This is something I had started a while back, okay a few years ago. I admitted it, are you happy now? It was something I started in the hopes that it would help get me writing again. It helped a little but not enough. I have been writing more lately do in part by my insistence to write holiday essays again. I don’t know where this is going, but it is a work in progress or a wip if you will. I make no claims to its perfection, as it is at the time of publishing here … highly unedited for anything except … well hopefully except spelling … If it only serves as a flash back in another story I am struggling to figure out then so be it … it is as you can see tentatively titled Early Edition …. let me know it you like it.
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Stepping back into the door way he pushed the hat back on his head for the fifth time in as many minutes. He was nervous and it showed, but then again the hat was two sizes too big. The whole thing had been his idea in the first place, only he wasn’t supposed to be there.
“Me and my big mouth,” he whispered. “I should’ve just stayed out of it.”
He mumbled a few more words as he fumbled in his pocket for the pack of cigarettes they’d given him. It was the tenth time he’d taken to make sure they were exactly where they had been since he put them there. Maybe it was the awkwardness of the forty-five strapped under his arm, it was almost as new as the hat and the cigarettes.
It had been easier when he was running down leads and chasing paper. All he had to do then was tell them what he’d found out. Only now he was one of them. They had lied about his age to get him hired, and they’d pushed him through law school, but he’d done the training, finished both in the top five of his class. In truth though he’d been studying some form of law since he was ten, his grandfather’s influence, and some of the training since he was fifteen. His new boss Jacob Westchester had seen to that. Westchester and his grandfather had been friends since they had spent four years together as Marines. His grandfather had spent his life in the Marines and, would after a few years become an agent in the Criminal Investigation Division, while his friend went on to work with the U. S. Marshals.
He had been about five when he used to sit and listen to the two as they talked about whatever case they were working on or going over an old one. By the time he was six he was offering solutions, and pointing to possible suspects. Not that he was always right or even close, but the two would always listen to him and even ask him how he came to his conclusions. After his grandfather was forced to retire from the Marines, his knees began giving out; he began consulting work with local police and his old friend, the boy would go along with him. Eventually the young man began asking his own questions and following up leads that he would develop. He was about twelve when that started. Within the next few years his grandfather’s knees would get worse and he would begin to rely on the boy more and more to do his leg work. By the time he was fifteen he was working most of the cases for his grandfather by himself.
He wasn’t about to go back being just a regular kid so they sent to Georgetown to get a degree in law and two years and a few months later here he was on his first real assignment as a real Marshall. This is where he found himself now, at seventeen, hiding in a doorway at the top of a stoop watching and waiting.
He’d just spent three weeks figuring out who had robbed the federal bank on B Street, and another three days following them to figure out where they were hiding out. The problem, if one could call it that; was that they didn’t seem to have a ‘hiding place’. What they did have was Red’s place. Red’s was one of hundreds of speakeasy’s that had opened in Washington since the beginning of prohibition. It’s also where Dave “Trombone” Tratiani, Harry “Tool” Greenwich, Geno “Red” Hall and Jerry “Mule” Mulaski just happened to spend all their time and no doubt their stolen money. He’d even done everything he’d been asked, so when he told them what he’d found he figured his job was done. At least that was always what had happened before, but not this time.
Shaking his head he stuffed his hands in his coat pocket before looking down the street one more time. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the beat cop turn at the corner and walk across the street. It was the second time that the cop had been on that corner. It was only a matter of time before the cop wondered why he was still standing in the doorway of the four story walk up.
“I told you we should have used someone else for this.”
“Keep quiet.”
“Just look at him Jake; he’s a bundle of nerves.”
“He’s got to learn sometime Carl,” Jacob “Big Jake” xxx returned. “Besides he’s the only one that knows what the three of them look like.”
“I still don’t like it. I should have had one of my own boys there with him. If he messes this up I swear I’ll make you send him back to wherever it is you found him. Then again I might just put a bullet in him first.”
“You do that we’ll probably never catch these three.”
In the door way he fiddled with his hat one more time before noticing a movement out of the corner of his eye. Pushing himself back into the shadows he turned and watched as one of the three men he’d followed three days earlier stuck his head out of the speakeasy and looked toward him. he was almost certain that he’d been seen but the man hadn’t noticed him as he looked up the other side of the street before ducking back inside.
Inside the speakeasy Mark Danner paced nervously near the corner. He had not idea what was keeping the three men at the club, he only knew he wanted them out. It was bad enough that he manage Red’s place, having three men that had robbed a bank hiding out there was something else. Running the speakeasy had already made him a bundle of nerves.
“What’s wrong Danner,” Dave asked. “You’re going to wear a hole in that floor over there. You gotta learn to relax in this business or else you’re gonna give yourself a heart attack or something. At the very least …”
“Leave him alone ‘Trombone’, can’t you see he’s a nervous wreck. You bugging him every few minutes ain’t helpin’ any.”
“Oh you think he’s doing me any good? Look at him over there, back and forth, back and forth, driving me nuts just seeing it.”
“Then don’t look at him,” Geno yelled.
“Knock it off you two,” Harry hollered back. “You two are almost as bad as my wife. If I wanted to be with her I would have brought her along. At least she know when to shut the fuck up, not you though.”
Harry snubbed out his third cigarette of the hour before getting up and going over to the bar.
“I thought you said you expected a good crowd tonight,” he said after ordering a shot of Scotch. You said this was fresh in?”
“I saw it come in on the boat this morning,” The bartender nodded. “We don’t usually have much of an early crowd here on Sundays. They’ll come though don’t you worry about that.”
“Yeah, in a couple of hours you won’t be able to move in here,” Mark called from the corner.
“We should be gone by then.”
“You better be. You have been here for five days, and that’s three days longer than I was told you’d be here.”
“It ain’t our fault,” Geno chimed in. “If Jerry hadn’t shot that guard we wouldn’t have gotten our getaway shot up. We would have been able to get to our money guy and we wouldn’t have had to wait to get him to come here.”
“Where is Jerry anyway,” Harry asked.
“He went out to pinch a new car,” Dave reminded him. “Then pick up your money guy. Should be back soon.”
As he spoke, outside things were looking up for the hidden men.
On the street in front of the speakeasy a newer nineteen twenty Chevrolet four ninety pulled to a stop. Two men slowly got out of the front seat. It was kind of dark but the boy in the doorway recognized one of the men. Reaching into his pocket he pulled the pack of cigarettes out and attempted to pull one out.
“There it is,” Jake whispered. “Let’s go.”
Just then the patrol officer that had been walking his beat on the other street turned the corner and made his way toward them. Seeing him the two passengers from the car stopped and turned back toward the car. Unnoticed by everyone but the boy in the doorway the pair pulled a gun from their pockets. Not wanting to get the the cop killed just for being in the wrong place he stepped out of the doorway and down the steps.
“Hey flatfoot,” he called out as he came closer. “I’m over here copper come get me if you dare.”
Officer Gabriel Malone reached for his own gun, but kept it in his holster.
“What are you doing over there, trying to break in are ya,” Malone said lifting his baton in the air come over here if you know what’s good for you.”
“Come get me flatfoot,” he called out again.
“Boy don’t you try me,” the officer called back. “I’ll give the beatin’ of your life if you make me run after you.”
Instead of running away the boy ran toward him.
Out of the corner of his eye officer Malone spotted the two men crouched next to the car. The dim light made it impossible for him to see the forty five they were each holding. As the boy caught up with him Jake and the rest of the men with him were moving in on the car.
The two crouched men reacted on instinct firing toward the oncoming men. The first volley the men fired missed although the new hat the boy was wearing went flying to his left as he caught the officer across the chest with his body shoving the beat cop back out of the way. It was only a matter of seconds before the two men at the car realized they had no way of surviving what was coming their way if they continued. Dropping their pistols the two gave up after the first two shots fired at them.
Jake had been more worried that the boy would be hurt than he had let on and as he saw him running across the street he had begun to move more out of concern for the boy than that of trying to get the two men that had got out of the car.
“Damn it kid, what the hell were you thinking,” he yelled as he reached the two now lying on the sidewalk. “You could have gotten yourself killed for fuck’s sake. You’re grandfather would never forgive me for that.”
“Well I just,” he began picking himself up off the officer. “I just couldn’t see this guy getting hurt because I messed up.”
“You didn’t mess up, well you didn’t get that cigarette lit. But, then again we weren’t expecting one of them to not be in side. You probably would be ventilated yourself had you actually lit that thing. With the two men in handcuffs the team turned to Jake to find out what he wanted them to do now.
“What do you think,” Carl asked. “Do we wait for them to come out still or go in looking for them.”
Jake looked at the two handcuffed men sitting on the curb.
“Dawson,” calling out to the boy, “Either one of these two, one of the ones we’re looking for?”
Without looking he nodded and pointed to the one everyone called Mule. Turning back he helped the beat cop finish getting to his feet.
“You okay officer,” he asked as he finally got to his feet.
“What’s going on here?”
Carl Jensen flashed his Marshal’s badge and pulled the officer aside as he filled him in.
“They were sure to have heard those gunshots in there.”
“If not the look outs saw everything anyway.”
“No,” Dawson said. “I had them taken care of earlier.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well Jake, I had them taken care of earlier.”
“What how, and why is that I am just now learning they have spotters.”
“Almost every speak has at least one spotter, this one has three, one on each corner and the one that keeps sticking his head outside every so often. I sent the ones on the corners a couple skirts to uh, well, slip them a couple mickeys if you know what I mean.”
“You did what,” Carl growled.
“Don’t worry I paid them myself, although if I could put it on my expenses that’d be great. You know my mother keeps pretty close tabs on how I spend my money. She’ll have a fit if don’t tell her what it went to, she’ll kill me if I actually tell her.”
Jake laughed as he told him.
“What about the third guy and those gunshots.”
“All I can say,” he said grabbing Jake’s arm to look at his watch before walking toward the speakeasy’s door. “I don’t think there is anyway they could have heard those shots. I sat out here for three nights and I never heard any noise coming out of that place. I know for a fact they have music in there every night. I also know that this speak is in the basement. And that spotter sticks his head out here aver fifteen minutes … which is about …. now.”
As he finished the door that led to the speakeasy opened just enough for a head to push it’s way out. Reaching in Dawson grabbed the man’s head and pulled him through the opening of the door. An officer had the man face down on the sidewalk long before the man had a chance to figure out what was going on.
Dawson pulled the pack of cigarettes from his pocket again.
“Yeah, let’s get this over I think I have a test tomorrow.”
Lighting the cigarette he stepped over the lookout and made his way down the steps to the speakeasy.
Knocking on the door he pulled the gun from his pocket.
“Yeah,” the man behind the door said as he opened it a crack.
“I got a message for the Trombone man,” Dawson told him. “From Mule or something like that.”
“Hey, there’s a kid out here that says …”
He didn’t have a chance to finish his sentence before he was screaming in pain from the lit cigarette being shoved against his skin behind his ear. Pushing his way into the club Dawson leveled his forty-five at the three men sitting at the table next the bar. As the three figured out what was going on five other men from that Marshal’s office and the Capital Police force stormed through the door. The one called Tool was first to clear his holster. Dawson didn’t wait for him to get it up high enough to fire. Shooting from the hip his bullet managed to hit Tool right between the eyes. The other two stood watching dumbfounded at what had just happened. Neither of them pulled their gun any further. Instead they raised their hands, just like that their six month crime spree came to an end.
The seventeen year old still stood where he was, staring at the body of the one they called Harry “Tool” Greenwich. His stomach turning over and over. How he’d made that shot was beyond him, but he made it. Starting to shake he he walked further into the barroom keeping his eye on the body. Everyone around him was smiling and congratulating him on the shot. He didn’t hear any of them as he made his way to the bar. Using the bar to hold himself up he watched Jake make his way in and crouched over the body. He could see that he was saying something as he stood back up but he didn’t hear him.
“You alright Kid,” Jake asked moving closer to him. “Kid, Dawson, are you okay?”
“Looks to me like he’s in shock Jake,” Carl added. “That kid’s alright, I take back almost everything I was telling you earlier.”
Jake didn’t say anything, instead his eyes never left the kid as he stood against the bar holding his stomach.
“It’s okay kid,” he told him motioning to the bartender for a bottle. “No one is going to think any less of you if you lose your guts.”
Pouring a glass of whiskey he handed it to Dawson. He didn’t hesitate, taking the glass he took a long swallow. Taking the bottle from Jake’s hands Dawson walked out of the club and onto the street. He didn’t say a word as he walked over to where Officer Malone stood. Handing him that full glass he tipped the bottle up to his own lips. Having already heard what he had done Malone guided the kid to a quiet part of the street.
“I found your hat,” he said handing it to him.
“My hat, oh my hat, I forgot about it. Well It’s their hat they gave it to me, Jake that is. You think it looks good on me flat foot, I been thinking about starting to wear one. Everyone wears a hat you know.”
“Yeah they do,” Malone answered. “I am not so sure it suits you, but it does make you look older though.”
“To you flat foot,” he toasted.
W. M. Stahl 27 January 2024
From The Strange Mind of Me 