DRAGNET SAMMY GETS EVEN
Twenty floors up, Portside began to wither. Windows parted, widening narrow alleys to streets and then avenues and then sixteen-lane highways, but the advertising hoardings on the way up strangled all light for those in the streets below. Twenty floors up was about as high as most of the low-downs could dream.
Of course, some of those low-downs were like Dragnet Sammy.
Dragnet Sammy stood in a twentieth floor apartment now, the neon hoardings advertising misery pills, body-mod shops, and strip clubs casting incandescent hues over the plastic-wrapped furniture.
Currently, Sammy was grinning as he faced down Martellus Shine, flanked by six goons. They fanned out across the room, each one pointing a pistol at Sammy’s face. Seven guns trained on that vivid blue twin-stripe tattoo.
‘Nowhere to go, Sam,’ Martellus growled. ‘Twenty floors up and nothing to show for it! You shoulda let Dag Buffet sink you when you took Archie’s cut.’
That grin was off-putting, it never left Sammy’s face. Unlike the tattoo, which seemed to stand out from his skin, and glowed even when his face was wreathed in shadow.
‘Shoulda done, but didn’t,’ Sammy replied. ‘No, I came back on my own, Marty. And aren’t you so curious to know why?’
Seven pairs of eyes now turned to Martellus. His gun never wavered.
‘Not this time, Sammy,’ he said. ‘Sorry, but I’ve been burned before. This is goodbye.’
Sammy chuckled.
‘Aw, come on! You’re not the least bit curious?’
Martellus scowled, shaking his head.
‘Don’t try it, Sam!’ he snarled. ‘There’s nothing you can say that’ll make up for what you cost me!’
Most people would beg. Most wouldn’t bring it up. Only Dragnet Sammy let his gaze rest on Martellus’s silver eye, the delicate shrapnel scarring surrounding it. Sammy smiled coldly.
‘Looks to me like you need a good eye looking out for you,’ he said. ‘I know it hurt you, Doc. But I had good reason; and now I can get you the money back with interest, and even a little bonus that might let you regrow that missing eye!’
That hit the mark. Martellus’s hand trembled; Sammy took a step closer and now everyone’s gun was up.
‘I should kill you just for that!’
‘You don’t believe me?’ Sammy looked around and laughed. ‘What? You think I brought you and your guys to this showroom apartment – oh, don’t tell me you didn’t know, the plastic’s still on the sofas – you think I brought you up here for fun? I thought better of you, Doc; I really did!’
Martellus let his gun drop for a moment, his arm falling by his side, mouth agape.
‘Why here?’ Back up, pressed against the bridge of Sammy’s nose. ‘Just once, Sam: give me a straight answer!’
Sammy’s smile never wavered as he leaned against the barrel of Martellus’s gun.
‘I brought you up here,’ Sammy said, ‘to pay you back.’
There was one ornament in this apartment that was not mass-produced starter-home furniture: a brass-plated, antique telescope, pointed up and away.
‘Take a look,’ Sammy invited. He very graciously took a step back as Martellus leaned down, his goons keeping their guns levelled at Sammy.
‘I don’t see anything,’ Martellus said. He stood. ‘This stupid thing; it doesn’t even work!’
‘That’s the point!’ Sammy grinned as he sidled up next to Martellus. He twisted a key and clicked a bolt into a slot, and the whole thing unfolded into a sleek, brass-plated rifle. Sammy unfurled the stock, pointed the gun precisely, and gestured to it again. Martellus waved him away and sighted down the scope.
The widening avenues between high-rises created an interesting effect: from certain vantage points, you could see halfway across the city. On the twentieth floor, the right corner apartment could reveal the secrets of the world.
In Martellus’s case, this window revealed…
‘Is that The File?’
Bertram “The File” Luxon, Don Caglione’s right-hand man, in his trademark blood-red shirt, on a call in an apartment across the city. On the twentieth floor.
‘Consider this a goodwill gesture,’ Sammy said. ‘You get one bullet; the scope’s compensated, so it’ll hit wherever you aim. And all I ask is one day; one day to pay you back for my transgression tenfold!’
Martellus stared at the gangster. He instinctively leaned into the stock.
‘You get one hour,’ he said eventually.
He squeezed the trigger.
And a dozen miles away, Bertram The File erupted in a spray the colour of his shirt that coated the window.
This was only the first stop on a whole tour, and with just an hour to explain it, Sammy talked fast.
‘Now I took about twenty million from Archie the Skull,’ he explained in the elevator, ‘and I know you’re still sore about it, Doc! But I put that to good use in Westenleath.’
‘Westenleath? Nothing but a swamp,’ Martellus argued. Sammy held up a hand.
‘A swamp, yes; but a swamp with a lot of useful information. For example: Don Caglione has been buying up real estate out there. Large plots, nothing but swampland. Why?’
Martellus shrugged.
‘Guy’s got a lotta bodies to bury,’ he said. ‘You’ve got fifty minutes.’
‘He doesn’t need to buy the land to do that. You go out there, the bodies’re buried already; the important thing is, Westenleath knows about all of them. And you’ll never guess what I found out!’
‘What? Someone was buried with two hundred million credits out there?’ Sammy scoffed and shook his head. ‘You promised you’d pay me back,’ Martellus added pointedly.
‘It’s not so easy, Marty!’ Sammy sighed. ‘There’s a lot of information to get through! No, what I found out was who’s not buried in that swamp!’
The doors opened out on the low-down, and Sammy immediately made a beeline for Dolores’ Diner; it was all Martellus could do to keep up.
‘Slow down, Sammy!’ he cried. ‘Who’s not dead?’
‘We’ve got an hour, Marty!’ Sammy replied. ‘That’s gonna have to wait until I’ve had a caffeine break!’
Dolores’ was a dive, a long counter with stool seating and some booths under the too-bright lighting of fluorescent tubes. Sammy gulped down a too-hot coffee as they slotted into a booth and waited. Martellus faced him, his gun out under the table, his heavies taking up positions all around the cafe.
‘Who’s not dead, Sammy?’ Martellus asked. ‘You’ve got forty-five minutes and I’m running out of patience.’
‘You’ll love this, Marty!’ Sammy said. ‘You’re gonna blow your top. This is the ticket: Taps Wiley.’
This was the only thing that threatened to break Sammy’s smile. Martellus’s brow creased and he shook his head gently; Sammy’s smile froze.
‘Seriously?’ he asked. ‘You don’t… you don’t know who Taps Wiley is?’ Sammy leaned back, incredulous. ‘Huh. And here I thought you were a big player.’
‘Don’t mess me about!’ Martellus pounded the table. ‘You know something about this guy and it’s important to me, yes? Then tell me!’
‘I’m glad I didn’t buy you a coffee, Doc, you’re too tightly-wound. Alright, alright; you don’t know the name Taps Wiley, but I’ll bet you know his title. You see, Taps Wiley was The Courier.’
Martellus blew out a steady breath.
‘The Courier is still alive?’ He watched Sammy’s eyes carefully as Dragnet nodded, grinning. ‘Last I heard he was trying to swim in liquid concrete in the Goodhart Library foundations; how’d he get out of there?’
‘Well, that’s why we’re here,’ Sammy said. He glanced down at his om-com and rose, gesturing to Martellus to follow; Dolores let the two of them behind the counter and they went into the kitchen.
‘Are you ready to meet the man who’ll make you a millionaire?’ Sammy asked, as they moved to the back of the kitchen. A wall of steel met them; Dolores’ walk-in freezer, where thousands of cuts of artificial meat waited in suspended animation. Sammy opened the door and stepped in; Martellus, raising his gun, followed him into the freezing mist.
Inside the freezer, sitting on a crate, was a haggard man with a metal hand.
‘Sunburn Stokes,’ Sammy introduced him. Martellus needed no introduction.
‘That fink!’ he cried, raising his gun. Sammy yelped and hung onto his arm, swinging it away. ‘He tried to kill me twice! He works for Caglione!’
‘Not anymore! Not anymore! Wait!’ Sammy cried. ‘Take it easy, will ya! I wouldn’t bring you all this way just to shoot you now, would I?’
‘Why are we meeting in a freezer?’ Sunburn asked. His hoarse voice echoed around the little space.
‘Marty Shine only gave me an hour,’ Sammy said. ‘I had to improvise. Sorry, Sunburn.’
‘What’s his part in this?’ Martellus demanded. ‘Why shouldn’t I shoot him now?’
‘Because,’ Sammy interjected, ‘his information will lead us to the Courier!’
‘It’s true,’ Sunburn said. ‘I can take you to him.’
‘You saved the Courier?’ Martellus asked. ‘Why would you save him?’ Sunburn shrugged.
‘I liked the guy,’ he said. ‘He never did me wrong. When I heard what we were doing, I waited and dragged him outta the mixture. Wasn’t perfect, but I got him out.’
‘And the upshot of this,’ Sammy said, ‘is that we have a guy who ran the numbers for Don Caglione. A man Don Caglione thinks is dead.’
Understanding dawned on Martellus’s face. He grinned wider than Sammy.
‘So we clean out his accounts! We’ve killed his right hand; without The File and without his money, his empire will collapse!’ Martellus turned to Sunburn. ‘Where is he?’ he asked.
‘He’s across town,’ Sunburn said. ‘I’ll show you.’
‘So what do you think?’ Sammy asked. ‘Can you spare my life? At least until we’re across town?’
Sunburn’s car only sat four, so Martellus was backed up by just one goon when they reached the twentieth floor apartment on the other side of town. The door slid open on another showroom apartment, much like the first – lights out, furniture covered in plastic.
The bloodstain on the window was all too familiar.
‘Hello, Martellus.’
A match flared. Martellus paled.
Standing before them, lighting a cigar, Bertram “The File” Luxon greeted them.
Before Martellus could react, Sunburn’s metal hand had crossed his goon’s jaw. Three more guys – among them the slim frame of the Courier, Taps Wiley – slipped out of the shadows, guns trained on Martellus. Dragnet Sammy moved away, taking a position at Bertram’s side.
‘What is this?’ Martellus asked, raising his hands.
‘A little lesson, Martellus,’ Bertram explained. ‘You made three mistakes in this game.
‘The first was stealing twenty million from Don Caglione. Oh yes, Martellus, we’re aware of your stunt with Archie the Skull. If Sammy hadn’t taken those bags first, we would’ve killed our way up your chain until we got to you; you lived this long because we had to track him down first.
‘The second was believing what your eyes told you from halfway across town. A neat bit of spin by Sammy; he put some squibs under my shirt, triggered by a radio transmitter hidden in that rifle stock. The moment you pulled that trigger it looked like I died. I’m sorry to disappoint, Martellus.’
‘And the third?’ Martellus asked. Bertram stared at him through a haze of cigar smoke, eyes cold and dead.
‘The third,’ he said, ‘was trusting Dragnet Sammy. Ice him.’
Three guns reported, once each, and that was the end of Marty Shine. Bertram watched as his goons wrapped the body in plastic sheets.
‘So?’ Sammy said. ‘Are you impressed?’
‘This doesn’t erase the twenty million,’ Bertram replied. ‘But it’s a start. We’ll be in touch.’
‘You’re a swell guy, Bert,’ Sammy said, the smile playing about his lips. ‘It’s almost enough to make a guy cry.’