The Red Serpent Strikes, Part One

Chicago, 1961

The four men huddled around a table in the hotel room, laughing as they divided up their stolen money.

            “That shopkeeper won’t stiff us again, will he, Lonnie?” A short, rat-faced man counted out bills.

            Lonnie took a swig from a bottle of cheap whiskey next to the ashtray. “Not after that beating Butch gave him.”

            “Next time we burn the place down.” Butch, a bear of a man, lit a cigarette.

            “Nah,” said the fourth. A .32 caliber pistol sat next to his glass. “Then he won’t have any money to pay us.”

            “Tomorrow night we go after that restaurant in Chinatown. Kent, bring your blackjack again.”

            Kent, the rat-faced man counting out the money, grinned. “Long as Ace has his gun.”

            Ace tapped the pistol. “Never without it.”

            The lights were low. The door was locked. The room smelled of whiskey, smoke, and filthy sheets.

            “Almost done.” Kent shoved the last of the bills at Lonnie. “Here you go, boss.”

            Lonnie smiled. As boss, he was entitled to a bigger share. The others grumbled, but no one had ever challenged him.

            “Okay.” Ace pulled a deck of cards from his back pocket. “We ready to play?”

            “I want to get something to eat.” Butch stood up.

            “Me, too.” Kent grabbed the bottle and had a swig. “Why lose all the money I just made? Besides, you cheat.”

            “Yeah, you—”

Ace’s laugh was cut off by a crash through the window.

            Lonnie stood up, reaching for the gun in his belt. Kent pull his blackjack from a pocket. Ace grabbed for his gun as shattered glass flew across the room.

            A man in black swung through the window. He wore a long coat, a low, wide-brimmed hat, gloves, and a red mask over his eyes.

            His fist held a .45 automatic.

            Ace lifted his .32, but the intruder’s gun spoke first—with a roar. Ace dropped, a slug in his stomach, and hit the floor. Dead.

            Lonnie got his weapon out, but again the stranger fired quicker. And again one of the gang died, a bullet in his chest.

            Butch ran for the door.

            Kent dropped his blackjack and lifted his hands. “Don’t—you can take the money! Just don’t shoot me!”

            “Do you know who I am?” The voice was quiet but full of menace.

            Kent nodded. “The S-Serpent.”

            His eyes gleamed behind the red mask. “That’s right. Now gather up that money and put it back in the bag.”

            Kent did as he was told, his arms shaking as he held the bag out.

            “Who did it come from?”

            Kent’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Sam Pilson. He owns that pharmacy on Halsted.”

            “This is going back to him and his family. And if I catch you shaking people down again, you’ll join your friends on the floor.”

            “Right. Right!” Kent back to the door. “Never again, Serpent. Never again.”

            He fled down the hall.

            The Red Serpent’s lips curled in a thin, humorless smile. He bent over the bodies of the two dead man and slipped off one glove, revealing a large signet ring. With quick, practiced motions, he stamped the foreheads of the dead crooks with his symbol:

            A red, twisted serpent.

            The police—and more important, the underworld—would know who’d killed them. A few might be scared off. Like Kent.

            Most wouldn’t. But the Red Serpent would deal with them in time.

Chicago, present day

“I’m worried about my father.”

Elly Lamb was a lawyer. She was around my age—mid-40s—with curly black hair and a turquoise necklace dangling from her neck. “His name is Trevor Lamb. He’s 72. He’s a retired chemist. He lives two houses down from me. He’s healthy, but he has a home health aide most days, for physical therapy, along with cooking and housekeeping. Nice guy. George. He’s Hispanic. Anyway—” She shook her head. “I feel funny, coming to a private detective, but I think he’s going out at night, and I don’t know where or why.”

We sat at the dining room table in my apartment. More accurately, the apartment I shared with my girlfriend Rachel. She’d agreed to let me meet clients here, as long as it didn’t disturb her in her half of the office we shared.

            We’d moved in together a few weeks ago. Negotiations were still ongoing.

“What are you worried about?” I poured her some coffee.

            “I visit him almost every day. Some days he’s got bruises—he tries to hide them, but if he’s wearing a T-shirt I can see them on his arms. And some days he aches so much he can barely walk. I mean, he is 72, so he’s not exactly running marathons anymore, but this just seems . . . I have a funny feeling about it.”

            I follow people for lots of reasons, and this seemed pretty ordinary. “I can trail him if you want, see where he goes.” Another late night or two.

            “That’s all I want.” She wrote me a check.

            After she left Rachel emerged from the office for coffee. “What’s the case?”

            Rachel’s got red hair and hazelnut eyes. She was wearing cutoffs and a tank top. She’s at least partly psychic—and also pretty hot.

            “Following a senior citizen around to see what he’s up to at night. Should be pretty routine.” I hoped.

            She faked a pout. “So you’re disappearing after dark again? That sort of defeats the purpose of moving in together.”

            I shrugged. “Sorry. I’ll try not to wake you when I come back.”

            “Oh, you can wake me.” She grinned. We were still in a mini-honeymoon phase. Between negotiations. “Hey, did you see in the news about the Forehead Killer again?”  Rachel poured coffee for me. “Two drug dealers, and then he burns their drugs.”

            For the past few months someone had been running around Chicago apparently waging a war against gangbangers and other crooks. The cops figured it was a gang rivalry, with a twist—the killer or killers stamped some kind of symbol on the foreheads of the dead.

            The cops wouldn’t say what the symbol was—trying to prevent false confessions and copycat killings. So my former colleagues of the press—I used to be a reporter before becoming a private detective—had named him (or her?) “the Forehead Killer.”

            “That’s all we need, more shootings.” I picked up my coffee and notebook to head back to the office with her.

            “He’s taking drugs and guns off the streets, isn’t he?” Rachel sat down at her computer.

            “Yeah.” But I doubted the cops I knew saw it that way.

2:30 a.m.        

Two men sat in a car, watching an apartment building across the street.

            “I don’t like this.” His name was Junk—at least that’s what everyone called him. “There’s still people walking around.”

            “I just shoot straight. Not like the last time.” In the backseat Tony shuddered, remembering the look on the little girl’s face as he’d shot her father two months ago.

            “Where the hell is he, anyway?” Junk looked at the car clock. “Do we have to sit here all night? My girlfriend’s going to figure this out soon.”

            Tony groaned. “We have to do this. Hensley said. Victor’s going to talk.”

            “Hell.” Junk didn’t even like Victor. But that didn’t mean he wanted to kill the guy.

            The front door opened across the street.

            “Heads up.” Tony and Junk started opening their windows.

            A large black car pulled up behind them.

            “That’s him. Get ready.” Tony lifted his weapon. A Glock he’d bought from a dealer two months ago. After this he’d have to get rid of it and buy another one—and Hensley wouldn’t even help him pay for it. Bastard.

            “That’s it, that’s it . . .” Tony leaned forward. “Get ready to drive—”

            The roar of a .45 automatic split the night air.

            The man across the street froze, then dashed back inside.

            Junk twisted around. “Tony? What?”

            Tony slumped through the window, dead.

            A man in a long coat stared at Junk. He wore a red mask over his eyes, and his pistol was firm and steady in his hand.

            “Oh no, oh no, oh no . . .” Junk’s girlfriend as going to kill him. Except this guy was too. “Wait, wait, wait!”

            “Do you know who I am?” The voice was quiet, but full of menace.

            Junk gulped. “You’re that—that Forehead guy, aren’t you?”

            “The Red Serpent.” He pointed the .45 at Junk’s forehead. “Where is Hensley?”

            “I don’t know! I don’t know . . .” Junk tried not to pee his pants. “Don’t kill me, man! I only talk to Muntz!”

            “Who is he? Where is he?” The .45 didn’t move.

            “Franken . . .” Junk kept his hands on the steering wheel, crying. “Franken Storage. Most nights. Come on, Serpent, I got a girlfriend and a baby on the way!”

            The Red Serpent laughed. Then he pulled off his glove and stepped back to stamp his seal on Tony’s forehead. “Tell all your friends.”

            He turned and walked back to his big black car.

            Sirens screamed in the darkness as Junk watched the black car disappear into the darkness.