Silver Manticore: Friends and Foes

By P.J. Lozito

The Silver Manticore- To some, he is nothing more than an urban legend, rising from the fears of cowardly criminals. To others, he is a masked mastermind of evil cutting into the biggest schemes, helping himself to the largest share. And then there’s the truth-that the Manticore, unknown to both the Law and The Underworld, is a force of good merely posing as a crook! Regardless of what those who know of the mysterious figure believe, The Manticore has come into contact and conflict with allies and enemies. This avenging vigilante has definitely made many friends and foes, each with their own stories! Pro Se Productions proudly presents SILVER MANTICORE: FRIENDS AND FOES by PJ Lozito. The follow up to the Pro Se Bestseller, THE STING OF THE SILVER MANTICORE, this volume presents a side of the Pulp hero that often goes unseen- How Those who stand beside and against what he does view him and his actions. Join The Manticore in ten two fisted double barreled tales where you will meet- The Maggot, who has used the very same methods of the Manticore in his own war on crime, Doc Wylie, scientist and crime buster supreme, who has been pressed into aiding the Silver Manticore, Special Inspector Joe Casey of the N.Y.P.D., who secretly works for the Silver Manticore, Evan White, the African American who inherited the silver mask in the 1950s and many others who have come to know The Manticore for better or worse. Fight alongside PJ Lozito’s fantastic homage to classic heroes and those he encounters in SILVER MANTICORE: FRIENDS AND FOES from Pro Se Productions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pro Se Press
• Release date: Jan 8, 2014

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SILVER MANTICORE: FRIENDS AND FOES

by P.J. Lozito

Published by Pro Se Press at Smashwords

This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters in this publication are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. No part or whole of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing of the publisher.

Silver Manticore: Friends and Foes

All stories copyright © 2014 P.J. Lozito

All rights reserved.

Table of Contents

A NIGHT AT THE PLAZA

WINGS OVER NEW YORK

AH-WOO! WILFRED OF LONDON

DEATH FROM THE PACIFIC HELL

THE BLOOD-RED TERROR

HE HUNTS THE BIGGEST, MOST DANGEROUS GAME

CLOTHES MAKE THE MANTICORE

ARMED & DANGEROUS

THE TUNNEL RATS

THE DEATH OF THE SILVER MANTICORE

About the Author

With all my love, to Teresa Patello, my first fan.

A NIGHT AT THE PLAZA

A society orchestra was playing, torturing a waltz and inducing a few early arrivals to, unsteadily, attempt dancing. Waiters were jostling around them with trays of canapés and drinks. Guests, in black tie and evening gowns, were greeted, friends were welcomed and contributions were encouraged. This was a benefit for British War Orphans left homeless from London’s blitzkrieg. Tonight, Manhattan’s Plaza Hotel was bustling with New York City’s richest citizens. It was the social event of 1942.

Brent Allred, The Daily Sentry’s publisher, an athletic man in his forties with rugged good looks, scanned the room again. Only a touch of grey was in his dark hair. He made a decision and casually sauntered up to crime reporter Mike Axelrod with, Now, Michael, do you know you’re wearing that all wrong?

Aw, what the deuce do I know about wearin’ these damn monkey suits, Brent? Axelrod asked his boss defensively, throwing his topcoat open and looking down at his rented tuxedo. Axelrod was only slightly older than Allred and sandy-haired with brick- red skin.

As a reporter, he didn’t want to deal with long lines at the coat check if he had to dash out in a hurry. His topcoat was a battered article of clothing, having seen a lot of action.

Not the suit, Michael, Allred clarified, pointing. The hat.

What’s wrong with my lid? anxious eyes peered upwards, followed by his hand, clamping it. I figured it’d look better than my derby.

You don’t wear a hat with tails unless it’s a top hat.

You don’t? Where else am I supposed to put my press card? You know, should something happen at this clambake. This is just the kind of affair that rotten Silver Manticore would like to cut into. All this dough here, ripe for the taking, Axelrod nodded toward the entrance. Guests were paying cash contributions at the door. A handful of awkwardly attired plainclothesmen kept watch. To a man, the cops looked uncomfortable in their tuxedos.

Too many cops here for that, Allred stated.

I tell you there’s going to be action here tonight, insisted Axelrod. I feel it in my bones.

Allred gently snaked up for the hat, pulled it away from the reporter’s head and dropped it on the banquet table. The press card was retained. Your card is right here, Allred stuffed it into the front breast pocket of Axelrod’s topcoat, part way exposed. There you go, Allred patted the pocket.

Now, you look, Brent. You’re supposed to protect the crown on these things, protested Axelrod, turning his hat over. Someone’s drink is going to end up inside it before the night is over.

The hat nonsense was just a ruse, Michael, whispered Allred.

"Ruse?" the reporter echoed.

Allred silenced his underling with palms down gesture: To jaw with you.

Yeah? Axelrod’s eyes narrowed. His reporter’s instincts were engaged now. He knew something had been up.

Yes. See that waiter there? No, to your left. Look for a balding Neanderthal.

Axelrod zeroed in on a small King Kong, puttering around the guests, saying, What about him?

It’s Opportunity Knox.

Sufferin’snakes! So it is. You don’t think he’s finally gone straight?

Not a chance. He’s up to something.

I’ll see what I can find.

"No, let me do the snooping. He knows who you are. Knox wouldn’t be expecting the publisher of The Sentry to take a hand."

"What exactly am I supposed to do while that felon is running around, posing as a waiter?" protested the reporter.

"You can bet he’s keeping one eye on you. Just sit tight for now. This is one time we may not just cover the news, but be the news."

Axelrod grunted and took his seat. A waiter, presumably a genuine one, came over with the glass of beer Axelrod had ordered. That was the daily single drink of booze he had to control his alcoholism. Allred stalked off but not before whisking away the reporter’s hat when he wasn’t looking. The publisher pressed an ornate ring on his left hand. Almost immediately it blinked at him in return.

Bako was on his way.

Allred ambled back to his own still empty table, timing his arrival carefully by stopping, greeting and chatting with acquaintances and various members of New York’s 400 who were still streaming in Then Allred walked away from an unused place setting with a knife and fork wrapped in a cloth napkin. To the casual observer, it looked like he merely needed new utensils. The fork and napkin disappeared under a table with a dull clank; the knife went up Allred’s sleeve. He placed Axelrod’s hat on the empty seat next to his own.

The waiter who was now known to be Opportunity Knox approached Allred’s table. The timing had been perfect. Knox attempted to fill up the publisher’s coffee cup. Allred stopped him with a waved hand: Oh, waiter, tea instead, please.

Very good, sir, Knox answered with careful enunciation. I’ll be back with it presently.

No hurry, drawled Allred. As Knox turned away, Allred gripped his arm, Please make sure the water is completely boiled, would you?

I’ll see to it personally, sir.

Good, Knox didn’t notice a thing; Allred smiled to himself and released the knife. Just then Bako presented himself as the waiter moved on. The small Oriental was around the same age as his boss.

I have polished all the chrome, Mr. Allred, declared the small man a bit too loudly. He removed his cap and tucked it under his arm, As you instructed.

Everyone knew him to be Allred’s Filipino chauffer. In truth, he was Japanese. Due to the United States being at war with his home country, Bako masqueraded as a Filipino. His uniform was not in the least bit out of place here. Many a luminary had been driven here in a chauffeured limo. Bako gave no indication that he had received notification over a crystal set radio embedded into the ring he wore under leather driving gloves. Allred lowered his voice as the mayor’s wife, Betsey, was right on the other side of them, chattering away with another dowager, Get the equipment into the men’s room. Give me a head start.

Trouble? asked Bako in the same low tones.

Waiter here is really a crook, Allred whispered casually.

Bako’s eyes searched the room, Which one?

He’ll be coming this way, with a pot of tea. There’s a slash on the back of his jacket.

Bako spotted the man puttering at a serving station.

Follow him when he goes to change it. Snoop.

Understood, Bako melted away.

Allred knew Knox by reputation. He wouldn’t be a bit surprised if Bako reported back that the crook had dynamite with him. Or perhaps a Tommy gun in a violin case. Sometimes the old gags are the best.

Knox presented Allred’s tea in a small pot. He filled the cup, was thanked and started to move on. Allred clamped Knox’s arm: My good fellow, do you know you have a rip?

Sir?

Your jacket has a tear on the back.

Knox put down the pot, pivoted his head and craned his neck and felt his back. Well, how you like dem apples? Knox reverted to Brooklynese. He composed himself and acknowledged in more cultured English: Thank you, sir. You’ll excuse me.

Allred looked up and saw Bako, now in a white waiter’s jacket, across the Plaza ballroom, eyes locked on Knox. Then he was out through the kitchen. Allred gulped a mouthful of tea, winced at its poor quality, grabbed Axelrod’s hat off the empty chair and made a bee line to the men’s room. This was situated off from the main ballroom, in an alcove. A trio of phone booths stood nearby. He nodded to the attendant standing outside, pushed through the door and selected a stall. The attendant taking a break outside, rather than being inside, made the first step of his plan harder.

Seconds later, Bako appeared at the men’s room, brown paper sack in hand. It bore the name of a local pharmacy. He greeted the attendant with, Sir, has Mr. Brent Allred come through here?

Just went in, the attendant nodded his head toward the rest room proper.

Many thanks, Bako went in. He was out again instantly. So sorry. You are mistaken. Mr. Allred is not there.

Had he taken time to notice, the attendant would have seen that the bag was lighter now. Bako stalked off in search of Mr. Allred. The attendant stuck his head in and stooped down to check out the stalls. Sometimes Manpower sent over less than competent replacement workers. No legs showed. In the last stall, Brent Allred had his legs drawn up on the toilet seat as he perched. Gloved hands were adjusting something silvery over the lower part of his face. Mike’s hat was on his head. He was fully prepared to administer a dose of non-lethal sleep gas if the attendant burst in.

Outside, Bako strode up to the attendant again. I still have not found Mr. Allred.

You were right. He must’ve come out without me seeing him. Sorry, boy.

When Bako saw the men’s room door ease open, he pointed across the room to the bandstand at nobody in particular, Ah, there he is.

The attendant merely grunted and turned his attention back to this month’s Doc Wylie Magazine. It was at that moment that a figure crept out from the men’s room. The collar of his tuxedo was up, hat pulled down low on his head and a silver snakeskin covered the lower half of his face. Behind the attendant, a black-gloved hand grasped a small glass vial. He reached around the attendant.

What’s all this, now? the attendant puzzled as he saw it. Bako, still standing there, held his breath.

The gloved hand broke the vial and a green mist enveloped the attendant. As Bako blocked the view, the attendant was pulled into the men’s room. The Silver Manticore, who masqueraded as one of the underworld in order to destroy it from within, set the sleeping attendant into a stall.

I followed that waiter to his belongings, boss, Bako began.

And?

He conceals a bag of handguns in a staff closet.

Get that bag, advised the Silver Manticore.

And the bag shall go to where?

In the trunk of the car, he brushed past his assistant Just let me go first. The crowd will spot me and that’ll force Knox’s hand. When he’s distracted, call in the troops.

Bako made tracks, fingering his change. The masked man was correct. No sooner had he left the men’s room then a cry went up that the notorious outlaw the Silver Manticore was here.

He announced: Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. This is a robbery.

The Silver Manticore emphasized his point by waving a black .45 automatic pistol in one hand and an odd-looking gun that had a row of the same glass vial that felled the attendant in the other. He moved into the now crowded ballroom and fired a single shot at the ceiling. Bits of the chandelier showered the room. Everyone covered up and the masked bandit was soon swallowed up by ducking bodies. Having hit the main light fixture, the ballroom was now in semi-darkness. The shot was punctuated by screams and shouts. Tuxedoed cops, revolvers in hand, fanned out over the ballroom. Nobody could quite spot where the masquerader had disappeared to.

I’ve got the Manticore!

"You’ve got me, you dope," came the answer.

No, there he is!

Hearing the commotion, Knox abandoned his post and headed to the kitchen. It was now or never, with that damned Manticore here, looking to cut in on this deal. News of the Silver Manticore’s presence alarmed Mike Axelrod, too. He was determined to bring that scoundrel to justice, get the scoop and claim the reward.

I knew it, he muttered, reaching for his hat. It wasn’t there.

***

Where the devil is my valise? Knox asked aloud. The crook was at the closet the Plaza staff used for their belongings. The felon came away empty-handed and howling mad.

I seen the Chink with it, another fake waiter appeared at Knox’s elbow, a blond man with a broken nose and cauliflower ears. I thought you…

"What Chink?"

Didn’t you hire one a them Tong hatchet men for this?

Knox caught sight of Bako, now attired again in his chauffeur’s jacket and asked: Him?

Not him, a waiter, the other crook said.

You, Slant Eyes! Knox demanded anyway. Any of your Chinee cousins working here?

I beg your pardon, sir, Bako protested. "I am Filipino."

I don’t care what your name is, barked Knox. I want to see ‘em all the damn Orientals what’s working here tonight.

I will round them up, stated Bako meekly.

He did nothing of the sort. Instead Bako went to a phone booth, dialed a number not listed in any directory and put in a call to people in the employ of the Silver Manticore. The phone went dead but not before Bako got most of the message through. Someone had cut the line, no doubt the work of one of Knox’s confederates. Bako checked the phones in each of the booths. All of them were out. Meanwhile, reports of the Silver Manticore’s presence echoed through the room.

Brent Allred materialized at Axelrod’s table, I found your hat, Michael.

Never mind that now, Brent, Axelrod waved the suggestion away. The Silver Manticore is here. I told you something was up.

He probably stole your hat.

Brent, be serious! Manticore must be in league with that chiseler you spotted.

He might be at that! Allred rubbed his chin. Listen, go get Knox, Michael. I hear he’s got a glass jaw.

Okey dokey. What about you?

I’m going to nab this Manticore once and for all.

you?

Allred leaned over to his own table, downing the balance of his terrible tea and responded: Michael, you know I was in the Army in the Great War. I can handle myself.

Axelrod hurried way, asking himself why Allred’s father had originally hired him as junior’s bodyguard if that was the case but all he said was, See you later, ‘bye.

He found Knox and accosted him with: Taking money from them war orphans, huh? he swung a wavering left fist.

Knox ducked and returned a haymaker to the reporter, who crashed to the floor, out like a light. The crook stepped over Axelrod and called his men. They spread out, competing with the police in looking for the Silver Manticore. He’d be the only problem now.

The drugged food and drink would soon be putting everyone else to sleep, including the cops. People started to drop. It was about time, too. Knox paid a lot of moolah for that fast-acting drug. The cops guarding the place wouldn’t be any threat. Knox, as staff, had made sure all of them had been given the beverage of their choice while working. Knox looked around. There was no sign of that damned Silver Manticore. Where had he disappeared to? He stepped over the sleeping body of Brent Allred, now felled by the effects of the drugged tea. Knox’s men had improvised their lack of promised guns by helping themselves to those of the unconscious cops.

Back by the phone booths, a hidden Bako observed guests collapsing in the gloom and knew they had been drugged. Help had better arrive soon. He hefted a .38 caliber pistol pilfered from the cache of weapons and picked out Knox’s imposing bulk moving through the ballroom. The leader dies first. Perhaps the others will turn tail and run without him. Bako was about to fake a collapse as if he, too, had been drugged when he heard someone call him.

Bako, a whisper came. It was the voice of a girl. She was in her mid-twenties, tall, thin, auburn-haired and quite