Emerald Death (2 page)

            The Broken Tusk took its name from the ivory trade and the hunters who had earned a fortune for distant European monarchs by shooting elephants and then sawing off the tusks.  Without the ivory trade, the Congo would have remained a dark, unknown place.  But stalking the largest animal on four legs was no easy feat.  Only hard men survived the danger and diseases unique to the jungle… soldiers of fortune they called them.  …These were the kind of men who gathered at a place like The Broken Tusk.

            There were places like that in New York - in every city, he imagined - and he knew how the game was played.  Men who needed work done - dangerous work - lurked in such places, waiting for other men who were brave, reckless, or simply desperate enough to take the job, no questions asked.  With or without Gregor, he knew work could be found there.  Nevertheless, as he took his first steps into a strange land, Hannigan was comforted by the weight of the Colt 1911-A1 stuffed into his waistband underneath the khaki vest he wore.

            Despite his excitement over the beginning of a new adventure, Hannigan affected a sour expression.  When the first young beggar approached him, Hannigan drew back his fist and made a threatening gesture.  The other children shied away and he was able to leave the docks unmolested.

            He felt badly for the children. Sure, they were professional beggars, but it bothered him that he had threatened them in order to get them to leave him alone.  He would have to do something about that later, after he had secured some sort of employment.

            The roar of an engine behind him cut through the usual dockside din and Hannigan spun around to see a Citroen P-45 truck flying towards him.  He stared in disbelief for just a moment, and then dived out of the way as the truck shot by.  The Citroen skidded to a halt in the dusty street as Hannigan rolled to his feet, his hand slipping under his vest and wrapping around the butt of his Colt.  Three men climbed out of the truck - three tough looking men. 

            “Damn,” he whispered.  Had Spinnelli tracked him here already? He drew the pistol and leveled it in the direction of the men and they stopped in their tracks.

“Can I help you fellas?”

“You Mike Hannigan?”  The leader of the three asked.  The man was tall and thin, yet his frame appeared to be muscular despite his thinness.  Hannigan mentally assigned him the name Thin Man.  The other two were black-skinned Africans. One was heavy set, with an enormous gut—Hannigan tagged him with “Jelly Belly”—and the other man he called “Shadow” not because of his dark complexion, but because the man was small enough to vanish in Jelly Belly’s shadow.

He kept the muzzle of the .45 steady. “Maybe.  Depends on who’s asking and why.”

 “Does the name Francisco Degiorno mean anything to you?”

“Maybe, maybe not.”  Hannigan shrugged his shoulders but the unblinking eye of the .45’s muzzle remained motionless.  “Anybody can drop a name.”

Thin Man wiped the sweat from his brow.  “Gregor called him; told us to pick you up.  You were gone from the boat by the time we got there.”

Hannigan considered this.  Spinnelli’s goons might have guessed he’d seek out Degiorno, but they couldn’t have known about Gregor, could they?  He thought about his friend’s absence early on, wondering if perhaps this unsavory trio had beat the information out of the Russian, and then chased him here.  Their version seemed a little more plausible, but he remained wary.

“You better be telling the truth.” He kept the pistol in hand as he followed the men back to the Citroen.

The roof had been cut away, leaving the cab open to the jungle air.  Hannigan climbed into the back where he could keep them covered with the Colt.  His palms were sweating on the knurled grips of the Colt as Thin Man put the Citroen in gear and it started rolling down the street.  Hannigan didn’t trust any of the three men, but he trusted Gregor, and if the Russian had arranged this, then they were probably square.

*****

Gregor Shotsky made his way to the dock.  His duties as first mate had kept him aboard The African Queen long after he had thought to leave the ship.  The Captain had not been aware that he planned to depart his service on the boat upon reaching the Dark Continent, and announcing his resignation had further delayed him.  He had hoped that Mike Hannigan would be still waiting for him, but he didn’t see the American anywhere.

His decision to leave the maritime trade and seek his fortunes on terra firma had been a long time coming.  Not long after they left New York City, he had begun planning for the future, making contacts on the ship’s short-wave radio.  He had eventually reached Francisco Degiorno, a fat Italian crook he had met years before, who had not only promised him work but also asked him to recruit others—sturdy men who wouldn’t be afraid to go on a grand adventure.  Mike Hannigan had been the only man on the ship that had fit the bill. Gregor could tell that Hannigan wanted to experience life… experience adventure.

Hannigan had a lot of potential.  Gregor knew that the American could someday be great in the fullest sense of the word.  Patience was his biggest problem; it was something that Mike Hannigan had very little of.  He was always ready to move, to see what was over that next horizon.  Hannigan had adventure in his blood.

Gregor didn’t know exactly what Degiorno wanted men for, but he knew there would be a big payoff involved.  He envisioned a search for some legendary treasure deep in the heart of darkest Africa… the thought always brought a chuckle.

He scanned the dock again.  Where was Mike Hannigan?  Had he already started for The Broken Tusk?  Or had something happened to the young American?

                                    *****

Mike Hannigan followed the route they were taking, comparing it to the directions that Gregor had given him the night before.  Thin Man turned a corner and Hannigan knew that they were not heading for The Broken Tusk.

“Wrong turn, mate.” Hannigan jammed the muzzle into the base of Thin Man’s skull.

“No it isn’t, this is the right way,” Thin Man’s voice held a quiver as he spoke.

“The Hell you say.”  Hannigan snapped.  “I know where The Broken Tusk is.  You have ten seconds to get us back on the right path before my finger pulls this trigger,”

“Pete!” Thin Man said. 

Wrong answer, Hannigan thought, and pulled the trigger. Blood and brains sprayed across the windshield and the Citroen lurched as a dead foot pressed down heavily on the gas pedal.

Hannigan swung the pistol at Shadow, who was in the process of drawing his own weapon, and fired.  The bullet slammed into his upper chest and drove him backwards, out of the open sided truck and into the street.  Jelly Belly made a grab for the wheel, but Thin Man’s death stomp had opened the throttle wide; the truck was out of control and headed for a crash.  Hannigan jumped up and out of the Citroen, landing painfully on his shoulder and rolling in the dust.

Miraculously he managed to keep his hold on the Colt and watched as the Citroen smashed into a tree, ejecting Jelly Belly from his seat and through the upturned windshield.  Blood began spurting from Jelly Belly’s neck, but vanished in the cloud of steam that gushed into the air from the shattered radiator.

“First day in Africa and I’ve already iced three guys,” Hannigan muttered morbidly as he picked himself up from the dusty ground, thumbed down the hammer on his Colt and slipped it back into his waistband. “Great way to start the day.”

His shoulder throbbed, but it was pain that he could live with.  He started back along the way he had come, knowing that it was even more important that he reach his destination.  It was evident that someone was trying to keep him from getting to The Broken Tusk.  …The big questions were who and why?

The only enemies he had were back in New York.  There was nobody here in Africa that even knew him aside from Gregor.  So why had these men sought him out?  It was a question for which he had no answer.

He was more than a little worried about Gregor now.  He didn’t know who the three men had been, but he was pretty sure they weren’t from Degiorno.  Did that mean Spinnelli had sent them? …If Spinnelli’s wrath reached all the way to the Dark Continent, then Hannigan was in for a world of trouble.

He limped back down to the corner, trying to remember the way back to The Broken Tusk, when a tall, pale, thin man with white hair appeared out of a doorway as he passed it.  Hannigan’s hand almost dropped to the pistol butt, but something about the man’s demeanor stopped him.  The stranger moved with the certainty of someone that was totally comfortable with his purpose and his abilities.  Hannigan squinted into the sunlight reflecting off the lenses of thin wire-rim glasses.

“Are you okay, My Son?” the man asked.  Only then did Hannigan notice the priest’s collar around his neck.

“A little bruised, Padre, but doing better than the men that were trying to kill me.”

He managed a weak grin.

“So I see.” The priest replied soberly.

There was a hint of scorn in the priest’s manner that made Hannigan feel defensive.  “You always this cheerful?”

“Mostly.  Sometimes I get so filled with joy I do handsprings.”

“Why do I find that hard to believe?”  It must have been a joke, but Hannigan didn’t feel like laughing.

“I see men like you every day, Son.  Men looking to make their fortune, looking for adventure.  If they come back at all, they are maimed or disfigured or dead inside. Africa is like no place you have ever been, or seen, or even dreamed of.  There are demons here.  Heed my warning, Son: this is a deadly dangerous land.”

“Thanks, Padre, but I kinda noticed that already.  Name’s Hannigan, Mike Hannigan.”  He extended a hand. 

The priest looked at it for a long moment then accepted the handclasp.  “Father Niles McKenzie.  I won’t say it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hannigan, but I have a feeling you will make things interesting for a while.  I suspect you and trouble are close acquaintances.”

“Well, more and more lately, it always seems to know where I am.”  Hannigan grinned.

“Would you care to confess your sins, Mr. Hannigan?” McKenzie asked softly, his voice almost inaudible.

“I guess God already knows what they are, Padre, without me having to tell him.  However, if you can give me directions to The Broken Tusk from here I’d certainly appreciate it.”

“The Broken Tusk?  Why would you want to go there?” McKenzie asked, more curious than judgmental now.

“Employment.  A friend recommended it to me.” Hannigan shrugged, wincing slightly.

“Let me guess; you’re supposed to talk to a man named Degiorno.” McKenzie said it in a way that meant it wasn’t a question.

“Yeah, that was who Gregor said to talk to.”

“I sense that you are not a bad man, Mr. Hannigan.  I must warn you that Degiorno is a truly evil man.  You take great risk in working for him, not only to your life but also your immortal soul.”

“I need the work, Padre,” Hannigan replied.  “I guess it’s a risk I’ll have to take,”

“Then go with God, my Son, and may He always watch over you.” McKenzie made the sign of the cross then turned away.  Hannigan watched as the priest walked back inside the small white building that he now realized was a church. 

…Shaking his head, he started back down the road in the direction he hoped would take him to The Broken Tusk.

Chapter Three

The sun had risen higher in the sky and with it came the heat and humidity that heralded the closeness of both the ocean and the jungle.  Hannigan’s shirt was soaked when he stepped inside the slightly cooler interior of The Broken Tusk.  Ceiling fans squeaked lazily as they tried to force the humid air about the dark confines of the bar.  Hannigan had automatically stepped to the side of the door after entering so he wouldn’t be silhouetted against the rectangular frame of light from the outside.  He waited a couple of minutes for his eyes to adjust to the dimness inside the building.

By New York standards, the place was a dive, but Hannigan knew he couldn’t afford to be choosey.  Besides, he was still wondering about the three men that had tried to kill him earlier, and words of the odd priest he had encountered immediately afterwards; this might be a dangerous place, but it was probably the only place where he was going to get some answers.  He managed a confident grin as he approached the bar.

            The bartender was a mountain of black muscle; his skin shiny and dark looked almost as if he had been carved from obsidian stone.  His dark irises were ringed in white and when he opened his mouth, Hannigan could see that his teeth had been filed to sharp points. 

            Hannigan blanched; was the man a cannibal?  Remembering the .45 tucked under his vest gave him some comfort, but looking at the size of the bartender made him wonder if even the .45 could bring the man down. 

            The bartender looked down at him.  “Yah?”

            “Beer,” Hannigan replied, trying hard to make sure his voice was steady.

The man nodded and lumbered away.  Hannigan eased onto a corner stool so that he could keep an eye on the room.  Several tables were filled with a wide variety of tough looking men.  Some had the military bearing of soldiers, others just the solid, menacing look of thugs.  A multitude of nationalities seemed to be represented in the room—a veritable League of Nations.  Hannigan finished his survey as the bartender placed a foam-topped mug in front of him.  He dropped a few Belgian francs on the bar and the man nodded and moved away.

            As he sipped his beer, Hannigan took another look around the room, and wondered how many of The Broken Tusk’s customers were already in Degiorno’s employ.  He thought about the job Gregor had promised and wondered if it was really as big as promised, but mostly he thought about the man himself; did Degiorno want to hire him, or kill him?