked back in time. He had heard of Jaguar John, and his face showed that he was pleased that he might not have to book me. I spent the next hour telling him my side of the story, and answered all his questions. The Medical Examiner and Crime Scene Investigators were at the pool hall. They would update Frank on their take of the situation.

Thinking of the extra work I had made for him, he turned to me and said, "I'll check with the M.E. and the other detectives, and get back to you. Now get the hell out of here before I murder you myself. Stay local."

I stood up, mumbled a, "See ya around," and shuffled out of the building. It was one o'clock by now. The restaurants and cafeterias were still filled with people. My stomach was gurgling from the lack of food, so I crossed the street to a hot dog vendor, and ordered a couple of his specials. While I was gobbling, one of them down, I whistled for a taxi. A cabbie heard my call, stopping in front of me. I hopped in and droned, "Getty Square," as I downed the other dog.

We were there in two minutes flat. I pawed a couple of bucks out of my pocket, slipped it to the cabbie, and climbed out, noticing that my car was still where I had left it. I thought it would be a good idea to go up, and say something to Joe. After all, this was the second guy I nailed in his joint. I opened the door, and climbed the stairs. He wasn't behind his desk. Then I saw him down by table four cleaning up. Nobody else was in the place so I snuck up behind him, viewed the pool of blood, and whistled, "What happened? Somebody get a nosebleed?"

Without looking up he said, "Get outta here. The joint is closed." He then realized it was me, got off the floor, and jokingly but firmly said, "I'm glad you came back. Give me twenty bucks to give somebody to clean this mess, fifty more for a new tabletop, and fifty for me, or I'll take back my statement that it was self-defense.

This guy couldn't get mad. I guess that's why I liked him so much.

I grabbed my wallet, and pulled out three fifties. After all, I did ruin some of his business, and made a pretty big mess. He wouldn't take it at first, but I finally convinced him by telling him that I'd kill him too, if he didn't put it in his pocket. He did.

We shook hands, and I turned to leave. Before I left he said, "Mike, you keep killing people like this, and someday they'll throw you in jail." I thanked him for the advice.

I dashed to my car, starting it up. My watch read three-fifteen. The two street dogs didn't quite cut it. If I hurried, I could grab a bite to eat, and then make it to Ragino's.

A left at Yonkers Avenue, then a right about three blocks down got me on the Major Deegan Expressway going south. The Deegan was moderately thick with traffic. I noticed dark clouds blowing over the city. My hand dug into my pocket, plucked a cigarette out of my pack, and shoved it in my mouth.

I turned off the expressway at Fordham Road, and pulled over to the side. There was a diner on the corner that I had been to a couple of times. I climbed out of the heap, walked through the doors of the diner, and grabbed a stool. My stomach was about to cave in. Those hot dogs had only made me hungrier. I looked on the wall at the menu, and ordered a couple of cheeseburgers.

It didn't take long to make. I had them devoured, paid the tab, and got back into the car in little more than fifteen minutes.

The engine roared again as I turned the key. I gripped the wheel, and got back on the Deegan. Ragino's house wasn't far now.

I didn't know my way around the lower east side too well but found his place without any trouble. It was a modest duplex with a little lawn in front. I pulled the heap over, and looked at my watch...five to four. I noticed his name on the bottom doorbell, and rang it. Seconds later the door opened. Behind it stood the stocky black haired bruiser. He opened the door wider, and I stepped in. Ragino looked bigger in his clothes than in boxing trunks. I had a feeling he already knew who I was by the way he looked at me. Before I had a chance to say anything I found myself sitting on a comfortable lounge chair in the living room with a bottle of cold beer in my hand. Ragino spoke first. "Mr. Murdock, I've slept on your offer, and I have changed my mind. I've read about you in the papers, and see that you're quite an investigator." He spoke like a college professor rather than a veteran boxer. I just sat, drank my beer, and listened to him.

"It looks like the public is blaming me for killing Krasinski, even though I barely hit him. They need a reason for his death, and I am it. I am having a tough time living with this. I need your help, and I need it fast. I think there was some kind of monkey business going on."

I interrupted him and said, "Certain facts have come to my attention that the police, as well as the boxing authorities, are unaware of. If you retain me, I'll have the problem settled within the week."

His face lit up at my last remark. Hope filled his eyes.

Till now, I hadn't mentioned a fee. I looked around his pad, noticing the expensive furnishings. I also took into consideration that he was feeling desperate. This guy could afford paying full price. The champ will get his money's worth. He'll just be paying a premium.

My next statement was, "I am running the risk of getting my head blown off. There's some dirty dealing going on, and I am about to jump into the middle of it. It will cost you three grand...lump sum. No extra charges. And no charge if I don't get results."

He wasn't shocked at the fee. Instead, he came over, shook my hand, and offered me another beer. Maybe I should have soaked him for another extra grand.

I turned the beer down, stood up, and said, "I'll have a report for you in a few days. You'll get your money's worth."

He shook my hand again, and opened the door for me. A light rain was now sprinkling the city. Little puddles formed on the streets and sidewalks.

I trotted across the street, and slumped into my bucket seat. I hoped that Lola had made it to the office, and might still be at work, so I thought I'd stop there, and give her a lift home.

The wheels moved, and I turned back onto the Deegan.

My brain ticked away as I drove. It looked to me like Dragon didn't want to lose any more of his boys so he had arranged for Jaguar John to come into town. I wish I could have seen Dragon's face when he found out what I had done to his hired gun. The pressure was getting hot on him. The big boys must be breathing down his neck to have somebody bump me off. Maybe it was the head of the syndicate who contracted Jaguar John.

Things were looking up for me. Not only was I feeling confident about getting rid of Dragon and Mr. Big, but by the time I added up all the monies I am receiving from the different parties, I 'd be pulling in four to five grand for doing it. Not bad for a few days' work.

I turned off the expressway at Van Cortland Avenue, rolled down to my office, and parked. The rain had stopped, leaving a mist behind it. I closed the door to my heap, and took the stairs to my office. Music came to my ears as I turned the doorknob. There was Lola doing some sort of contortions they called dancing these days, with one of her girlfriends from the office upstairs. They kept dancing when they saw me, laughing, and giggling like a couple of sixteen year olds. I wasn't really steamed up, but this didn't look good for business. What if a perspective client walked in and saw these two babbling broads doing the bugaloo. He'd walk right back out.

I walked up behind the hipster from upstairs, put my hands on the hem of her dress, pulled it up over her head, and gripped it there. How cute. She had on a pink garter belt. She was fighting but she couldn't get her arms outside of the material. Lola stood there dumbfounded. I pulled her friend out to the hallway, gave her a slap on her plump buttocks, and let her go. She was as red as a beet, and ran up the stairs in utter embarrassment. Something told me she wouldn't be bugalooing down here for a while.

When I walked back in, Lola looked like she expected me to scold her. I grabbed her in my arms, and gave her a deep, affectionate kiss. Her lips were moist. Her mouth was warm and wet. I wished we were home in bed. How does it happen that I get the urge at the wrong times and places? My arms released Lola, and my lips retreated.

Lola came out with, "What's gotten into you?"

I pointed my finger at her body and said, "That!"

She smiled devilishly and squeaked, "Well, you can have it later, but first I have a surprise for you."

A paper bag was lying on a chair. She went over, and picked it up. "Look, meat ravioli. I bought it at the store today, and I am going to fix it just for you tonight. Isn't that great?"

Big deal! One night I came home starved, and she had happened to fix up some meat ravioli. I'm not talking about some homemade ravioli. This is ravioli that comes in a box. The contents are poured into some boiling water. I had exclaimed how good it was, and I have never heard the end of it. She thought she was doing me a big favor, so I played along. "I can't wait until I get my choppers into these."

She squealed, and jumped up and down with joy.

I got her coat off the hook, slipped it around her shoulders, and took the bag from her. She locked up as we walked out.

I raced Lola to the car, dropped the groceries in, and opened the door for her. The engine turned over, and we took off.

She didn't know about the incident at Joe's, so I told her. Then she started nagging me. "What's that, the sixth, seventh, or the eighth this week? What's wrong with you? Sometimes I think you're the one without any brains."

She kept flapping her jaws. I turned my head to her and yelled, "Gimme a break! I'm in a hard and dirty business."

Ah, silence! Sometime I appreciated it so much.

The apartment was right up the street now. I pulled to the side, grabbed the package, and told Lola to take the sour puss off her face. We got out, and took the elevator to our pad.

Lola cheered up by the time we got to the door. She opened it, took the package, and ran to the kitchen. I took off my jacket and shirt, turned on the boob tube, and plunked down onto the sofa.

About a half hour, and a Superman program later, Lola called out "Come and get it."

I got up to take a seat at the table. She brought the meal over in a covered dish. When she took the lid off the bowl I made my eyes open wide and exclaimed, "Hey, my favorite meal!"

She squeaked some sort of sound of happiness, and clapped her hands with joy.

* * *

CH 13 Lookout Johnny Dragon..."I Wouldn't Want to Be You!"

After the meal, I asked, "balloon busts" if she wanted to go out for a few drinks. She told me she was tired, and couldn't handle another night out. I felt like bumming around with the boys tonight, so I told her I was going down to the Lotus. My shirt was on the sofa, and I reached for it. Some idiot had sat on it while he was watching a Superman program. I strutted over to the bedroom, pulled out a fresh one, and slipped it on. My hand reached for my rig, and I strapped it in place. Lola came over handing me my jacket. I kissed her on the cheek, patted her on the ass, and walked out the door.

The lift was on my floor, so I jumped in, and pushed the "L" button. The elevator whizzed downward. When the doors opened I jolted out, walked through the lobby, and into my Pontiac. The engine rumbled under the hood. I made tracks for 264th Street.

The air was cool and moist. It was the kind of night that a guy likes to spend in a bar, sopping up some brew, and shooting the breeze with friends. The city was bright even at night. The moonlight, streetlights, headlights, and brilliance of the billboards and buildings combined to blank out the darkness of the streets.

I reached 264th, pulled the heap to the curb, and got out. Music knifed its way to the street through the doors and windows of the Lounge. My hand gripped the door handle, and I swung the passageway open. I stepped in, scanning the room. Dutch was behind the bar busily making a cocktail. At the head of the bar were a couple of the usual hookers, who had both latched onto a customer apiece. They would be making some money by the end of the night. Further down the bar, and at the booths, were an assortment of husbands, wives, bores, moaners, loners, and happy-go-luckies. At the rear of the bar, behind the table, were a couple of my buddies.

I crossed to the area that served as a part time dance floor, by the jukebox, and waved a hand towards Dutch. I viewed the assortment of booze on the shelves behind the bar, and noticed that bottle of oily rotgut I had smelled the other day was gone. Dutch probably gave it to one of the local barflies.

The boys at the table were "Dubo" and Jack Catalano, better known as "Cadillac Jack." Dubo is a bookie, and a compulsive gambler. He'd lay a wager on baseball, football, car racing, ping-pong, marbles, or you name it. Cadillac Jack is a bald headed and burly Teamster truck driver.

They saw me coming, waved me on, and pushed out a chair from under the table. I sat down, exchanged "How ya beens", and began shooting the bull.

Dutch came over, sat down my drink, shoved today's newspaper in front of my nose, and said, "Hey pal, looks like you made the front page today."

I looked down at the newspaper, and sure enough, there was a picture of my kisser with about six inches of typing under it. I looked mean in the photo. The editor had a few mug shots of me at his office, and selected the ugliest in the hopes that it would increase circulation. The story below the picture was a little hard on me. It said that I was a merciless killer, a compulsive killer, and a "kill crazy" private cop who should be in an asylum. I laughed at the article, and handed the paper to Dubo.

From behind, I heard, "Hey you three bums. Don't youse eva go home?"

I turned, seeing "Pretty Boy George" and "Boston" a step behind him. I have known them for years, but didn't know their real names. They pulled up a couple of chairs, and sat down. Boston yelled out, "Dutch, hows 'bout trowin us a deck of cards?"

The cards flew over my head, and Boston caught them with a Willie Mays basket catch. We all took out a few bills, and laid them on the table. Dubo started off dealing with some seven-card stud. Dutch buzzed over, put down a round of fresh drinks, picked up the empty glasses, and trotted off.

The cards kept falling, the juke kept playing, and Dutch kept buzzing. My stack was getting bigger and bigger. We were playing small time poker with a two-dollar limit. I never seemed to come out a loser. My pack of butts became empty, and I got up to get some more out of the machine. Only then did I notice that nobody else was in the joint. Dutch had locked the doors over a half hour ago. I peeked at my watch. It read four-thirty. Man, time passes fast. I sat back down in my chair, and resumed playing, but I was getting tired. The booze, smoke, gambling, and noise took its toll. I counted up my money, one-hundred and sixty two bucks, and shoved it in my pocket. The boys hated to see me go, especially with their money. Before I left, I slipped Dutch a five-dollar tip, waved "so long," and staggered out. The night air, or should I say morning air, was so fresh that it knocked me stiff as I whiffed it. My car was right in front of me. I opened the door, fell in behind the wheel, and set a course for home.

Less than five minutes later, I had the heap parked in front of my apartment. I shuffled out of the Goat, into the lobby and elevator, and opened the door to my pad.

The lights were out, and all was quiet. Lola must be sleeping. I slipped inside, and turned the living room lights on. It was going to feel good to hit the sack. I took off my shoes, and opened the bedroom door. Lola wasn't in bed, nor was the bed slept in. Where the hell could she be? I looked in the bathroom, and got the same results. I went to the kitchen, dining room, even the closets. No Lola. It wasn't like her to be out by herself at this time of night. I searched the room looking for any sign of a struggle. Nothing was turned over, and nothing was out of place.

I sat down on the couch, and turned my brain on full speed. Thoughts raced through my mind. She must have been taken out forcibly, or lured out of the apartment by Dragon's men. Maybe he discovered my only weakness. She had to have been taken by either the stairs, or elevator. Maybe I am jumping to conclusions. Maybe Dragon's men didn't take her. Maybe sick friends called, or maybe even her mother. If she left on her own accord, she would have taken her pocket book, and left a message. I ran to the bedroom to check. No message, and her pocket book was where she had always left it.

Suddenly the phone rang in the living room. I dashed to it, picked up the hook, and half screamed a, "Yeah?"

A slow seedy voice was on the other side of the line. It said, "Murdock, if you want to see Lola alive again, show up alone at 325 Farmers Road in Hastings, at p.m. It's a deserted farmhouse and barn. Come up the driveway. Walk into the barn. Don't come any sooner, and don't call the police, or you'll find her dead. Remember...come alone!"

I yelled into the phone that whoever harmed her would die the slowest, most torturous death...but it was not heard. He had hung up on me.

The phone was still in my hand. I threw it to the floor, and slammed a couple of punches into the wall. How stupid could a guy get? I should have known that they would get to me by nabbing Lola. I couldn't believe this was happening. Not to me. Not to the most feared man in the city. Not to the merciless killer, the compulsive murderer, the kill crazy private cop who belongs in an asylum.

I'll be there at nine. They'll wish I hadn't come though. I was through playing games with these mugs. They all were as good as dead. The newspapers will call me a mangler, a beast, a madman...a "Maddog." I'll be there alright, and I'll be ready.

There was nothing I could do until sunrise, so I moved my body to the bedroom, and crawled into bed. I laid there on top of the covers, clothes on, and thought. My mind wouldn't rest. It wouldn't let me sleep. The sun was starting to rise anyway. A faint glow of orange light seeped through the draped windows. The clock read 6:20 am.

I got out of bed, and walked to the kitchen. My stomach wasn't asking for food, but it was something to do. I had to keep moving. My hand opened the fridge, and grabbed four eggs, and a few slices of bacon. I threw them into a frying pan, and turned on the flames.

The radio was to my right. I turned it on. The news was being broadcast. Tomorrow they would be talking about the killing, or killings that occurred in Hastings.

The bacon and eggs were done, and I slapped them onto a plate. I took my time eating them. Maybe twenty or thirty minutes passed by the time my plate was clean. I left it on the table, and walked into the living room.

What do I do now? I strolled over to the tall mahogany cabinet in the corner of the room, and opened it. My eyes scanned over my toys. Four.45's, six extra barrels, three firing pins, and ten boxes of shells lay quietly inside the cabinet. I took out two .45's, two firing pins, and two new barrels, and placed them on the table in front of the couch. Then I opened the other drawer, and took out my gun cleaning equipment. I carried them to the table laying them beside the guns, and sat on the couch.

My hands blindly stripped the weapons down, and cleaned them. I inserted the new firing pins for sure fire, and new barrels for extra accurate aim. The guns were like new. I put the semi-automatics back together. They were gleaming from the light coat of oil I had put on them. One was in each of my fists.

People were going to die. They were going to wish they had never heard the name Murdock. My reputation would spread. More stories would be written about me. In addition, there would be a few less "scumbags" in the city.

Something was nibbling away at my memory. Something like a clue about the man behind all this. It was the key that opened the door to a lot of facts about this mystery. The key was within reach of my fingers, and on the tip of my tongue. It was important. It was so important that it would solve the case. Nevertheless, I couldn't grab it. I just couldn't nail it down. The clue was laughing at me. It was laughing at how stupid I was. I sat on the couch, and pondered. The clue continued to stay just out of my reach. I felt it was right in front of my eyes, yet I couldn't see it.

My memory raced back in time, and I carefully thought of every move I had made the last few days. I reviewed the boxing match, the locker room, the explosion, Dragon, Krasinski, and Ragino. Nothing! I kept repeating the events in my mind. I reminisced back to Joe's Pool Hall, the incident outside the Red Hat, and the setup at the broad's apartment in Bronxville. Still nothing! The clue was in there somewhere. I went over the whole thing again, bit by bit, piece by piece. All I came up with were the same results...nothing. The lousy clue was in there. I knew it was there, but I couldn't pinpoint it to save my life. I could have kicked myself in the ass.

My eyes glanced at the ashtray. It was now filled. Hours had passed by. I had gone through a whole pack of smokes without realizing it. The clock on the wall read 3:00 pm. Six hours to go.

I needed some help, and decided to call Matt Zima. He was always happy to get some publicity, and he'd get plenty if things worked out. I picked up the phone, and dialed his number. His thick deep voice answered the phone. I asked him to meet me in front of the lobby of my apartment at 6:30. He kept asking what for, but I kept repeating, "It's a surprise." I also told him to pack a rod or two. Matt agreed, and hung up. I went to the bedroom, slipped on my coat, and walked out of the pad.

I needed to rearm, and gear-up for tonight's activities. For one thing, a holster fitting the small of the back and a gun fitting it might prove fruitful. Unfortunately, a .45 would stand out like a sore thumb there.

I took the elevator down to the lobby, walked out of the building, and into my car. She started up, and I headed for 151st Street. I got there about fifteen minutes later, hooked the wheels to the curb, and got out. In front of me was Dino's Gun Shop.

The air inside the shop smelled of oil and wood. Dino was behind the counter sanding a stock for a shotgun. He was a tall clever fellow in his late twenties. He saw me, put his work down, and came over with his hand outstretched. "How goes it Mike? I've been noticing that you have been in the newspapers regularly. Too bad they don't print where you buy the tools of your trade. Better yet, I'm glad they don't. I'd probably get closed down by the authorities."

He started to reach towards the shelves of .45's. I stopped him and said, "No, I need a different weapon. Give me two Berettas." Dino looked puzzled. "After all these years with the .45's you're going to change to a Beretta?"

"Nope," I said, "It's just for a special job I have in mind."

He walked behind the counter filled with pistols and revolvers of all sizes, shapes, and colors. My eye caught the twinkle of a .25 black pearl-butted Beretta. Dino pulled it from the counter, and handed it to me. It felt, and looked like a toy gun. My mitt fully incased it. Dino handed me another one with some ammo, and I took them downstairs where he had a shooting range. I loaded up the pocket-sized pistols, and tried them out. They didn't make much noise, nor did it spit much fire or smoke. I shot until the guns were empty, and walked back upstairs.

Dino came over, and asked me if I wanted anything else. I had been mulling over another type of weapon. I had nothing to lose by buying one. I was sure he was going to be shocked.

"Yeah," I said as I pointed to a double barrel 12 gauge shotgun hanging on the wall. He took it down and put it on the counter.

I added, "Cut the barrel, so it's about fifteen inches long. Then cut the stock into a hand grip." He started to shake his head, and said that it was against the law. However, when I laid two hundred dollar bills in his palm, the shake of his head turned into a nod.

I was getting a little hungry, so I told him I was going next door to the coffee shop to grab something to eat, and that I would be back in about twenty minutes. The firmness of my voice told him to have the scattergun ready by then. I turned to the door and walked out.

* * *

Ch 14 Preparing for the "OK Corral."

About half an hour later, I walked back into the small cluttered gun shop. The bells on the door rang as I opened it, and Dino came out from the back room. "Oh, it's you Mike. Browse around; and I'll be through in a couple of minutes." He returned to the back room, and I did as he suggested. The shop had more guns than many stores I've seen twice its size. He had everything from a Civil War cannon, to a Derringer the size of a thumb. Dino came out a couple of minutes later carrying the sawed-off shotgun. It looked like a deadly, powerful piece of armament. I took it from him, and gripped it in my hands. The shortened wooden stock fit like it was specially designed for me. A grin covered my face revealing my teeth.

Dino handed me a couple of dark green shells. One was filled with buckshot; the other was a pure lead slug. I took them back downstairs to the range, and inserted the ammo into the chambers. The barrels were pointed at a paper target about ten feet away. I pressed gently on the forward trigger, and the shotgun burst a red flame out of its mouth. The noise was deafening. Pieces of the paper target flew about. What was left was riddled with a hundred little holes.

I placed another target on the clothesline, sent it out a dozen feet, and pressed the second trigger. Orange fire came out of the barrel making it look like a blowtorch. The slug put a clean one-inch hole through the paper. This was the kind of power I needed. It made a .45 look like a Beretta, and a Beretta look like a peashooter. I carried the miniature cannon back upstairs, and laid it on the glass counter alongside the two Berettas. Dino was a good man to know. I asked him for a box of high power .25 caliber bullets, a box of .12 gauge slugs, and a holster for a Beretta. He put the works into a larger container for me to carry out. I gave him two more "C" notes, picked up the box, and walked out the door.

My mind was more at ease now. I knew the arsenal I had would deal death and destruction. Tonight men would die.

I peeked at my watch. The hands indicated 5:30...another hour to go before I was to meet Matt.

I hustled into the car, and made my way through the asphalt jungle. If I pressed the gas pedal, and made the lights, I would make it back to the pad in fifteen minutes. My GTO passed car after car. I continued to think of tonight. My heart beat faster. My blood flowed through my body quickly with excitement. Darkness would be upon the city within a couple of hours.

My apartment was in view now, and my eyes canvassed the street for a parking space. Luck was with me. I pulled into a space in front of my huge cream-white building, picked up my box of goods, and climbed out. The doorman gave me a slight nod of recognition as I passed him. I crossed the lobby and took the lift to my floor.

Just to be on the safe side, I pulled out my .45 as I slid up to my door. I turned the key and knob quietly, and opened it slowly. My ears listened intently for any revealing sounds. No noise! Caution never killed anybody, and it wasn't going to kill me. The darkness of my apartment could have hidden an elephant. My hand reached around the doorjamb, found the light switch, and flicked it on. The miniature chandelier on the ceiling flooded the room with light. My eye skirted every inch of the room before I stepped in. I straightened up, walked in, and set the box on the table.

My thirst was begging for a cold beer, so I grabbed a bottle of suds out of the fridge, and slugged half of it down on the first gulp.

I began preparing my supplies of war. The plain cardboard box didn't give a hint of the arsenal it contained inside. I pulled out a Berretta, and the little leather holster that matched it. If I didn't know that the pistol in my hand was a lethal weapon, I would have sworn it was a toy. My hand worked its way into the box, and came out with the pack of high power .25 caliber bullets. I loaded them into the Berretta, slid the holster onto my belt until it fit into the small of my back, and placed the .25 into it. I eyeballed myself in the mirror to see if it was noticeable. The gun was invisible.

I walked to the bathroom, pulled out a roll of tape from the cabinet, and took it back into the living room. My hand pulled out the other Berretta, loaded it up, and taped it to my right calf. I looked into the mirror again. It wasn't noticeable. The rod felt heavy and awkward when I walked, but it was well hidden.

The .45 I was wearing was a good one, but I replaced it with one of the rods I had cleaned this afternoon. It fit snugly into my shoulder rig. A full clip was inserted, and the semi-automatic was ready for action. I finished the beer, went to the fridge, and pulled out another one. My watch read 6:15. I checked my equipment again, and was satisfied.

Some of the newspaper was lying on top of the television. I picked it up, and wrapped it around my other .45, and the shotgun. It looked like a package of fresh fish. I grabbed a fistful of slugs out of the box, and shoved them into my pocket. My other hand drew a full clip of .45s from the table, and dropped it in the same place. I felt like a walking armory. Too bad the newspapers couldn't get a load of me now. I buttoned my jacket, and walked out the door.

Matt was probably waiting for me in the lobby by now. I jumped over to the elevator entrance, and pressed the call button. The movement of gears and cables sounded through the doors. The whine stopped, and I hopped in. As I pressed the button for the lobby, I looked at the newspaper wrapped package I was carrying. Wouldn't you know that my picture was staring at me! The paper I picked to wrap the guns was very appropriate.

The elevator jerked to a stop, and the doors retreated into their recesses. Matt was in the lobby sitting on a comfortable couch, listening to the soft music the management provided. He didn't know that I was in the lobby until I sat next to him. He looked at me and said, "Alright Mike, cut the cloak, and dagger stuff, and tell me what the scoop is."

"Let's get in my car. I'll tell ya on the way."

He looked annoyed, but followed me out of the building, and into my car. With his gruff voice Matt said, "You had better drop me off here when we're through. My car is right around the corner, and I am not gonna pay a taxi to drive me over here to get it."

"Don't worry. If you manage to live through tonight I'll drive you to your car myself."

His eyes lit up with confusion. "Okay, we're in your car now, so tell me what's going on." I pulled out, and headed northbound.

"Matt, you're gonna get a chance to promote yourself to Chief of Police." He leaned back, lit up a cigar, and enthusiastically said, "Go on, go on, let me hear more."

"Alright, here's the story from the beginning. We know that Archie Bankoff was the one who covered Krasinski's body with that Voltesso stuff. I saw Dragon talking to Bankoff after the fight, and it wasn't any social chat. Archie was shaking from head to toe. I know a lot more about this case than the police do. The mugs that have been trying to kill me, all worked for Dragon, or his boss. He is the muscle of this boxing syndicate that makes sure that certain boxers take dives in specific rounds. If the fighters don't go along, Dragon leans on them until they agree. Dragon knocked off Bankoff. He also knew I was on the case, and hot on his trail. Sooner or later, he knew that I would get to the bottom of this racket. Do you remember what I did to his brother? He wants me to walk into a trap, so he can do the same thing to me. That's where we're headed right now. To the trap...a barn in Hastings. They've got Lola up there."

"You mean Lola is in on this too? Why that lousy whore..."

"No you dumb ass. They kidnapped her from the apartment while I was out, and are holding her as bait. I am supposed to be there at 9:30. It's an abandoned farmhouse and barn located on Farmers Road."

I reached into my pocket, and drew out a smoke from the pack of butts. He held out a light for me, and I dragged on it. I continued, "Here's where you come in. Since you are about my size and shape, you could be mistaken for me at a distance at night. I am going to get out of the car before 9:30, and sneak my way up to the barn. You'll have my jacket on, drive my car up the driveway, and get out. I figure there are three of them in there. Two will probably come out, and I will be behind them with cannon in their backs. After I fill them with lead, we break into the barn, clean up, and rescue Lola. If there happens to be more than three, I've got the artillery to take care of the situation. You'll get front page headlines, and have another girder to build your bridge to Commissioner with."

He knew the danger involved, but the fame he wanted blinded him to it. Plus he knew I needed him to rescue Lola. Matt wasn't a coward anyway. He had risked his life many times when he really didn't have to.

By pulling out his police special .38, he told me that he was with me all the way. I dragged on my smoke, and flicked it out the window. My watch read 7:00. We were in Dobbs Ferry, and almost there. It was early. I swerved the car over to a grocery store, on the side of the road. We were in the middle of nowhere. No other houses, or stores, or buildings could be seen. Matt followed me into the old wooden structure. An old man with no teeth, and binoculars for glasses, came out of the back room, and gummed, "What can I do for you boys?"

Matt answered, "We need a couple of beers Pop, a Bud for my father here, and a Miller for me."

A voice from behind some boxes in the back said, "I'll get it dad." It was a female voice and it sounded very attractive. A few seconds later the most innocent looking brunette emerged from the boxes, carrying two cans of beer. She saw that our eyes followed her every move. This babe was stacked with a couple of bowling balls. They were fascinating. I've seen smaller watermelons. It was a wonder that she could walk erect. Matt looked at me, and we almost burst out laughing. Her body was like an hourglass. I doubted that she could see her toes. They had to be "double F's" if they were an inch.

She handed the cans to us, and I asked her for a can opener. A smile beamed at us and she said, "Take your eyes off of me, and you'll see that they are the new self-opening cans." That sure made me feel stupid. Matt thought it was pretty funny. He asked her to join us for a beer, and she accepted. Matt slipped two bucks to the old man, and we followed the buxom chick outside to a wooden table and chairs at the side of the shack.

We could see that she was as intrigued with us as we were with her. We didn't look like a couple of schoolboys. Matt whispered to me that he had never felt like touching a woman's breasts as much as he did right now. As he talked to her, they were practically stabbing him in the eye. Every other second I looked at Matt, and he appeared to be fighting to keep his hands off of her. She knew what he was looking at, and she took some deep breaths. Finally, Matt couldn't stand it any longer and said to her, "Look kid, I don't believe all that is yours. I'll pay you twenty bucks if you show me what those monsters look like."

She thought it over, smiled, and got up. "I'll take your money first, sir." He fingered into his wallet, and handed her twenty bucks. She pulled the tight blue sweater over her body, and revealed her bra. It didn't look like the normal bra, but resembled two flour sacks sewn together. Matt and I were on the edges of our seats. Her hand's swung around behind her, and released the clasp of her bra. It fell away, and lo and behold, we witnessed the eighth wonder of the world. They looked like two giant white milky basketballs with large pink tips. We looked at each other in amazement, then back at the broad. Matt stated that he wished he had a camera! Still in a daze, we stood up, slugged down the remainder of the beer, and walked backwards to the car still soaking up the view. Wow, what a sight! We hopped back in the car, and headed out.

The time was 7:30, and the sun was down. I turned the headlights on. Up ahead was a sign, "WELCOME TO HASTINGS. POP: 18,000".

I thought I knew where Farmers Road was, and found the long narrow paved road with little problem. The iron sign on the corner read "Farmers Road."

As I drove on the desolate byway, I noticed a deserted farmhouse on the right. I wondered if that was the one. Few cars travelled this road, as it was an out of the way place that lead to nowhere important. I drove further up the road, and read the numbers on the next house, which were 329. The deserted barn we had passed was the place where I was supposed to meet my bitter enemies. I pulled the car over to the side, far out of sight of the farmhouse, and cut the engine. Matt and I went over our plans, and I reached back for my .45 and shotgun. It was the first time Matt had noticed the package. When I opened it, he laughed. I pulled two slugs out of my pocket, and inserted them into the chambers of the sawed off cannon. My free hand gripped the .45, and slid it under the dash. That one was there just as an extra safety measure. We sat back, lit up a couple of smokes, and got our thoughts together.

* * *

CH 15 Death in 'Nam! Death at the Barn! Death for...?

Twenty minutes had passed, and the nocturnal blanket of night had spread over the countryside. My watch read 8:30. I stuffed out a butt, picked up my shotgun, and climbed out of the car. It was time to move.

The barn and house were a good quarter of a mile down the road on the opposite side. A large treeless field surrounded the two shabby buildings. The crisp night air cut into my lungs. Clouds filled the sky. Not rain clouds, but billowy ones that hid the brightness of the quarter moon above. The area was deserted...the road was deserted...the whole damn region was deserted. This was a wasteland.

I crossed the road. My feet ground into the pebbles as I walked on the soft shoulder. A light from far down the road appeared. It came closer and closer resembling a bug with two glaring eyes. The eyes became brighter the closer they came. I jumped into a ditch at the side of the road. The bug with its two glaring eyes became a car with headlights beaming. It passed me. I waited until it was out of sight, and I then jumped back onto the shoulder.

The field was filled with three-foot high grass, and other indistinguishable weeds. I stepped off the side of the road, and into the jungle of weeds. My feet sloshed through the soft earth beneath them. The reeds rustled as they scraped against my body. I was about a hundred and fifty yards from the barn now. A faint light cut its way through the crevices between the deteriorated wooden slats. I stopped, and listened for the betraying sounds of a guard. It was still a long way to the barn, but as I said before, "Caution never killed anyone."

The walking through the field reminded me of my time in Viet Nam. Instead of donning a blazer, I wore a drab Army camouflaged uniform. Instead of a shotgun, I carried an M-16. I recalled walking through a field on the edge of a rice paddy. The memory became clearer and clearer. My company was dropped, by chopper, into a well-laid Viet-Cong trap, and we were being demolished. Kids I had spent months of training with were slaughtered before they could hit the ground. Only a few of us had managed to scatter and get away...maybe twenty of the original forty-five of us. I had four men with me, and the three stripes on my arm made me in charge.

We were twenty long miles behind enemy lines, and "Charlie" knew we were there. The damn Reds were chasing us down, and closing the distance between us. It was useless for us to try to outrun them. It looked like it was just a matter of time before we were cut down, or taken prisoner.

I had to pull something they didn't expect. We jumped into a thick cluster of brush and trees. The VC were hot on our trail. They were just a few minutes behind us, and they were about twenty-five men strong. We were able to set up two Claymore mines at the edge of the thicket, one aimed up, and one aimed down the trail. As they passed by, I set off one of the mines with my "clacker." The explosion sent hundreds of steel balls into the kill zone, cutting into and through the bodies of the enemy infantry. Cries of pain and agony filled the moist jungle air. A half dozen Cong met their immediate death. A half dozen others were now bleeding on the soft, black soil, maimed for life. One of my squad lit off the other Claymore with his handheld firing device, sending a second devastating round of lethal metal pellets into the ranks of the VC.

My army of five then opened up with all our firepower. We tossed grenades, and shots rang out from every direction. It was kill, or be killed. The bullets flew, and death followed their trail. I shot off one clip after another. My fingers guided a hand-grenade into the middle of a clump of Charlie. The blast sent flesh and blood across this part of the jungle. I repeated my action on another cluster of enemy. The blast roared, and more blood and flesh spread through the air. They scattered in retreat, and I looked for my comrades.

I found four injured Cong, took out my bayonet, and slit their throats. Blood gushed from their necks, and I smiled with a vengeance as they gurgled their last breaths. MADDOG Murdock was born.

My small army had grown smaller. Three were dead, and the other was wounded in the arm. When I saw the three lifeless bodies of my friends, I turned back to the remains of the dead Cong, and decapitated every one of them. I wanted the lousy Commies to know that the American Cavalry were warriors to be feared. The enemy believed that if they died with their heads disconnected from their bodies, they would never reach their so- called paradise.

I scanned the area around me. Over twenty bodies lay dead. We turned our noses southward, and headed home. We trudged through jungles, fields, and tall grass. Finally, late the next night we were approached by friendly troops.

Yeah, I remember those days. They say history repeats itself. If it did there were going to be some headlines tomorrow about some headless bodies in Hastings.

Pushing thoughts at Viet-Nam out of my mind, I found myself about seventy-five yards from the house. Again, I stopped, and listened. The only sounds heard were the singing of the crickets, and the steady thumping of my heart. The rickety farmhouse ahead of me hid part of the barn located behind it. The moonlight struck through the clouds for a second, and then disappeared again. I stood at the edge of the field. In front of me was a large brown oak. I skirted up to it, and glanced at my watch...9:00.

No light came from the farmhouse. I crawled from the trees to the side of the deserted structure, and took in a full view of the barn. It was no more than fifty feet away. I saw a faint outline of a figure at the front of the barn by the door. My body hugged the ground, and I crawled to the side, then to the rear of the barn, unnoticed by the looming figure. An old door hanging on one rusty hinge was the only exit at the rear of the barn. A light flowed from the crack in the door. I snaked up to it, and looked through the slit.

Three kerosene lamps burned around four men sitting on wooden boxes, playing cards on an old crate. Two more were sitting against the wall idly smoking and mumbling. Lola wasn't in sight, nor was Dragon. They could be there though. Much of the inside of the barn was out of my line of vision. A group of empty stables blocked out the whole left side of the barn from my sight. Just then, Dragon walked toward the group playing cards, buttoning his pants, and said, "Whose next?"

One of the card players got up and said jokingly, "I wouldn't blame Murdock for being a Maddog if he found out all seven of us banged his broad."

My eyes saw flames. I pictured Lola going through a torture...a torture of seven men, one after the other, violating her. Hate came to me in waves, and the waves got bigger and bigger. I wanted to charge in there now, and mutilate every one of those sons of bitches. Those lousy vultures. Seven men on one woman! I put my ear to the door and listened. I let them speak their last few words. Dragon had his mouth open and snickered, "That babe has a beautiful body. Murdock has some fine taste. Did you notice she is a bleached blonde?" They all laughed at that. I let them laugh. I savored over the thought of them laughing in front of me with a .45 rammed down their throats. They all had had their last woman.

The sound of a dry branch breaking under a man's foot made its way to my ears. I ducked into a shallow hole beside the barn, and leaned against the wall. The shadowy figure appeared and came toward me, but couldn't see my body. I could hardly see myself. He stopped, peeked through the same slit in the door, and humorously yelled, "What's going on in there? Is Butch getting seconds? When he finishes, tell him to come out here and relieve me. I'd like to hit that ass again."

Everybody laughed. The asshole eased away from the door, and walked past me. The punk almost stepped on my hand. I jumped up, and brought my right forearm tightly around his neck before he could make a sound. Then my left hand pushed his head forward. A snap broke the silence of the night, and his head hung loosely from his shoulders. This guy was lucky to die fast and clean. If I could have, I would have made him suffer a slow and horrible death. His corpse lay on the ground like a sack of rags.

I moved back to my position at the door. One down and six to go! Those six were thinking that I would be dead within half an hour. Maybe they were planning to make my death slow and agonizing. I looked at my watch, 9:20. Five minutes before Matt was to drive up to the barn.

The sound of a door opening inside the structure reached my ears. The worm called Butch had finished his turn with Lola, and rejoined his twisted friends. He said, "Ah, that babe humps like a dead frog." One of the other mugs replied, "What do you expect? You're the ninth one tonight. I got her second. I love it when they fight. The little bitch squirmed for me, and bucked like a bronco."

I felt like jumping in there now, and tearing their insides out. I heard a, "I'd like to bump that broad again, but it's about time for Murdock to show. I'll go out, and keep Bingo company."

He got up, and headed out the door at the front of the barn. Little did he know that Bingo was lying on the ground with a snapped neck. A call speared through the night, "Hey Bingo where you at?" No answer. Again, the same call. This time I yelled, "In the back. Come'ere and look at dis."

I ambled up to the side of the barn squeezing my body against the coarse weather beaten wood. The rustle of footsteps grew louder. My hand reached for my knife, and I worked the shiny button that extended the blade into position. He must have been about four feet away. I jumped out from the darkness, my right hand covering his mouth, while the left swept across his thick muscular neck with a swift clean stroke. The thug's head tilted back, and his body followed it to the ground. Blood gushed from the long slit above his Adam's apple. His body twitched from muscle convulsions. It reminded me of an eel wiggling when out of water. I laughed silently to myself. Two down and five to go!

I turned around, and saw a pair of headlights streaking its way toward the barn. Matt was coming down the driveway. I yelled out in my best Butch impression, "Hey boss, here he comes." My hand clasped around the sawed off shotgun. It felt like it was thriving for some action. I paced silently to the side of the barn where I could see the front door. The portal squeaked open, and three men came out. None of them was Dragon. I adjusted the barrel of my cannon to aim at the center of their backs, and waited for the right moment.

My car stopped about thirty feet from them, and silence loomed over the area. Death was in the air, only they didn't smell it. I leveled the shotgun against my shoulder. Matt climbed out of the car, and stood behind the driver's door as planned. The darkness concealed his features. I heard one of the gunmen whisper, "This guy doesn't know what he's in for."

The fact was that they didn't know what they were in for.

My finger itched to squeeze the triggers. The three thugs were about twenty feet from me, and started walking towards the car. Now was the time. My finger squeezed one trigger. A blast of fire and smoke spilled from the muzzle, and one of the hoods flew into the air. He landed three or four yards from where the slug had hit him. I pulled the second trigger. Another shot echoed through the night. It hit the second one in the chest. A loud thump from lead hitting bone sounded.

Suddenly bullets came flying my way. They landed above and below me. I dropped the shotgun, and backtracked to the rear of the barn. Before I did, I noticed a lump on the ground by the side of my car. It was Matt's body. I ditched into a little gully bordering the barn. The sounds of footsteps were all around me. There were three of them, and one of me. My .45 was in my hand. I saw a dark figure jump from the front of the barn, and into the gully to the right of me. Lead flew from his pistol. Four times, I fired without a hit.

The sound of feet broke the silence to the left of me. I fired three more times. The feet were still moving. I had missed again. My paw reached into my pocket to get my second clip, but it must have fallen out. I cursed as I threw the empty .45 into the darkness. My hands reached down to release the Beretta taped to my leg, but it was too late. I slipped my pants back over the gun and got up. From the depths of the night, Dragon and his goons emerged to my side. He smiled and said, "So you tried to pull a fast one. See where it got you?" Then he turned to his boys and mumbled, "Get him into the barn. Were gonna show him where it got him."

They pulled me out of the gully, and shoved me to the front of the barn. Three lifeless bodies lay on the ground. One of Dragon's boys had his part of his lung hanging out of his chest cavity. It looked like a large piece of stew meat. The other one had a six-inch hole in his belly. A grotesque smirk covered his face. I was pushed through the door, into the decaying structure. Dragon had a broad grin on his face. His boys pushed me into a corner, and sat me on a wooden crate. Their rods were aimed at my midsection. Dragon stiffened up and said, "Search him you fools. This guy isn't any punk off the street."

One of them got up, while the other kept his gun trained on me. Unfortunately, he came across the Beretta on my leg. He smiled to himself as if he was a smart cookie, and continued his search. From my pocket, he pulled out my blade. He shoved both of them into his pocket, and rejoined his buddy. The other Beretta was still in the holster in the small of my back.

Dragon spit out an order to get a rope and tie me up. They tied my hands behind my back, and pushed me towards my arch enemy. I was in front of him face to face. His hand reached up, and it smacked me across the mouth. A very brave man I thought to myself. I felt a trickle of blood ooze down my lip. A smile crossed my face showing him that I could handle anything he could dish out.

Dragon turned around, walked a couple of steps, and said, "Remember what you did to my brother? Well the same thing is going to happen to you. First, I want you to see what your woman looks like. He walked into the little workshop in the corner of the barn. The goons behind me pushed me towards it until I shook them off, and walked by myself. As I entered, the smell of semen reached my nose. Lola was tied to the floor. Both her legs were tied to stakes in the ground, her arms to two others. I looked at her naked spread-eagled body lying on the dirt floor. Blood flowed from between her legs. Scratches and bruises riddled her thighs and abdomen. She was conscious, but in a daze. Dragon saw the hate grow on my face. I tried to kick him in the groin, but he eluded it and laughed. The two goons grabbed me again, and pulled me out the door as Dragon followed, closing it behind him. I was thrown into an old wooden chair. The mugs were on each side of me. Dragon walked over carrying a shiny object in his hand. I knew what it was...my knife.

* * *

CH 16 The Tables Are Turned. Who is "Mr. Big"?

He came closer with the menacing knife and spit out, "Before I cut you up big shot, you're gonna watch me butcher your woman." The words came out of his mouth slowly, and I knew he meant every word of it. A jerk of his head sent the two goons into the other room to untie Lola. Dragon came closer, and teasingly wiped the sharp edge of the blade down my cheek.

It was only him and me in the room. If I was gonna, make my move I had to make it now. My hands were tied behind my back. I wiggled my fingers under my coat, felt the Beretta, and slipped it into my palm. A moan from Lola came from the other room, and Dragon turned his head for a split second. That was a split second too long for him. I swiveled my arms to my hip, and pointed it the .25 at his gut. He turned back just in time to see me pull the trigger. The shot rang out and Dragon doubled over, and then dropped to the floor. His face showed both surprise and disdain.

At the sound of the shot, the two thugs came running from the other room. I turned the little Beretta on them, and fired. When I finished the clip off, both men were on the ground. One had a hole the size of a pea through the bridge of his nose. The slug must have embedded in his brain for there was no exit hole. The other got it in the neck. It appeared the bullet had pierced his spine. He laid there with his mouth wide open, filling with blood. I didn't realize I was such a good shot, especially from behind my back.

I hustled over to Dragon's body, and picked the knife from his hand. He was still alive, and coming around. My hands wrestled with the blade until it parted the bounds around my wrists. I put the knife back to my pocket, and gripped my Beretta. Dragon's hand reached for the hole in his belly, wincing in pain as he touched it. It was my turn to smile now. I casually said, "There's been a slight changed in plans Dragon. Instead of you cutting up Lola and me, she's gonna cut you up. You could use a facelift anyway."

He didn't think that was too funny.

I grabbed a rope, and told him to get on his feet. He unwillingly did, and spit curses at me. He took his time at first, but sped up when I whipped the rope across his face. Bright red welts immediately appeared.

A workbench was in the corner of the barn. It was about six feet long, and three feet wide. Oh yes, it would make a good carving table. My Beretta pushed his back toward it. I yelled, "Lay down face up, and I'll teach you how to become a surgeon." There wasn't much he could do, so he rolled on top of long wooden bench. I tied his chest, hands, and feet to it. I noticed his shoes. They were an ugly maroon color. Vaguely, I remembered seeing those shoes before, but couldn't place where. For some reason it seemed important but I couldn't put my finger on it.

After satisfying myself with my Boy Scout knotting ability I stumbled over to the small room Lola was in. She was lying on the ground, her hands, and feet now free. Lola recognized me, struggled to get up, and wrapped her arms around my shoulders. She was oozing with relief over my saving her, yet she hurt badly from the trauma these degenerates had put on her. I picked up her torn garments that were heaped in a pile on top of some mildewed hay. They didn't even let her undress. The sons of bitches ripped the clothes right off her. I picked up Lola's coat, and wrapped it over her scratched and bruised body.

As we walked out of her room of torture, she saw the two goons on the floor. She spit on each of them as she passed. Then her eyes fell upon Dragon, tied helplessly on the table. A small circle of blood surrounded the hole in his shirt. A black and blue mark had risen on his face from where I had slashed him with the rope.

I told my baby to take a seat as I pulled out the knife and said, "Ya know Johnny boy, nobody has ever caused me that much grief and trouble as you. You should never have laid a hand on my woman. You're gonna die now Dragon. You're gonna go slow...very, very slow. You'll know what torture means by the time I'm finished with you."

I depressed the button on the knife, and the shiny blade swished to open position. "Hey Johnny boy, did you know I was a surgeon? That's right, I'm gonna operate, and take that nasty bullet out of your gut."

He looked at me in disbelief. I laid the tips of the cutlery into the hole, and moved it in and out like a saw. A bloodcurdling scream echoed throughout the barn. Lola sat watching my moves. Her normally soft heart had hardened from the traumatic suffering she had just been put through. She had hate in her eyes.

The hole became larger and larger. It wasn't so hard to be a surgeon. The wound was big enough now so I could stick a couple of fingers into it. The tip of my fingers dove in, and groped through the flesh and slimy parts of his anatomy. I finally found the piece of lead, and pulled it out.

Dragon fainted momentarily from pain, or loss of blood, or something. I wanted him awake. A couple of pats on his cheeks got him to come around. I showed him the bullet and said, "Here it is. Don't worry you'll be back on your feet in a couple of days." After that, I laughed in his face. It was evident he was in poor humor since he didn't laugh.

There was one more thing I wanted to do to him. Dragon was moaning in pain. I leaned over his head and quietly said, "Who's paying you Johnny? Who's running this operation?" All I heard between his sobs and moans were, "I don't know, I don't know." I was getting short tempered. Every time I looked at Lola's marred face hate flashed in front of my eyes. Again, I asked, "Who are you working for?" He kept babbling like a baby and repeated, "I don't know, I don't know."

My hand reached for Lola, and I pulled her to the table. This was it. I couldn't stand it anymore. My hands groped around his belt buckle, and with a yank, I pulled his pants down to his knees. I laid the edge of my blade against his manhood, and lightly carved shallow grooves with each stroke. He looked at me, and his eyes pleaded for mercy. Lola yelled out, "Mike, don't. Let me." Wow, I didn't expect to hear that coming out of Lola's mouth, but considering what she had just been through, I sure understood it.

I looked at Dragon and said, "If you don't want to lose this piece of useless flesh, you had better do some fast talking. I can stop myself. But Lola? I don't know. You tell me. How long do you think you'll have that little pecker if I hand my blade to Lola? Talk now or I hand her the blade!"

He couldn't talk fast enough. Words banged into each other as they tried to get out of his mouth. "I got my orders from a box at the P-P-P-Post-Office. The same with the payments. B-B-B-Believe me Murdock. It's the truth."

His eyes were pleading for me to put the knife away. His chest rose and depressed in large swells. I wasn't sure if I believed what he said, but that still didn't erase out what he had done to Lola. I looked at his distorted face, then at Lola. She had two cuts on her cheeks, and they would probably leave scars. Such a beautiful face now with two marks.

I saw red. A red that meant torture. My hand tightened on the knife, and it slashed across his shaft. I couldn't help doing it. A shrill scream sounded throughout the dimly lit barn. He let out a blood-curdling scream that even scared me. It pierced the air with the sound of excruciating agony. Dragon's body stiffened, and his eyes opened wide. The screaming stopped, his body went limp, and his eyes closed slowly. I threw the rubbery snakelike piece of flesh into the corner of the barn. I looked down to where it once joined his body. Blood bubbled from its round base. Every time his heart beat, a spurt of dark red blood pumped out of both his groin, and his stomach. I turned to Lola. She had a look of satisfaction on her face.

I turned back to Dragon. The rich red fluid that was spurting had stopped. His heart had quit. I didn't want him to die yet. I had to find out who Mr. Big was, and Dragon had the piece to the puzzle. Frantically, but hopelessly, I pounded on his chest trying to restart the beat of his heart. Finally, after caving in his chest, I realized that it was too late.

Why did I go so far? I kicked the table in disgust. A lot of information was now irretrievable because Dragon was dead. I sat on a box next to Lola, and looked at the mutilated corpse before me. Mr. Big would still be able to operate unless I came up with another lead. Dragon had the answer. If only I had been a little less eager to do him in.

But something in my head pounded away. That key was trying to bang its way out of my memory storage, and unlock the big question, "Who is the man behind this operation?" I knew that if I found that clue I would have the puzzle solved. My brain raced through the last few days. Dennis gets killed, Krasinski gets killed, Bankoff gets killed, and the big effort was made to kill me. I went over every move I had made during the week. I killed the mug in front of the Red Hat, the three punks at the office, Jaguar John, and these guys today. Nothing led to an answer about Mr. Big.

The sound of the barn door opening reached my ears. I grabbed Lola, pulled her to the ground, and trained my eyes to the door. The wooden portal opened, and a huge man with a bloody face took its place. It was Matt. His .38 was in his hand, and he looked like he would kill the first person who looked at him crooked. I yelled out, "Matt, over here." He looked at the two bodies on the floor, and then at Dragon's. A smirk formed on his puss. His opening words were, "What's the matter? Didn't you like this guy?"

I smiled, pulled out my handkerchief, and handed it to him so he could wipe the blood off his face. A shallow wound creased the upper left side of his forehead. It looked like a bullet had just missed saying hello to his brain. Matt spoke again, "It looks like I passed out during all this action. Did I miss a good show?" He looked at Dragon's corpse again and said, "Mike I could see the bullet hole in his stomach, the slash on his face, and the caved-in chest, but what's the story on his...uh, missing member?"

I said, "Don't ask! I'll glue it back before the cops get here." I didn't get any laughs from that one.

Matt sat down on the box, and applied pressure to his head wound as I leaned back against the wall.

My mind was still trying to find that clue. It seemed to be one jump away from me. I was so close yet so far from knowing the answer to this whole deal. I could almost reach out and grab it.

I looked down at Matt who was still pressing the handkerchief to his head. His tongue ran over his lips and he mumbled, "I could sure use a drink right now."

A light bulb in my brain lit up. What he had said drew back the curtain hiding the clue. Yes, it was clear now. How could I have been so stupid? Cupping Lola's face in my hands, I gently kissed her bruised and battered face saying, "I've got to finish this." I told Matt to stay here, and take care of Lola. I raced out of the barn with Matt chasing me yelling, "What the hell is going on? You can't do this. Come back here."

I hopped into the car pressing the gas to the floor. The wheels spewed dust and pebbles behind me. As I drove away Matt angrily screamed, "Don't forget to tell somebody we are here, you idiot."

I got onto the main drag, and pumped the speedometer to ninety.

It was so very clear now. The whole picture! Everything! There was another person who was going to die tonight.

He wasn't going to live another hour if I could help it. As I drove, I thought of how I was going to kill him. All that came into my head was Kill...Kill...Kill!

* * *

CH 17 Revenge...Death in the Bronx.

I drove like a lunatic let loose. At the turns, the tires screamed for me to slow down. A grimace covered my face from ear to ear, and I sneered at the clue as it had sneered at me before. How stupid I was not to have realized what it was sooner. It was in front of my face all this time, but I couldn't see it. However, now it came in as clear as the sun at noon. I could hear the words Matt had said that opened the curtain for me..."I sure could use a drink."

I was passing through the northern part of Yonkers now, and still heading southbound. My finger pushed a cigarette out of my pack of butts, and shoved it into my dry dusty mouth. More and more cars filled the road as I neared the city. Their headlights stabbed their way through the night blinding the oncoming cars.

The sounds of crickets disappeared as the apartments and business offices captured the scenery around me.

I was energized. One more man was going to die tonight. Just one more! I could imagine his face when he sees me. He probably thinks I'm dead by now. He's the one who set up this trap for me. How surprised he's gonna be. Why, his jaw will probably drop to his knees. I smiled as I thought of that image.

Downtown Yonkers was now in front of me. Even though the stores and businesses were closed, the lights emanating through their windows lit up the area.

I came to a red light. A patrol car was parked at the side of the street with the cops in it. So far, I had run four red lights on my way here, but I was going to have to wait on this one. The damn red lights in Yonkers last for ninety seconds. It was the longest ninety seconds I had spent in a long time. It felt like five minutes had gone by before it turned green. Finally, I puttered away until I was out of sight of the patrol car, and then put on the steam again.

My tires wheeled down Broadway, running several other red lights. Cars screeched to a halt as I drove by them on the wrong and right sides of the road. A couple of autos collided, and others were run off the street as I raced by. I didn't care. I had one thing on my mind, and I was heading for it with abandon. My breathing was heavy, and my lungs inhaled and exhaled faster and faster. I gripped the steering wheel so hard that it hurt my hands.

I could see my destination now as I rumbled down the last block. My hands jerked the wheel to the right, and my foot slammed on the brakes. The tires left rubber marks on the street, and the front end of the car came to rest on top of the sidewalk.

I grabbed the .45 from under the dash, checked the clip, stuffed it into my holster, and jumped out of the car. People on the sidewalk passed me without saying a word. They saw the anger in my face. I pushed through the door to see my bitter enemy. He faced me now. His eyes were wide, and filled with surprise, hate, fear, and terror. He was standing behind the bar mixing a drink. That's right! It was Dutch! Mr. Big, the guy responsible for kidnapping Lola, the man behind the syndicate, the person who tried to have me killed, was now standing in front of me. An hour ago, I would have thought he was one of my best friends.

I stood at the bar, and roared, "Everybody get outta here." My voice echoed throughout the lounge, and the joint emptied in less than twenty seconds. Stools were knocked to the ground, glasses were tipped over, and change was left on the bar. The only sound to be heard was the commotion of the people now outside. I quietly said, "Well, are you the bartender? Set me up a drink. The usual, pal."

He was shaking, and his hands could hardly hold the bottle of Four Roses. Whiskey fell around the glass. I grabbed the bottle from him, poured my own drink, and slugged it down. My hands reached out grabbing his shirt. Spit sprayed out of my mouth as I brayed, "Dutch, you are in for a little fun. You're gonna wish that your father had used a rubber when you were conceived."

My free hand picked up the bottle of booze, and brought it around my shoulder as if I was winding up to throw a baseball. He tried to squirm out of my hold, but I held tight. My arm slung forward with lightning speed bringing the bottle crashing into his jaw. Both the bottle, and his jaw, broke in several places. Shards of glass flew, leaving a jagged-edged cutting tool in my grip. He let out a howl, and fell to the floor. Bare bone hung from his face, and blood flowed.

I jumped over the bar and picked the rat up. Four or five of his lower front teeth almost fell out. A bottle can make a mean weapon. I said, "Dutch baby, you ain't seen nothin' yet." My hand pulled back then slashed forward, gouging the sharp edges of the broken end of the bottle in and across his distorted, mangled jaw. It tore into his chin repeatedly. Teeth bounced onto the floor, and blood flowed more freely than before. I could see the bones of his jaw clearly. Flesh hung like shreds of soaked paper. Dutch could no longer stand, so I propped him against the bar. What a softy!

I thought of the sadistic plan he had engineered to trap me. I thought of the things that had happened to Lola because of it. All I could see was blood. He screamed. Loud, wild, unrecognizable screams that only a man suffering the worst of pain could yell. I saw my arm rise up. My hand grabbed his hanging jaw, and with a jolt, yanked it from his face. Two crisp snaps sounded from where the bones were once joined. Skin and sinew stretched and popped like rubber bands. The upper half of Dutch's body folded onto the bar, quivering, and shaking. He was now in a deep shock. I threw his flesh torn jaw across the bar, and looked at him. His hideous tongue was dangling like a worm on a fishhook. His lower lip, teeth, and chin were gone. The gyrating tongue was the only thing left below his upper teeth. Dark red blood spewed from his lacerated face. He just stood there, and stared into my eyes.

My stare plowed through his and I spat out, "Dutch, I should have known it was you a long time ago. I should have realized that the only times someone tried to bump me off was when I left this joint. When I came in, you made a call to Dragon, and he sent his boys out here to wait for me to leave. I was wondering how they always seemed to know where I was. Then there was the time when you were in the back room with Dragon. I saw his foot at the door before you pushed him back. He was the only guy I ever saw who wore maroon shoes. But that wasn't the big piece of the puzzle that was missing. I went behind the bar the same night, picked up a weird looking bottle that had caught my eye, and smelled it. It smelled like oil. The label read Voltesso N something or other. It didn't pop into my brain until today. That was your big mistake. Leaving that bottle there cost you your life."

A large pool of blood was forming on the bar. Soon he would be dead from the loss of blood. I had no mercy for this guy. My hand grabbed for another bottle of whiskey, and I crashed the neck against the counter, shattering the top. I yelled, "Did you ever get a cut and have whiskey poured on it? It puts a sting into your life. You look like you could use something to perk you up."

The hand that held the broken bottle of booze flicked towards him, and splashed the fluid over his grotesque and torn open face. I could almost see the alcohol eat into his nerves. Macabre cries of terrible pain shrieked through the air. His hand covered his mutilated face, and he fell to the floor. The pain was so intense that he started convulsing. It became worse as the alcohol ate deeper and deeper into his raw nerves. I stood there, and watched with a smile from ear to ear.

The sounds of sirens resonated from outside. They became louder until they stopped in front of the lounge. Shouts echoed through the doors and the crowd outside parted to make a path for the police. As the cops charged in with their pistols drawn, I raised my hands into the air, and put them against the wall. They frisked me, pushed me around, and looked at me as if I was dirt. I didn't care.

A smirk was still on my face, and I was satisfied...too satisfied to get mad. The four cops looked at the mangled body quivering on the floor, and two of them heaved everything, but their intestines out of their mouths. I laughed, not to myself, but out loud. They all heard me, and their faces showed that they didn't like it. The men in blue shoved me through the crowd and into the back of a caged squad car.

* * *

CH 18 Epilogue

It's been six days since I ripped Dutch's face apart. He died the next day, and he died in pain, the way I wanted him to die. I was arrested, spent two days in the slammer, and then released. I had pled self-defense...Dutch attacked me with the broken bottle. The bottle was there as evidence. During the melee I had been cut, and explained how Dutch had come at me first. I had just responded to his attack, and happened to come out on top.

Matt had laid out the entire scenario at the barn to the District Attorney's Office, bending the story as appropriate to minimize any charges against me. I ran down the story on the gambling syndicate that Dutch headed. Then there was the killing of Krasinski, the Voltesso scam, Chiulli's murder, the bombing at the boxing match, and Bankoff's supposed suicide. I continued with the story on Mr. .38 at the Red Hat, the three goons at my office, the car trying to gun me down in the street, Jaguar John being brought in to bump me off, and the trap of the "Bronxville Beauty."

The Judge Advocate considered the degenerate scumbags involved, and the number of crimes I had just helped them solve. The D.A. looked past the flaws in my story, and gave me a lot of leeway regarding the tale I had spun regarding self-defense. It was clear in his mind that I had just done humanity a favor. The Prosecutors decided not to pursue the case, the D.A. accepted my testimony, and I was cut loose of any further charges.

Lola had spent two days in the hospital, and seemed to be recovering from her physical injuries. Knowing that her emotional scars would take longer to heal, I closed shop, and gave her the personal attention she deserved. We vacationed for two weeks. She healed well.

Some people call me NYC's most violent private detective. That may be true. I don't try to be. Things happen. I'm in a "tough" business, and survive because I'm a "tough" S.O.B. Some say I'm a MADDOG!

* * *

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Tom Golabek

MADDOG was initially written in 1967 on a manual typewriter (remember those relics?) while I served in the military in Viet-Nam. I spent many hours at my battle station, which was a cramped two-man control room of a missile system. The small portable ROYAL typewriter fit snugly on my lap. There were long periods of boredom interspersed with moments of action. During these long periods (nine months of it), MADDOG was born and completed.

Once discharged, I sent the manuscript to two N.Y.C. book publishers, and received rejections. The manuscript was put on the shelf, where it sat until 1980. That year, I again found myself in a situation where I had long periods of boredom interspersed with moments of action. In addition, this time I had access to a modern IBM Selectra 3 electric typewriter with an "auto erase" feature (no more liquid whiteout). MADDOG was reborn, re-edited, and completed again.

I sent the updated manuscript to another publisher, and a literary agent, and received two more rejections. Damn! Well, back on the shelf.

In 2012, I'm playing poker with friends, and one of them showed me the poker book he recently had published. I bent his ear for an hour or two, and my writing juices were flowing again.

The third rewrite of MADDOG was done on a computer (thank you spell-check, Word, etc.). It's been 45 years since I first wrote it!

I had not readily realized many of the changes in society and life that had occurred between 1967 and 2012 until my latest rewrite of MADDOG. Here are a few:

No cell phones;

Public phone booths and the $.10 charges to make call;

8 well drinks at a bar for $10 (tip included);

Two full 3 course meals & drinks for under &20 (tip Included);

A cab ride for a buck;

Tickets at a Madison Square Garden championship fight $8.

A Pontiac GTO;

Bottles of ink for pens;

Ambulance attendants in white coats instead of rescue trucks manned by EMT's.

Opening a car door with a key.

A nickel parking meter.

Cars with roll down windows, and cigarette lighters.  
"Superman" TV series.

Using a "Church Key" to open a can of beer.

When I was initially writing MADDOG in 1967, I tried to

Envision an actor whom I would have cast to play him. Robert Mitchum led the field. However, in 2012, nobody under 65 knows who he was. The more recent nominees would be a younger Nick Nolte, or Mickey Rourke.

Anyone who had read a Mickey Spillane novel would easily see that he was a major influence in my writing. Thanks for many enjoyable hours Mickey!

Thanks for Reading

Tom

Hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it and finally getting it published after 40 years.

And special thanks to Amazon for liberating all of us from the tyranny of the traditional publishers

* * *

Toms Other Books in this series

Find out more about Maddog, and his sidekick. Read free chapters of each of his books, find all about Maddog 5. Toms Pictures for Nam, and sign up for his newsletter to keep informed about special pricing and deals. Visit Toms Website at: <http://tomgolabek.com/>

Maddog 2: Maddog Is Back

MADDOG is a tough as hardtack, brutally violent, and self-righteous character who considers himself judge, jury, and executioner. Murdock's techniques and attitude are sometimes gory, over the top and just plain repulsive. But that's the appeal. You'll want to follow him to the very end of each of his violent adventures.

The time is 1969, the place is New York City, and in these concrete canyons, everybody has got an angle.

Frankie Fortuna, the greatest crooner of four decades, calls Mike Murdock in to help get back his kidnapped granddaughter. Full of suspense, the chapters take you through twists and turns that keep you riveted to the pages.

Murdock is hard boiled, not always on the "up & up", and isn't bashful about hurting people. His Colt.45 semi-automatic is always tucked in his shoulder holster, ready for action. He can do, and does, things that police can't.

You will find it difficult not to turn the pages from start to finish in this sequel.

* * *

Maddog 3: True Justice

No clues. No leads. This time it's personal! "Maddog" is gunned down, and left for dead with two slugs in his chest. Ride with Murdock as he searches for the unknown assailant.

"Maddog" Murdock takes you to a dark place of mayhem and murder. From cover to cover, the characters, and the chase, they lead you on, will keep you intrigued. You don't want to cross this two-fisted private eye. Murdock takes you into the underbelly of the "Big Apple" of 1970.

There are scenes of nail-biting action; very graphic and disturbing scenes of violence, even by today's standards. What is so amazing about this book is the way the author has woven a complex murder mystery with comic relief.

* * *
Maddog 4: The Monet

### It's 1971 and Mike "Maddog" Murdock is hired as private security for a transaction of a valuable piece of stolen artwork in a Manhattan hotel. Things go terribly wrong and it turns into a nightmare.

### Tag along with Maddog on a true maze of unpredictable havoc, chaos, bedlam, and maiming that takes you to the seedy, corrupt side of the art world.

### As he tracks the thugs responsible to Miami, he turns it into their nightmare.

### The case morphs to Philadelphia, where more "bad things" happen.

### Murdock considers himself to be NYC's most violent private detective. He deserves the title.

Thank you for reading my book. I hope you enjoyed it. This was the first one of the Maddog series, written over 45 years ago, while I was serving in Vietnam.

Publishing it was impossible until Amazon came along... I have a confession to make.

My publisher almost went nuts, because he wanted to promote it. I just wanted to print a hundred books, and give them to all my friends. The same ones who encouraged me to keep trying all those 45 years to get it published.

Writing is a book it a thrill! A big surprise was finding how much I like hearing from a reader. It's almost as rewarding as writing the book. I Love to hear from you, I am always looking for beta readers, editors, suggestions, What is you like or don't like about the characters.

Leave me a message on my web site.

The Good Amazon has exposed many great authors.

The bad so many books makes it difficult to be noticed.

The Best is when you get more than 10 Positive reviews.  
Amazon will start promoting your book. So if you have a few minutes

Please help Amazon discovered me, and leave a review here  Maddog1 Reviews
Don't forget.. Tell Your Friends!

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