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JACK OF DIAMONDS

CHAPTER 23

By ben woestenburgPublished 2 years ago 16 min read
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JACK OF DIAMONDS
Photo by Jan Senderek on Unsplash

“Why are there no fuckin’ lights out this way?” Reggie asked, the single beam of the torch he was carrying barely able to light a path through the warehouse. There was a threatening darkness eating at the edge of the light. “Is it too much to think they might get electricity out here sometime this century?” He shot the beam upward, trying to see into the rafters. The light was too weak to penetrate the distance, and was soon lost in the shadows.

“We got lights,” Shetty said softly, “just not everywhere.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean? Not everywhere?”

He stopped to shine the torch at Shetty, who moved the light away from his face with a gentle hand. He seemed to straighten his back as he looked Reggie in the face, as if, somehow, he’d become taller. He smiled into the light, his rotted teeth somehow more hideous in the light.

“We got all the light we need at the drop.”

“At the drop? Is that what they’re calling it these days? The drop? Sounds like something out of a penny dreadful,” Reggie half-laughed, turning the torch back to the small pathway between the various crates and wares. He looked up at the height of the crates again, judging the distance between the top-most crate and the rafters where he thought it’d be easy for someone to hide. He scanned the distance, counting the crates up to the ceiling. He started walking ahead, following the path.

That must be four feet.

“What’s wrong with calling it a drop?" Shetty asked, following. "And no, that’s not what they’re calling, it’s what I’m calling it,” he added, a note of pride in his voice.

“You? Why?” Reggie asked, turning his head away from the rafters and looking down at Shetty. He started walking again.

“Because there’s so many different groups here—the Jews, Russians, us—I didn’t want any mix-ups. So, I’m calling the place where we do the exchange, the drop, in that, you drop one thing off, while they pick up something different. It makes sense, don't it? The drop. There’s no mixing things up when it’s as plain as that,” he added.

“Maybe you should’ve thought about lights, instead of what to call it,” Reggie pointed out. He looked up at the rafters again. There were small widows he could barley see, all of them looking to be coated in dirt--allowing no more than a reflection of where they were. There were a few that looked open, and others that were missing panes of glass he’d assumed were broken. It felt strange looking at everything as the potential for a possible ambush. It reminded him of the War and when they’d come across a small village. The first thing he did was look up at the highest point for possible snipers.

“I told ye, we got lights. As long as the boys can see what's what, everything should be fine.”

There was a faint glow up ahead and Reggie pointed the torch at it.

“Is that it, then? The so-called drop?”

“Right as rain, Reggie,” Shetty said with a grin.

“And where are the boys hiding?”

“I told you. I’ve got them up high—just like you said—so that way, they can see everything.”

“See everything? They won’t be able to see anything if they’re too high up. That must be at least thirty feet."

"It's twenty-seven."

"Twenty-seven? Well, I can barely see the drop, and we’re almost on it. How do you expect them to see anything?”

“You're overthinking it, Reg. They can see fine.”

“I hope so.”

“I went up and looked at every one of 'em myself.”

“I was supposed to be home by now,” Reggie said, looking up at the rafters again.

“We’ll get you home fine in the morning. Just tell the missus there was a mishap on the line. She’ll never know any different.”

“I don’t like lying to her, Shetty. By all means, feel free to lie to your missus, but I’m not about to start lying to mine.”

“Geez, Reg, you don’t have to lie if you don’t want to; you can tell her the truth as far as that goes. It’s up to you.”

Reggie could see the drop area was lit by a dozen kerosene lamps sitting on crates of guns marked with the Birmingham Small Arms stamp. He paused and looked at the crates, counting. He looked at Shetty, giving a low whistle. Any sensible man would've had a bar handy so the costumer could look into a random crate. But then, the guns weren't part of the deal, were they?

“So these are them?” he said softly.

“The guns? Yeah,” Shetty said with a slow shake of his head. “It would’ve been nice knowin’ about 'em goin’ in, don’tcha think?” he said, sitting on a crate and looking up at Reggie. "I mean, the deal ain't even about the guns. This is a holding area. They're waiting for the tide. I'm told they had to wait for the frieghter. My question is: What're they thinking having a meet here? No wonder they lost the war."

“What’s done is done, Shetty,” Reggie said, turning the torch off and sitting on another crate. “Let’s just hope it all goes off without a hitch. I don't like this any more than you do.”

“What about our Mick friend? Has Charlie heard anything about 'em since he come to see him?”

“Charlie didn’t know what the fucker was talking about, so for once in his life, he didn’t have to lie about anything.”

“And you think the fuckin’ git bought it?”

“I hope so--for our sakes.”

By Remy Gieling on Unsplash

Michael Dunnican crawled through the warehouse’s narrow window having made his way across the roof without being seen. There’d been a guard of sorts standing alone under the scattered shadows of a distant light, but really, the man wasn’t paying any attention to what was creeping up behind him, so a quick knife in the neck ended it for him. He’d made certain to cover the man’s mouth so he couldn’t cry out, but the knife had been quick—merciful--an in and out thrust next to the windpipe which pretty well guaranteed a severed something-or-other. He'd forgotten what it was called, never having paid attention when they told him which was the best way to kill a man. He’d simply smiled and nodded his head—all the while thinking how he’d like to have stabbed the man in the neck just to see if he’d understood the problem.

Short, thin, wiry, he crawled in through the window with an effort, pulling his Enfield rifle in behind him. He’d tied the rifle to the end of a short rope as he made his way in through the window. Once he was through, he found himself standing on a large joist, looking out over the gun crates thirty-eight feet below. That’s what he was here for, a voice inside his head told him, and he stepped back into the shadows. There were voices approaching, and he looked up at the small halo of light from the bulbs overhead. He reached up, unscrewing several of the bulbs within reach. He looked at the assorted crates around him, stacked up almost to the beams and joists, and looked at the shadows they made. There were dark pockets of space that from a distance made it look as if the crates were holding the roof up. Securing the short rope to the rafters in case he needed to get to the window in a hurry, he lowered himself into a position that offered him a clear view of the guns. He leaned back against a wooden beam, pulling a magazine-box out of his coat pocket. He waited to hear the beat of his heart slowing down before he finally pushed the magazine into place. He was careful not to push too hard, and so give away his position, but still, hard enough so that it snapped into place with an audible click. He leaned back against the beam when the two men below him stopped talking. One of the men had stopped, and was looking up, surveying the tops of the crates where they met the roofline. He told himself that was the man he’d have to target. He looked down from the shadows and lined the man up where he was standing, knowing that a clear shot now would mean little half an hour from now. He’d liked to have taken the shot right now, but they told him to wait for the Russians.

Dunnican was a member of the Irish National Army created by Michael Collins shortly after the bitterly fought Irish Civil War. He’d never been one to understand the politics of the Irish Troubles, except to know that the farm house he’d been born in had been burned by the British in retaliation for something he never understood. There’d been an uprising at Easter some years ago, and again, he’d had no knowledge of it, having volunteered and served on the Front during the War. It would be another two years before he heard anything about the Uprising, and by then, he was bitter enough to understand what had to be done. He had no loyalty to either the King, or his Crown; there was only the Cause.

He took his coat off and lay it down on the crate in front of him, bundled it up as if it was a small package, and then took a piece of charcoal out of a pocket and crumbled it in his hands. He rubbed his hands on the rifle’s barrel, as well as the stock and his face. He had a small black cap and he turned it backward as he leaned the rifle on the jacket. He liked the idea of limited lighting. But they were sure to see the flashing muzzle. He’d take the opportunity to move, and looked to his left.

There was a jump of several feet down to a separate row of crates and he wondered if his weight would take it. The jump couldn’t have been more than six feet across. He wondered if his momentum would take him over the edge. How many fools never asked themselves that question? He leaned back and looked to his right. It was too dark to see, and he supposed if it was too dark for him to see, it would be too dark for them.

He crawled to the right and settled in to wait.

By Miloš Trajković on Unsplash

Harry Solomon sauntered into the dull lights of the warehouse under the misconception that he’d finally be meeting the man they called Prince Igor. He wasn’t prepared to meet three men, one of whom was his one time rival, Reggie O’Dowd. Short, stocky, and with a vicious scar running from his right temple to his jawline, Harry was dressed in his usual plaid waistcoat and slacks, plain cotton undershirt, along with hobnailed boots. There was a gold watch and heavy chain hanging from the third button of his waistcoat, looping to the small left hand fob pocket. Reggie marvelled at how the cold chill of the night didn’t seem to bother Harry. He was still wearing the same bowler hat he’d had from before the War; it had seen better days. He completed his look with a large, sweeping, handlebar moustache that was meticulously waxed into a straight line—like the coaxed single whisker of a deadly cat.

His brother Alfie appeared more professional, wearing a dark green, three-quarter length, wool car coat over an olive green pin-stripe suit, with jet black shoes. He was carrying a long, thin walking stick, and Reggie wondered how no one had bothered to take it away from him. Did Shetty even search them? Fraternal twins, the brothers were exact opposites. They were two halves of what one would call a whole, complimenting each other with their ruthless natures. Both were left handed, both of them meticulous when it came to making plans, and both in tune with one another as only twins can be. Reggie watched as Harry scanned the rafters and Alfie prepared to take the floor.

“It’s a fine fuckin’ night for some old injuries to be forgot about,” Reggie said, ignoring Alfie and calling out to Harry.

“You’re not here to talk on our behalf,” Chernetsov said quietly.

“This has nothing to do with you,” Reggie snapped.

“Forgot about?” Harry asked, and turned to look at his brother. “He wants me to forget about what he did to me?”

“This,” Reggie said, giving a mild shrug as he spoke, “is not my business, Harry. I’m just here to stand in place as a witness for the Sicilians.”

“What Sicilians?” Harry asked, looking at his brother.

“Doesn’t matter,” Reggie said. “Seems to me that people still don’t trust you Solomons,” he added. “I can’t for the life of me imagine where that comes from,” he laughed, and looked up at Kazakoff standing next to him.

“Are you done?” the man asked.

“That’s no way for you to start a negotiation,” Harry quipped.

“We’ve already been through our negotiations,” Kazakoff said, holding out a large valise.

Harry looked at Reggie as Alfie stepped in front of him, saying something only his brother could hear. Harry nodded, stepping back into the shadows and returning with an old sailor’s bag.

“It’s a simple transaction,” Alfie explained. “The Russian gets his money”—Harry tossed the bag into the middle of the circle—“we get the opium, and everybody goes home happy.”

“Do they, now?” Reggie asked.

“I’m sure we can all agree it’s our patriotic duty to do what we can for the poor Ruskies, seeing how the Reds’ve beaten them so soundly—a fair thrashing if what I’ve read is true. As for the guns, well, you stole them fair and square.”

“I know nothing about any guns,” Reggie was quick to say.

“The guns are not part of the deal,” Chernetsov said gently.

“Well, you got them from someone,” Harry pointed out.

“They’re not part of the deal. They’ll be loaded up and transported in their own good time.”

“And you have a ship, no doubt?” Alfie smiled.

“They’re not part of the deal.”

“So why are they here?” Harry asked.

“The negotiations have been concluded,” Kazakoff said.

“That they have, that they have,” Alfie smiled.

“Then we’ll take the money and leave,” Chernetsov said.

“Just a moment. Not so fast,” Alfie said, holding his hands up as he stepped into the circle of light. “What kind of a business man would I be if I didn’t come prepared?” Alfie asked.

“Prepared for what?” Reggie asked.

“Well, I wasn’t prepared for the likes of you now then, was I?” Alfie laughed. “I know my brother certainly wasn’t. And that’s where the problem lays.”

“And what problem is that?” Kazakoff asked.

“Why, him, of course,” Alfie smiled, pointing at Reggie.

“What does he have to do with any of this? We don’t know him. He's one of the Hammerboys. He’s here to see that the transaction goes accordingly. It is going accordingly, I trust?”

“Why would you think any different?”

“Then if you’d be kind enough to part with what you have, we’ll give you the opium, and walked away satisfied."

“And if we don’t?” Harry asked.

“I don’t understand,” Chernetsov said, stepping forward. “We made a deal. We’ve held up our end of the deal. We brought the opium. Once you pay for it, you’re free to leave—”

“Free to leave?” Alfie said, suddenly serious. “What exactly doe that mean? Free to leave? Ah, that's because Sabini’s Hammerboys are watching over you? Is that what you think?”

“You see, we were thinking we might just change the deal while we could,” Harry laughed.

“Change it?” Chernetsov asked.

“Yes. We keep the gold, take the opium, and give the guns back to the Brotherhood,” Alfie smiled. “Changing it for the good of us all, I’d say, wouldn’t you, Harry?"

"You don’t want the Brotherhood after you; those boys, they never forgive, and they certainly don’t forget,” Harry added.

Kazakoff pulled his gun out of his pocket and pointed it at Alfie.

“That would be a mistake,” he said.

Before he even cocked the hammer, a shot rang out from the rafters above.

And then all Hell broke loose.

Reggie knocked a kerosene lamp off a crate with his shoulder. Catching it, he threw it at the Solomon brothers without hesitation. There was whoosh of flames sounding like a muffled echo. There was a quick bark of pistols and a scream as Harry was engulfed in flames and Alfie tried to muffle the flames with his jacket.

By Naomi August on Unsplash

Michael Dunnican crawled to his right, fading into the darkness where he hid himself behind a large crate, poking his rifle out into the shadows again. The small circle of light was an inferno of flames. He could see Alfie Solomon vainly fighting the flames as the other kerosene lamps exploded around them. The fuel began seeping into the surrounding crates, quick to form a wall of flames. There was another explosion as another one of the lanterns was thrown into the confusion—it hit a wall and exploded on impact, the flames swimming across the floor, engulfing the guns.

Michael scrambled across the crates, making his way to the window, climbing out and crossing the roof at a run. He didn’t even bother to stay in the shadows. He knew there’d be no threat. His team would’ve taken care of whatever guards had been set out. Anyone out there would be part of his team, or with the Solomon’s. He knew if he made his way toward the ship he might be able to track the two figures. He thought he saw them, and set up briefly for a shot, but he lost them in the shadows. He cursed silently and made his way to the ladder he’d set up on the South side wall. Slinging his gun over his shoulder, he made his way down the ladder where he was met by Reggie O’Dowd, who slipped a knife into his side, turning it sharply and pulling it out, only to punch it into him twice more.

By Dave Hoefler on Unsplash

“The guns!” Chernetsov cried out.

“They’re done for, just like us if we don’t get out of here!” Reggie added, looking at a dark alley stretching between the warehouses. He was down on one knee, cleaning his knife on the dead man’s clothes, watching for anyone likely to come around the corner. It was only a matter of time before someone showed up, he knew, and the longer they stayed where they were, the more likely the chance they’d be discovered. He sheathed his knife in his boot and stood up.

The flames broke through the roof at that moment. A raging lick of flame free of its enclosure, a myriad of sparks as dense as the Milky Way, it spread across the tarred roof of the building, leaping and feeding itself—growing with an insatiable hunger—the flames now lighting the way ahead of them.

“I need those guns!” Chernetsov said. He was frantic. He was watching the flames as they grew, his shadow a giant caracature of itself splayed across the walls of the surrounding buildings.

“I said they’re done for!”

“You fool! Do you know what you’ve done!”

“Saved your life?”

“If only it were that simple,” Chernetsov said, drawing his pistol.

He put the gun to the back of Reggie’s head and pulled the trigger.

END OF BOOK ONE

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About the Creator

ben woestenburg

A blue-collar writer, I write stories to entertain myself. I have varied interests, and have a variety of stories. From dragons and dragonslayers, to saints, sinners and everything in between. But for now, I'm trying to build an audience...

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