Music to Murder By

Part 5

Howdy, folks, and welcome back! It’s Part 5 of Music to Murder By. If you’re enjoying these, tell a friend! If your friend just told you, you might want to start with Part 1.

Matt Slade

I hustled down Rouse Street, as fast as my bum leg would allow. Micki trotted along impatiently. The way she seemed to have the bit in her teeth, I thought she'd have dearly loved to run on, leave me behind. But, she hadn't been able to make head or tail of the directions, even though I repeated them three times. "Go up the river," shouldn't have been hard, but there was a lot of industrial jungle in the way.

The night was getting old, older even than I felt. There wasn't a cab, or a bus to be found. Her car was our best option, and it was in the wrong direction. Also, somebody left a murder scene in the way.

So, we ran for it. I limped fast, anyhow.

We had to make Pier 82 and only had about ten minutes to do it, if Uncle Joe could be trusted.

"Will you come on, man?"

"Sorry, sweetheart. You asked if I had practice getting in front of bullets? Well, practice makes perfect. Each one slows you down a little more, makes you a little better at getting in front of the next one."

"I'll keep that in mind."

At last the big Buick came in sight. Micki darted ahead. She was in and cranking before I'd even reached the fender.

"Turn here. Should be six blocks and then..."

As we rode, the night-time river fog swirled into the city. A ship's horn, somewhere out on the Delaware sounded. That sound, and the pain in my leg took me back to my own week on a battleship, USS Texas, on the trip home from France twenty years before. She'd had been a slow, wallowing tub, I'd thought, but was still in service today. If we had to "do it again," these plans we were chasing could be an enormous help to our boys…or could cost them dearly if they fell into the wrong hands.

"I thought I was saving the world, once. I even volunteered to go Over There. Kind of funny. All those bright boys back then. Doughboys. And this… tonight… an old gimp puffing through the dark is probably more important than any—"

"Which way?"

"Uhh…" My wits had wandered sadly. "Right!"

She shook her head, and threw the big car into the turn. The straight eight bellowed and tires screeched.

"You don't wanna make that kind of racket when we get close," I cautioned.

"I wouldn't, if you were paying attention, Slade."

"I was thinking about how important this—right!"

"Why don't you just keep your mind on the roads, then?"

Fair.

A few blocks later, we were close to the riverfront. "Kill the motor. We can coast the last block or so."

We popped the latches on the doors before she threw in the clutch and hit the switch. The big car rolled, almost silent.

It didn't have quite the oomph to make the end of the block, but it didn't matter. Micki grabbed something from the back, stepped lightly out and catfooted for the corner. I did my best to follow, a clubfooted cat, at best.

She peered around the brick wall across Delaware from the open square at the base of the pier. I was glad of our precautions; two tense groups faced off. One figure, hatless and blonde, stood out. "Mister Weiss, I presume," Micki muttered.

"But who are they doing business with? Doesn't he want—"

"The Land of the Rising Sun, for a bet."

That made sense. The super-battleships were for the Pacific, after all. It stood to reason the Japanese would be concerned. They couldn't act freely, the way an Aryan could, not in this neck of the woods. So they asked their friends for help.

Only the friends didn't seem all that friendly tonight.

The sailors lining the pier were all Asians, and all focused on the meeting in the middle. Weiss, or Wise, or whatever he called himself, hadn't come alone, either. I couldn't make out if the long coats and hats around him were his countrymen, men from the Bund, or more of Uncle Joe's charity cases.

It didn't really matter, I thought.

The case was what was important, and Weiss was in the very act of handing it to his opposite number.

I heard a slow ratcheting noise, like a walnut cracking. I looked over, and saw Micki working the action as quietly as she could on a .30-30 Winchester. She aimed.

Crack.

One of the Jap sailors fell.

That was all it took, one shot, like a match on a powderkeg.

Weapons half concealed on both sides suddenly raised. Flashes from two dozen muzzles split the night.

Micki fired coolly into the maelstrom. I didn't think anyone had realized we were there, so focused were they on each other.

After the first murderous exchange it was hard to follow. Survivors of the initial blast mostly wised up and found something to crawl under or behind. For the sailors, that was mostly the huge iron bollards on the pier, the ones the ships tied up to.

On the side of the landsmen, whatever was handy. Crates, boxes, cases, sacks of cargo stood everywhere, waiting to be loaded aboard the freighter, or possibly having been unloaded. I didn't know. Some seemed more bullet proof than others, to judge by the screams as fire tore through.

I pulled the big Colt automatic from under my coat. I didn't have a good target, not at this range, but it's always better to have a gun in a gunfight.

Micki's Winchester ran dry. She leaned it gently against the brickwork, a workman careful of her tools and drew a brace of revolvers. This was my first good look at the irons under her jacket. Those big, funny looking wheel-guns Brit officers used. Webleys? Barrels cut down from six inches to probably three, and big shiny half moons for sights.

The girl G-man with the froggy name and limey gats, a forty-five in each fist, got ready to run into the middle of the Axis powers' peaceful discussion. "You stay here, Slade. Don't get in the way of any more bullets."

She was gone.

"The hell with that," I grumbled. I followed as best I could.