The Beadle Files: Outlaw Secrets

By Ken R. Abell

Outlaw Secrets, the third installment of The Beadle Files, finds LC Beadle embroiled in an investigation of the criminal underworld in Chicago. The intrigues begin at a construction site on the northside where the journalist is to meet with an informant but gets a surprise that is the beginning of a trail of destruction and murder as a hardboiled enforcer goes on a rampage.
Meanwhile in Durango, tension develops between CJ Fralick and Katey Rae Wyant, but for Sonny Trego everything is Jake. He's advancing his newspaper career, making plans for the future, and carrying on a long-distance relationship with a college girl.
In a remote box canyon north of the city, Yaz Lightfoot is on a spiritual quest as he awaits the arrival of his wife. He chops wood, reminisces, is visited by a nightmare, prays, meditates, and in all his contemplations, a thriving sense of hopeful anticipation swells in his heart.
Near Wagon Wheel Gap, Mandy Kilmer experiences a great disappointment. In the throes of a meltdown, she gets encouragement from Bethsuelo Weitzel that steels her resolve. With the help of her family she schemes and makes plans to seize and take hold of the bright and hopeful future she's dreamt about since schoolgirl days.
In the midst of the violence and maneuvering in Chicago, Jack Whistler, the master of information and proprietor of the Backdoor Vault, tosses out a throwaway remark that defines the web of conspiracy: "I've got a thousand rumors, which one do you want to hear?"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Resource Publications
• Release date: Jan 29, 2020
• ISBN: 9781532676680

Ken R. Abell

Ken R. Abell is a teller of tales who understands that there is strength in a story well-told and well-lived. A consummate seeker and learner, he’s a transplanted Canadian who resides in Pennsylvania with his wife, Anita. He is currently working on the eighth episode of The Beadle Files. His work can be found at www.danceswithcorn.com.

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The Beadle Files:

Outlaw Secrets

by

Ken R. Abell

The Beadle Files: Outlaw Secrets

Copyright © 2020 Ken R. Abell. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.

Resource Publications

An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers

199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3

Eugene, OR 97401

www.wipfandstock.com

paperback isbn: 978-1-5326-7666-6

hardcover isbn: 978-1-5326-7667-3

ebook isbn: 978-1-5326-7668-0

A Night Thought by Thomas Moore, Public Domain.

Revenge by Robert Herrick, Public Domain.

The Haunter by Thomas Hardy, Public Domain

All Things Will Die by Alfred Lord Tennyson, Public Domain.

To Hope by John Keats, Public Domain.

Manufactured in the U.S.A. 01/14/20

Table of Contents

The Beadle Files: Outlaw Secrets

Acknowledgements

Also by Ken R. Abell

I ~The Warning~

II ~The Rogue~

III ~The Meetings~

IV ~The Chase~

V~The Killing~

VI~The Hope~

For Anita Irene, whose sly smile has the power to deflate ballooning discouragement in a heartbeat, which ofttimes results in an outburst of creativity.

&

For our sons and grandchildren. May their imaginations have an endless capacity to dream big dreams that carry them far and wide across the years and miles.

&

For a pair of uncles, John and David Major—both have gone to glory, but in my childhood years they were heroes who impacted my perspective, and amazingly, some of their quirks and tall tales manage to get woven into characters and storylines.

Acknowledgements

For me, the process of writing is often accompanied by the soundtrack of my life—I feel compelled to say thank you for decades of pleasure and inspiration provided by the biggies: Johnny Cash, Bob Dylan, Emmylou Harris, Jim Croce, Townes Van Zandt, Rosanne Cash, Neil Young, John Prine, Gordon Lightfoot, Leonard Cohen, Willy Nelson, Waylon Jennings.

Also by Ken R. Abell

Nonfiction

An Ordinary Story of Extraordinary Hope

Fiction

Days of Purgatory

Shadows of Revenge

Echoes of Evil

Nightmares of Terror

Pieces of Justice

Altars of Tomorrow

Graveyard Promises

Broken Choices

Website:

www.danceswithcorn.com

I

~The Warning~

"How oft a cloud, with envious veil,

Obscures yon bashful light,

Which seems so modestly to steal

Along the waste of night!"

~Thomas Moore~

LC Beadle was scared. A freight train of fear chugged through him. Hunkered on his haunches, he had his back against the rear wheel of a Fordson tractor at a construction site on the northside of Chicago near the waterfront. The breeze whispering off Lake Michigan had a trace of autumn coolness, but that didn’t prevent beads of sweat from glistening on his brow.

A trickle of patience was escaping down the drain of his soul as he waited for an informant, becoming more and more convinced that he’d been duped. His investigation into the serpentine intrigues of a criminal conspiracy had put him into an obsessive state of following leads and taking chances—tonight he was clutching at clues that were mighty thin.

Just then, sounding as though it originated in some faraway locale, an owl hooted loud and insistent. Not once or twice, but rather, the haunting baritone was hoo-hoo-hoo, and its echo carried spookily. A knife blade shiver slashed to his core. The presence of his spirit animal put the journalist betwixt and between fearless confidence and feckless uncertainty—he speculated as to whether the message was authorization to dig in or an admonition to skedaddle.

He considered retrieving the over-under double-barreled derringer from an inner pouch of the canvas knapsack slung over a shoulder, but instead gave the gray flatcap a nudge and wiped away perspiration as he looked skyward. The October moon was in three-quarter stage, a burnt orange eyeball half hidden and peeking from under a thickening shawl of clouds.

The rumble of an engine set loose a slither of goosepimples along his spine. He shifted on the balls of his feet and glowered in the direction of the approaching vehicle. It swerved onto the property and past a scaffold, then the headlights switched on and the newspaperman was awash in yellowish beams. He stood. Running was not an option for there was no place to hide.

When the pickup truck braked to a stop, the owl communicated again, louder and even more insistent—hoo-hoo-hoo. The doors popped open, and a pair of plug-uglies got out. Both were carrying baseball bats. The driver, thickset and flat-faced, had a swagger in his gait and a toothy smile. He casually waggled the piece of lumber. What are you doing here?

Exercising my freedom of assembly.

You weren’t expecting us, were you, Beadle?

Hard to tell. Did you call me anonymously?

Nope. I did, however, arrange for the call.

So I got snookered. Congratulations.

You’re an easy mark, Beadle.

If there’s nothing else I’ll be on my way.

Not just yet. We need to have us a discussion.

Maybe another time and place, LC said, taking a couple sideward steps away from the Fordson to gain a somewhat more defensible position. He saw that the mute thug had his weapon cocked and ready and was within striking distance. The odds were stacked against him but waving a white flag would not happen. I’ve got an appointment I must get to, gentlemen.

The flat-faced gorilla hitched his shoulders and whipsawed a swing aimed at the reporter’s skull. Beadle reacted instantaneously. The whoosh of the bat sailed over him as he dropped and dove at the other assailant, hooking his legs and smashing him to the uneven ground. It was destined to be the only knock-back He Who Wanders would manage.

While scrambling to his feet, the hardwood hickory wielded by the talkative goon struck his breadbasket, knocking the wind out of him and heaving him backwards. Beadle was airborne. He landed flat on his back, sucking hugely to snatch air into his lungs while being assaulted by a pugnacious barrage of stomps and kicks that continued for more than a minute.

The newshound covered up to protect himself as much as possible, but his desperate efforts were not at all sufficient. He took a thorough beating, and though everything became a blurry fog, he never lost consciousness. The final mistreatment was a powerfully placed toe of a boot between his legs. He uttered a gasping whimper and curled into a quivering heap.

Tony Nono sends his regards, the chief gangster told him, squatting close enough to incessantly prod him with the bat. Did the message sink in or should we repeat it?

I don’t quit, LC vowed, slobbering. Ever.

Heed the warning.

A warning, huh?

Wise up or else.

Beadle got onto his hands and knees. Or else what?

You’ll get a visit from the man himself.

That’ll not be necessary.

You best hope not, Beadle.

Why’s that?

Dead men tell no tales.

Let’s go.

You ain’t going nowhere.

Beadle felt groggy and sick to his stomach. He momentarily blacked out, reviving to a chorus of laughter peppered by swearwords, then the slamming of the truck’s doors. The engine roared as the tires spewed gravel. Alone again, he stretched out and lay in the dirt, struggling to breathe. It’d be a good long while before LC Beadle found the strength to get to his feet.

A great horned owl came and perched on the Fordson like a guardian angel.

* * *

In a Little Italy neighborhood on the Near West Side, Antonio Nunzio a.k.a Tony Nono was satisfied and content. The bulldog enforcer had charted a course to feed the ambition rising in him. There’d be no turning back or diversions to slow him. He had dutifully bided his time and been a good soldier, but no more. Never again would he salute smartly and obey orders.

He puffed on a cigar while soaking in an oversized cast iron bathtub on claw foot pedestals. The sudsy water had started off as hot as he could possibly take it, but was on its way to being lukewarm. He would remain until it became chilly. A tall glass of red wine and an ashtray were within reach on a wooden octagon stand purchased for this specific purpose.

The bathroom was large, but not well lit. A single bare bulb above the sink cast a ghostly glow. His functional apartment was on the top floor of a five-story building, which he owned. He also possessed the deeds on the identical reddish-gray brick structures on either side. The tenants were Italian families loyal to him. He was secure in what he thought of as his fortress.

His woman, Deborah Rossetti, resided on the third floor. He routinely visited her sometime Friday or Saturday each week for sexual gratification and social discourse. She took care of him and fulfilled his needs as he desired. Her feistiness was tempered by a maternal devotion. She had a way to his heart and inner workings like no one else. He trusted her explicitly. She was his only confidant. No secrets lurked in the spaces between them.

In her mid-thirties, she was a couple years younger than him. Her dusky-skinned beauty had a hard edge that set-off rushes of emotion whenever he saw her. A dark-eyed brunette, she was all circles; plump cheeks accentuated her top and bottom roundness. On the conscious level he did not see it, but Deborah Rossetti bore a notable resemblance to his deceased mother.

Nunzio reached for the wine and took a long drink before returning the glass to the table. He grinned smugly as he recalled the incident that put him on an independent pathway. During his years as Paddy Croyle’s confederate there had been slights and insults from time to time, but seven days ago the final line was drawn in the main room of the Kilkenny Social Club.

It involved LC Beadle. The newsman had dropped in on official business, poking around and asking questions, which started off polite enough, but soon became accusatory. Taking a cue from Saint Paddy’s body language, Nunzio gave Beadle the bums rush, figuring now he would receive the clearance to do whatever was necessary to eliminate the bothersome problem.

To that end Tony Nono pressed Saint Paddy behind the closed door of his office. The discussion had a confrontational tone, borrowing themes from a previous exchange. That dispute was fueled by an excess of alcohol, but on this occasion the partners in crime were sober. The brick wall of a bodyguard paced in front of the Irish mobster, who sat rigidly at his desk.

This sickens me, Paddy.

Forget about small potatoes, Nono.

That joker must be silenced.

Aye. Beadle’s life expectancy is fleeting.

He needs to die now. Give me the order.

Not just yet, Saint Paddy said, hands folded on the desktop. The jowly-faced man shrugged his shoulders in resignation. There’s a chain of command to be adhered too. It’d be too risky for me to violate protocol. Any action against the reporter must be sanctioned.

Same old song and dance.

It’s called chain of command, Nono.

Chain of command, my ass.

Jaysus. Stow the bluster and do your job.

Nunzio cussed loudly and stormed out. The door crashed with such brutal force that the doorframe shook, and the buzz of voices from the crowd of Irishmen in the Kilkenny Social Club became hushed. Everyone present was riveted on what happened next. Patrick Croyle emerged from the office, hot-eyed and fists balled up. Don’t walk out on me, you dago wop greaser.

Nunzio spun around on his heels. You will pay, Paddy. I swear.

Don’t be a dumb wop.

No more, Paddy. No more.

Jaysus. Get back here, you frigging greaser.

Those words rang in his ears as Antonio Nunzio raged into the night like a charging bull. Nunzio didn’t know then or now, as he relaxed in the tub, that he would never enter the Kilkenny Social Club again. The public rebuke put into play plans to personally wreak havoc on Saint Paddy Croyle. For Tony Nono an itinerary of destruction would proceed on the morrow.

* * *

At the Colten Clinic on North Paulina Street, Dr. Mark Colten stared at his face in a hand-held mirror while gingerly touching the crimson welts on his left cheek. The thirty-six-year-old married father of two toddlers had never stopped chasing newly graduated nurses. He found them energetic and eager to please, and quite often easily manipulated and compromised.

His latest conquest had gotten under his skin. He didn’t even know the busty blonde’s name, but that mattered not. She was coy and standoffish, which he took as a blockade to be overcome because of the hot-blooded promise hiding behind her smile. He held a fifty percent interest in the for-profit treatment center, and pursuing the twenty-year-old nurse to satisfy his voracious carnal appetite was the only reason he had volunteered to be on duty tonight.

Two colleagues had twenty-five percent each, and five years into the arrangement he had managed to keep his peccadilloes secret from them. His intention for this evening was to invest down time priming her pump in preparation for closing at eleven pm when he’d take her to the small apartment in the back to bed her, then send her off into the night shortly thereafter.

From her arrival, she maintained professional decorum—prim, proper and polite. She introduced herself with a reserved formality, then immediately began going over the checklist for supplies and inventory. He sat at a large office desk in a corner of the brightly lit room, shuffling the paperwork of patient files while observing her and nurturing obscene thoughts that twisted his kisser into a reckless grin. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the shirt’s top button.

Excuse me, nurse.

Yes, sir.

What’s your name?

I told you, Dr. Colten.

I must’ve not heard you.

Miss Dillon.

Your first name?

Never in the workplace, sir.

That’s rather uncivil.

Perhaps, but it’s a hard and fast policy with me, she said, rather snappishly. Her lively blueish eyes narrowed hard on him. I hope you will be kind enough to respect my wishes.

Certainly, Miss Dillon. He slouched back in the swivel chair and increased his scrutiny of her movements; he was mostly furtive, but there were instants when he tantalized his senses by encouraging his gaze to roam over her shapely figure. He imagined her out of the starched stiff uniform. The flow of blood rushed to his loins. He appreciated the surging hotness.

Miss Dillon.

Yes, sir.

Do you have a boyfriend?

That’s an inappropriate question, Dr. Colten.

An entirely innocent inquiry, Miss Dillon.

I prefer to keep my personal life out of the workplace.

Another hard and fast policy?

Yes, Dr. Colten. Is that too much to ask?

Are you always a killjoy?

Are you always so trivial and trifling?

Colten got to his feet. His complexion reddened. Anger mixed with lust to produce volatility in his veins. Let’s forget friendliness, shall we? His lips became a bloodless thin line. He turned and a made a sweeping gesture to one side of the desk. I require your assistance. These two boxes should be stacked in the other room. I’ll take one and you the other.

The doctor carried a box into an alcove of an office to place it on the floor, then sidestepped to give her space and waited for his chance. He made his move when she was half stooped over with her back to him. He pinned her against the wall with startling swiftness and muscle. His hands went over her hips to latch onto her titties. He pressed himself against her buttocks, breathing heavily in her ear. His aggressive groping got stronger and stronger.

Enjoy it, Miss Dillon. Be a good girl.

Wouldn’t you rather I be a bad girl?

Yes, dear God, yes.

She cooed a husky murmur. He squeezed her breasts hard enough to hurt. She moaned and wiggled to give her fanny a suggestive shimmy. The tease exhilarated him. He leaned back and started to turn her around, which was the only opening she required. She became a blonde dynamo. She launched a knee at his crotch while unleashing a roundhouse right—the knee missed the intended target, but her palm struck his face and his head whiplashed.

His expression contorted in disbelief as Miss Dillon vehemently plowed into him. She hammered her fists against his chest, pounding him into a backwards stagger. Your behavior is despicable. She grabbed her purse and hastened to the exit. I will be reporting you to my superior, Dr. Colten. She paused to take a few deep breaths, then departed in a rush.

It’d been over an hour since the nurse made her getaway. The physician had never received such a backlash. He studied her fingerprints on his cheek, then halted when he heard the squeal of tires on pavement. He went to the glass door, and saw a man zigzagging drunkenly in the middle of the busy thoroughfare. Dr. Mark Colten had his first patient of the evening.

* * *

Ten minutes later, LC Beadle was stretched out on an examining table, shirtless and grimly stoic. He had refused sedation or pain relief medication with an adamant stubbornness. His upper body was a lumpy patchwork of discolored bruises and contusions. He kept his jaw clamped as Dr. Colten conducted a comprehensive poking and tapping examination.

Beadle grunted sporadic complaints. A multihued rainbow goose-egg bulged beneath his left eyebrow and spread downward to swell his eye shut. A spasm in his head made him recoil. His brain was a madcap array of disjointed ideas and words that were becoming intelligible. He tried to isolate and express the mishmash. Bugsy, he slurred, tongue lapping at his lips.

Pardon, Mr. Beadle?

Owl.

What?

Owl. Bugsy.

Meaning? Dr. Colten asked tersely.

Bugsy. It means Bugsy.

Is that who did this to you?

What, Doc? That’d be stupid.

I’m just attempting to get the facts.

Beadle glanced around. Forget it.

I need to report this to authorities.

Forget it, Doc. I’ll write about it.

Fine, but I have a responsibility.

An owl came to see me.

When? What are you talking about?

An investigation went south, Doc.

The police should be called.

A waste of time and energy, LC replied, wincing. He lifted head and shoulders slightly. He gingerly placed a palm on his forehead. His thinker was getting progressively coherent. I got duped. Grasping at straws. My own fault for being so hellbent on uncovering pieces of truth. I got whupped senseless. When I reassembled myself a great horned owl was watching me.

Colten gave him a skeptical look. An owl? That’s interesting.

You have no idea, Doc. Suffice it to say that nature speaks.

Ah-huh. If you say so.

Where’s my knapsack?

Right here on a chair.

My flatcap, Doc?

Never saw one, Mr. Beadle.

I guess I’ll be hatless awhile.

It could’ve been much worse.

Call me a taxicab.

You should stay overnight, Mr. Beadle.

Nope. No chance of that, Doc.

I’m not going to argue with you.

Sounds like an intelligent decision.

You could have a concussion, Mr. Beadle.

I’ll take it nice and easy, Doc.

And check in with me tomorrow?

If I’m dizzy or see stars or have a headache.

There are other red-flags to take into consideration, the doctor said, sitting down on a stool. Ringing in the ears, loss of consciousness, confusion or amnesia, nausea or vomiting.

Any of that and I’ll come find you, Doc.

Is someone going to be with you tonight?

A woman who’ll nurse the snot out of me.

Nothing like the tenderness of a woman.

My caregiver is one of a kind, Doc. One of a kind.

Any problems and I’ll see you tomorrow?

If I’m symptomatic of a concussion, yes.

Do I have your word, Mr. Beadle?

Sure. Now call me a cab.

Not quite yet.

What’s the delay now?

Colten chuckled sourly. Three cracked ribs on your left side and at least one on the right, plus considerable cartilage damage. Binding them with strips of cloth will help, but you’ll still experience both nagging and shooting pain. Coughing, moving too quickly, or even breathing will hurt. No sneezing fits any time soon. You’ll be in discomfort for quite a few weeks.

Wrapping my torso like a mummy will speed the healing?

That’s what I learned in medical school, Mr. Beadle.

Then you’ll call me a taxi?

I will surely beckon one.

Alright.

* * *

In Colorado, at the Backdoor Vault in Durango, Jack Whistler lazed behind the bar while engaged in a quiet conversation with Cody Fralick. The joint was near empty, but the master of information cared not about the lack of business. He had an alarm ringing between his ears that occupied his attention. There’s trouble afoot. I got no inkling as to the who or why of it.

I heard you the two previous times.

Don’t crack wise, Fralick.

Stating a fact, Jack.

Advance the discussion or cork it.

Fralick matched a Camel. You’re almighty touchy.

Comes from being on the outside looking in.

A familiar complaint as I recollect.

Whistler puckered his lips. By busting my balls are you bucking for the coveted asshole of the year award? Agitation shimmered in his gray eyes. Tell me who works for who here?

Gotcha, Jack.

Glad to hear it.

Shall we review the why of your foreboding?

The hair on the nape of my neck has been prickly day and night, Jack answered as he poured a splash of whiskey in a tumbler. Day and night, Fralick. Day and night for a week.

What exactly does that tell you?

Whistler balked. Exactly? Another smartass wisecrack? My instincts as to trouble are one hundred percent accurate, but the problem is that they’re always short on specifics and long on generalities. I know when something bad is coming around a corner, but the origin and from which direction can seldom be determined until it’s too late for me to give it the heave-ho.

Fralick, a stocky oak stump of a man with a shock of blazing red hair, removed his black Stetson and put it on the stool beside him. I don’t envy you at all, Jack. That’s a heavy cross to shoulder. A smirk