Fist First Page 12

  Magnelli was in his early fifties but lean, hard and deadly.

  He jabbed the kid in the throat – not to kill him, just to stun him, and followed with a crippling blow to the solar plexus – AKA testicles in common parlance.

  The kid was down for the count.

  Magnelli was about to be swarmed when a huge steel chain whipped through the smoky atmosphere, making a fearsome ‘swoosh’ sound.

  ‘Back off, kids, he’s a friend of mine – unless you want a war with the Demon Riders, I suggest you back away.’

  Lenny Thunder was the kind of man who commanded respect. Suddenly the kids dissolved, and Thunder walked Magnelli over to the corner.

  ‘Mr Magnelli. Welcome to our little slice of paradise.’ Thunder was making a joke about the general besmirched environment within the bar.

  Magnelli slurped his opportunity to speak like a thirsty preacher. ‘Thunder. Glad you’re here. I need you to whip up an army for me – one hundred men at least. Goths, Bikers, Ravers, Mods, Punks… I don’t care. Just get me a hundred of your best.’

  ‘A hundred? That’s gonna cost you. But I can do it. When?’

  ‘Soon. You’ll get the call.’

  ‘Dry work or wet work?’

  ‘Wet work’, said Magnelli with the corrupt smile of a freed sex offender.

  ‘Just about the wettest work you can imagine.’

  Magnelli sat back on the sofa and lit up a cigarette. He wailed with laughter, and soon all the bikers were laughing too. Magnelli swigged the whiskey and called over for one of the Goth girls to stimulate his penis via oral sex. She gladly obliged.

  A few minutes of penile sucking later, the hard rock stopped. The place erupted – bottles and glasses were thrown towards the stage. Lenny Thunder stepped out, speaking with the confidence of an American game show host.

  ‘BRONCO ROOOOADHOUSE…’

  The place fell silent. Every last dancer sealed their mouths and stopped tapping their feet.

  ‘You scum… you punks… you dirty FUCKERS…’ shouted Thunder.

  At each pause, the crowd cheered. Magnelli was nearly at the point of orgasm. The Goth girl was doing well.

  ‘We stand in the presence of the King of New York. Thomas Magnelli has asked for our help. And help him we shall. We will go to war – together, and we watch our enemies BURN IN HELL!’

  The crowd surged forward like at a death metal concert as Thunder screamed again. He had united the despicable crew under one banner.

  As the crowd surged forward, so too did the semen at the base of Magnelli’s penis – up, up, and up into the air.

  Magnelli tipped his head back, mouth slightly open in ecstasy. His tongue slithered over his bottom lip as he climaxed.

  He was the most powerful man in the city, and nobody was going to change that. Not now he had an army.

  He asked the barman for a rag or an old newspaper.

  Chapter 33

  Crawford sat in his beat up Chevy Sedan Nighthawk. He loved that old car, and despite having a great deal of disposable income thanks to his illegal dealings, chose to keep driving his beloved wheels.

  He was freshly sexed, and this always put him in the mood for drugs. So drugs is what he did.

  He smoked a gigantic ‘reefer’ (Marijuana cigarette smoked by Jamaicans) filled not only with Marijuana leaf, but also packed with speed and ecstasy.

  Yeah, you could say old Eddie Crawford was getting high.

  His car was parked in the street outside his house. He wanted to avoid his wife for as long as possible, and knew if he went in, she would smell the perfume.

  Hell, she knew the score, he thought, as he ‘toked’ another ‘draw’ from the ‘spliff’. Drugs coursed through his veins and gave him a sense of relaxation and euphoria.

  To give a balanced perspective, blurred vision and paranoia were also likely side effects.

  He felt very pleased with himself. This alliance with Johnny Spang was starting to feel extremely fruitful – and once Spang had obliterated Magnelli and his cronies, he could finally be safe.

  And his daughter, of course. Magnelli had ordered goons to rough her up in chapter one, as a warning to Crawford.

  The truth was, since the start of this book, Crawford hadn’t once thought of his daughter. He didn’t have time to worry about family problems when running the most important city in the State of New York.

  He didn’t even know where Chloe was – and he realised he didn’t care.

  He’d leave his wife before the year was out, and make sure she didn’t get a dime of his secret fortune.

  Then he’d move in with Loretta, maybe even leave New York and retire on a beach somewhere, drinking cocktails and smoking drugs for the rest of his days.

  Yeah, you could say that Eddie Crawford was feeling quite happy with himself.

  In a twist, something happened.

  A car pulled up next to Crawford. A huge Jeep Offendo with blacked out windows and Tokyo plates. The window rolled down.

  It was only Hitoshi.

  Crawford breathed a sigh of relief and then breathed in more cannabis.

  ‘What do you want, Hitoshi?’

  Crawford had treated Hitoshi deferentially ever since Hitoshi had made short work of his two dogs many years ago. He had been too scared to raise his voice to him since.

  But Crawford was feeling a bit more confident today. He was chemically supercharged, a jacked-up, whacked-out loser getting high on his own supply.

  ‘Crawford. You lie down with Spang, you wake up DEAD.’

  Hitoshi raised a cocked gun in his gloved left hand and leant over the seats. Crawford had time to study the gun briefly. Written on the side, clearly, were the words:

  POLICE GUN: FRANK STOKER

  Hitoshi had somehow procured (got) Stoker’s gun!

  Crawford didn’t have much time to consider this before the bullet left the shaft of the shooter with a big big BANG.

  Slow motion.

  The bullet flies slowly through the air before exploding Crawford’s face into fifteen thousand pieces. His brain no longer exists; certainly not as one object. His brain has become merely a concept… a memory.

  One more stain on the rap sheet of New York.

  Hitoshi grunted and threw the gun into a nearby onlooking bush.

  Hitoshi grunted again.

  Chapter 34

  Stoker pulled up at the remote gas station in a Dodge automobile that he had hotwired and met Janney and Chloe. They all embraced each other, except for Stoker and Janney who shook each other’s hands.

  Stoker commenced speaking:

  ‘They got him kid. They got the chief.’

  ‘Shit Frank, I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Yeah kid, you and me both. I’m gonna kill them all. Every last damn one of them.’ As Stoker uttered those words he kicked over a small sign which clattered noisily but would likely cause no permanent damage nor cost to the small business owner.

  He punched the air.

  Janney embraced his friend.

  ‘Whatever you need Frank, I’m here for you.’

  Chloe stepped forward, overconfidently.

  ‘We’re here for you Frank. We’re here for you.’

  Stoker dismissed her whining as empty platitudes. He needed someone who could get the job done.

  He turned to Janney.

  ‘Listen kid, this is gonna get ugly. People will die. I’ll have to disappear afterwards. I don’t know how long for.’

  ‘I know Frank, and I’m prepared. Hey, look, I’ll head inside for some supplies. You guys hang back out here, both your faces are more well-known faces than my face. I might be able to fly under the radar.’

  As Janney walked off, Stoker turned to face the girl, before saying coolly:

  ‘Hell, last time I saw you I don’t remember you wearing any clothes.’

  She smiled shyly. ‘Oh Frank, I had the best night of my life with you. But… things are complicated now…’

  He ruffled her
hair and patted her on the head.

  ‘Listen babe, I told you I’m no good for you. You gotta find a nice guy your age.’

  ‘What if I already found him?’ She said, tears in her eyes.

  ‘He’s a good kid. You could do a lot worse…’

  She rudely interrupted him.

  ‘I could do a lot damn better too!’ She leapt in the air and landed her legs around Stoker’s waist. She rubbed her crotch on his groin seductively.

  Stoker’s penis stirred as if by clockwork. But he knew what he had to do.

  He untangled her legs from his waist and threw her back against the car. He tapped her chin, once, not very hard, and simply said:

  ‘I told you babe, I’m bad news. This Janney kid is the future, I’m the past. The damn past.’

  She nodded her head before swooning.

  Janney returned, carrying six bottles of mineral water, three chocolate candy bars, three packs of breath mints, two large hot steaming hot dogs with mustard, a pack of large condoms, two NFL magazines, a female magazine about make-up, three cans of cola, a pack of tissues, a side of cooked ham, two rotisserie chickens, a small pack of coloured chalks, a hunter’s knife and accompanying sheath, a crossword puzzle book, a pair of sunshades, a map of New York, a pen and a flashlight.

  He dropped the bags into the trunk of the battered Chevy Sedan and walked back to the store.

  Moments later he came back out with a small pack of firelighters, some matches, six more bottles of water, a fishing rod, a shit hat, some galoshes, some sandals, a bag of molasses, a bag of butter, some salt, fresh cayenne chillies, three packs of weak beer, two bottles of Whiskey, two postage stamps and a baseball bat made of hickory.

  ‘Just some provisions’, he announced, coolly. ‘Hell, I was worried about leaving you two alone. I know what your reputation is with women, Stoker.’

  Stoker brushed it off but Chloe turned green with envy and red with rage.

  She walked up to Janney and kissed him on the neck, pouted, and said ‘Thanks Michael. Thanks for saving me.’

  Janney blushed like he was getting his first kiss from a kid (back when he was a kid too, of course).

  ‘So… er… what’s our next move Frank?’

  ‘I’m going back into hell. I’m going to kill them all. But first, let’s get some sleep.’

  They curled into balls beside the battered Chevy Sedan and slept under the stars.

  Chapter 35

  Israel, 1970. The Jerusalem School For Overachieving Jewish Children.

  The small child hollered as he committed check mate upon his grey haired adversary.

  ‘Ach, Reuben. You are too good for this old man now. That is ten in a row!’

  ‘Come, come Eli. I am only five years of age. Surely it is unlikely that I am a better chess player than you – a grandmaster and former world chess champion?’ The little boy’s little eyes peered learnedly at the grey haired man on the opposite side of the table.

  ‘Oy! I would have said that impossible – until I met you, my young friend.’ The old man rubbed the scarlet curled haired of the childish, five year old man over the table. ‘And this game is over!’

  He put the pieces back in the box at an annoyingly slow pace, then folded the board and put that, too, in the same box, before precisely putting the lid back on top of that same box and putting it (that same box) in a cupboard.

  ‘Reuben, my dear boy, I have looked after you since you were a baby and your parents, one of whom was my son - because I am your grandfather - were killed in a set of tragic circumstances. I was expecting to save this conversation until you were twelve, and ready for your coming of age festival, where we, as Jewish peoples, raise you on a chair, smash plates at your feet, and rotate around you with our hands in the air. But I see you are already wise to the ways of the world. It is no use holding things back any more.’

  Reuben looked on eagerly, already as clever as a dictionary or a mid-range calculator. The old man passed him a glass of carbonated fluid, which was fizzy water. Reuben drank the bubbly liquid as quick as his thirst at the time dictated. The sparkling solution was kosher, so it was fine for Reuben Lowenstein to drink as much as he wanted. As it happened, he was not very thirsty, so only took a small, considered sip of the effervescent potion.

  The old man sighed.

  ‘You see, Reuben, I must explain things to you. You are statistically extremely likely to be an accountant or a lawyer. You wise beyond your years, and between your ears, and I am sure you will go far in either profession. But bad men will try to use you for their own nefarious ways – someone with your talents will be in much either as a book-cooker or a crook-unhooker. What I tell you now Reuben, is that there comes a time when every man decides whether he is good, or evil. I sense you will decide soon.’

  Reuben calmly peered through his thick spectacles as he noticed some of the other boys in the playground pointing and laughing at him.’

  ‘But Grandpapa, I am only a small boy. Surely I have years before I have to make decisions such as the ones you speak of.’

  Grandpapa laughed and rubbed the boys head again.

  ‘Ach, maybe you are right. Anyway, why are you wasting your time with this old codger? Why don’t you go and play soccer with your friends, because it is a popular sport here in Israel in the 1970s.’

  Reuben reluctantly got down from the high-chair he had been sitting in, and ran across the playground to join the rest of the boys.

  As he stumbled onto the pitch, nervously, the biggest and dumbest kid in school, Levi Patissier, kicked the ball straight at Reuben Lowenstein’s person, laughing.

  Lowenstein lacked the spatial awareness to duck in time, and the muddy leather ball struck him clean between the eyes.

  He fell to the floor, desperately trying to piece together his glasses. Tears welled in his eyes.

  Levi Patissier towered over him.

  ‘That’ll teach you to play dumb chess instead of playing a real sport, none other than the sport of soccer, which is the world’s most popular sport actually. You loser!’

  Patissier laughed as he kicked sand in the small boy’s face.

  Lowenstein scrambled for his glasses whilst all the other kids laughed.

  ‘Now, you little punk, I ought to kick the hell out of you. But I’m nice, so I ain’t going to. What are you gonna do to repay me?’

  ‘Mr… Mr Patissier, sir.’ Snivelled the small boy Reuben. ‘I think I might be able to help you with your… homework.’

  Patissier’s beady eyes narrowed.

  ‘For the rest of the term?’

  ‘No, no, Mr Patissier. I propose doing it until you leave the walls of this institution. But I want protection.’

  Levi Patissier smiled wickedly as his brain judged the deal.

  ‘Well, Lowenstein, looks like you just bought safety for yourself. Now get the hell out of here.’

  Lowenstein hurried out of the playground and into the school library, jeers in his ears and tears in his see-ers.

  Back in present day, the grown up Lowenstein’s face got all angry. He was holding a cellular phone betwixt his hand and ear.

  He stood in silence before speaking, violent mouth-words erupting from mediumly damp lips:

  ‘This is unacceptable - we made a plan and now you are not retorting to my calls. Indisputably this makes me most discombobulated. Return my telephony contact post haste.’

  He sat on the bench in the early morning light and waited.

  The phone didn’t ring.

  Reuben Lowenstein cursed an ancient Yiddish swear word and walked out of shot.

  PART 3

  Chapter 36

  Night was over, and death had fallen upon New York.

  The boys in the press room worked double time to print late editions of the New York Times.

  Through remarkable improvements in print technology, the citizens of the Big Apple would hear about the brutal murder of both the Mayor Of The City and the Police Chief by the time they rec
eived their morning paper.

  The printing press.

  A harmless instrument? Or the most deadly weapon ever created by man?

  In truth, the reality probably lies somewhere in between those two extremes.

  In this day and age of Cyberspace, many believe that the World Wide Web is the main source of news for streetwalking punters… in fact, in a city like New York, the humble newspaper is still the number one. Most busy New Yorkers, enjoying a breakfast of ‘O.J.’ (Juiced Orange), ‘Steaming Hot Cuppa Joe’ (Boiled Coffee) and a Croissant (Fried Wafer), are simply too busy to connect to the internet and check the news – they prefer the speed, ease and low cost of a local paper.

  Yeah, the boys in the print room worked double time, stoking the coal powered presses that had been used for over 300 years. Tradition was important in New York.

  By oh six thirty AM, over one million copies had been printed.

  By oh seven thirty AM, the cheeky newsboys dotted around the city had got their fat, pink, cherubic hands on their first editions.

  The headline made sad reading for those of us who have grown to love Frank Stoker, and indeed know that he is innocent of any crime:

  BAD GUY COP FRANK STOKER MURDERS MAYOR OF THE CITY AND CHIEF OF POLICE

  In most cities, the murders would have remained secret until the following day.

  Not in New York.

  In most cities, the prime suspect in any murder would remain secret until court proceedings had begun.

  Not in New York.

  Turns out some dirty cop (read this sarcastically: by the name of Clarence Von Klatt, would you believe it?) had fed the news of the discovery Stoker’s Police Gun to the papers.

  It had taken the cops only five minutes to find the cast iron bulletshooter, discarded in the bush by the dead corpse of Eddie Crawford.

  It took even less time for the citizens of New York; reading their papers with beady eyes, to declare Frank Stoker Public Enemy Number One.

  =-=-=-=-=-=

  Back at his warehouse, Magnelli sneered as he read the paper whilst smoking a huge Cuban cigar. It had been illegally imported, but Magnelli’s behaviour was already so illegal that it barely registered. He smiled and winked at Hitoshi as he walked in, polishing the blood off his blade.