A new Brick Malinois
Well. I've finally gotten around to writing a new Brick Malinois. And instead of just giving you my fictionpress account. I'm just going to post it here. This has been what I've been working on for the past few days.
It was quiet that mid August day. The only sound to be heard in the office of the Malinois Detective Agency was the loud mechanical whrrr of an electric fan. The detective himself, Bernard Malinois, Brick to his friends, was doing about the only thing that could be done in the heat; sleep. With his head buried in his arms as he slept, he didn’t hear the slam of a car door on the street outside his window. Brick was jostled awake with the heavy pounding on his door. His eyes snapped open and attempted to gain focus again. Still groggy he called out, “Let him in!” Brick paused for a second as the pounding continued “Wait a minute, I don’t have a secretary.” Brick pushed himself out of his chair and walked slowly across the room, knotting his tie as he walked to the door. Through the frosted glass, Brick saw the small shadow of his customer on the other side. “Great, just some kid.” He thought as he opened the door while turning around to go back to his desk. “Come in.” He muttered apathetically with his back to the door. “Listen Mac, you going to pay attention to me or is I going to have to find me a different flatfoot?” The gruff voice caused Brick’s ears to perk. He turned around and saw his client, a short, middle aged rat in an overcoat two sizes too big for his small frame. The rat was chewing on the burnt out end of a cigarette as he talked. Brick stood silent for a moment, staring at the man that stood in his door before shaking his head and sitting down. “No, no. You just caught me at a bad time; I was going over some cases when you came in.” said Brick as he tried to save some face. The rat just smirked. “Bull, you were sleeping. Doesn’t matter though, I got a case for you. Don’t care about the price.” Brick nodded slowly. “Ok, shoot.” The rat looked around for a moment before talking. “My name’s Nick Bento, I train prize fighters. Well, here’s the deal. I had this kid, great young fighter named Tommy Banks, would’ve been huge. I walk into his dressing room the other night after he just got done whipping some Gerry from the dockyards and there I find him lying out on the ground, dead as a doornail. Bullet through the head.” Brick cocked his eyebrow. “Sounds like a job for the cops.” The rat shook his head and wrung his hands together as he continued. “That’s where the problem is. That night, Tommy wasn’t supposed to win. That shylock that runs the docks, Holmburg is his name, offered Tommy and me the purse if he took the fall. Tommy wasn’t a cheater and told the guy off. I think this Holmburg had my fighter offed.” Brick scratched under his muzzle. He thought about Frank Holmburg and his influence. If it touched water in this town, Holmburg had a finger in it and it was always a clean one, few on the force would find enough evidence to finger him if he had a fighter killed in his territory. Brick was looking for a little payback on Holmburg for torching his old office a while back too and figured this would be as good a chance as any to get any, even if it was just to bring some heat onto Holmburg and his operations. The detective held his hand across the table, “You have yourself a deal my friend.” The rat shook on it and handed Brick a note. “Thank you. And here’s my address for when you get the dirt on the situation. I’m lying low for now. I don’t want to end up like Tommy.” With that, the rat turned and left the room. Brick leaned back in his chair; a smile on his face. The only thought in his head was how strange it was that the rat was wearing a coat like that in this heat.
Brick waited until nightfall to head down to the docks, in particular Das Boothaus. The echo of ship’s horn played out in the distance as he pulled up to the curb. Brick pulled his revolver from his shoulder holster and checked the chambers. He holstered the weapon and got out of his car. Another horn blast rolled across the water. Brick inhaled the salt air deeply before stepping into the bar. Inside, the bar was packed with the usual longshoreman, sailors, thugs, and down-on-their-luck businessmen. The clacking of billiard balls became the only sound in the place as Brick stepped in through the door. The patrons looked at him for a second as he stands in the doorway, assessing him. Brick gave a curt nod and the conversation picks up in the bar again. Brick walked across the bar to his stool at the counter. “Well if that isn’t Brick, I don’t know who is.” Said the bartender as he sidestepped over to the detective. “Hello, Marty. The usual.” The bull nodded slowly as he reached behind himself to grab a glass. He poured a tumbler of scotch and sat it in front of Brick. The detective downed the drink and looked up to the massive Carbone. “I need some info.” Brick whispered “I need to know about the fights.” Marty nodded and turned around. He came back around a few moments later with a glass of water. “You look like you need a quick chaser.” The bartender muttered as he set the cup down and slid a bit of paper to Brick. Brick flipped the paper over and read it. On the paper was an address with “Holmburg’s operation” scrawled under it. Brick pocketed the note and left the bar.
The address on the note was to one of the many warehouses that lined the docks, slowly rusting from the disintegrating sea air. Brick walked from his car and up to the heavy metal door along the side of the building. His ear twitched as he listened to the noise coming from inside the building. Brick knocked on the door and it groaned ajar. The noise grew louder as the door was opened but an incredibly large moose stood in the way. “Whaddya want?” said the behemoth. Brick nodded to the action behind him. “I want in.” The moose looked Brick over. Dressed in his basic tan suit , trench coat, and hat, the detective passed for anyone from the city looking for some entertainment. The moose nodded, “Ok pooch, you got the greenbacks and you can get in.” Brick pulled out a billfold and held it up to the doorman, who nodded again and stepped to the side. Brick walked on by and into the warehouse.
The warehouse was mobbed, the crowd was watching the current fight, and with their hard earned cash riding on the line they paid close attention. Brick pushed his way around the crowd and towards the fighter’s locker room. One of the fighters dropped and the crowd stood in anticipation. Brick used the distraction to slip into the locker room. Brick walked around the locker room. It was dark, cold, and about as bare as one would expect. A few lockers lined the wall and a hose and bucket stood in the corner as a makeshift shower. Brick felt a heavy force hitting him from behind. He was slammed into the lockers by the same moose that had let him in. The moose pulled Brick away from the locker and threw him back into them. “Fucking shamus.” growled the lug as pushed Brick’s muzzle into the locker door. Brick tried to push away from the doors but the moose was too strong for him. In desperation, Brick spun around, crushing his elbow into the moose’s jaw. The thug stumbled back from the hit and gave Brick time to turn around. The moose rubbed his jaw and threw his bulk at Brick again. Brick was ready this time and sidestepped, slamming his fist against the moose’s antler. The hit cocked the thug’s head to the side and he ran into the locker. Brick grabbed the base of the antlers and with a jerk righted the moose’s head. The thug tried to pull himself out of the trap but couldn’t. In a rage he began punching the locker to his side. “Now stop making all that racket, big guy.” Said Brick as he drew his gun and jammed the barrel into the base of the thug’s skull. The punching stopped. “Now you’re going to do a little jawing got it? What’s Holmburg up to with this place?” “Holmburg? The walking slinky just shows up to fix a couple fights. He doesn’t run operations.” Brick leaned closer and pressed the barrel farther, growling, “Than who does?” “O’Donnell. Holmburg works for O’Donnell. But he’s in charge of the whole shit and shebang on the water. I don’t trust him but if the boss likes the guy I can’t do anything about it. If Holmburg’s your target than I don’t care what you do. You won’t find me complaining if he gets removed.” Brick thought about what the guy had said. “So it was Holmburg that had the fighter killed.” “Holmburg tried to fix the fight, the guy refused. After the fight he was killed.” “Did you see who he sent?”
“Yeah, didn’t know him though. He looked kinda like you, only had one ear though. That’s all I know.”
Brick had all the information he needed; he would take the rest of this up with Holmburg himself. As he holstered his gun, the moose called to him. “You going to help me out of here?” Brick just gave a quick laugh “I think you can take a little time out and work on that temper of yours.” Enraged, the moose thrashed around, Brick just left the locker room and walked back into the roaring crowd.
Frank Holmburg operated out of one of the other warehouses along the docks. It was that warehouse Brick Malinois walked into unannounced. Brick walked along the floor among the shipping crates that littered the area, towards a room cordoned off with makeshift walls. Brick rapped on the door. A buzzer sounded and the door opened. Brick walked into the darkened office. He couldn’t see much more than just Frank Holmburg sitting at his desk. The dachshund waved a hand to a crushed velvet chair that stood across from him. “Come on in Bernie. You’ve already made yourself at home. Why not go all the way?” Brick walked over and sat in the chair. He looked around him, “Where’re your bodyguards.” Holmburg just smiled and drew a cigar from the pocket of his white suit. “They’re around.” Was all he said. Holmburg struck a match and lit his cigar, setting it in his teeth he leaned forward to Brick and said “Now why are you showing your face around here?” Brick stared through Holmburg as he answered. “You’re fixing illegal fights. And I know they aren’t your fights, either. You’re just a lackey for O’Donnell and his northsiders.” Holmburg chuckled and leaned back into his seat. “Are you sure you aren’t part bloodhound.” Holmburg’s face turned to a snarl as he shot forward in his chair. “Because if that’s what you think than you can be damn sure. I don’t fix fights, I talk with the fighters about what their ideas are about who’s going to win, yes. And I’m no one’s lackey especially not that Mick, O’Donnell.” Holmburg leaned back in his seat. “You don’t have any evidence anyways. So clear out, Brick.” Holmburg stressed the nickname as he sucked on his cigar. Brick stood slowly and walked out. Holmburg was right, he would’ve kept clean, but by the same token his outburst was incriminating. He would have to go and think about his next move.
As Brick left the office, a figure stepped from the shadows behind Holmburg. It was a jackal; most of his left ear was completely gone. “You want me to remove him?” the jackal said. Holmburg shook his head “No. He’s not to be touched.” The jackal was surprised. “Why not?” Holmburg took the stub out of his mouth and ground it out into the ashtray on his desk. “He’s an ex bluecoat. With a gold shield to boot. He still has friends. My relationship with the police is monetary. If I had that son of a bitch killed the heat would be all over this place, and they wouldn’t be taking prisoners. So no touching him. I want you tail him though. Keep him busy for a while.” The jackal nodded and went to follow Brick out but was stopped by Holmburg. “Renso. Call Lou in here while you’re at it. I have a little rat problem I need him to take care of.” Outside, rain began to fall in torrents.
Brick was driving towards the Club A Go Go for a meeting with the old bluesman, Tiresias, when he saw the car. It was a black coupe in his rearview mirror. At first he ignored it, figuring it was just one of the gamblers that was at the fights but after five blocks he began to get suspicious. Instead of heading for the club, Brick headed for Chinatown instead. As he drove, straining to see through the sheets of rain, he noticed the black coupe stayed on him the entire time. Through the torrent, Brick saw a diner. A populated place would afford him the chance to either lose or get a drop on his pursuer, Brick parked and walked into the Diner. The sign above the door read Xi Can. Inside, Brick made his way to a booth in the back so he could watch what was going on outside through the diner’s large front window. As he expected, the black coupe pulled up behind his car. Lightning streaked across the sky as a figure stepped out of the car and walked towards Brick’s. Brick looked at the illuminated outline of the figure; it was a man, probably canine, but with only one ear. Brick remembered what the moose had told him earlier. Brick stood and moved to the door, but the man with one ear turned and got back into his car, leaving. That’s when Brick felt it hit him. He wasn’t being tailed, he was being distracted. Brick ran out of the restaurant and jumped into his car. He had to get to that trainer’s place and fast.
Brick sped to the address on the paper given to him earlier. The house was deep in the tenement blocks of the south side. The south was the old part of the city, run down, crowded, and poverty ridden. Sirens wailed in the distance and rain thudded down as Brick screeched to a halt in front of the address. The car was barely off when Brick jumped out and tore into the building. Running up the three flights to the apartment listed. He banged his fist on the door yelling “Mr. Bento, open the door. Nick Bento!” No answer. Brick tried the doorknob. It was locked. With no time to call the cops, Brick drew his gun, stepped back, and kicked next to the knob, hard. The door cracked and broke in. His gun held out in front of him in and iron grip, Brick stepped slowly into the apartment. It was pitch black. Brick shifted his gun to one hand as his other waved out in front of him. His hand found a chain hanging from the ceiling and he gave it a pull. With a click, an old yellow light bulb that hung from the ceiling lit the room. Brick looked around and found what he feared at his feet. Nick Bento, the trainer that came to him for help, lay dead in a pool. Brick knelt and looked the body over. “Too late.” He muttered as he examined. Bento had clearly been beaten to death, and possibly still beaten afterwards. The body still wore a heavy overcoat. Brick holstered his gun as he stood back up and took his hat off. He gave a moment for his client until a voice came from behind him. “If you’re still wondering why he wore that coat, it’s because he wore a vest. He was afraid of getting shot. Fat lot of good that did him.” Brick turned around and almost stumbled over the body. A ram was standing in the doorway, a bloody truncheon in his hand, a blank look on his face. Brick went for his gun but the ram moved too quickly and clubbed him in the arm with the truncheon. Brick stumbled to the side and into an end table. Brick grabbed the table and swung it into the ram. The ram took the blow with his arm to protect his head. Brick had just pulled his revolver when the ram recovered and cracked the truncheon against Brick’s hand, sending the gun skittering across the ground. Another swing and Brick took the club upside his head. He stumbled back into the small kitchen. Brick thought he smelled spaghetti as he recovered from the blow. He looked to his left and saw the pasta in boiling water on the stove. He looked back to see the ram bearing down on him, the hand with the truncheon crossing his body. The ram twisted his body slightly to power his hit. As he did, Brick grabbed the handle and swung the pot into the rams face. The ram screamed in pain as the scalding water splashed on him. He stumbled back into the other room, his head breaking the light bulb and throwing the room into darkness. Brick caught his breath and shook the pain from his head. Both his jaw and his hand might be broken, but he couldn’t let the killer get away. He walked into the room with Nick’s body and felt around for his gun. He found it on the floor a room away. As he picked it up, Brick heard the rain outside. He looked over and saw an open window leading to the fire escape. The windowsill was still dry so the window had just been opened. Brick cocked his gun and climbed out onto the escape. He saw that the steps leading down were missing, which meant the killer only had one way to go. Brick crept up the steps to the roof. The rain drowned out most sound as Brick walked across the bare roof. A crack of lightning blinded Brick as he felt a sharp pain in his back as he was launched across the roof, sliding to a stop at the far end of the building. The ram had tackled him from behind. Now the ram lumbered forward, towards Brick’s body. Brick rolled into a sitting position against the small curb that ran along the roof. The ram smiled as his arm went out to the side. Brick looked up and smiled back. He still held his magnum in his hand. The gun boomed as another crack of lightning lit up the night. The ram’s hand opened and the truncheon tumbled through the air and clattered on the ground. The ram’s head had snapped back and he looked up to the sky, his face blank. Two stuttering steps back and the ram fell. His blood washed away by the falling rainwater. Brick pulled himself up and stumbled forward. He breathed heavily in the pouring rain. He looked at the body of the killer. “Don’t fuck with my clients.” He muttered as he walked across the roof. All that was left was the obligatory call to the cops to clean things up.
Across town the one eared jackal, Renso, walked into Frank Holmburg’s office. “That shamus killed Lou.” He said. Holmburg nodded and leaned back with a smile on his face, his teeth glinted in the dim light. “I knew he would.” Renso scratched at his non-existent ear. “Excuse me?” Holmburg chuckled. “I found out that our good buddy Lou was reporting my actions to my “boss” that chump, O’Donnell. Detective Malinois just did me a favor.” Renso nodded. “I see your plan but what’re we going to do about that shamus?” Frank smiled again as he lit a fresh cigar. “Don’t you worry. I have my own plans for Malinois.”
AFTERWORD: The hitman that killed Nick Bento was found out to be Lou Felter, a hired gun with the O’Donnell gangs in the north. I was never brought to trial for his death. It was reported as “self inflicted” in the police reports. That one eared jackal that killed the fighter, Tommy Banks, is still a free man. His poster has been put up but in this city it’s doubtful he’ll be brought to justice anytime soon. My jaw and hand healed up nicely too. I’m still looking for that jackal but as far as I’m concerned. This case is closed.
Det. Bernard Malinois
It was quiet that mid August day. The only sound to be heard in the office of the Malinois Detective Agency was the loud mechanical whrrr of an electric fan. The detective himself, Bernard Malinois, Brick to his friends, was doing about the only thing that could be done in the heat; sleep. With his head buried in his arms as he slept, he didn’t hear the slam of a car door on the street outside his window. Brick was jostled awake with the heavy pounding on his door. His eyes snapped open and attempted to gain focus again. Still groggy he called out, “Let him in!” Brick paused for a second as the pounding continued “Wait a minute, I don’t have a secretary.” Brick pushed himself out of his chair and walked slowly across the room, knotting his tie as he walked to the door. Through the frosted glass, Brick saw the small shadow of his customer on the other side. “Great, just some kid.” He thought as he opened the door while turning around to go back to his desk. “Come in.” He muttered apathetically with his back to the door. “Listen Mac, you going to pay attention to me or is I going to have to find me a different flatfoot?” The gruff voice caused Brick’s ears to perk. He turned around and saw his client, a short, middle aged rat in an overcoat two sizes too big for his small frame. The rat was chewing on the burnt out end of a cigarette as he talked. Brick stood silent for a moment, staring at the man that stood in his door before shaking his head and sitting down. “No, no. You just caught me at a bad time; I was going over some cases when you came in.” said Brick as he tried to save some face. The rat just smirked. “Bull, you were sleeping. Doesn’t matter though, I got a case for you. Don’t care about the price.” Brick nodded slowly. “Ok, shoot.” The rat looked around for a moment before talking. “My name’s Nick Bento, I train prize fighters. Well, here’s the deal. I had this kid, great young fighter named Tommy Banks, would’ve been huge. I walk into his dressing room the other night after he just got done whipping some Gerry from the dockyards and there I find him lying out on the ground, dead as a doornail. Bullet through the head.” Brick cocked his eyebrow. “Sounds like a job for the cops.” The rat shook his head and wrung his hands together as he continued. “That’s where the problem is. That night, Tommy wasn’t supposed to win. That shylock that runs the docks, Holmburg is his name, offered Tommy and me the purse if he took the fall. Tommy wasn’t a cheater and told the guy off. I think this Holmburg had my fighter offed.” Brick scratched under his muzzle. He thought about Frank Holmburg and his influence. If it touched water in this town, Holmburg had a finger in it and it was always a clean one, few on the force would find enough evidence to finger him if he had a fighter killed in his territory. Brick was looking for a little payback on Holmburg for torching his old office a while back too and figured this would be as good a chance as any to get any, even if it was just to bring some heat onto Holmburg and his operations. The detective held his hand across the table, “You have yourself a deal my friend.” The rat shook on it and handed Brick a note. “Thank you. And here’s my address for when you get the dirt on the situation. I’m lying low for now. I don’t want to end up like Tommy.” With that, the rat turned and left the room. Brick leaned back in his chair; a smile on his face. The only thought in his head was how strange it was that the rat was wearing a coat like that in this heat.
Brick waited until nightfall to head down to the docks, in particular Das Boothaus. The echo of ship’s horn played out in the distance as he pulled up to the curb. Brick pulled his revolver from his shoulder holster and checked the chambers. He holstered the weapon and got out of his car. Another horn blast rolled across the water. Brick inhaled the salt air deeply before stepping into the bar. Inside, the bar was packed with the usual longshoreman, sailors, thugs, and down-on-their-luck businessmen. The clacking of billiard balls became the only sound in the place as Brick stepped in through the door. The patrons looked at him for a second as he stands in the doorway, assessing him. Brick gave a curt nod and the conversation picks up in the bar again. Brick walked across the bar to his stool at the counter. “Well if that isn’t Brick, I don’t know who is.” Said the bartender as he sidestepped over to the detective. “Hello, Marty. The usual.” The bull nodded slowly as he reached behind himself to grab a glass. He poured a tumbler of scotch and sat it in front of Brick. The detective downed the drink and looked up to the massive Carbone. “I need some info.” Brick whispered “I need to know about the fights.” Marty nodded and turned around. He came back around a few moments later with a glass of water. “You look like you need a quick chaser.” The bartender muttered as he set the cup down and slid a bit of paper to Brick. Brick flipped the paper over and read it. On the paper was an address with “Holmburg’s operation” scrawled under it. Brick pocketed the note and left the bar.
The address on the note was to one of the many warehouses that lined the docks, slowly rusting from the disintegrating sea air. Brick walked from his car and up to the heavy metal door along the side of the building. His ear twitched as he listened to the noise coming from inside the building. Brick knocked on the door and it groaned ajar. The noise grew louder as the door was opened but an incredibly large moose stood in the way. “Whaddya want?” said the behemoth. Brick nodded to the action behind him. “I want in.” The moose looked Brick over. Dressed in his basic tan suit , trench coat, and hat, the detective passed for anyone from the city looking for some entertainment. The moose nodded, “Ok pooch, you got the greenbacks and you can get in.” Brick pulled out a billfold and held it up to the doorman, who nodded again and stepped to the side. Brick walked on by and into the warehouse.
The warehouse was mobbed, the crowd was watching the current fight, and with their hard earned cash riding on the line they paid close attention. Brick pushed his way around the crowd and towards the fighter’s locker room. One of the fighters dropped and the crowd stood in anticipation. Brick used the distraction to slip into the locker room. Brick walked around the locker room. It was dark, cold, and about as bare as one would expect. A few lockers lined the wall and a hose and bucket stood in the corner as a makeshift shower. Brick felt a heavy force hitting him from behind. He was slammed into the lockers by the same moose that had let him in. The moose pulled Brick away from the locker and threw him back into them. “Fucking shamus.” growled the lug as pushed Brick’s muzzle into the locker door. Brick tried to push away from the doors but the moose was too strong for him. In desperation, Brick spun around, crushing his elbow into the moose’s jaw. The thug stumbled back from the hit and gave Brick time to turn around. The moose rubbed his jaw and threw his bulk at Brick again. Brick was ready this time and sidestepped, slamming his fist against the moose’s antler. The hit cocked the thug’s head to the side and he ran into the locker. Brick grabbed the base of the antlers and with a jerk righted the moose’s head. The thug tried to pull himself out of the trap but couldn’t. In a rage he began punching the locker to his side. “Now stop making all that racket, big guy.” Said Brick as he drew his gun and jammed the barrel into the base of the thug’s skull. The punching stopped. “Now you’re going to do a little jawing got it? What’s Holmburg up to with this place?” “Holmburg? The walking slinky just shows up to fix a couple fights. He doesn’t run operations.” Brick leaned closer and pressed the barrel farther, growling, “Than who does?” “O’Donnell. Holmburg works for O’Donnell. But he’s in charge of the whole shit and shebang on the water. I don’t trust him but if the boss likes the guy I can’t do anything about it. If Holmburg’s your target than I don’t care what you do. You won’t find me complaining if he gets removed.” Brick thought about what the guy had said. “So it was Holmburg that had the fighter killed.” “Holmburg tried to fix the fight, the guy refused. After the fight he was killed.” “Did you see who he sent?”
“Yeah, didn’t know him though. He looked kinda like you, only had one ear though. That’s all I know.”
Brick had all the information he needed; he would take the rest of this up with Holmburg himself. As he holstered his gun, the moose called to him. “You going to help me out of here?” Brick just gave a quick laugh “I think you can take a little time out and work on that temper of yours.” Enraged, the moose thrashed around, Brick just left the locker room and walked back into the roaring crowd.
Frank Holmburg operated out of one of the other warehouses along the docks. It was that warehouse Brick Malinois walked into unannounced. Brick walked along the floor among the shipping crates that littered the area, towards a room cordoned off with makeshift walls. Brick rapped on the door. A buzzer sounded and the door opened. Brick walked into the darkened office. He couldn’t see much more than just Frank Holmburg sitting at his desk. The dachshund waved a hand to a crushed velvet chair that stood across from him. “Come on in Bernie. You’ve already made yourself at home. Why not go all the way?” Brick walked over and sat in the chair. He looked around him, “Where’re your bodyguards.” Holmburg just smiled and drew a cigar from the pocket of his white suit. “They’re around.” Was all he said. Holmburg struck a match and lit his cigar, setting it in his teeth he leaned forward to Brick and said “Now why are you showing your face around here?” Brick stared through Holmburg as he answered. “You’re fixing illegal fights. And I know they aren’t your fights, either. You’re just a lackey for O’Donnell and his northsiders.” Holmburg chuckled and leaned back into his seat. “Are you sure you aren’t part bloodhound.” Holmburg’s face turned to a snarl as he shot forward in his chair. “Because if that’s what you think than you can be damn sure. I don’t fix fights, I talk with the fighters about what their ideas are about who’s going to win, yes. And I’m no one’s lackey especially not that Mick, O’Donnell.” Holmburg leaned back in his seat. “You don’t have any evidence anyways. So clear out, Brick.” Holmburg stressed the nickname as he sucked on his cigar. Brick stood slowly and walked out. Holmburg was right, he would’ve kept clean, but by the same token his outburst was incriminating. He would have to go and think about his next move.
As Brick left the office, a figure stepped from the shadows behind Holmburg. It was a jackal; most of his left ear was completely gone. “You want me to remove him?” the jackal said. Holmburg shook his head “No. He’s not to be touched.” The jackal was surprised. “Why not?” Holmburg took the stub out of his mouth and ground it out into the ashtray on his desk. “He’s an ex bluecoat. With a gold shield to boot. He still has friends. My relationship with the police is monetary. If I had that son of a bitch killed the heat would be all over this place, and they wouldn’t be taking prisoners. So no touching him. I want you tail him though. Keep him busy for a while.” The jackal nodded and went to follow Brick out but was stopped by Holmburg. “Renso. Call Lou in here while you’re at it. I have a little rat problem I need him to take care of.” Outside, rain began to fall in torrents.
Brick was driving towards the Club A Go Go for a meeting with the old bluesman, Tiresias, when he saw the car. It was a black coupe in his rearview mirror. At first he ignored it, figuring it was just one of the gamblers that was at the fights but after five blocks he began to get suspicious. Instead of heading for the club, Brick headed for Chinatown instead. As he drove, straining to see through the sheets of rain, he noticed the black coupe stayed on him the entire time. Through the torrent, Brick saw a diner. A populated place would afford him the chance to either lose or get a drop on his pursuer, Brick parked and walked into the Diner. The sign above the door read Xi Can. Inside, Brick made his way to a booth in the back so he could watch what was going on outside through the diner’s large front window. As he expected, the black coupe pulled up behind his car. Lightning streaked across the sky as a figure stepped out of the car and walked towards Brick’s. Brick looked at the illuminated outline of the figure; it was a man, probably canine, but with only one ear. Brick remembered what the moose had told him earlier. Brick stood and moved to the door, but the man with one ear turned and got back into his car, leaving. That’s when Brick felt it hit him. He wasn’t being tailed, he was being distracted. Brick ran out of the restaurant and jumped into his car. He had to get to that trainer’s place and fast.
Brick sped to the address on the paper given to him earlier. The house was deep in the tenement blocks of the south side. The south was the old part of the city, run down, crowded, and poverty ridden. Sirens wailed in the distance and rain thudded down as Brick screeched to a halt in front of the address. The car was barely off when Brick jumped out and tore into the building. Running up the three flights to the apartment listed. He banged his fist on the door yelling “Mr. Bento, open the door. Nick Bento!” No answer. Brick tried the doorknob. It was locked. With no time to call the cops, Brick drew his gun, stepped back, and kicked next to the knob, hard. The door cracked and broke in. His gun held out in front of him in and iron grip, Brick stepped slowly into the apartment. It was pitch black. Brick shifted his gun to one hand as his other waved out in front of him. His hand found a chain hanging from the ceiling and he gave it a pull. With a click, an old yellow light bulb that hung from the ceiling lit the room. Brick looked around and found what he feared at his feet. Nick Bento, the trainer that came to him for help, lay dead in a pool. Brick knelt and looked the body over. “Too late.” He muttered as he examined. Bento had clearly been beaten to death, and possibly still beaten afterwards. The body still wore a heavy overcoat. Brick holstered his gun as he stood back up and took his hat off. He gave a moment for his client until a voice came from behind him. “If you’re still wondering why he wore that coat, it’s because he wore a vest. He was afraid of getting shot. Fat lot of good that did him.” Brick turned around and almost stumbled over the body. A ram was standing in the doorway, a bloody truncheon in his hand, a blank look on his face. Brick went for his gun but the ram moved too quickly and clubbed him in the arm with the truncheon. Brick stumbled to the side and into an end table. Brick grabbed the table and swung it into the ram. The ram took the blow with his arm to protect his head. Brick had just pulled his revolver when the ram recovered and cracked the truncheon against Brick’s hand, sending the gun skittering across the ground. Another swing and Brick took the club upside his head. He stumbled back into the small kitchen. Brick thought he smelled spaghetti as he recovered from the blow. He looked to his left and saw the pasta in boiling water on the stove. He looked back to see the ram bearing down on him, the hand with the truncheon crossing his body. The ram twisted his body slightly to power his hit. As he did, Brick grabbed the handle and swung the pot into the rams face. The ram screamed in pain as the scalding water splashed on him. He stumbled back into the other room, his head breaking the light bulb and throwing the room into darkness. Brick caught his breath and shook the pain from his head. Both his jaw and his hand might be broken, but he couldn’t let the killer get away. He walked into the room with Nick’s body and felt around for his gun. He found it on the floor a room away. As he picked it up, Brick heard the rain outside. He looked over and saw an open window leading to the fire escape. The windowsill was still dry so the window had just been opened. Brick cocked his gun and climbed out onto the escape. He saw that the steps leading down were missing, which meant the killer only had one way to go. Brick crept up the steps to the roof. The rain drowned out most sound as Brick walked across the bare roof. A crack of lightning blinded Brick as he felt a sharp pain in his back as he was launched across the roof, sliding to a stop at the far end of the building. The ram had tackled him from behind. Now the ram lumbered forward, towards Brick’s body. Brick rolled into a sitting position against the small curb that ran along the roof. The ram smiled as his arm went out to the side. Brick looked up and smiled back. He still held his magnum in his hand. The gun boomed as another crack of lightning lit up the night. The ram’s hand opened and the truncheon tumbled through the air and clattered on the ground. The ram’s head had snapped back and he looked up to the sky, his face blank. Two stuttering steps back and the ram fell. His blood washed away by the falling rainwater. Brick pulled himself up and stumbled forward. He breathed heavily in the pouring rain. He looked at the body of the killer. “Don’t fuck with my clients.” He muttered as he walked across the roof. All that was left was the obligatory call to the cops to clean things up.
Across town the one eared jackal, Renso, walked into Frank Holmburg’s office. “That shamus killed Lou.” He said. Holmburg nodded and leaned back with a smile on his face, his teeth glinted in the dim light. “I knew he would.” Renso scratched at his non-existent ear. “Excuse me?” Holmburg chuckled. “I found out that our good buddy Lou was reporting my actions to my “boss” that chump, O’Donnell. Detective Malinois just did me a favor.” Renso nodded. “I see your plan but what’re we going to do about that shamus?” Frank smiled again as he lit a fresh cigar. “Don’t you worry. I have my own plans for Malinois.”
AFTERWORD: The hitman that killed Nick Bento was found out to be Lou Felter, a hired gun with the O’Donnell gangs in the north. I was never brought to trial for his death. It was reported as “self inflicted” in the police reports. That one eared jackal that killed the fighter, Tommy Banks, is still a free man. His poster has been put up but in this city it’s doubtful he’ll be brought to justice anytime soon. My jaw and hand healed up nicely too. I’m still looking for that jackal but as far as I’m concerned. This case is closed.
Det. Bernard Malinois