The Dangerous Mr Wolf Read online

  The Dangerous Mr. Wolf

  Brian Drake

  The Dangerous Mr. Wolf

  Brian Drake

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright © 2019 (as revised) Brian Drake

  Wolfpack Publishing

  6032 Wheat Penny Avenue

  Las Vegas, NV 89122

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-64119-649-9

  Contents

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  I. The Kill Fever

  The Kill Fever

  II. The Dark

  The Dark

  III. The Red Ruby Kill

  The Red Ruby Kill

  IV. The Fixer

  The Fixer

  Justified Sins

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  A Look At: The Termination Protocol

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  About the Author

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  The Dangerous Mr. Wolf

  Part I

  The Kill Fever

  The Kill Fever

  There are only three rules in this city:

  Never cheat your partner,

  Never take more than your share,

  And never cross

  WOLF

  Five bodies littered the dry street. Blood smeared the pavement, mixing into the asphalt grime to produce a red/black gunk.

  The police had blocked off the street at either end; patrolmen directed traffic around the crime scene while detectives and the forensics team examined the casualties. The two a.m. chill made the work a chore. A large utility truck with a spotlight lit up the scene but cast odd shadows about. Everybody held up an arm or a hand to block the blast of light.

  When Inspector John Callaway arrived and exited his car, he didn’t know where to begin. Or even if he should. His men had the place covered. He wandered around. The guys were dead, all right. The ambulances had only been summoned as a formality; the medics hung about doing nothing. Callaway stopped. He put most of his weight on his left foot. His right was sore, for some reason. It had been aching lately. Maybe it was finally time to shed some of the extra pounds he carried around. Maybe then his feet would stop aching. He waved down one of the detectives.

  “What do we have?”

  The detective was young, maybe late 20s; his hands shook as he flipped back the pages of his notebook.

  “Take it easy,” Callaway said.

  The detective nodded. “Five victims. Shot with an automatic weapon. Jesus, skipper, their guts are everywhere.”

  “Stay focused.”

  A deep breath. The detective said, “From what the witnesses say, the guys exited the club over there, and when they crossed the street to that Cadillac at the curb, the shooter got out of a car and opened up on them.”

  “One shooter?”

  “With an automatic weapon.”

  “One guy?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then he got in the car and drove away?”

  “Like he’d stepped on a spider, skipper,” the young detective said. “We’re checking the red-light cameras and we think the jewelry store on the corner may have had a security camera looking this way, but other than that--” he shrugged.

  “Good. Let’s go see one of the stiffs.”

  The detective led the way. They stepped under crime scene tape and the young man stopped at a body lying face down on the asphalt, a hefty fellow with a toupee now askew and matted with blood.

  “I didn’t know guys even bothered with toupees anymore,” the detective said.

  “You’d be surprised what guys bother with,” said Callaway. He knelt beside the body and examined the man’s face. His eyes were still open. He wore a large gold ring on his left hand. Callaway stood.

  “Know him?” the detective said.

  “Ben Belasis. He’s one of Gulino’s boys.”

  “These are mob guys?”

  “Take it easy.”

  “But, skipper--”

  “Just do your job. Let me worry about what it means.”

  It didn’t make sense. Carlo Gulino and the other capo in town, Pedro Sanchez, had coexisted peacefully for over twenty years. The battles of the old days were long settled. Had something happened to change the situation? The rumor mill, usually the most reliable source of such goings on, had offered nothing in the weeks prior to tonight.

  Callaway stood and scanned the crime scene, holding a hand up against the glare of the spotlight. There was indeed nothing he could do here. He needed to be elsewhere, and fast.

  Almost as if on cue, his phone beeped. A text. Callaway gave the screen a quick glance, said, “Stay loose, kid,” and returned to his car. The young detective watched him drive away.

  Presently Callaway turned into another neighborhood, parked the car and stepped out. He checked the text again and turned into an alley. He climbed the fire escape to the roof. Why did his friend always want to meet on rooftops? Grunting, he swung his legs over the edge of the roof and stopped, winded. Bloody hell, he had to go on a diet.

  Another man stood a few feet away looking out at the sleeping city. The glow of the city lights highlighted the man, tall, head-to-toe in black, standing with the steadiness of an eternal sentry.

  “Why do you always make me climb something?” Callaway said as he approached the other man.

  “It’s good for you,” the man said. Callaway knew him only as Wolf. Nobody knew his first name. He had arrived in Las Palmas four years ago, taking a leave of absence from military service to find out why his sister Shelly had stopped writing letters, only to find that she’d been murdered. He tore the city apart to find the man responsible. Callaway provided a helping hand, and the two formed an unlikely bond between lawman, and outlaw. With his sister’s killer vanquished, Wolf made his exit from the military permanent and stayed in the city, operating on the fringes between the cops and the crooks. Callaway didn’t think he was a bad guy; wasn’t entirely sure he was a good guy; what he did know was that sometimes Wolf came in handy. Because justice, the ever-present underdog, often needed a little help, and, for some reason, Wolf didn’t mind lending that help. Callaway wasn’t sure what to do about him, so he did nothing. Sometimes it was best to just see how things shook out.

  “My guys tell me there was only one shooter. I got half a mind to think it was you, Wolf.”

  “What’s my motive?”

  “That’s the only reason I’m positive it wasn’t you.”

  The city’s glow hit Wolf’s fa
ce just right. It was a rough face. There was a small scar on his lower lip. Dark eyes, darker hair, a silver chain around his neck which disappeared down the front of his shirt.

  Wolf said, “Whatever started tonight, we don’t have long before it gets out of control. You know Gulino will blame Sanchez and he will retaliate. Innocent people are in danger.”

  “Neither of them is that stupid. They’ll want answers first. Have you heard anything about problems between them?”

  “Nothing.” Wolf frowned. “You’re right, we would have heard something.”

  “Especially you.”

  Wolf let out a grunt. “Nobody’s perfect.”

  “Do you have any action going?”

  “I’ve already started working my end, but so far I have nothing for you.”

  Callaway sighed. “I probably won’t get any sleep this week.”

  “Try to.” Wolf patted him on the shoulder. “In your condition you need your rest.” He laughed. He started for the fire escape.

  “You’re a real smart ass, you know that?”

  Wolf made his way back to the street.

  Callaway stood on the roof for a little longer watching the city. Most of the city slept and had no knowledge of the violent event. Other parts were awake and active and hiding in the cover of darkness.

  His phone rang. He answered it. “Inspector Callaway.”

  “Skipper,” another of his detectives said. “We got another body. This one belongs to Sanchez’s crew. He was shot on the front step of his home.”

  “Terrific,” Callaway said.

  Wolf stood beside the steps of his apartment building smoking a cigar near the Absolutely No Smoking sign the landlady had nailed into the outer brick wall. The lady knew better than to tell Wolf no.

  His watch read 5:30 a.m. The dawn of a new day. People went by on the sidewalk and cars passed on the street and the morning’s chill made its presence felt. The smell in the air announced itself with every gentle gust of wind. The closer one lived to the bay, as Wolf did, the stronger the sewer-like stench wafted from the slotted gutters. Home sweet home. He could afford a better place, but he needed to be close to the action.

  Wolf wrinkled his nose at a particularly strong whiff when a white Chevy Cruze paralleled into the last open spot on the curb. The woman who climbed out locked the car and walked toward the steps. She walked with the tired movements of somebody coming off the graveyard shift.

  She wasn’t what anybody would call striking but she had that girl-next-door cuteness that everybody noticed. Long dark hair that was never quite done right and eyes that were big and brown and always focused on the ground. Victim eyes, Wolf called them, and had first thought so when she and her husband moved into the building two months ago. She had said her name was Melody Chapman. Wolf knew her husband, Cain, who was fresh out of prison. Her eyes scanned the cracks in the sidewalk as she neared the steps. She wore a T-shirt and faded blue jeans that showed off more of the muffin top above her waist than Wolf figured she liked but the blessings on her chest more than likely deflected attention from her middle.

  “Good morning,” Wolf said as she started up the steps.

  She hid her face from him. “Hi.” She pushed through the lobby door.

  Wolf shook his head. He had heard Melody and her husband arguing the night before. They lived across the hall from him. The argument had ended so abruptly that he knew the punk had hit her. It made Wolf mad. He wanted to throw Cain Chapman off the roof.

  He finished the cigar and went up to his apartment. He was too keyed up for sleep. He picked up a book about Churchill’s adventure with Lawrence of Arabia and sat under a lamp and read for a while.

  A little after seven the shouting started. Melody’s husband had a loud voice. He yelled a little. She yelled back. Then she screamed.

  Wolf closed the book and stared at the spots on the ceiling above his chair and let a countdown tick in his head. He didn’t need anybody to draw him a picture. The woman screamed again. Wolf rose from the chair, dog-eared his book and set it down. With clenched fists, he left the apartment. His shoes thumped on the carpeted floor and he pounded on the door across from his.

  The door flew open and a bony man with a dark goatee glared at him. Melody sobbed out of sight. The bony man raised a pointed finger; Wolf saw the blood on the man’s knuckles. He grabbed the wrist and twisted, pulled. The bony man let out a cry of his own as Wolf hauled him out into the hallway, kicked the man’s legs out from under him. No snide remarks escaped Wolf’s lips. He delivered a hard punch to the bony man’s face; once, twice. Skin under the man’s left eye broke open. Wolf lifted the man to his feet, twisted the arm back, forcing the man to face the wall, and shoved. The bony man left a smear of blood on the wallpaper. Wolf hammered two blows into the man’s back. The man’s breath rushed out and he crumpled onto the carpet.

  Melody stepped into the doorway. Tears streaked her face. A bloody welt grew on her cheek. She put her hands to her mouth.

  “Need a doctor?” Wolf said.

  “Ohmygodohmygod,” she said. She dropped her hands. “He’s going to kill you!”

  “Melody, do you really think he could?”

  Other doors along the hall opened, tenants poking out their heads to see the commotion. Somebody offered to call the cops. Wolf didn’t answer.

  Wolf woke up late in the afternoon, showered and shaved and walked around the corner for a late lunch at a corner deli. He ate a large turkey sandwich with only pickles, mustard, and tomatoes and sipped black coffee. Dressed in his prerequisite black, he had another piece of his wardrobe under the long leather jacket, a custom-built five-inch Colt Series 70 .45 automatic.

  Taking another cup of coffee to go, Wolf dropped behind the wheel of his Cadillac CTS and started making the rounds. He stopped and spoke with his usual informants in their usual hangouts to see if they had any answers to his previous queries. Nobody could provide anything useful. The street was abuzz about the shootings, and as news of the follow-up killing of one of Pedro Sanchez’s men spread, everybody expected an even bigger battle. Cops beat the turf looking for information; some of the guys Wolf talked to were packing up and taking a vacation. They didn’t need the heat.

  The street reps of each crime family were incredulous, blaming the other side, but when Wolf pressed them further, they could not provide even a speculative reason why the killings had taken place.

  Wolf steered the Cadillac into the parking lot of a fish market and went through the door. The clerks were busy with customers and didn’t notice him. He ignored the chill of the place, caused by the open freezers which displayed various kinds of seafood, and made his way to a back door. Moving on through, he shut the door carefully behind him. The back room was warm. Jimmy “Count Em” Koontz sat at a desk, talking on the phone, typing notes on a laptop. He said goodbye and put the phone down.

  “Placing any bets?” Short and stocky with long hair, Jimmy folded his stubby fingers together and smiled.

  “Not today. Hear about the action last night?”

  “Did I? I heard from the boss himself. He’s stunned. Not pissed. I mean he’s in a panic, Wolf. Gulino didn’t order the hit. He got no reason to order a hit.”

  “Somebody shot those guys.”

  “And right now, Carlo would give his left nut to know who. He’s gotta get ready for a fight, you know. He can’t help it. The guys need to be ready.”

  “I don’t blame him.”

  Jimmy gestured behind Wolf. “Now there’s a guy you should talk to.”

  Wolf turned to look at the man entering the room. He didn’t smile.

  Cain Chapman stood almost as tall as Wolf, but had lost most of his hair, still prison-skinny and his cheekbones jutted, and his arms were taught and sinewy. He had a black eye.

  “Wolf,” he said. “When do you want a rematch?”

  “Hurt your wife again and I’ll kill you.”

  “Guys,” Jimmy said, putting up his hands. “Not here, okay?”r />
  Wolf nodded. Chapman fumed.

  Jimmy said, “Placing a bet, Cain?”

  “Yeah,” and Chapman went to the desk with a sheet of paper and wad of cash. He did his business with Jimmy, said good-bye, and left. He did not look at Wolf, but Wolf watched him leave.

  Jimmy said, “Sure I can’t tempt you, Wolf?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “What’s the problem?” Jimmy said.

  “Where’s Chapman working now?”

  “His old spot was taken, so Gulino put him downtown with Jake Rossi’s outfit.”

  “Really?”

  “I think his old temper has mellowed a bit. He lost about $1500 last week and didn’t bat an eye.”

  “I don’t buy that for a second.”

  Wolf said goodbye and went out.

  Carlo Gulino lived in a white mansion on the western side of the city. It was the largest home in the western hills and surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. Cameras, armed security guards, warning signs--the works. If you ventured anywhere near the estate, you knew very well that something bad would happen if you tried to get over the fence.

  Wolf steered the Cadillac onto the short driveway approaching the main entrance. A guard sat in a shack. He stepped out. His shirt strained against a pot belly, and a revolver hung below his left arm. He held out a hand. Wolf stopped the car.