Guilt Kills

Chapter Four

By Cory!! Strode

The last thing John Spencer thought he would be doing when he turned fifty would be getting involved in a shoot out with organized crime when he signed up to be a part of the Havana township police department. Havana was a quiet river town that routed barge traffic, loaded grain and livestock onto barges and gave farmers a place to buy supplies and equipment. It wasn't a big city, but it was a lot bigger than Smithfield, a little village of two hundred and fifty or so people he had grown up in.

Most of the time, at least until prohibition, it was quiet police stuff. Cracking skulls of men who beat their wives or kids, serving papers, making sure the streets were quiet, that sort of thing. He was a town cop, one of about ten, and over time he'd gone from walking a beat to having a car and now, wearing a suit and being called a detective.

Even tonight, he wasn't expecting to have to draw his gun. He was on his way home, late, as always, since he'd had to help out with the night shift for a while, and he saw two cars of men driving through town at three in the morning. He had decided to follow them, maybe find out what they were up to, and if they were runrunners, call in the Treasury Department, let them know where it was and have them ignore it. He'd done it before, and he called in suspected distilleries so that if one was found in the area, he and the rest of his fellow cops couldn't be accused to turning a blind eye, or being on the take.

The problem was, once he heard shot and saw fire, he had to investigate.

It was his nature.

He cursed it and wished he would have been smart enough to either let it go, or get some of the other guys to come along with.

He also knew that he wouldn't get close enough to get in the line of fire, until he did get close enough to see what was going on. There were a bunch of small fires burning outside a big building that had to be a bootlegger warehouse, and there were a bunch of men trying to kill a single guy and...

Well, and his dog.

John watched as the dog lept at one of the gunmen, ripping at his clothes, biting and trying to bring the man down, but the man was able to get in a lucky hit with the butt of his rifle and knocked the dog for a loop. By then, the man they were trying to kill had eliminated all but three of them.

John watched as two of them went in for the kill and the one with the Tommy gun just stood and waited, ready to finish the job if the others couldn't. John knew that the one they were trying to kill didn't have a chance, until he came out from behind the tree and shot one of the men and did some sort of acrobatic move, leaping through the air and kicking the other one to the ground.

It was then that John knew he had to step in, since the man with the Tommy gun had a clear shot, but John knew that, for some reason, he would be abel to reason with the man who they were trying to kill.

And, on some level, John could tell that he was the one that he would least want trying to kill him. When John stepped in and put his own pistol to the head of the man holding the Tommy gun and said, "If you fire, I'll scatter your brains all over the woods. Got it?"

The man with the Tommy gun nodded and took his hand off of the trigger. John looked over at the man they had been trying to kill and watching in abject horror as he snapped the neck of the man at his feet with a simple twist of his legs. He saw the strain on the man's face, but it was a strain of pure effort, not of any sort of conscious or remorse. It was that of an animal killing prey. It chilled him in a way he couldn't explain. It was like watching a coyote kill a rabbit, not because it enjoyed it, but because that was what it did.

He put aside his fear and watched as the man turned his attention back to the man with the Tommy gun and said, "I'm going to reach slowly into my pocket and get my badge. I'm a cop."

John watched, wanting to see if the man would make any sort of move, or if he would turn his rage toward him. When he just stood there, watching the situation, John slowly reached into the jacket pocket and pulled out the leather case he kept his badge in. He slowly pulled it out and opened it, holding it in front of him, as if it were a cross and the angry man was a vampire. "I'm John Stewart. I was following these bastards, since it's pretty obvious that six men driving through downtown Havana at three in the a.m. is not typical."

Too much info, John thought to himself. He knew that he just should have said he was a cop and he was here to get the situation under control. But if it was too much information, or the man was another rumrunner who didn't want any witnesses, he didn't show it. Instead, he got a thoughtful look on his face and asked, Did you say six?"

"Yeah, why?" John said, starting to get nervous again.

The answer came a second later as a spray of gunfire came out of the door of the warehouse. John and the other man hit the ground, and the man with the Tommy gun let out a cry of pain as he crumbled to the ground with a sickly thud.

"That's why," the man said when there was a pause in the gunfire.

John put his hands over his head, lying there on the ground, knowing it wouldn't protect him, but driven by some deep instinct he couldn't control. He looked around between gunbursts for some cover, and saw that the man was rolling behind a tree. John looked for a tree of his own to get behind, but closer than a tree was a huge mound of dirt. When the next pause came in the gunfire, he rolled over to the mound of dirt and then leapt behind it, making sure it would be able to protect him from gunfire.

It was high enough, and wide enough to conceal his body. The problem was, he couldn't see the door at all, so he wouldn't be able to tell when the gunman was changing clips, or back in the building to try and gain some cover.

Stalemate.

He couldn't fire without exposing himself, and the gunman had the advantage of just having to wait until he got a target.

John looked over at the man who had been fighting the gunmen and saw nothing. He was sure the man had been standing behind a specific tree, but when he looked, no one was there. Not even the dog. The fires were pretty much died out, but there was still enough of a slight glow that he could tell no one was there. The only sound for the longest time was the slight crackle of what few leaves were still burning. Too early in the spring for bugs or frogs, and the birds had to have been scared off by the gunfire and fire.

He strained to hear anything eh could, but the only thing he was able to hear was the man in the doorway adjusting his Tommy gun.

"Shit," John said, knowing how easy it was to put a new clip in one of those guns, and the sound let him know that he had missed his opportunity to get the jump on the man as he changed clips. Now, he had a fresh load of bullets, all the time in the world, and knew where at least one of his targets were.

John checked his own clip, making sure it was full. He didn't want to chance being able to take a shot and finding out he had an empty chamber.

He listened, waiting for the gunfire to start again, but heard nothing. The ground was cold, and he was only wearing a light jacket, seeing as how he thought he was just going to be driving home, sliding into bed with Lyra and sleeping until the sun woke him up way too damn early again. Problem was, now he was worried that he might not ever make it home. He was a small town cop, not used to things like this.

Before prohibition, he had only drawn his gun once, and that was to get a man to put down a club he was using to beat someone he had gotten into a brawl with. Everything else was able to be calmed down with words and a badge. Once the teetotalers got their way, he had to talk the department into hiring more cops, he had to talk to fed, had to take a promotion and had to start using his gun once in a while.

The damn thing felt heavy in his hand, as if it weighed twice as much as it should. He kept waiting for the gunfire to start up again; realizing that he hadn't heard any sound in a while.

Which meant Mr. Tommy Gun in the doorway was going to try and wait them out. Which was a good strategy for him, since both he and the other guy were pinned down, and unable to move without becoming a target.

All at once, he heard a loud thump and the sounds of a fight. He could hear a body hit metal, which was probably someone getting the door smashed into their face. Then there were the sounds of fists hitting flesh, but not the meaty thumps he was used to hearing at boxing matches or when they would have to persuade a suspect to start telling the truth with a phone book. This sounded more like slapping and kicking.

After only a minute of that, he heard someone hit the ground with a loud thump. Then, silence.

The silence lasted until he started to get up and peer over the mound of dirt he was crouched behind when he heard a single gunshot ring out. It was followed by a very loud thump he couldn't recognize, ad he hit the ground again.

As he waited, he wondered what could have happened. At best, he thought, the kid got the jump on the guy, and after he'd beaten him, finished him off in cold blood, in which case, he would have to arrest the kid for murder. At worst, the kid was laying there dead and Mr. Tommy Gun was headed toward the door and ready to play the waiting game.

A horrid thought crept into John's head, as he wondered if the six men were just the first group, and the rest of the gang was coming in trucks to pick up the booze that had to be stored in the hidden warehouse. If that were the case, it would be him and six bullets against however many gangsters would be needed to load a truckload or two of booze. It was at that point that he realized he had pretty much put himself into a no win situation, and the best he could hope for tonight would be to hide in the woods until morning and not be executed for being a cop.

At that moment, his stomach did a slow roll, and he felt like he would throw up the roast beef on rye he'd had for supper.

He was just barely able to stop himself from throwing up when he head, "Mr. Spencer, we're all clear."

It was the voice of the kid.

He waited; wondering if coming out from protection was a bad idea. Then he thought about the truck (or truckS) that would be on their way, and either way, he was putting himself in danger. The kid might be the better of the two options, since he had saved the kid's live. As he was making up his mind, the dog came around the mound of dirt, and he was shocked at just how big it was. It was easily as big as a man, but all muscle. It was as black as the night, with a very small tuft of white on its neck, and no collar. A mastiff, but bigger than any he had seen. The dog stopped, sat, and stared at him, then looked back at the building. John took that to mean that he was to follow along, and decided to do so.

He double checked his weapon, and after he was sure that it was ready to fire, he stood up slowly, his eyes trained on the warehouse. In the doorway was the kid, and he was standing, no gun in his hand, and looking toward him.

"Hurry up," the kid said in a slight New England accent, "I don't think we have a lot of time."

John walked quickly to the building, the dog following him a bit too closely. So closely, in fact, that John had to watch where he stepped so as not to be tripped by the dog, or to step on it. When he got to the building, he could see that Mr. Tommy Gun was laying in a heap on the floor. John looked at the man and then looked at the kid, eyes wide with shock, "You didn't have to shoot him, did you? It sounded like..."

The kid stopped him and said, "I didn't shoot him. He grabbed a handgun on the ground and fired after I thought I'd knocked him out. He's alive. I need questions answered."

"Me too," John said, pulling out his badge and handcuffs, "Like who the hell are you and what is going on here?"

John looked in the building and away from the prone Mr. Tommy Gun for the first time and saw that the building was built like a cheap barn, but was filled with wooden cases of booze. It had to be five or six truckloads. At first, he was shocked that they had been able to hide so much booze right under the police's noses. Then, as he remembered that someone had to be coming for the booze, he broke out in a cold sweat.

The kid took the handcuffs from him as he looked around the building, and said, "My name's O'Ryan, and the dog is Mercy."

So, John thought, the kid's Irish. He didn't know if there were and Mick gangs in the area, but with Capone using this as a hiding place sometimes, you just never knew who would show up, "Mercy, eh? From what I saw, I don't think that she has any."

"I wouldn't say that," O'Ryan said, "She has the ability to do a lot more damage to people than she actually does. As for what is going on around here, their men were trying to kill me for what is in this warehouse." He finished handcuffing the prone man and looked around for something, and then walked over and grabbed a small military canteen.

"And you know what is in all of those crates, right?" John said, making sure his gun was still easy to get to.

"Yes," O'Ryan said, unscrewing the cap on the canteen and taking a long drink, "That means that one of two things is going to happen. You are either going to ask for a bunch of money to keep quiet, or you are going to try and run me in, which is another way for you cops to get money out of me. However, I think that our concern should be on the people who are going to be coming, thinking that I am dead and the whisky in this building is unguarded and free for the taking."

O'Ryan walked back over to the prone man and held the canteen over him and stopped. He turned back to John and said, "Look, Mr. Spencer, I thank you for saving my life. I don't know if I could have done anything about the last gunman if you weren't here. However, don't think that my gratitude means that I won't hurt you if I have to. I have been given a job to do, and I am honor bound to do it."

"I didn't know gangsters had honor," John said, looking at O'Ryan and feeling confused. He'd never heard any kind of hired muscle talk like this kid. It was almost as if he was a character from some stuffy British play. The kid looked different in the full light. He wasn't tall, but he was hard, and even in his jacket and suit, he looked as if he could go fifteen rounds with anyone in the ring. His suit was torn a bit, the knees were ripped out and the blazer was dirty and torn, obviously from the fight he'd just been in, but the kid looked dignified.

"I'm not a gangster. I just work for one. He can get me the information I need, and I'm willing to do anything that doesn't make my situation worse, or harms any innocents to do so," O'Ryan said, still looking at John.

John was very confused now. "Look, kid," he said, "We'll have to have this discussion later. Right now, we've got to get out of here. This booze is just sitting here, with us two guarding it, and I know that if it comes down to booze or me, the booze is coming in a very distant second."

"In a minute," O'Ryan said, and with that, he dumped out the contents of the canteen on the prone man, who woke up, sputtering and angry. He started to get up, but when he realized his hands were handcuffed, he looked around and got a sour expression on his face.

O'Ryan moved his wrist in an odd casual way, and John saw Mercy walked over to his side and crouch, as if getting ready to jump. O'Ryan knelt down by the man, and then he said, "You need to tell me who you work for."

"Get stuffed," the man said, and then tried to spit on O'Ryan, who cracked him in the head with an open palm before the man could spit.

"You don't understand," O'Ryan said, his voice growing cold and filled with steel, "I don't fight people who can't fight back. However, you have vital information to me, and while I may not do anything, Mercy here doesn't have my morals."

John saw as O'Ryan tilted his head to one side casually, and at that small movement, Mercy began to snarl, allowing her sharp teeth to be bared, just inches from the man's face.

O'Ryan then turned to the man again and said, "Do you want to tell me now, or do I have to wait until after Mercy softens you up?"

The man looked at the dog in fear and John saw that all of his bravado had completely disappeared. The man may have once been defiant and angry, now he was doing everything he could not to soil himself.

"Fine, I got the word from Mikey. Mikey's the one who paid me to do this thing. He said if we wiped out the guards here, we'd each get five hundred bucks. Look, buddy, I just want to earn a living. I'm not some big gangster, I'm just a guy who can't get a job."

O'Ryan started to say something, but John interrupted him, "Is that Mikey Ross?"

O'Ryan turned to stare at John who said, "Mikey Ross is an independent operator. He works for whatever gang pays him the most, and since down here is mostly Capone's territory, he works a lot for Capone. He lives over in Peoria, but he and Rick don't see eye to eye."

O'Ryan turned his attention back to the man and said, in a voice that, telling his son about the incident years later, John swore was the voice of death itself, "Then you had best tell me who Mikey took this assignment from. I don't' have time or patience for these gangster games."

The man started yelling, "I don't know, I don't know! I just get the assignments and come here with the other guys. Terry might have known, but you killed him. You killed him!"

O'Ryan grabbed the man and stood him up, John could see O'Ryan's rage start to take over as he shoved the man against the wall so hard it sounded like a gunshot. The man's head lolled, and at the very least, he'd been knocked silly by being slammed against the wall. "Did he take the order from Heenan?!? Tell me, or I swear I'll make you wish I'd killed you!"

O'Ryan was smashing the man against the wall repeatedly until John was able to rush over and grab O'Ryan by the shoulder and turn him around, "He can't talk!" he yelled, trying to get O'Ryan's attention.

O'Ryan let go and the man slumped to the floor. John stood there for a secand and then said, "We've got to get going. His friends are on their way, and they'll have at least two people per truck, if not more. We'll be outnumbered and outgunned."

"I was able to take the first six out," O'Ryan said, still staring at the man at his feet, who was unconscious again.

"That was luck and the cover of night. It's starting to get light in the East, which means we've been at this a while. We've got the name of the guy behind this, can't you shake him down for information or something?"

O'Ryan still stood there, staring at the man on the ground. John was starting to feel panic rise in him again, thinking that the trucks were getting closer with every passing second, and by the time they could hear them, it would be too late. He put his hand on O'Ryan's shoulder and said, "Fight another day. You can't find this Heenan guy if you're dead.'

O'Ryan stood and turned toward the door. He started gathering up the few things he had on the floor of the building while John went to the door and waited, looking frantically into the woods for signs of incoming trucks. Luckily, he didn't see any, but he had no idea how long that would last. As O'Ryan calmly packed his few belongings in a knapsack, he said, "Do you know where this Mikey Ross is headquartered?"

"Kid," John said, "Grab your shit and get going. Everyone knows where Mikey Ross is. He runs the burlesque show in Peoria. That's his cover, believe it or not. He makes the women wear pasties so he doesn't busted for indecency, and he doesn't serve booze so that he doesn't have to worry about getting his back room busted. He makes sure everyone else gets their booze. That way he gets a cut without getting his business dirty. Now, can we get the ever-loving hell out of here?"

O'Ryan nodded and walked out the door, carrying his knapsack in one hand and the other one free. John, on the other hand, had his pistol in his hand and was watching for signs of trucks or anyone in the woods. He saw that the small fires had completely burned out, but there just barely enough light from the stars and the hints of the sun rising that he could make his way through the woods. He silently motioned for O'Ryan to follow him, as he had parked in a very out of the way place. They went by the other building, where the two cars of the men who had come to kill O'Ryan had parked and continued through the woods.

It was a few hundred yards after that that they were able to hear the trucks. John motioned for O'Ryan to duck down, and they hid in some underbrush until they saw the trucks, three in all, drive through the woods and past the parked cars. O'Ryan looked like he was about to get out of hiding and do something, and John held his jacket and motioned for him to stay down.

After the trucks had gone, O'Ryan said, "Rick told me to guard the whisky."

"Then Rick may be in on it," John said, "since they've now sent twelve guys at minimum to take you out. Besides, now you know who's behind it, and even if Rick didn't want you to be pushing up daisies, you've gotten the information he needs."

O'Ryan looked thoughtful for a minute and then said, "I suppose you are right. But now what happens? You're a cop, and whisky is against your laws. Do I have to go to jail?"

John thought a minute. Again, he was just a small town cop, and he hadn't told anyone he was coming out here. Six dead gangsters and a kid who was ready to start a shooting war for God Only Knows what reason. The booze was Federal, and he could tip off the treasury department without making it seem like he had been here.

But if he let the kid go, he was sure there would be more people dying.

The kid had killed five hired killers, and a couple of them he'd taken out with his bare hands. Or feet as the case may be.

John Spencer was a small town cop.

And this was too much for him to get involved in.

"You know what, kid?" John whispered, "I'll give you a ride back to Peoria and drop you off in the city. Then, I'm going home and get some sleep. Tomorrow, I'll send some men out to look into some suspicious cars I saw on my way home and they can tell the Revenures. What you do is up to you."

O'Ryan didn't change expression, "How much will all fo this cost me?"

John looked away. He could get enough money to get ahead on his bills, maybe put some money in the market like all the rich bastards he had to give tickets to or look the other way when he was told to lay off. Still, he may have just been a small town cop, but he was still a cop. "Nothing. All I saw was a kid acting in self-defense. I didn't look in any of those crates, so I don't know if it's whisky or black strap molassas. You just make sure you don't bring any of your business down to Havana again, because next time, I won't be able to look the other way. Next time, I'll have to bust you. And between you and me, I didn't appreciate your crack about having to pay me now or later. Not all of us cops are like those sons of bitches in Chicago."

O'Ryan still didn't change expression as he said, "I understand."

John kept looking at him and saw that the kid didn't understand. He was so used to cops spending their time with their hand out that he thought that was all they did.

And not for the first time that night, he wished all those busybody teetotalers had got their asses kicked when they brought up making booze illegal.

©Solitaire Rose Productions 2003

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