Phantom Point
by Gary Inbinder
July 1907: Chicago is sweltering, and hard-boiled detective Max Niemand has a hot, new case. A wealthy socialite hires Max to rescue her wayward artist brother from the clutches of a femme fatale and her dubious California artists’ colony. The job is lucrative, with the promise of a large bonus for good results.
Arriving on the West Coast, Max becomes embroiled in a murder case and a fight over oil rights. In the course of his investigation, he encounters hard-nosed cops, gangsters, an Old West marshal, a tycoon, a cagey lawyer, fast cars, faster women and a malevolent gold-toothed hitman. Before long, Max realizes the odds of living long enough to collect his bonus are definitely not in his favor.
Chapter 19: Coup d’état
Doyle and Placco met in the boss’s office. Doyle sat behind his desk, glaring at the henchman standing across from him. “You screwed up big time, Duke. I told you to leave that guy alone.”
“It ain’t my fault, boss. I warned you about Roxy. If you’d have let me take care of the bitch—”
“If I’d let you. If I’d let you do everything you wanted, we’d be dangling from the same gallows.” He got up from his chair and clenched his fists. “Thanks to you, Merwin and the law are going to come down on us like a ton of bricks.”
“You know, Gil, I think you’re getting soft. Maybe it’s time you retired?” Placco’s eyes narrowed and his gold teeth flashed.
“You slob. You two-bit punk.” Doyle’s face reddened; his hands shook. “I picked you up out of the gutter, and I’ll throw you back where I found you. Now, get the hell out of my office.”
“No, Gil. Don’t think I will. What are you gonna do about it?”
Doyle’s right hand went for the desk drawer where he kept his revolver.
Placco reached under his jacket, whipped out his .44 and aimed it at Doyle’s head. “Don’t even think about it. You’re through, Gil. The boys are on my side. You can leave town on the evening train. I’ll let you take a grand from the safe, for old times’ sake. Think of it as your pension.”
Doyle sank back in his armchair, a defeated man. For more than a year he’d seen the warning signs of a thug on the rise waiting for the right moment to knock off his boss and take over. I should have gotten rid of Placco in San Francisco, after the earthquake. Duke would have been just another corpse in the rubble and ashes of the fallen city. Too late now. “All right, Duke. I know when I’m licked.”
Doyle was finished in Santa Teresa, but he had been up and down before. He figured he’d take the thousand and start over somewhere, maybe Alaska. There were plenty of suckers up north with their pokes filled with gold. Gil Doyle knew any number of ways to get that gold for himself.
Placco holstered his gun. “You made the right decision, Gil, but you was always a smart guy. Now start packing. You don’t want to miss that train.”
* * *
Doyle had recently purchased a Chadwick touring car, one of the fastest, most powerful cars on the road. The fire-engine red and brass trimmed beauty was parked in front of the roadhouse. Pete and Augie, two of Placco’s most trusted henchmen, placed a suitcase and a briefcase in the space between the back seat and a pair of jump seats. The smaller case contained a few of their former boss’s personal items, photos, bric-a-brac, along with one-thousand in cash.
Having secured the luggage, the thugs planted themselves on jump seats directly behind the passenger and driver’s seats. The goons waited for Doyle and Jack, the sandy-haired kid who shadowed Max and had succumbed to Roxy’s Mickey Finn. The deposed boss and the kid emerged from the front door and approached the car.
Halfway to the car, Doyle paused for a moment, turned back toward the roadhouse and reflected on what he had lost and how he lost it. Jack waited patiently until one of the goons in the car shouted, “Come on. We ain’t got all day.” Doyle and Jack continued on to the car. Doyle got up into the passenger seat. Jack set the spark and throttle, cranked the engine, and then took his place behind the wheel.
Back in the office, Placco sat at the boss’s desk, smoking a Havana cigar, drinking the house’s best bourbon, and counting some of his newly acquired wealth. He grinned when he heard the roar of the engine and heard the sound of tires crunching on gravel as the immense automobile, another newly acquired possession, made its way up the driveway to the county road.
* * *
About one mile down the highway, Jack made a sharp left turn onto a narrow, tree-lined dirt road. Doyle turned to the driver:
“Hey, Jack, this ain’t the way to the depot.”
“It’s a shortcut,” Jack replied.
“There ain’t no—” Doyle’s next word was cut off by a strangled scream as a garrote looped around his throat and tightened. Doyle’s feet kicked against the dashboard and his arms thrashed about. He grabbed Jack by the arm, causing the car to swerve wildly.
Jack braked and stopped the car. He grabbed Doyle’s arm. “For chrissake, help me hold him,” he cried.
The unoccupied thug jumped out of the car, ran around to the front passenger’s side and grabbed hold of Doyle. The throttling continued for what seemed like an eternity until Jack got a bright idea. He opened a toolbox, pulled out a hammer and brought it down hard on his ex-boss’s head. Doyle shuddered and twitched spasmodically. Jack struck another blow, cracking the skull and exposing the brain.
“Now you done it,” the thug holding the right arm grunted. “We’ll have to clean all the mess off the car, or the boss’ll be pissed.”
“I can’t take no more,” Jack said. “If he don’t croak soon, I’m gonna shoot him.”
But shooting was unnecessary. After another twitch or two, Boss Doyle’s body slumped to one side. The strangler removed his garrote. The once dapper gangster’s wide-open, bloodshot eyes stared into the void. The face was purplish and mottled; the swollen tongue protruded from a gaping mouth. A red “necklace” circled Doyle’s throat where the cord had dug into the flesh.
“Phew! What’s that stink?” Jack said.
“What do you think, sonny? He messed his pants,” the strangler answered. Then he added with a grin, “Now you know what a guy looks and smells like when they cut him down from the gallows.”
* * *
Jack drove a short distance, parking the car at a pre-arranged spot. They exited the auto, retrieved a laundry bag from the rear passenger compartment, and stuffed Doyle’s corpse into the bag.
Pete the strangler, the strongest of the trio, hefted the burden onto his broad back, and trudged on in the direction of a secluded glade. Jack and Augie followed, each carrying a large spade.
When they arrived at the grave dug earlier that day, Pete unburdened himself with a loud groan.
“Cripes,” grumbled Pete as he rubbed his sore back, “the old boss had a lot of meat on his bones.”
Augie grunted. “I wonder what they’ll serve him in Hell.” Augie and Pete laughed grimly. Jack winced.
They were about to lower the laundry bag into the hole when they noticed a stifled moan.
“What the hell?” Pete said. “Sounds like he’s still alive.”
“That isn’t possible,” Jack said before adding: “Is it?”
The muffled groans grew louder; the laundry bag twitched.
“That does it,” Jack said. He pulled out his revolver. “I’m gonna put a bullet in his head.”
Pete grabbed Jack’s arm. “No, you don’t. Someone might hear the shot. Let’s bury him and scram.”
“Oh Christ,” Jack said. “We can’t bury him alive.”
“The kid’s right. Let’s finish him, but not with our gats.”
“All right,” Pete said. “We’ll use the shovels.”
Augie knelt by the bag and palpated the wriggling bulge like a doctor examining a pregnant belly. “Here’s his head, Pete. Let’s go to work.”
The thugs held their spades like sluggers stepping up to the plate. Pete swung first. The spade struck the groaning lump a crushing blow, knocking the bag to one side. Augie followed with another bone-crunching thump. The groans stopped, as did the twitching.
The canvas bag oozed blood and brains. They gave the sack another couple of whacks for good measure. Then they dumped the laundry bag into the hole and started shoveling dirt.
Copyright © 2022 by Gary Inbinder
