Jack's Mess (Prt2-Murder In Blue) (standard:action, 13408 words) [2/2] show all parts
Author: Reid Laurence	Added: Dec 12 2005	Views/Reads: 3115/2949	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A psychotic murderer, Jack Carter earns his place among serial killers of his day amidst an era of machine-gun-wielding gangsters, crooked cops and beautiful women. He learns to kill indiscriminately, leaving behind a trail of blood and a stack of bodie

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and gaping, now lay either dead or dying. Whole chunks of the polished 
granite stone that made up the beautiful motif of the lobby had become 
projectiles themselves, as they were shot away by the raging storm of 
fire power. “You know that guy?” asked Jim, nervously. “I'm pretty sure 
I do. He was Louie's buddy and right arm. They were always together. 
Figures he'd be here. I remember seein' his mug shot,” replied Jack. 
“Wait a minute,” said Jim cautiously. “I don't hear him anymore. He 
stopped.” The two listened, but the gunfire had come to an end. Jack 
slowly peered out from behind the corner of the wall at the carnage all 
around him, and the two walked slowly up the granite staircase with 
their guns drawn, stepping carefully around the bodies and jagged 
pieces of stone. “Where'd he go?” asked Jack, as the two of them got to 
the top of the stairs. “There,” replied Jim. “Look, he must'a made it 
down the fire escape. You wanna see if we can catch up with him?” “Nah, 
he's too far ahead of us. Let's get back to the station. His name's on 
the tip a my tongue, I just can't remember right now.” It was only a 
short walk back to the police station, but before going up to their 
third floor offices, Jim thought he'd better notify the Baptist Medical 
Center. “You go on Jack,” he said. “I'll meet you downstairs. It's not 
every day a bunch a people get cut down in front a you like that.” 
“Yeah, right,” responded Jack in a hasty tone. It just wasn't like Jack 
to worry about how many deaths had just occurred or how well the Chief 
of Police might take it. His instincts were plain and simple and had 
nothing at all to do with emotions like sympathy or pity for the dead 
and dying. Jack walked the steps downstairs to the police archives 
alone, but that was just the way he was. He was hunting now, and like 
any other selfassured predator, hunting alone made him feel even more 
secure and sure about himself. After all, he didn't want to share in 
the act of killing if he didn't have to. For Jack, that was the 
climactic end of the pursuit. He rarely brought people back alive. 
There was always some excuse. He was about to draw on me or he was 
about to run. Always some kind of excuse. It didn't take long for Jim 
to catch up with his partner. When he found Jack, he was pacing up and 
down the long aisles like an animal in a cage, depleted of patience and 
growing more irritable with each passing moment. Even though he was 
only a few brief minutes away from finding the file he was looking for, 
paperwork just wasn't Jack's forté. “Why you gettin' so worked up?” 
asked Jim. “We'll find the shooter, he's here somewhere.” “I don't have 
time for this shit. Help me out would ya? If we look up Louie here, 
we're bound to find a lead on that bastard,” said Jack. “There's a 
picture of them sitting together in some restaurant here, I've seen it 
before.” “Taken by a reporter, no doubt,” replied Jim. “Yeah, you're 
right. It was a newspaper clipping from about two years ago, in 
thirty-three, I think.” As Jack finished his sentence, he paused, put 
his hands around his waist and looked around himself expressing his 
confusion. “Okay,” he continued, “where the hell do the A's begin?” “At 
the beginning,” replied Jim mockingly, but he full well knew that the 
archives were a vast collection of files dating back before either of 
them had begun their jobs on the force. Just the floor space they took 
up amounted to at least a thousand square feet, and it was hard to tell 
just where they began and where they ended. “Just find Ancona and cut 
the crap. We got plenty to do before the day's up.” “Okay, okay,” said 
Jim. “I wanna find the bastard just as much as you. Here,” he 
continued, “here's Louie's file.” Jack couldn't wait to get Louie 
Ancona's file in his hands. He hurriedly flipped through the pages of 
investigation until he found what he was looking for. “There he is,” he 
said. “There's our man.” “What's his name?” “Let me read the story, 
hold on,” said Jack. “Says here: Well known gangster and alleged 
accomplice to Al Capone, Louie Ancona enjoys a night out on the town 
with long time friend, Frank Bari, photographed late last night at the 
Hickory Inn...” “Frank Bari, Bari...ain't he the guy who gunned down 
that mobster last year?” asked Jim. “What's his name? Cagliari, Joey 
Cagliari.” “You're right. It took the best defense lawyer money could 
buy to get him off. He should be doing time in the slammer. Everyone 
knew he did it.” “What else does the article say?” asked an even more 
interested Detective Gray. “It goes on to talk about how Ancona started 
out as a bag man for Capone and graduated to hit man and bodygaurd.” 
“Hmmm, Capone musta trusted him. It's not every guy off the street gets 
next to Capone like that.” “Trusted isn't the word,” said Jack. “You 
know as well as I do, Capone never trusted anyone. He liked him well 
enough to move him up, that's all. But what I'm wondering is...” Jack 
stopped short in his sentence to think to himself and question his 
attentive partner. “Yeah, what are you wondering?” “What the hell were 
Ancona and Bari doing this far south anyway?” “I don't know,” replied 
Jim. “He kinda got shot in the head before he could tell us.” “You feel 
sorry for that bum?” “No, but he was bringing you a present.” “Think 
about it, Jim. It was part of a pay-off. I'd put money on it.” “Pay-off 
for what?” “For us ta keep our mouths shut while they start a branch of 
the mob down here, that's what.” “Sounds good in theory, anyway.” “I'll 
bet I'm right too,” said Jack. “‘Course now,” he said smiling, “there's 
no way to tell for sure is there? What we gotta do now is find Frank 
Bari an' give him some a his own medicine.” “Jack, the right thing to 
do is to bring him in. Why do I find myself in the same argument with 
you time after time?” “Because you don't know these guys the way I do, 
that's why,” replied Jack. “You're too soft.” “Jack, you know 
somethin'? You're as bad as the guys you chase, you know that? 
Sometimes I think you're on the wrong side.” “Yeah, sure. Look,” said 
Jack, pointing at his partner with his forefinger outstretched. “I'll 
do this alone if I got to. I don't need you holding me back.” “Nobody 
can hold you back,” said Jim. “That's the problem. Today was a 
bloodbath and you're still not satisfied are you?” “I'll just go it 
alone,” said Jack, without looking back, as he walked up the long 
flight of stairs to the ground floor and made his way to the building 
exit. Jack was resolute in his conviction to kill the killer he was 
after, and nothing, or no one, was going to get in the way to prove 
otherwise. A warm, rainy day in August waited for Jack as he stepped 
outside. It'd been several weeks since he'd returned from furlough and 
recovered from the accident he had in New Mexico. His rib cage still 
felt sore, and from time to time it reminded him of the day which very 
nearly cost him his life. The day he learned of his one weakness, his 
mortality. Still, Jack didn't feel at all deterred from the course of 
his actions. As usual, instinct took over in him, and any and all fear 
of any living man was quelled by the excitement of the hunt, and the 
kill at the end of it. Sliding behind the big wheel of his nineteen 
thirty-four black Ford sedan, Jack drove himself to one of the well 
known watering holes in town. It was a bar called Shay's Lounge on Hull 
Street. He knew it might be possible to pick up some information on his 
shooter from some of the seedier patrons he had in mind to question, 
and as he walked in through the door, he could smell the aroma of stale 
old beer mixed with body odor. The heat of the summer worsened the 
effect, and filled his mind with disdain for the barroom customers, as 
he reached into his suit coat pocket for the newspaper clipping he 
brought along with him. Finding a seat at the bar, he laid the article 
out in front of him, and methodically smoothed out the curled edges of 
the paper as if it were an important religious scroll. “What'll it be?” 
asked a curious bartender. “You ever see this man?” asked Jack, holding 
up the newspaper clipping and pointing to the picture of Frank Bari. 
“You come here ta talk or drink, mister?” “I asked you a question.” 
“You a cop?” In answer to the bartender's question, Jack said nothing, 
but reached into his pocket, pulled out his badge and laid it on the 
bar. “This place is lookin' dirtier by the minute, you know that? When 
I first walked in, I didn't realize just how dirty it is. I can shut it 
down for ya for a few weeks, if you like. Give you a chance ta clean it 
up and all.” “No,” said the bartender, “we don't need that. I operate a 
plain, simple business here, and I don't look for trouble. If I talk to 
you... you know the rest, I don't have ta spell it out, do I?” “If you 
don't, you could have an accident right here, today,” said Jack, 
reaching into his shoulder holster, removing the forty-five from 
underneath his coat and laying it down, muzzle end pointed in the 
bartender's direction. “I don't have ta spell it out, do I?” With a 
look of frustration and fear, the bartender stubbornly began to give 
Jack the information he'd come in for. Any clues as to the whereabouts 
of Frank Bari. “Last Saturday night, I saw him come in here with 
another guy. A little guy with a big scar on his face. Tough looking 
little guy he was.” “Did you hear anything they were sayin'? Anything 
at all?” “Yeah, I did. Something about a hotel.” “The name, did you 
catch the name?” The bartender hesitated and looked around, searching 
for anyone who might be watching or eavesdropping as they spoke. “The 
Madison, somethin' like that. I couldn't tell for sure. There were a 
lot a other people talking. Some of it sounded like gibberish, ya know. 
That's all I know I swear.” “Here, this is for your trouble,” said 
Jack, as he handed the agitated bartender a crisp, new ten dollar bill. 
“And don't worry about word gettin' around. This is our little secret. 
Just between you an' me. There's just one more thing.” “What's that? I 
told you all I know.” “How about a scotch. On the rocks.” “What's a 
matter, mister, no twist? I got a wife an' two kids. Please, you gotta 
go after this. I can't let anybody see me talkin' to a cop. And you 
gotta get this gun off the bar, it's makin' me nervous.” “Okay, okay,” 
answered Jack, as he picked up the heavy pistol and returned it to its 
holster. “I won't take long. The sooner you pour the booze, the faster 
I can get outta here.” In two long chugs, Jack drank down the entire 
contents of the glass, stood up and headed for the door. He doubted 
word would leak to Bari before he could find him, but he was anxious to 
begin his search. He knew it was only a matter of time before he'd be 
called away and forced to give his attention to some other crime, 
either in progress or after the fact, and coincidentally, the time had 
arrived.... “Car fifty-eight, car fifty-eight...” The police dispatcher 
was calling Jack over his car radio. “Shit,” he said to himself. 
“Wouldn't ya know it. Just when I'm gettin' somewhere.” “Car 
fifty-eight here, over,” responded Jack. “Lieutenant Carter, we've got 
a robbery in progress at the First National Bank Of Montgomery on Union 
Street.” “Roger that,” Jack replied. “I'm on my way.” This might be 
fun, Jack thought, as he rolled down the window of the big sedan, put 
the car in drive and sped away to the scene of the crime. Haven't been 
on a robbery case in a while. I could use a change of pace. Driving to 
the robbery scene, Jack calmly parked across the street from the bank 
and watched as the crime unfolded before him. He arrived just as two 
men with stockings pulled over their heads were seen jumping into a 
dark brown, nineteen thirty sedan, but instead of bursting out of his 
car with his gun in hand, he decided to do something a little more 
unusual. Like a cat with a live mouse, he decided to have fun and play 
with his prey before destroying it, and as the three men sped off, Jack 
quietly wrote out their license plate number on a scrap of paper he 
took from his glove compartment, just in case he lost them in traffic. 
It might be some time before they get where they're goin', he thought. 
Better be safe than sorry. Driving carefully behind the criminals so as 
not to attract attention to himself, Jack allowed other cars in front 
of his and slowed his vehicle down, making it appear that he was in no 
great hurry. After a short five mile drive, the three fugitives turned 
their car into the parking lot of the Flamingo Motel, parked, and as 
Jack looked on from across the street, he could see the driver get out 
of the car and walk into the motel office. “It doesn't get any better 
then this,” Jack said to himself, as he removed his gun from its 
holster and checked its ammunition clip. “All I gotta do is wait.” A 
few minutes later, Jack saw the driver come out of the office and walk 
back to the car. His two friends each grabbed a suitcase from the car 
and walked to their room on the second floor of the motel. The driver 
carried a slender, light brown case that looked familiar to Jack, and 
he suspected there was something other than bank money inside it. It 
was the kind of case you could conceal a weapon in, and Jack suspected 
it was either a sub-machine gun or automatic rifle. He was only too 
aware that at times, the cops were outgunned, and that was a constant 
source of irritation to Jack, and to others as well. Taking note of the 
room the three walked into, Jack didn't waste time. He walked up to the 
second floor and prepared himself. “It's show time,” he mumbled, as he 
nonchalantly adjusted his tie and straightened his suit coat. I'm a 
professional, he thought, I gotta look like one if I'm gonna get 
respect, and after brushing the dust off his shiny, black leather 
shoes, he knocked cheerfully on the red motel door with the barrel of 
his .45 automatic. “Who's there?” came an apprehensive voice from 
inside. “It's the manager,” replied Jack. “I got some room service for 
you guys. Compliments a the house.” “Fine, just leave it there. We'll 
get it later.” “Sir...” Jack hesitated as he searched for words. 
“There's another problem. It's about your bill.” The three men inside 
the room stood looking at each other. They all realized something was 
wrong, and neither of them was about to take any chances. They knew if 
they were caught, they'd go to jail for a long, long time. “I told you 
we shoulda kept on drivin',” whispered the driver to one of the other 
men. “Now what the hell is this?” “Shut up an' put it together,” 
replied the ringleader of the group, as he pointed to the brown case 
Jack had spotted on their way in. “I'll keep him busy. Get to work.” 
“We paid, didn't we? What's wrong now?” answered the criminal 
suspiciously, as he renewed his conversation with Jack. “You overpaid. 
You got five bucks comin' back to ya. Dont'cha want it?” “Sure we do,” 
replied the gangster, as he nodded to his partner. “Just gimme a 
minute, I'm gettin' ready here.” As the leader of the group kept Jack 
busy talking, the driver was hard at work assembling the pieces of a 
Browning Automatic Rifle or B.A.R. The small-time hoodlums had several, 
twenty round, armor piercing clips ready to go, and they knew the rifle 
would come in handy if they met up with any opposition, or anyone 
unfortunate enough to be standing in front of them. “Okay,” announced 
the self-assured bank robber. “I'm ready!” And just as he finished 
speaking, his accomplice opened fire on the motel door, and anything 
standing behind it. Within sixty seconds, the once thick, solid wood 
door had become a splintered mess, with one huge gaping hole that had 
been shot out perfectly at head height. Standing in the smoke filled 
room, the lead criminal turned to his two friends and laughed loudly as 
he slapped his knees with his hands. “So,” he proudly exclaimed, now 
laughing hysterically. “Where's my five bucks!? I'm waitin'.” After a 
few moments more of raucous laughter, the smoke in the room began to 
clear and the three hoodlums stared at each other in uncertainty. 
“There's nobody there. How could I a missed?” questioned the shooter. 
“Lucky for you, you did,” replied Jack, as he came out from behind the 
wall with his gun raised. “Otherwise, I couldn't get you guys your 
change. Here ya go... take it,” he continued, as he fired one lethal 
shot each into the bodies of the misguided bank robbers. “Don't spend 
it all in one place now,” said Jack, while he calmly looked about the 
room. “Looks like we'll have to add that messy door ta your bill.” What 
have we here, thought Jack to himself. An old B.A.R. Finders keepers. I 
just might be able ta use this later on. Never can tell. And as Jack's 
gaze fell on the other suitcases the gangsters were carrying, he knew 
he'd found what he was looking for. Opening the latches on the cases, 
he looked on in awe at all the crisp new bills, neatly wrapped in 
bundles of different denominations. Quite a haul, he thought. These 
boys have been busy. “Gotta giv'‘em an ‘A' for tryin',” Jack said to 
himself, as he slipped a bundle of hundred dollar bills into his 
pocket. “I love this job,” he remarked, as he walked out of the motel 
room with all three cases in tow. Getting into his car, Jack started on 
his way back to the police station. Once there, he dropped the two 
suitcases of money off with the police chief's secretary and walked his 
way up to his third floor office in search of Detective Gray. “Hey 
buddy, where ya been?” asked Jack's partner, seated at his desk and 
concerned that he'd missed out on whatever it was Jack had been doing. 
“Nothin' special. Bank heist, that's all. Just dropped off the goods 
with the chief. What you been up to?” “Just sittin' here going through 
old files, lookin' for clues on our guy, Bari.” “Find anything?” asked 
Jack. “Yeah, seems Bari has quite a long history a small time crime. 
Nothin' really spectacular until he met his friend Ancona.” “Then 
what?” “Then he turned killer like Ancona, only worse.” “What'd he do?” 
“Remember St. Valentines Day in Chicago?” replied Detective Gray. “Cops 
there think Bari was a gunner that day. There were two hoods with 
machine guns. The cops know ‘cause they picked up exactly seventy shell 
casings. Fifty from one drum operated gun and another twenty from a 
clip the other guy used. Is that bad enough for ya?” “I see your 
point,” Jack said, now more impressed than ever with Frank Bari's track 
record. “Then today was just another day on the job for Bari. Nothin' 
out of the ordinary for a bastard like that.” “You got it.” “All right, 
I got a lead on him today from a bartender. Tomorrow, I'll head out to 
the Madison Hotel. He might be stayin' there. If he's gone, maybe I can 
find someone who knows where he went.” “What's wrong with right now?” 
asked Jim. “Gotta get some shut-eye. I'm beat. I'll see ya in the 
morning, how's that?” Without waiting for an answer from his partner, 
Jack turned, walked out the office door and left the police station for 
home. The truth was, he had other things planned for this evening that 
didn't include tracking down Frank Bari. There was a big meeting about 
to take place on the outskirts of town, and Jack very much wanted to be 
a part of the festivities. The first thing Jack did when he got home 
was walk over to the closet in his bedroom. It was there that he kept 
the white sheet and hood which he wore to every meeting he attended 
with his fellow Klan members. Since the end of the American Civil War, 
every Klansman wore the robe, and every Klansman knew the oath they had 
to take when they were sworn in. Jack remembered the questions the 
Grand Wizard asked him like it was only yesterday... Are you now, or 
have you ever been a member of the Radical Republican Party? Did you 
belong to the Federal Army during the late war, and fight against the 
South during the existence of the same? Are you opposed to Negro 
equality, both social and political? Are you in favor of a white man's 
government in this country? But Jack's hatred was more far reaching 
than even these questions could attest to. Jews, Roman Catholics, 
Socialists, or any other person identified as a foreigner could be a 
target of the Klan, and often enough, they were. Tonight's meeting 
would be no different. Jack even knew the night's itinerary. He was an 
important, trusted member of the Ku Klux Klan and always did whatever 
was expected of him. He liked it. It got his mind off work and the 
sometimes dull routine of the day, but best of all, it was another 
outlet for his bloodlust, and as he neatly folded the trademark robe 
and placed it in the trunk of his car, he whistled a cheerful tune to 
himself. This outta be a night ta remember, he thought, as he turned 
the key in the ignition, put the big sedan in gear and headed out of 
town for the city limits. The boys in the Klan liked to refer to nights 
like this as a double header, since there were two people to lynch 
instead of just one. One of the victims was an unfortunate Negro who 
happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. A Klan member 
swore he saw him looking into a bedroom window in an all white 
neighborhood, hoping, no doubt, to get a glance at one of the men's 
wives while she undressed, but that was, of course, a lie. The 
unfortunate black man had been hired on as a handyman and was merely 
doing the job he was hired to do, washing windows and maintaining the 
grounds of the home. That not being a good enough explanation for most, 
(after all, what good was the word of a black man compared to the word 
of a white) the greater body of Klansmen believed they could use him as 
an example, and send a message home to other black folks, dissuading 
them from similar criminal acts. When in all actuality, the whole 
concoction was just one more lame excuse to lynch another innocent 
Negro. The other man they intended to hang that evening was thought to 
be a no good Jew. Since he drove into town in a big fancy car, 
inspiring jealousy, and puffed away on expensive cigars, he garnered 
suspicion from the start. The reality of the matter was, the man was a 
traveling salesman for a farm equipment company, and was only trying to 
make himself comfortable while he endured the hardships of traveling 
for weeks at a time. He was doing well enough to make ends meet, but 
living beyond his means, stretching his budget wherever he went, hoping 
to make the one big sale that would make up for all the losses he 
incurred on his road trip. He was innocent of course, the only crime 
he'd committed was driving further south than he should have, and the 
star of David he wore around his neck didn't do much to help his case. 
Both of the men were being held temporarily in an out-ofthe- way farm 
house owned by one of the Klansmen. For the past two days, they were 
fed just enough to keep themselves alive until the Klan could get word 
out amongst themselves that there was to be a big meeting and 
initiation at the Willoughby place just outside of town. Besides the 
hanging, the night's festivities were not scheduled to end until the 
Klan got a chance to welcome a new member into their own beloved, 
malevolent group. All the members knew the young teenage candidate 
almost as well as they knew his father, the prominent Sheriff of 
Montgomery County. The young boy was surely the product of his 
environment, and made his family proud of him by taking part in those 
same traditions that got his father elected to office. He knew the 
questions he'd be asked that evening, and he'd rehearsed his answers 
well, but the one question that stood out mostly in his mind was the 
one which very nearly assured the success of his father... Are you in 
favor of a white man's government in this country? Undeniably, he knew 
that when he said yes in response, he was almost sure to be rewarded 
with some kind of high level position in his future. After all, his 
father had already paved the way, all he had to do now was walk in his 
footsteps, and nobody had to coax him into doing it. When Jack drove up 
to the Willoughby farm, he was intrigued by the many cars he saw, all 
brimming with enthusiastic people, anxiously waiting for night to fall. 
It was a long time tradition of the Klan to become active at night and 
not during the day, since after the civil war when riders dressed in 
white sheets with white cardboard hoods, posing as the ghosts of dead 
confederate soldiers. At that time, their main purpose was to scare and 
admonish blacks into behaving themselves. Klansmen threatened these 
people with more visits if they did not. It didn't take long before the 
threatening visits became more violent in nature. Whippings were used 
at first, and soon after, lynching grew to popularity. As Jack parked 
his car and walked around to the trunk to retrieve his sheet and hood, 
he had to smile to himself as he recalled an old tactic the ghostly 
riders used when the Klan first took hold in war-torn Alabama. It 
wasn't rare for a single hooded Klan member to ride to the home of a 
black family and demand water from their well. After appearing to gulp 
the water down, when actually he was pouring it into a rubber hose that 
flowed into a leather bottle, he would demand more and act as if he'd 
drank that also. This would go on until the thirsty rider had appeared 
to drink several buckets, he'd then exclaim that he'd not had a drink 
since he died at Shiloh, and ride off into the night. That story always 
got laughs from the men when they gathered at restaurants and bars, but 
meetings like tonight's were not meant to inspire laughs, they were 
meant to be serious, deadly serious. Jack donned his robe now and 
walked to the barn with another Klansman. They knew what had to be done 
now and performed the task as smoothly as if they'd rehearsed it. With 
guns drawn, they unlocked the barn doors and summoned the two prisoners 
with a kick to the side of each. “Get up, nigga,” said Jack menacingly, 
as he pointed his loaded Colt .45 in the black man's face. “You too, 
Jew boy, on your feet. Nobody gives a shit if I kill you both right 
now, there just won't be no show, that's all.” “Don't kill us, mister,” 
implored the salesman. “I got three kids at home, what are they gonna 
do without me?” “That's a cryin' shame,” said Jack. “If they were here, 
we could lynch them too, just like one big happy family!” With that, 
the two Klan members couldn't help but laugh. Jack was proud to exert 
his wit over the downtrodden Jewish man now standing before him, it 
made him feel superior. “Get movin' boys,” said the other Klansman, 
“You don't wanna be late for yer own party now do ya?” “It ain't no 
party,” replied the angry, harassed black man. “Why sure it is,” 
replied the Klansman, as he garnered a smile. “It's a necktie party, 
an' the both a you gonna be the most well dressed there! C'mon now,” he 
continued. “Let's not keep yer fans waitin'.” As Jack and his partner 
in crime pushed the two men out into the waiting crowd, dusk had fallen 
over the town of Montgomery, and the creeping darkness that followed 
seemed to set the stage for the task at hand. Even as they walked 
through the thick crowd of anxiously waiting ghouls, Jack and the 
others could see the stage getting closer and closer, and the cross 
which now burned over it lit up the night sky like a huge bonfire. The 
two victims could clearly see the Grand Wizard as he stood on stage 
with arms outstretched. One could have mistakenly taken his posturing 
as a welcome to his two newly invited guests, but the strange leader's 
malicious intent was made only too clear to the revelers around him, as 
the gallows behind him and ropes which swung in the cool night air 
would testify. As the Grand Wizard spoke about the dangers of allowing 
blacks to vote and live among good, law abiding white people, his words 
seemed to blend, becoming meaningless gibberish in the minds of the two 
men who awaited their fate. Nervous tension, fear and the adrenaline 
which pulsed through their bodies made it impossible for them to 
listen, as the Klan leader's words droned on and on. “...And, my 
friends,” continued the Grand Wizard, “we cannot, and will not tolerate 
the Jew either, as we all know him as the puppeteer. The controller. We 
cannot allow ourselves to be victimized any longer by any Jew! We are 
the superior race! Only we will govern over this fine country, and any 
stain on our flag,” he continued, pointing to a confederate flag waving 
in the breeze by the side of the stage, “or blemish on the face of this 
land will be dealt with severely, I promise you!” The crowd roared in 
approval of the Grand Wizard's speech, and the anticipation of the 
event which followed caused near hysteria as some of those in the crowd 
shot off guns into the air and screamed with excitement. “On with the 
show, on with the show,” chanted the crowd, again and again until the 
Grand Wizard gladly gave in to his faithful followers and motioned for 
Jack and the other Klansman to begin pushing the two unfortunates up 
the steps of the stage. Lining each man directly under his respective 
noose, Jack made sure the ropes were firmly tied and adjusted around 
the necks of first the black man, and then, the Jew. “Now my brothers, 
let this be a lesson to all who would defy my grand wizardry or dare to 
undermine this great nation!” And as he finished speaking, with a wave 
of his arm, the Grand Wizard gave Jack the order to drop the floor 
beneath the feet of the two condemned men, causing them to dangle in 
mid air like the lifeless puppets he made reference to, only this was 
no longer a harmless metaphor, this was premeditated murder of the 
first degree. Soon after the cheering and loud laughter of the crowd 
culminated and died down, the Grand Wizard again addressed the 
gathering, and as he spoke, the young sheriff's son proudly marched up 
the stairs of the stage and took his place in a chair behind the Grand 
Wizard himself. “...and it is my esteemed pleasure here tonight ta 
introduce to you a new member of the Klan. The son a the good Sheriff 
Wilson.” More cheering and clapping ensued as the Grand Wizard spoke 
and gestured to the youth seated behind him to come forward. As the 
young man rose from his chair, he never gave thought to the gruesome 
backdrop of corpses behind him, and gladly greeted his fellow Klansman 
with a gracious wave of his open arms. The boy was so adept that it 
seemed to the crowd as if he'd spoken many times before in front of a 
large group, but in fact, this was his first time. “Thank you for 
coming here tonight!” he said, and even as he spoke, the Klan cheered 
him on. They could see the nerve in the boy from the very start and at 
once, he'd become a favorite in their eyes. “As you all know,” he 
continued, “my father is a highly respected man in this town. I have a 
lot to live up to where his reputation is concerned, and with every new 
step I've taken as a boy, I've done my very best to make him proud of 
me.” Interrupted by loud cheers, the teenager hesitated in his speech. 
“But tonight is a special night to me, not just because it marks the 
beginning of my destiny as a member of this proud group of people, but 
because it means that God has given me another chance, an open doorway 
to a better life, and another way, I hope, to become the man my father 
always wanted me to become, and the man I've always wanted to be.” The 
entire crowd now cheered at the top of their lungs to see such fine 
attitude and deep moral conviction in a boy who had this very evening, 
in their judgement, become a man. He proved to be the envy of many of 
the older men, who could only wish they had a son like him at home. One 
who could speak with such ease before a large group and show such 
strong will and determination. Molding and grooming himself to become 
the perfect image of the Klan's ideals, he was a success. “Now, son,” 
spoke the Grand Wizard, “raise your right hand and give your solemn 
oath that you will at all times, follow and obey the laws of the Ku 
Klux Klan and all that it represents.” “I do solemnly swear.” “And now, 
before us, give answer to the following questions,” continued the Grand 
Wizard. Silent now, the boy stood ready to reply exactly as he'd 
rehearsed. “Are you now, or have you ever been a member of the Radical 
Republican Party?” “No sir, I am not now nor have I ever been a member 
of the Republican party.” “Excellent. Now then,” asked the Grand 
Wizard, more out of tradition than for any other reason, “did you 
belong to the Federal Army during the late war, and fight against the 
South during the existence of the same?” “No sir, never in my life 
would I.” “Very good. Are you opposed to Negro equality, both social 
and political?” “Very much sir, I am.” “Excellent. Are you in favor of 
a white man's government in this country?” “Sir, that is exactly what 
I'm here tonight to tell you. My answer is yes, most assuredly.” “Then 
by the power vested in me, I do hereby grant you membership rights and 
all the benefits of those rights duly noted by myself and all other 
members of the Ku Klux Klan here this evening, so help me God.” And of 
course, the entire crowd cheered the boy on with loud cries and raised 
right arms. Fists clenched, and flailing about in the air, for a short 
time, seemed to increase the momentum and emotion of the crowd, but in 
the minutes that it took the group to calm, the burning cross behind 
the Grand Wizard had all but come to its fiery end. Slowly flickering 
now in a last burning effort to recover its former glory, it died, and 
as it did, the great throng of people began to fall from their ranks, 
first group by group, and then finally, one by one. The next day when 
Jack arrived at his office, he found Detective Gray hard at work, 
deeply absorbed in police files, continuing to look for clues or 
connections to the notorious Frank Bari. Jim noticed Jack's lack of 
interest in his paperwork when he found Jack standing at the window 
watching the cars go by, and the routine passing of pedestrians rushing 
back and forth on their way to work, or to some other indistinct 
destination. “You're gonna do something today ain'tcha? Or you just 
gonna watch traffic all day?” “I'm just a slow starter in the morning, 
Jimbo, you know that. I get the job done, don't I?” “Yeah, one way or 
another, I guess you do,” answered Jim. “By the way, the chief wants to 
see ya.” “What about?” “Don't know. I am but the messenger,” replied 
Detective Gray, as he leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up 
on his desk. “All I know is, he said somethin' about a trip out west. 
Ya might be gone for a few days.” “Great. What about catchin' up with 
Bari? We can't just let the bastard run around loose.” “I'll do what I 
can, Jack, but people like that don't usually take a cotton to gettin' 
arrested. I can't make any promises.” “What ya gotta do is put those 
files down and get out there on the street, that's whatcha gotta do,” 
said Jack. “I'll see ya later.” All the talk about Frank Bari got Jack 
worked up, and as he left Detective Gray's office, he didn't mind 
slamming the door behind him for exclamation. Whatever the chief had in 
mind for him to do meant that he'd lose more time looking for Bari, and 
that put Jack in a most ornery mood. When Jack arrived at his boss' 
office, he found him quietly reading the newspaper, drinking a cup of 
coffee. That also seemed to irritate Jack at a time when he was feeling 
the urgent need to move quickly on the number one issue on his mind; to 
track down Frank Bari, and destroy him. “Don't just stand there,” said 
Chief Thomas Ryan. “You're making me feel uncomfortable. Why the 
anxious look on yer face anyway? Sit down.” “It's Frank Bari on my 
mind, that's all. I hear ya got a job out a state for me an' it's just 
gonna take my time away from catchin' up with him.” “That'll have to 
wait, Jack. What I want you to do is even more important. Here,” 
continued Chief Ryan, “have a cigar, it'll calm ya down.” Jack leaned 
back in his chair as he lit the big cigar and disquietly puffed away on 
it. “There now,” said the chief, “you look better already. Now hold on 
ta yer hat, this is what I got in mind. You know those two crazies, 
Bonnie Parker and her boyfriend, that no good Clyde, what's his name?” 
“Barrow,” replied Jack. “Clyde Champion Barrow. A pretty rough little 
guy, I hear.” “Damn tootin' he is. He got more weapons then the police 
armory, an he ain't afraid to use ‘em either, on anyone,” continued 
Chief Ryan. “I can't say how many a those notches on his machine gun 
was cops, they ain't no way a knowin' right now.” “Don't tell me,” said 
Jack. “That's who you're sendin' me after? Them two?” “You got it. But 
you ain't just goin after ‘em. Orders are ta kill ‘em on sight, an' 
that's just what you gonna do. You'll cooperate with the Louisiana and 
Texas State Police an' I want this ta go as smooth as possible. You'll 
be representin' us back here in Montgomery, so you jes' follow orders 
an' everything'll be okay, do I make myself clear?” “Yeah,” said Jack, 
lacking enthusiasm in his voice. “I read ya.” “All right then,” 
answered the chief. “You leave tonight, an' by the way,” he continued. 
“What's that,” replied Jack, as he stood up from his chair to leave. 
“This here is just between us. Nobody else gotta know. Read me?” “What 
about Gray? He knows don't he?” “Gray is sworn to secrecy, don't you 
worry about him. He's a good man, by the way, you lucky ta have him for 
a partner you know that? You neva know, he might save your ass some 
day. You are a kinda cowboy, you know.” “That's what they tell me,” 
said Jack, as he walked out of the office and closed the door behind 
him. When Jack got back to his desk, he found Detective Gray putting on 
his hat and coat, getting ready to leave the office. “Where ya off to?” 
asked Jack. “Off ta fight crime, where do ya think?” “I didn't know 
you'd take me seriously, but anyway, there's somethin' I gotta talk 
over with you.” “About your trip? Where they got ya goin'? I don't know 
for sure.” “You won't believe it,” answered Jack. “I'm off ta 
Louisiana. Gonna help the cops there kill Bonnie an' Clyde.” “You gotta 
be kiddin',” replied Jim. “How many men they need anyway? Hell, it's 
just the two a them.” “I know,” said Jack, “but with all the hardware 
those two carry, they're a little bit harder ta stop than just two 
people.” “You be careful out there,” said Detective Gray. “You're gonna 
need somethin' more than that pea shooter you carry around too. Ya got 
any ideas what you can take?” “I do,” replied Jack, as he reached under 
his desk for the slim brown case he acquired from the bank robbers he 
dispatched. “Damn!” remarked Jim excitedly. “Where in hell did you get 
that? That's an automatic rifle ain't it?” “You know it. Got some real 
fire power now. I shoulda got me one a these a long time ago, but,” 
Jack continued, “better late than never right?” “Hey, next time you 
come across somethin' like that, keep me in mind, would ya?” “I will, 
but in the meantime, if you're goin' looking for Bari by yourself, you 
oughtta at least stop by the armory an' get yourself a twelve gauge. 
You know what that scum'll do if ya give him half a chance. Saw off the 
end like the bastard gangsters do an' carry it under your coat, that's 
my advice ta you, Jimbo.” “I'll keep that in mind,” said Jim, as he 
adjusted the hat on his head and walked out the door. I wonder if he 
knows what he's up against, thought Jack, as he leaned back in his 
chair, propped his feet up on his desk and shut his eyes. Jack knew he 
had a long night of driving ahead of him, eight hours at least, and 
thought he'd better get some shuteye. If I'm tired when I get there, he 
thought, I won't hit the broad side of a barn. I'm gonna leave a 
lastin' impression on those State boys, or my name ain't Jack Carter. 
And soon after that, Jack fell into a deep sleep. The thought of 
killing always perked up Jack's mood, and although he rarely felt fear, 
he knew especially he had nothing to worry about when he killed in the 
name of the law. That thought appealed to Jack very much, and 
especially rested his mind. When Jack awoke, it was late afternoon. 
Walking to his office window, he watched as the sun cast its long 
shadows of nearby buildings and trees, and then, looked on as the soft 
glow of twilight turned from dim to dark. Time to get movin', thought 
Jack. “The show must go on,” he uttered to himself, as he opened the 
case of the disassembled automatic rifle one last time to check it. “We 
were made for each other,” Jack said to himself, as he lightly caressed 
the blue metallic gun barrel. “We'll make beautiful music together, 
you'll see,” he continued, closing the case and snapping its latches 
shut. Putting on his overcoat, gun case in hand, he walked calmly out 
of the building to his waiting black sedan. Delicately, he placed the 
case beside him in the front seat of the car, like the proud father of 
a newborn child, or the caretaker of some other type of cargo, equally 
as precious. Starting down the road, headed west, he felt relaxed and 
well rested. The kind of clear mind and boundless energy one feels 
after a perfect night's sleep. A cup of coffee was all Jack needed to 
top off his exuberant mood, and so coming across the first diner in 
sight, he stopped for a cup to go. “What'll it be, mack?” asked a burly 
looking man from behind the long counter. “We got a burger special 
tanight. What do ya say?” “Not hungry,” said Jack. “Just black coffee 
ta go, gotta get movin'.” “Oh yeah, where ya headed?” “Near 
Shreveport.” “Got family there?” asked the inquisitive cook. “No, sir,” 
replied Jack. “Only family I got is in the car out there.” “I don't 
mean ta be nosy, mister,” said the cook as he poured out Jack's coffee, 
“but I don't see nobody in that car a yours.” “They're just restin' 
that's all,” replied Jack. “How about that coffee?” “Sure thing,” 
replied the cook. “You come back now, you hear,” he continued as Jack 
walked toward the door, “and next time, you bring your family along. We 
a family type a restaurant here!” “I'll do that,” answered Jack, as he 
walked out of the diner, took a deep breath of warm night air and 
resumed his journey. Earlier that day, late in the morning when 
Detective Gray left the police station, he'd taken Jack's advice and 
went directly to the police armory. He knew he needed something more 
impressive than his police issued forty-five if he was going to go up 
against the likes of Frank Bari. The officer in charge of munitions was 
standing behind the chain link fence that separated the armory from the 
rest of the archive space in the basement, when he saw Jim Gray walking 
towards him. Jim had a desperate look on his face and wasn't entirely 
pleased with the mission he was faced with. “What'll it be, Gray? How 
can I help you today?” asked Officer Grady. “We aim to please,” he 
continued jokingly. “That's our motto here. Hey, someday I'm gonna 
write that on the wall there,” he said, as he pointed to a blank spot 
on the concrete block wall behind him. “Cut the crap, Grady. You 
wouldn't believe who they got me runnin' after if I told ya.” “So, what 
ya want me ta do about it. It's a cold, cruel world out there, buddy.” 
“Tell me about it,” replied Jim mockingly. “Look, I need some fire 
power. Whaddya got?” “Tell ya what I'm gonna do, ya say you're not 
satisfied, ya say you want more for your money...” “C'mon, c'mon, I 
ain't got all day,” replied Jim, at a loss for patience. “Okay then, 
the good lieutenant wants fire power, does he? Let's see now...” 
Officer Grady stood for a while in a thoughtful pose with his hand on 
his chin as he considered what weapons he had available. “I got one 
Thompson with a fifty round drum,” said Grady, “but you're gonna need 
the chief's signature for it.” “I can't waste any more time,” said Jim. 
“What can I get right now?” “I got a regular cornucopia a rifles and 
shotguns. Take your pick.” “I'll take a twelve gauge.” “Very well then. 
Shall I wrap it, sir?” “Ha, ha. Just gimmie three boxes a shells an' 
I'm outta here.” “Here you are, sir,” replied Officer Grady, as he 
handed the gun and ammunition through the now open chain link door. 
“You have a good day now.” “My day'll improve when I'm done with this 
bastard,” said Jim, as he turned away, walked up the basement steps and 
headed for his unmarked squad car. His destination, the Madison Hotel. 
Driving up into the parking lot of the hotel, Jim looked for an 
inconspicuous place to leave his car, and decided on a spot behind the 
building, as much out of view of any pedestrian as he could find. He 
sat for a while and leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling of his 
car, wondering to himself how he'd gotten into this mess to begin with. 
But at the same time, his strong sense of duty and justice took over in 
his mind, as he opened a box of shotgun shells and dumped them into the 
pockets of his long overcoat. Better take another, he thought to 
himself, as he poured out another box of twelve gauge shotgun shells, 
filling his pockets to the brim. The next step of preparation was, of 
course, loading the weapon itself, and Jim methodically unlocked the 
long barrel and deposited one shell in each side. The last step of 
preparation was the one he dreaded most, that being the life or death 
struggle which was about to ensue. With the long, bulky weapon under 
his coat, Detective Gray walked around to the front of the hotel and 
made his way to the office. An aged attendant was sitting behind the 
front desk, reading a magazine and chewing on the remnants of a cigar 
that was, with all due regards, ready for the trash weeks before. 
Looking up, he finally noticed the lieutenant standing before him. 
“Didn't see ya standin' there,” he said. “Kinda crept up on me 
didn'tcha. Need a room, sonny?” “No,” said Jim solemnly. “Don't need a 
room. I'm a detective,” he continued, as he took out his badge and held 
it up so the old man could see it better. “I'm lookin' for someone, I 
think you can help me.” “Oh yeah, how so?” Removing the newspaper 
clipping he was carrying with him from the inside pocket of his 
overcoat, Jim laid it on the desk before the attendant, hoping he'd 
recognize the hatchetfaced gangster in the picture. “Ever see this 
man?” asked Jim, pointing to the small photo of Frank Bari. “Take your 
time now. Look real close.” “Hold on, lemme get my specs,” answered the 
old man. “Can't see worth a damn no more. Hmmm,” he went on, “seems ta 
me I seen him come in here, yeah. So what?” “He's a fugitive of the 
law, that's so what. Let me put it this way, if you don't help, I can 
run ya in for aiding and abetting a criminal, obstruction of justice, 
and the list gets longer the longer I'm left standin' here. Should I go 
on?” “No need ta get all hot under the collar now, sonny,” replied the 
attendant as he fumbled with his glasses and put them back in his shirt 
pocket. “I'll tell ya what I know, just gimmie a minute here.” Reaching 
under the counter, the old man pulled out the heavy hotel register from 
its shelf and deposited it in front of Detective Gray with a loud thud, 
as if to emphasize the weight of the matter at hand. “I know now, just 
gimmie a minute. I remember I put him on the first floor somewhere. Oh, 
what's his name? I'm tryin' ta think. Wait, I remember. I put him in 
room six, here he is... Joey Cagliari. Yep, that's his name.” “That 
ain't his name, but I bet you're right,” replied Jim. “You want me ta 
knock on his door an' see if he's in? We can find out right now if ya 
want to.” “No,” said Lieutenant Gray. “Just let me have the key to his 
room. I'll find out. He's armed and dangerous. Believe me,” he 
continued. “You don't wanna be around. Just stay here. You're safer 
right where you are.” Walking down the concrete path to room six, the 
weight of the shotgun Jim carried began to wear away at the endurance 
of his grip, and as he put the key in the door and turned its lock 
counter clockwise, he could feel the strain of the weight now beginning 
in the top of his shoulder and running down the length of his arm. 
Listening, as the tumblers of the lock came to rest, he slowly turned 
the door knob and opened the solid core wood door. To Jim's surprise, 
sitting in his underwear on the bed was the man he'd been looking for, 
face epitomizing the life of crime he'd led, scraggy and jagged in 
appearance, wearing an expression of disbelief, he rolled quickly off 
the bed and reacted more suddenly than Jim could ever have expected. 
Before Detective Gray had time to raise his tired arm and aim, Bari had 
already picked up his sub-machine gun from the floor beside his bed. 
The terrible noise that ushered from the muzzle of the weapon sounded 
like a rag tearing, as the forty-five caliber slugs found their mark in 
the lieutenant's body. One by one, the entry wounds they left gave rise 
to little circles of blood on his clothing, and little by little, the 
circles grew wider and wider. Finally dropping the shotgun he came in 
with, still standing near the door, Jim looked down at his own body, 
and for a brief moment, ran both of his hands over the wounds. Then, 
with eyes fixed on his assailant, and an expression on his face that 
seemed to say, How in the world did this happen to me? he dropped to 
his knees, and finally, fell prone to the floor, face first. When Jack 
arrived in Sailes, Louisiana, he met the posse of officers from 
Louisiana and Texas that had assembled along the highway, and were 
ready and determined to kill the two notorious gangsters, Bonnie and 
Clyde. They knew the couple would soon return from a party at Black 
Lake, Louisiana and had concealed themselves in bushes along the road. 
Jack wasted no time, and soon after introducing himself, he knelt on 
the ground, opened the gun case he carried with him and began to fit 
the pieces together. “Damn!” said Texas Ranger Frank Hamer. “Those are 
sure hard to get. That's a B.A.R. ain't it? Do ya mind my askin' how ya 
come across it?” Hamer was the oldest man on the posse at forty-six 
years old, but he had achieved the rank of captain, and at two hundred 
thirty pounds, standing at six-foot three, he was almost as big as 
Jack. He had an eye for weapons and noticed right away that Jack was 
packing the most fire power of all the men in the group. “I guess you 
could say I acquired it from a gentleman who no longer had any use for 
it,” replied Jack, with a smile. “Dead, huh? Well, we got use for it 
right here, that's for damn sure. C'mon,” Captain Hamer continued, “get 
that thing together an' take up your position. No tellin' when they'll 
be here.” It was early in the day, about 6:00 a.m., and the only noises 
anyone heard were the rustling of the leaves on the trees and the 
lyrical mating calls of unusual indigenous birds. But suddenly, the 
sound of a noisy nineteen thirty-three sedan could be distinguished 
over the clamor of nature, and the team of police officers, with 
fingers on their triggers, sat patiently waiting for the unsuspecting 
pair as they drove peacefully down the dirt road. “Nobody fire till I 
say,” whispered Hamer to the rest, as he gently squeezed the trigger of 
his rifle a little more firmly than before. Some of the men nodded to 
acknowledge the order, and all were transfixed on the slowly moving 
target, coming closer and closer, but still just out of range. At last, 
when the car moved up just in front of the long hedge of shrubs and 
bushes, Captain Hamer of the Texas Rangers motioned to the posse of 
well prepared officers, and a hail of bullets rained down into the 
solitary vehicle, killing both of its passengers instantly and without 
mercy. There was no time for a fair trial in the case of Bonnie and 
Clyde, they had killed far too many civilians and police officers for 
far too long, and for all the many times they'd struggled violently 
with the law, they paid with their lives. After a quiet, solitary 
celebration with a bottle of booze and a good night's sleep, Jack began 
the long drive back to Montgomery the next day. It was another 
beautiful summer day in the south, and driving along with the car 
windows down all the way, inhaling the pleasant, fragrant air as he 
drove, Jack noticed in the distance, walking by the side of the road, 
the lone figure of a woman. As he got closer to her, he could see her 
beautiful blonde hair and make out the flowery print on her light, 
nearly translucent summer dress. Deciding he had nothing better to do, 
and becoming bored with the arduous task of driving for many miles, 
Jack pulled up alongside the shapely young woman, and asked her if she 
needed a lift. “I was hopin' you'd say that,” responded the pretty 
hitchhiker. “I been walkin' for hours an' my feet are ever so sore.” 
“Climb in,” said Jack, as he opened the passenger side door to help her 
into the car. “What ya doin' just walkin' along here?” he continued, 
questioning her more out of boredom than of true interest. “I ran 
away,” she replied. “Couldn't stand my daddy no more. That bastard hit 
me with a switch for the last time. I promised myself I just wouldn't 
take no more.” As she turned to look at Jack to express her emotion on 
the subject of her father, he couldn't help but be impressed by her 
natural beauty and grace. Even though she wore no make-up to embellish 
her skin and facial features, many a man would have done all in his 
power just to touch her hand and sit next to her, and as the sun shone 
through the car window, Jack couldn't help noticing the outline of her 
breasts in the light dress she wore, as they only seemed to exemplify 
the rest of her stunning body. “Well then,” said Jack. “I'd say you did 
the right thing, if he was such a bastard an' all. So,” he went on, 
“where ya headed?” “That all depends...” she said coyly. “Depends on 
what?” “Depends on where you're goin'.” The young girl tilted her head 
slightly and pouted her lips as if to intimate her idea. Ignoring her 
subtly, Jack responded by saying, “I'm headed east to Montgomery. Outta 
be there in about five hours. You're welcome ta come along for the ride 
if ya want.” “I'll just take you up on that if you don't mind. Neva 
been ta Montgomery.” “Got any kin there?” asked Jack, wondering what 
she was going to do in town after they arrived. “Not that I know of,” 
she replied, “but who knows, they might be some Anniston's that daddy 
just neva talked about.” “Might be,” said Jack. “Anniston's a big name 
in Alabama. What's your first name?” “Dora,” she replied, as she looked 
out the window at the slowly passing scenery. “What's yours?” “Jack,” 
he responded. “Well, Jack,” she replied, turning her body in his 
direction and resting her left arm on the back of the seat as she 
spoke. “It's a long way ta Alabama,” continued Dora, slipping off her 
shoes to make herself more comfortable. “What can we do ta keep 
ourselves from gettin' too bored?” “We can eat lunch pretty soon,” said 
Jack, still unwilling to read between the lines. “There's a diner I 
passed on my way here, not too far ahead. I'm so hungry, I could eat a 
horse. What about you?” “I guess I could eat somethin',” she said, 
moving her body closer to Jack's. “But that's really not what I had in 
mind.” “Look, Dora,” said Jack, bringing the car to a complete stop 
now, and turning his head in her direction for emphasis. “I'm an 
officer a the law, a detective with the Montgomery police department. 
That's all that's goin' through my head right now, my job. My job means 
a lot to me...in fact, it's everything to me,” he continued. “Do you 
see my point?” “I get it. You one'a those men that's married to his 
job, ain't you,” she said, as she moved back to her original position 
in the passenger seat. “Must be lonely.” “It's all I need Dora, but I 
will say this...” “Yes?” “You're a mighty pretty young lady. Mighty 
pretty indeed.” “That's what people tell me mostly,” she said, leaning 
her head against the car door and closing her eyes to rest. “Wake up, 
Dora, we're here,” said Jack, nudging her left arm to rouse her. Jack 
parked the unmarked squad car in the police station's lot, hoping Dora 
would wake up quickly from her nap so he could get moving to his 
office. It was about 6:00 p.m. when they arrived, and the night shift 
of officers were on duty now. “What?” she said, looking up at him and 
rubbing her eyes. “Where are we?” “Montgomery, like I told you, 
remember?” “Okay, yeah. I remember,” Dora answered, as she slowly 
recalled the events of the day. “Well, what do I do now? Reckon I'm on 
my own, ain't I?” “I can't do anything ta help that Dora, but here,” 
replied Jack, reaching into his pants pocket and taking out his 
billfold. “Take this twenty dollars an' get yourself a room. That's 
about all I can do for ya.” “Thank you,” she said, pulling up on the 
door handle and letting herself out. “Thanks for the ride too. It ain't 
like me ta be ungrateful. Thank you kindly.” “You're welcome,” replied 
Jack, now getting out of the car himself, making his way to the long 
flight of concrete steps in front of the police station. He turned and 
watched as Dora walked across the street to the nearest hotel. Don't 
know what that girl's gonna do, thought Jack to himself, but it just 
ain't my problem. Walking into the building, he strode up the two 
flights of stairs to his office, took his coat off and rested for a 
moment in his chair. It was a long drive back from Sailes, and he was 
feeling tired now. “Hey, Jack,” said Officer Atkins, rapping his 
knuckles on the open door of Jack's office. “I saw ya come in. Mind if 
I sit down?” “Pull up a chair,” said Jack. “What's on your mind?” “It's 
Jim,” said Atkins, in a somber tone. “What about him?” “He's dead.” 
“What? How? How'd it happen?” “He went after Frank Bari alone. Never 
should have,” he continued. “Body's at the morgue. I never seen so many 
holes in a man in my life.” Getting up from his chair now, Officer 
Atkins leaned his body against the wall, next to Jack's office window. 
“He got more shot up than that bastard, Dillinger,” said Atkins. “Only 
a machine gun could'a done that.” “You're right,” replied Jack, staring 
down at the floor. “Only a machine gun.” The next day, Jack arrived at 
the office early. He needed ammunition for his rifle, so the first 
thing he did when he got to work was visit munitions. After filling six 
magazines with 30- 06 shells, Jack got in his car and headed for the 
Madison. He knew Frank Bari had to have left the hotel, but he needed 
to question the manager and search the room for any clues he might be 
able to find. “Lieutenant Carter,” said Jack to the manager, as he 
showed him his badge. “Looking for a Mr. Frank Bari. Remember him?” 
“How could I forget,” answered the old man. “Shot my room up, killed a 
cop an' left like his pants were on fire. You wanna know where he is 
right?” “That's the idea. Did you ever have much conversation with him? 
Did he ever talk about his interests?” “A little. He bragged about what 
a great pool player he was, but that's about it. You ain't fool enough 
to go after him, are ya?” “That's what I do, old man. I bring down bad 
guys,” said Jack ironically. “Got the key to his room?” “Here ya go, 
sonny,” said the attendant, handing Jack the key to room six. “I hope 
you know what you're doin'.” Saying nothing in reply, Jack's only 
response was to turn and walk out the door. Time was of the essence now 
if he was going to catch up with Bari. Opening the door to room six, 
Jack proceeded to search the room for anything that might be of help. 
He stood momentarily in the same spot where Detective Gray had been 
shot and killed, and couldn't miss the massive blood stains on the 
carpeted floor. Musta lost half the blood in his body, he thought, as 
he knelt down to get a closer look. Next, Jack noticed the many spent 
shell casings strewn all over the floor by the opposite side of the 
bed. There was no need to examine them further, he thought, as he knew 
only too well where they'd come from. He could also see that some of 
the bullets Bari fired had ended up lodged in the door, some had passed 
through Gray's body and made only slight impressions in the solid oak 
door, but some were projectiles that missed their mark and were much 
more deeply embedded. Sitting on the edge of the bed now, Jack opened 
the drawer of the night stand and noticed a copy of the New Testament. 
Picking it up and leafing through it, he found a flattened out book of 
matches from the Hull Street Bar & Grill. “It's nice to know he's read 
up on his verse,” said Jack aloud to himself. “He'll need it where he's 
goin'.” Realizing this could be the break he was waiting for, he got up 
from the bed and headed for the door, closing it shut without so much 
as a glance behind him, he dropped off the key at the hotel office and 
walked quickly to his car. It wasn't in Jack to reminisce or feel 
remorse for the dead. He never did feel the pain of others, as he felt 
none for himself. Jack thought it was highly likely that he'd find Bari 
at the Hull Street Bar since they not only served food and alcohol, but 
they had a number of pool tables as well. Parking behind the 
restaurant, he calmly put the pieces of the M1918 automatic together 
and attached a filled magazine firmly in place. In broad daylight, Jack 
carried the rifle with him as he walked around to the front of the 
building to the restaurant's vestibule, and with one grand display of 
boldness, pushed the door open and stood in full view, eyes scanning 
the small crowd of patrons for what he hoped would be, his target for 
the day. Spotting Bari at the bar drinking, Jack screamed with malice 
to the quietly seated criminal, “Bari!” and waited for a reply. As he 
put down his drink, customers fled from the scene, some running to the 
rear exit of the restaurant made it out the door to safety, but some 
tried to hide behind walls and tables and became trapped in the fierce 
gun battle that was about to follow. With the sudden swiftness of a 
cobra about to strike, Bari pulled out a long barrel thirty-eight 
revolver from his shoulder holster and jumped behind the nearest pool 
table in the room. Almost simultaneously, the two gunmen shot at each 
other and missed their targets. Jack's thirty caliber rifle shells 
exploded into the leg of the pool table, sending fragments of wood 
flying into different places throughout the room, and Bari's first few 
shots came dangerously close to Jack's right arm and head, whizzing 
past him and becoming lodged in the wall behind. For a full twenty 
minutes, the gun battle raged on, Jack kneeling on the floor, with two 
spent magazines laying beside him while Bari, who had reloaded his 
revolver many times, sat motionless now, gun in hand, waiting for Jack 
to make his next move. “Give it up Frank!” yelled Jack, now feeling 
overconfident of himself. “You don't have a chance.” One shot, just one 
shot more came from the gun Bari held in his hand and found its mark in 
Jack's chest, tearing its way into flesh, surging past bone and 
cartilage until it tumbled one full revolution inside Jack's body and 
exited from the back of his neck. Now bleeding, and in great pain, Jack 
lay dying, staring at the ceiling, silently wondering to himself what 
went wrong. Getting up from his position behind the pool table, Frank 
Bari stood up and walked over to where Jack lay in a pool of his own 
blood. “What's a matter, cop, cat got your tongue? Don't look so brave 
now, do ya punk,” said Bari. And as Jack looked on, unable to speak or 
lift his limbs, Bari took aim at point blank range and finished the job 
he'd started, sending three more slugs into Jack's upper torso until he 
was absolutely sure there was no life left in Jack's body. Leaving 
Montgomery and driving north, Bari made a hasty retreat back to his 
home town, back to more familiar turf, and the acquaintances he'd left 
behind. For days he traveled, doing his best to avoid the law at every 
diner and hotel in his path until finally, he arrived at his 
destination: Chicago, Illinois. As Carl Sandburg put it so aptly, 
“...They tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it is true I have 
seen the gunman kill and go free to kill again.” A credo for some to 
live by it seemed, Frank Bari was no exception to the rule, and as he 
pulled his car up to the curb near the intersection of State Street and 
Madison, a familiar voice spoke out to him... “Frank, hey, Frank, you 
old son-of-a-gun! How was your vacation?” “Oh, Eddie,” said Bari, 
surprised. “I didn't expect ta see you here. A little out a your 
jurisdiction aren't ya? What's up?” “Just comin' back from lunch, 
that's all. Hey,” continued the officer, “they got a surprise for ya 
down at the station. I'm sworn to secrecy, I can't tell ya what it is.” 
“Go ahead then punk, keep me in suspense. I'll see ya later,” said 
Bari, smiling to himself as he got back into his car. He would have 
stopped for lunch, but his curiosity got the better of him and instead, 
he drove the rest of the way back to the Chicago Police Department, 
Precinct No. Two, where he'd embarked from. When he arrived, two other 
officers met him at the door. “Go on up ta the chief's office,” said 
one of them. “He's got a surprise for ya.” Now more curious than ever, 
Bari walked up the single flight of stairs to the police chief's 
impressive wood paneled office and rapped on the door. “Come in,” said 
Chief Clanton. “C'mon in and sit down. Good ta see you, Frank. How was 
furlough?” “Good, good. Could'a been a little more restful, but all in 
all, I can't complain.” “You know, Frank,” the captain went on, “when 
you first started here as an informant, I had my doubts about you. You 
know how it is. Who knows who you can trust, am I right?” the chief of 
police gestured with his hands to articulate his thoughts, hoping to 
placate the man now sitting in front of him. “Yeah,” replied Bari. 
“That's for sure.” “But you've helped us so much recently... well, I 
just wanna say, welcome ta the family. C'mon with me,” continued the 
chief, rising from behind his desk and taking Bari by the arm. “I wanna 
show you something.” “Oh, wait,” said the captain, stopping in the 
hallway they'd entered. “You did get that Carter bastard right?” “I got 
him. I got him good.” “Great,” said Chief Clanton. “We don't need 
crooked cops. I don't know how many people that son-of-a-bitch killed. 
You really deserve this promotion, Frank,” he said, as he opened the 
door of the office in front of them. Freshly lettered on the 
translucent glass of the door, Bari read his name and new title aloud, 
“Lieutenant Frank Bari, Second Precinct.” “Hey, I like it,” said Bari. 
“I like it a lot.” “Good, good. Now you get ta work, an' don't lemmie 
catch ya standin' around the water cooler either!” joked the chief, as 
he turned and walked back down the hallway to his office. Removing his 
coat, Bari hung it on a rack that stood in a corner of his new office, 
and gently sat down at his desk chair. Just as Bari was getting settled 
in and feeling at home, a knock came at the door. “Hey, Frank,” said 
Eddie, the officer he'd met on the street. “Got a minute?” “Sure, c'mon 
in. What's the problem?” “Oh, same old shit. It's hell out there on the 
street,” he continued. “Nuts runnin' around shootin' each other.” “Tell 
me about it.” “We really got our work cut out for us,” replied Eddie. 
“I'll bet,” said Bari. “I'll just bet.”


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