I knifed my way back to “KO’s” dressing room. Outside it was a mob of news hungry reporters waiting to feed their typewriters with the trash they wrote. Krasinski had already been carried inside. I made my way through the vultures, and pushed the cop in the doorway of the dressing room out of my way. He grabbed my arm then let it go when I told him my name was Frank Krasinski, “KO’s” brother. I opened the door, and raked in an eyeful of the action inside.
I’ve seen “KO’s” trainer around. He’s small, bald, and speaks with a lisp, which he had earned when he fought in the ring. A few years ago, he was accused of doing business with some shady characters, but nothing ever came of it. His name was Archie Bankoff, and right now, he was in the corner of the mildewed room getting the third degree from the N.Y.P.D. He appeared to be nervous, but I guess this was a good time to be nervous.
The damp room had a variety of smells in it…alcohol, sweat, leather, mold, jock straps, and oil. It was fairly hard to breathe. Krasinski’s body was laid out on one of two wooden massage tables, his mother at his side, crying and praying. The white lead paint peeled off the walls of the dimly lit area. Banged up metal lockers ran across one wall, doors missing on some of them. A couple of four foot cracked mirrors adorned another wall. Water buckets, taped bottles used by the corner men, rubber gloves, and used towels littered the cement floor.
The door opened, and two medics entered with a stretcher. They moved “KO” onto it, and took off through the hounds at the door, with his mother, a doctor, and two cops in tow. The boxer’s mother looked as if she was going to collapse. One of the policemen ran up, and took her arm.
The newspaper boys followed the small group, hitting them with questions, and taking pictures of the dead body. I felt like going out there, and tearing their lousy mouths and cameras apart. A cop at the outer door closed the dented, metal portal behind him as most everyone shuttled towards the ambulance. The only noise that could be heard now was the drilling of questions the plain-clothes cop was shooting at Archie. I grabbed a seat, and decided to wait until the detectives were through. A cop from the shadows appeared, and asked me who I was. I told him who I really was, and that I was employed by Mrs. Krasinski to investigate what had “gone down” here tonight. The jerk-off gave me a “fish face,” nodded that it was alright for me to stay, and joined the other cops who were rifling questions at the trainer. Finally, they were through talking, and snaked out the door. Only Archie and I remained. I don’t think he knew I was there because he jumped a couple of feet when the chair I was slouched in creaked as I stood up.
I eased over to him, grabbed the front of his shirt, and spat out, “I heard what you told the cops. I don’t buy it. You had better talk the straight shit to me… now!”
He tried to wiggle out of my hand, but I tightened my grip and shook him hard.
“Now I’m going to ask you once, and only once, and you better give me the right answer. What’s the real story on the episode that went down here tonight?”
The runt came back with an, “I don’t know!” I drew back my right arm, and backhanded him across his ashen face, forcing blood to creep out of the corner of his mouth. I felt he was, in some way, behind Krasinski’s death. Moreover, he knew that I knew. The slob was really sweating now. A nervous twitch in his mouth started.
I asked him again, and still got the same sorry reply. This guy looked like he’d talk if I got a little tougher, so I pulled out my rod, and shoved it deep into his mouth. He felt the cold steel barrel pressed into the back of his throat, and knew that if he didn’t want to eat a bullet, he had better do some fast-talking. He was gagging, and I pushed the gun even further down his pipes. I let him up for air, and he blurted out, “He made me!”
“Who?”
In short choppy English he said, “Johnny Dragon… he made me. He said if I wanted to live I had better do what he said.”
JOHNNY DRAGON! My mind sped back a few months. His brother was Steve Dragon, a kidnapper, pusher, thief, pimp, and everything else that spelled “scumbag.” He’d rob his mother of a dime if she was on her way to the poorhouse, and probably slap her around for kicks.
Last winter I was hired by a wealthy client to get their kidnapped daughter back for them. I traced a lead on Dragon, and followed it up. I trailed the lunatic to a shack, and was just about to nab him when he pulled out his revolver, and put a bullet into the little girl’s head. He had already received his ransom money. The lousy sadist did it for kicks.
I whipped out my rod, and shot him in the gut as I charged into the room. The bullet must have hit him in the spine because he laid on the floor appearing paralyzed. I picked him up, and tied him to a chair. Steve screamed out in pain, but I wasn’t hearing him.
When I viewed the hole in the little girl’s head, I turned into “MADDOG.” I took the cigar that was on the table, and rammed the lighted end into Dragon’s left eye. He pleaded for mercy but I didn’t care. Smiling, I pushed the cigar into his other eye. A dark ring of burnt flesh circled his charcoaled eyeballs. The whites were now black, and ashes hid the once blue color. The mug was hurting now, but I wasn’t through. I took my forefingers, and dug them inside his mouth, feeling the insides of his cheeks. Then I yanked outward, and his cheeks gave way under the strain. It sounded like the tearing of a rag. The blood poured out of the long gashes that extended from his lips to his ears. He’d be getting a new nickname now…Zipper Face! Bright red blood gushed from his cheeks, as his flesh hung, and his eyes were like hollow caves. Whatever he was screaming now was not understandable. Only then did I call the police.
Steve Dragon is still alive if you want to call it that. He’s crippled, blind, and looks like he has four zippers running across his face. Plus, I’m the person responsible for him going to prison for the rest of his useless life.
Yeah, Johnny Dragon knew me. I’m surprised he hasn’t shown up in front of me by now, or maybe he was smarter than his brother was. It was like taking Johnny’s right arm away when I crippled and mangled Steve. They were two of a kind…two rats.
I said to Bankoff, “Johnny Dragon made you do what?”
The door opened behind me as I finished my last word. I swung around, gun in hand to face the person or persons who had opened the door. Two hoods walked in. Behind them was none other than Johnny Dragon.
The tall, blacked haired, mustached gangster spoke first, in a sarcastic manner.
“Well, well, well, if it ain’t my good ol’ buddy Maddog Murdock. What are you doing in this neck of the city?”
When his goons heard my name, a nervous twitch hit their faces. They knew who I was, and weren’t eager to initiate any action. Every thug in New York knew the name “Maddog.”
I said, “If you were behind the fiasco out there tonight, I’ll make you look like your brother.”
Dragon didn’t like hearing that. His eyes widened to the size of half dollars. The hate he had for me was flowing over from inside him.
My gut told me that Dragon had been just the muscle of this operation. Somebody else was the brains. I was going to take Dragon apart, and find out the lowdown on this set up. With lightning speed, I pointed the barrel at the goons saying, “Slowly reach for your rods, place them on the floor, and kick them over here.”
Realizing that I had the drop on them, Dragon reluctantly gave them the nod. Their .38’s clanged as they hit the floor, and bounced to my feet.
I looked at Dragon and said, “You too fuzz lip.”
Dragon slowly lifted his left hand, pulled out his rod using two fingers, and laid it on the rubdown table next to me. I’ve never seen a pistol like his before. The color was silvery platinum, engraved with swirls and curls, and sported a pearl handle.
I thought back to yesterday. Johnny Dragon’s gun was a .44 Magnum, which happened to be the same caliber as the one that killed my good friend, Dennis Chiulli.
Rage filled my mind, and I found my hand in the thick
of Dragon’s hair, pulling him to the filthy floor. My rod was still trained on the goons. They were as still as statues. I raised my foot over my archenemy’s tight face, and sent it crashing down with all my weight behind it. A “squish” sounded throughout the room, and I smiled. His face looked like somebody had done a tap dance on it. Yeah, I did a dance. They call it the “face stomp.” Dragon’s nose now tilted to the right, and blood freely flowed not only from his nose, but also from a gash of ripped skin on his cheek. His boys were going to get hell for letting this happen to him. I looked at my yellow jacket, and cursed after seeing blood splattered on it. Soon, I was going to run out of jackets. I was a little burned up about it.
Dragon looked helpless as I bent over, and reached into his pocket. Hate stretched across his face. I pulled out his wallet, latched onto a “C” note, folded it, and put it in my pocket. “You got blood on my jacket, and you’re paying for it.”
I was going to give him another hoof in the mouth to try to get him to talk, but the sounds of voices were getting nearer. I unloaded Dragon’s gun, and dropped it on his bloodstained shirt.
“You better be using it the next time we meet Dragon.” I regretted the move as soon as I did it. My “macho” ego was driving me, instead of my brain.
I put the muscle’s guns into my pocket as reporters came scrambling in. They saw me standing over the thug with bloody torn skin on his face. I cut my way through the squawking reporters while one of them kept grabbing me, asking who I was, and what was going on. Every time I shoved him away, he came back for more. Finally, I wrapped my left hand around his pencil neck, took a step, and threw him down the hallway like a bowling ball. That made a strike with the rest of the reporters. After that, nobody asked me anything, or even followed me. Some guys just don’t understand unless it’s emphasized with some force.
I strolled down the street to the lot my car was in, handed the attendant my receipt, and waited for him to bring out the vehicle. A couple of mugs next to me, who were waiting for their car, were talking about the fight. One of them said that the champ hit “KO” with a blow that he couldn’t shake off, and subsequently died from that punch. Too bad they didn’t know what they were talking about. The best punch the champ got in was the left that put “KO” down. Moreover, that was when Krasinski was standing in the middle of the ring, with his arms hanging at his sides, defenseless!
My car came rolling out. The boy exited, smiled, and asked what I had under the hood. I flipped him a buck and told him, “More horses than you can handle.”
Before I pulled out, I opened the trumped laker pipes installed on the GTO, by flicking the switch under the dashboard, and floored the gas pedal in neutral. The kid’s face lit up like a Christmas tree when he heard the roar of the engine that spread throughout the block.
Down the street, a cop on the beat turned around to see what the racket was. I shut down the lakers, and puttered off.
On my way home, I was thinking of what had happened tonight. Dragon was sure to increase his efforts to come after me now. Thirty-three was still too young to die. I had to step up my vigilance on him. I cursed myself for not doing more damage to him.
I stopped the car by the river, jumped out, and threw the two .38’s into the Hudson. Those two guns would never kill again. I got back into the car, and drove on.
The image of the .44 magnum kept shooting up in front of my face. I cursed myself for giving it back to him. Was it a strong coincidence that Dragon owned a .44 magnum? Was he the one who knocked off Dennis? In addition, why was he in “KO’s” dressing room? Too bad the reporters came charging back so soon. He would have talked, or he would have been carried to the hospital. There’ll be another time though.
I pulled the car into a space near my apartment, climbed out, locked it up, and strolled across the street to the twenty-story brick structure.
A car raced around the corner from the darkness. It was the same car that had tried to take me for a ride up by the Red Hat. A gun hung out the rear window, and started spitting its deadly lead my way. I hit the hard asphalt between a couple of parked cars, and rolled under them in one motion. My rod found its way into my hand as the phantom car sped away. It was gone before I could get off a clean shot.
I smelled something rank, looked down at my shoulder, and eyed a glob that was smattered there. Wouldn’t you know that some sorry mutt had made a dump in the gutter, just where I had taken the dive? I brushed myself off as well as I could, passed through the lobby, and took the elevator up to my floor. Lola must have heard me coming because she was standing by the doorway. She ran up to me, pressed her body against mine, kissed my lips, and started to cry with happiness that I was home and safe.
Her nose crinkled and she blurted out, “Oh Mike, you stink.” I said, “So do you baby,” and pointed to the side of her face, which she had rubbed against my shoulder. She was so embarrassed that she ran back into the apartment slamming the door behind her. I turned the doorknob laughing my guts out. She was some dame.
* * *
CH 5 Getting Info at the Yonkers Police Department.