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THE REAL ADVENTURES OF JONNY QUEST

"The Big Goodbye"

by Eric R. Umali

Synopsis: A night in the life.

Categories: E, F, ALT?

Chapter 6 - "Midnight"

It was almost midnight in the Bowery, and he was nervous.  "Twitch" Larson, as his nickname indicated, was a nervous kind of man.  An overly large head perched on a spindly frame, crowned by a pair of thick spectacles and stringy, prematurely gray hair, Twitch hardly seemed the kind of person able to pose a threat to James Zulacco's operations.  But threaten he did- Twitch was a snitch, and one of the cops' favorites.

Twitch took a hard swallow of cold coffee, then burned his tongue on the scalding soup sitting on the hot plate.  He shook his head, trying to calm himself.

It was then that the door cracked, struck from the outside.  Twitch yelped as a second kick blew the door open, and a pair of trenchcoated figures entered his rat-trap apartment.  He saw the long blue-black steel fingers stretching from their hands, and dove over his couch.

Scrambling across the floor, Twitch was frightened out of his wits.  He stopped at a pair of expensive Italian shoes.  Shaking, the snitch raised his eyes, only to meet the business end of a Remington pump-action.

A pair of blue eyes looked back at Twitch from above the shotgun, and below a fedora's brim.

"Hiya, Twitch."

**********

Just after midnight, Jennifer Montrose and the rest of the Silver Slipper Club's chorus girls exited the stage.  Chattering loudly, they headed out of the wings and back towards the dressing rooms.  After a couple of minutes for a breather, and after changing into their evening dresses, they poured out into the club, like a sequined and spangled wave, mixing with the customers.

**********

An hour after midnight, three figures moved in the shadows beside a dimly-lighted pier somewhere on the Lower East Side.  While two stood on the pier itself, the third sat on the hard wooden bench of a tiny trawler, squirming against the heavy ropes binding him like a cocoon.

One of the men dropped from the pier to the boat, trenchcoat nearly catching on a piling.  He bent to the small diesel motor on the aft end, while the second man worked at the tie lines.

The bound man, still straining, moaned through the handkerchief gag tied tightly around his mouth.  Without a second thought, the first man lashed out, a gleaming set of brass knuckles on his fist, striking the prisoner hard across the jaw.

"Shut up, Twitch," he said evenly, then returned to his work.  Twitch whimpered, then was quiet.

The trawler rocked as the second man dropped to the deck.  "Let's go, Eddie."

Eddie nodded, yanking on the engine's starter cord.  With a deep, basso growl, the engine came to life, and the small boat began chugging out towards the pitch black water.

Jimmy DiSantis stood in front of Twitch, a disappointed look on his face.  Reaching out with gloved hands, Jimmy lowered the gag.  The frail man gasped and coughed.

"I swear to God, Jimmy," he panted, "I didn't tell 'em nothing important!"

"I'd love to believe you, Twitch, I really would.  But you see, we've got our own rats among New York's finest, and they tell us different."

"I'll do anything!  Tell Mr. Z that I'll do anything..."  Twitch bent double, sobbing.

"You know I don't wanna do this, Twitch, but I gotta."  Jimmy replaced the gag, then turned away.  He tapped Eddie on the shoulder.  "How much longer?"

"Another twenty minutes or so, Mr. DiSantis.  Then we'll hit deep enough water, and Twitch here'll get the chance to try out his new shoes."  Eddie smiled.

Jimmy didn't return the smile, instead turning back towards Twitch.  His gaze ran down to the large metal bucket at his feet, filled with rapidly hardening cement.

**********

Two hours after midnight, Twitch's apartment played host to another group of men in trenchcoats and fedoras.  First through the door this time was Detective Harry Michaels, his Police Special drawn.  Det. Michaels swept the pistol across the room.

"Twitch?  Twitch?" he called.  Reaching his arm back, he gestured for the two beat cops to follow him in.  The three officers quickly searched the apartment.

"Nothing, sir," reported the first cop.  "Other than the door, there's no signs of a fight."

"Does look like your snitch left in a hurry, though," said the second, looking up from where he was rummaging through a small dresser.  "Got some train schedules here.  Couple of out-of-town departures for tonight are circled."

Det. Michaels shook his head.  "Twitch didn't leave on his own.  He got taken."

"You figure Zulacco's behind it?"

"No question about it."  The detective holstered his pistol.  "Not seein' Twitch anytime soon.  Probably never again."

"You can count on that, Detective."

"Should I call in to the precinct and get some guys to give the place the once over?"

"Nah," Michaels replied.  "We won't find anything that won't say the man hightailed it for parts unknown."  A grim smile appeared.  "I've been after Zulacco for enough years to know that."

"This guy wasn't too smart, turning rat on Mr. Z."

"Nah, Twitch wasn't too smart."

"Where do you think he is now, Detective?"

"Either in some new building's foundation or sleeping with the fishes."  He headed for the door.  "Zulacco is a bad man to cross."

**********

Three hours after midnight, and the bright neon Silver Slipper sign was dark.  The last patrons were walking or weaving out of the front door or being carried out the back into waiting cabs.

Inside, Benny wiped one last heavy-bottomed tumbler, placed it carefully on the rack and tossed his bar rag under the counter.  He headed for the coatroom, where his well-worn jacket and hat were invariably the last to be found hanging there.

Upstairs, Mr. Z took one last hard slug of bourbon from his silver flask and re-filled it from the bottle on his desk.  Zulacco smiled to himself, satisfied with the finish of a good night's work on the part of his employees, and the end of a small, but persistent, problem.  He picked up his own coat and hat and walked out of his office, locking the door.

Outside, the back door opened, and the now much more casually- and comfortably- dressed Silver Slipper chorus girls began heading for home, in groups of twos and threes.  The line of young women passed the figure standing in the shadows at the feet of the small set of steps, each of them greeting him, and getting short smiles and nods in acknowledgement.

The last out the door was Jennifer, and before she reached the last step, the young woman found her way blocked by an outstretched hand, holding a single red rose.  Jennifer let out a short gasp of surprise before following the arm to its owner.  Jimmy moved further into the faint light from the single bare bulb beside the door.

"Hey there, Doll," he drawled.

She smiled.  "Hey there yourself."  She nodded towards the flower.  "That for me?"

"That's right."

Jennifer leaned closer, breathing in the delicate, sweet smell.  "What's the occasion?"

Jimmy shrugged.  "Nothing, I guess."

"I don't know if I should accept it."

"Now why would you wanna do that?  Seems a perfectly innocent gift to me, Doll."

"Forgive me, Mister DiSantis, but 'perfectly innocent' is a term I seriously doubt applies to you, if the other girls are to be believed," she teased.  "And what's with calling me 'Doll'?"

He smiled- a sly, knowing smile- and stared her straight in the eyes with a gaze that burned.  "You don't like it?"

Jennifer almost blushed.  "I haven't decided... but I might."

"Then what about the flower?  I can't keep my arm up like this forever, you know."

She arched one painstakingly shaped eyebrow, considering.  Jennifer took the rose and held it close.

"That's more like it," said Jimmy, triumphant.  "Now how about a cup of coffee... Doll?"

Jennifer offered her arm, and Jimmy took it, leading her towards the street.  They walked for a block or two in silence before she broke it.

"You know, everyone told me not to go walking around this late at night."

"You'll be fine, Doll- trust me."

"I know."

TO BE CONTINUED...