Blood Sisters

By John Miller

Rex Bonner's next case began with the appearance of a strange and engaging woman. She arrived at the office with a very odd and unusual tale to tell. The roots of which began in war-torn Italy in 1944. A group of young girls who had banded together for their own safety, security, and survival received the support from an old and broken-down Catholic convent. There, they became revitalized and, with the advent of an old man's efforts and skills, developed into a group of killers. With the end of hostilities, the girls spread across the plains of Europe and the lands of Liberty until one day, years later, a member of the group suddenly materialized in Rex's office. Listening to tales that stretched the imagination beyond the breaking point and covering other issues with obvious likes gave Mr. Bonner a basis to assist and investigate the strange events from the platform of "gelatin" that swayed with every step.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 10, 2019
• ISBN: 9781644244043

Book preview

Chapter One

The Harbor

Monday, May 8, 1961

The predawn sky partially hid the combination of fog and mist as it slowly crept in off the bay and settled into the inner harbor. Covering the piers and pilings with the wistful and moist phantom of the wet fingers of spring. Larry Shattuck had stopped his flatbed truck outside the main gate at Pier 7, with the hope that the magnet operator would show up soon and begin the unloading. It was 7:30 a.m., and Larry and his load of scrap were first in line for unloading.

First in, first out was the normal procedure on the dock. Larry was first in line and was looking forward to five full runs today with a profit of $25 each time his truck cleared the scales on the outbound leg of the journey. Everything pointed in that direction—that is, everything except for one small detail. One that would cut a deep gash into his profits.

The fatal flaw, as the old Greek storytellers, were fond of relating. That one small issue that would dash the plans of mice, men, and scrap-metal haulers alike. The irritating little pain in the ass item that always showed up when you least expected them, only to dump a can of piss into your morning bowl of cornflakes, or otherwise screw up your breakfast plans, regardless of the cuisine.

After moving the truck into position and setting the brake, Larry jumped out of the cab and began the task of releasing the cross-straps that had secured the load too this point. As he completed the first half of the preparation, he noticed some seagulls were paying attention to the forward part of the load on the right side of the truck.

They dispersed as Larry approached. He looked to the bed beside the forward stack of scrap metal. He took his pocketknife out and gave the thing of avian interest a poke. It was long and slim and wearing a ring. Upon closer examination, it appeared to be a woman’s finger, manicured and bejeweled, and of course, unattached.

The load consisted of compressed and compacted scrap metal from the processing yard, mostly consisting of automobiles that had been crushed into rectangular solids two feet, by two feet, by four feet. Occasionally, they contained other things that needed to be gotten rid of. As long as part of the things that needed getting rid of didn’t show up on the truck bed, no one got concerned about a funny smell that might be emanating from one of the cubes, as they were called.

Crushing up old automobiles was one way of getting rid of them. Normally they went back to a processor and were melted down into steel ingots to be sent off to a fabricator and turned into something else as useful as a car, or a toaster, or a refrigerator. The essence of efficiency and reutilization began with taking some of the largest individual personal purchases and turning them back into raw materials to begin life again in something just as useful. When you consider that you can also use them as a vehicle to hide evidence or totally get rid of it, it gave them a multifaceted purpose.

In an attempt to further reduce the suspicions that could arise if these metal cubes should begin to stink up the pile, the scrapyard sent the trucks hauling them through a steam wash, prior to leaving the scrapyard. In this case, steaming was overlooked and the truck with its smelly and flagrant evidence items ended up in plain view for all to see, and smell.

Procedures were in place to prevent things like this from happening. However, someone decided to skip that important step and save on time, that others say, is money. Most people that use that saying do not know the dollar cost of the item in question, and if they did, they would not say it. Well, it doesn’t have much value if it gets you landed in the joint.

Larry went over to the operations office to notify the crane operator, who was busy drinking coffee and waiting for Mickey’s big hand to find the 12 on the wall clock that indicated it was time to begin the Union Work Day. I found something out there you might be interested in.

Until 8:00 a.m. I ain’t interested in much unless it’s coffee and a fuckin’ doughnut.

Is that anything like a Dunkin’ Donut, or is it something new?

Ok, 8:00 a.m., now what’s your problem?

I found a woman’s finger out on the pier, I just thought you might be interested?

No shit, a broad’s finger. How did you figure that?

It was long and thin with a ring on it and polish on the nail.

Where on the pier did you find it?

I noticed it was next to the scrap load as I was unstrapping it.

You mean it was on your truck, not on the pier, as you said at first.

Well, yes, it was on the truck.

"Well, why the fuck are you telling me? The pier is my issue, the truck is yours. You got body parts, call the cops.’

I will do that. After I move the truck out of the way. Can I use your phone?

No, not scrap business: Use the pay phone outside, next to the shit house.

The shit house was a temporary structure that had been converted to a more permanent status. Rather than having a containment receptacle for the business being conducted, some plumber to be rigged the piping to direct the flow of outhouse business directly into the harbor. Illegal, but effective.

Larry threw some change into the box and dialed O.

Operator.

Operator, connect me with the police!

You can dial that direct. It’s Devonshire 8-1234, sir.

Ok, so I will dial it direct, now how about sending my dime back?

Ok—jing-jang—here’s you dime back.

Police Department, Officer Halloran speaking.

Officer Halloran, I found a woman’s finger on the bed of my truck next to a pile of compacted scrap.

Where are you now?

I am at Pier 7 off of Scenic Harbor Avenue.

Don’t let anyone touch it or fool around with the truck. I have a car on the way. Be looking for him.

I will be watching for him.

Hey, you want your load of scrap lifted off?

I did, but the cops are on the way. They told me not to move the truck or let anything happen to it.

We can unload you now or wait till three for the next operator.

I’ll wait. Sounds like he’s in a hurry to get the cargo on the barge and out of town. I wonder if the finger had anything to do with his decision?

In the distance was the sound of a siren working its way through the early morning traffic down by the harbor. The magnet operator seemed a little disgruntled over Larry’s response to the offer to lift the scrap. Probably wanted to lose the evidence somewhere below the tide.

Two police officers arrived on the scene in an unmarked, black, 1960 Chevy Biscayne with scratches and dents galore. Reminding most people of the hazardous and dangerous business of being as cop, either that or that most of them are lousy drivers.

You the guy that called it in?

Yes, Larry Shattuck. I drive for Scrap in the Nick of Time on a contract with the scrapyard.

Where’s the body part?

Right here on the right side of the trailer. Larry pointed to the disconnected phalange.

The detectives looked at the finger, and one of them went back to the car and radioed for a photographer.

While waiting for the photographer to make his entrance, they asked Larry a few questions.

When did you notice the finger?

It was about ten minutes after I came into the yard. Probably about 7:44 a.m. You drive over the scales and they check you in.

One detective went over to the scale checker.

"You got an entry time on that truck?

Which truck are you talking about?

The one over there that appears to be the only truck on the pier, that one.

That one over there with the scrap cubes on board.

Ya, the one with the cubes on board.

Ya, I got an in time of 7:32 a.m. It’s right here on the weigh-in ticket. Weight and time. It’s like they do at the fat broads’ clinic. Weight and time on the way in. They don’t give a shit about the weight going out though. They just compare it to the next time you weigh in and see if you lost any, or maybe gained.

I’m not interested in the ‘fat-broads clinic’ or the fat broads that habituate the joint. Let’s stick to the body parts in mention.

That’s scrap trucks. We weigh them in and out. The difference in weight is the scrap, and that’s what they get paid for.

What, did you do there?

Where?

At the fat broads’ clinic? Is that how you got so smart about fat broads?

No, but my sister is a charter member. ‘Move it and lose it,’ they call it.

Did it do any good?

No, she’s as fat as ever, just a little more athletic. She was following a diet plan called the ‘Sea Food Way.’ She thought it was the See Food Way. You know, see food, eat food. It didn’t work.

The photo car showed up and Billy Rose, the camera man, jumps out with his format camera in hand, and an Argus Brick hanging from a strap around his neck, looking for the crime scene.

One of the detectives, directed Billy to the scene of the Finger, as previously described.

Not much to focus on, but, I will shoot the pictures from several different angles.

After climbing around on the truck to get all the angles possible, Billy announced, I got it. He had taken four shots with the Speedy, as it was called and five more with the Brick.

It was important that whenever he was out on a shoot, he communicated in the normal police jargon that was commonly employed and enjoyed by others.

I got it’ was police lingo for I got it, which meant I’m finished with the job, which was police code for, I’m done. Billy was done, and the next step was the photo lab. There he would develop the film and print out the 8X10 black-and-white glossy pictures of the finger, taken from all appropriate angles. Then they would go to the detective team and their crime scene pals for inclusion into the official records of the possible crime that took place somewhere else but manifested itself on the cargo deck of a nondescript flatbed truck, down by the harbor on a warm day in the month of May.

When the photo work was done, one of the detectives picked up the finger and put it in an evidence bag.

You’re going to have to drive your truck over to the station yard so we can examine the load completely. Just follow me.

"You want me to drive the whole truck over there?

Unless you want to cut out the part that contains the evidence and just drive that.

I guess I won’t be cutting up my truck. I’m ready when you are.

Just follow me, and remember, don’t speed.

You’re in the lead.

The convoy of two police cars and one flatbed trailer truck negotiated their way through city traffic, arriving at the metro yard at 10:20 a.m. The fun and bureaucratic bullshit would begin in a few minutes. Being as how this situation had all the appearance of a homicide, Detective Tommy Berks showed up and began asking me all the same questions. Years later this procedure would be completed by the use of a copier. But for now, it was duplication at its most normal and boring level of interrogation.

Convinced I was telling the truth and had no previous contact with the victim, the crime scene investigation crew showed up and took possession of the body part. Then the real excitement began. The K-9 squad, with handler attached, began sniffing around the cargo on the trailer. Nothing canine happened until Fido got up to the front. Two more cubes to check and the dog went ballistic.

Normally when a dog makes an identification on scent, he just sits down next to the source of the smell. This was obviously an exception. He didn’t sit down. He jumped around like he got his dick caught in a mouse trap. Barking and jumping from the deck to the top of the scrap cube and back again. This, of course got the attention of everyone in the area.

This was a big deal. Instead of a finger, they got a hit on one of the scrap cubes. The rest were okf.

Showing up with a finger or any other disconnected body part is not necessarily evidence of a murder. It may not be evidence of a crime either. But it is certainly an item of interest and may lead to a further investigation that could relate to a crime having been committed.

Now they had to connect the hit with the identification of someone probably missing, to validate their suspicions.

Detective Tommy Berks had been on a missing persons case for a couple of days and had a suspicion that the person he was looking for, a woman, might have some connection with the aforementioned cube. It was just a hunch but the woman he was looking for had a reputation for low class living, at bargain basements prices.

Along with following the easy path in life, also known as hooking, she was into all the other endearments of sleaze. Unstable relationships, followed by a continuous flow of bad social choices, cheap thrills, loose talk, an excess of alcohol maybe mixed with a little drug abuse to round out the score card for a would-be and misplaced loser. But it was a legitimate investigation, and it had to be carried out, and there was no indication it was the person he was looking for.

Some of the evidentiary material Detective Berks carried in his bag of tricks included a shoe, some undies, and a shirt. The main purpose was to create a scent base if it became necessary to make a possible identification as to location, etc., of the missing woman.

On the spur of the moment, Berks decided to see if Fido could make a hit on some scent/odor emanating from the items in the Undies Department. Carrying some personal items around during the investigation allowed for a sniffer dog to check out some possible sites either to include or exclude.

Detective Berks normally worked alone, by choice, Detective Dick O’Malley was a dog handler with a lot of time following a leash.

O’Malley, bring the dog over here. I want him to sniff these smelly things and see if he can trace it.

Fido got a sniff of the undies and was lifted back up onto the flatbed to pursue his crime snooping.

O’Malley was on the trail about two seconds when the dog got a solid from the undies and tagged it to cube number one. It’s hot, Detective Berks, the dog went nuts.

Bring him down and put him in the cage. I think we need to have this cube lifted off the truck and put on a police trailer so we can bring it inside the garage.

Good idea, how we going to do that?

The only way I can see to do it, is drive back to the scale and have them lift it, then have the magnet operator drop it on the police trailer.

You talking to me?

Who do you think I’m talking to?

I thought you were talking to the other detective, but you were looking at me. I ain’t a cop.

You’re not, well who the fuck, are you?

I’m the truck driver/operator. I’m the one that found the finger.

What are you talking about, I didn’t give you the finger.

I didn’t say you did, I just mentioned that I am the person that found the finger.

Oh, ok, I got the two confused. I thought you said, someone gave you the finger.

Nobody gave anyone the finger. An officer with an evidence bag picked up the finger and put it in the bag. That was the evidence of a possible crime, that I found on the trailer. That’s how we got to this point.

What do you mean, Evidence of a possible crime? You a detective? How did you come to that conclusion?

It was simple. First, I found the finger, then I called the police and spoke to Detective Halloran, and then, because I couldn’t find the rest of the person who owned the finger, I assumed that it became detached as a result of some criminal act. That’s how I came to that conclusion.

The caravan of trailers and police cars left for the waterfront. They were intending to have the magnet operator lift the cube off the flatbed and relocate it or them as necessary to the police trailer.

After a brief discussion between the wharf personnel and the police, a sensible agreement was reached, all the proper procedures were employed, and the offensive smelling cube was lifted off the flatbed and relocated to the adjoining police trailer.

Everyone was happy. The police were heading back to the station for some uninterrupted crime scene investigation, the magnet operator got back to the money-making end of capitalism, and the flatbed driver got credit for all the cubes and headed back for another load. The yard operator had been convinced by one of the detectives to give the truck driver credit for the cube that got turned into evidence.

From here on, it would be a police matter and they were readying the lab for some heavy work.

Elsewhere, other activities were under way as people prepared for the summer to come. Some were getting there summer time beach paraphernalia in order and packed for the trip to the shore. Others were cleaning up the charcoal grill and preparing for the cuisine of summer. Many were putting the final touches on the travel trips to the mountains, the in-laws and other less fun spots.

Then there were those who were not affected by the change in seasons and were involved in the things that only varied with the orders of the boss. Crime boss, that is. Mafioso, as they were sometimes referred to as. Mobsters was the term preferred by most God-fearing, hardworking, taxpaying, honest members of the great populace at large.

There were other terms and expressions used by other members of the general public that were alien to others and normally involved the application of vulgar, suggestive, and antisocial references focusing on national origin and other elements of ancestry. These of course, were the exceptions and not the rules.

Actually, there were very few rules. The ideas that were the basis of effective management were the results of trial and error. Sometimes the trial end was a very formal procedure involving a judge and jury. The errors were the unsatisfactory results of the involved enterprise that did not go as planned. So the trial-and-error portion were the results of experience and not much else.

Regardless of the planning involved, an operation can go sideways when you least expect it to.

Chapter Two

The Clubhouse

The day-to-day events at the nightclub referred to as the clubhouse were the same as many being employed by homemakers everywhere. The morning duties of cleaning and straightening out were common everywhere whether being done at home by Betty Cracker or completed at the hangout by Ice Pick Molly.

Things were moving along at the normal pace of crime when the two guys cleaning the weapons, out back, were interrupted by someone from the head office.

Bobby, Lenny, I got someone I want to introduce to you’se guys.

Oh great. A new guy to help us out?

No, a new guy to help all of us out. He’s an associate, and he needs to learn a little about cleaning weapons and why and how. You got all of that?

Right, we got it.

What’s your name?

Vito Parma.

You the new associate?

Yes. First day on the job.

Glad to meet you. My name is Bobby Amoroso. Since this is your first day with the crew, you will want to take a lot of notes. Mental notes, just to make sure you have a good memory. We don’t like to write stuff down too often. Always the chance someone, who ain’t part of the group, could find out something we don’t want them to know.

That’s fine with me. I’m looking to learn as much as I can as soon as I can.

Good, because me and Lenny Roca, that guy over there, are cleaning up part of the arsenal. After the weapons are used, they get a good cleaning before they are put back in the storage rack. How much did they tell you about the business?

Not a whole lot. The man I spoke to was Gino. He told me where to be and when and who I was supposed to see. He told me to see you and you would tell me what I needed to know.

Well, that’s right. I will give you some insights into the crew. You will be on the sidelines until Gino decides to include you. Gino makes the decisions around here. Don’t forget that. He is the boss. No one else. We all do what we are told. That is how the system works. Just make sure you don’t forget that. The best way to give you the right picture of a day in the life of a crew member, is to tell you about the last big deal we were in on. Any questions, so far?

Yes, when did this event take place?

It was about three years ago. There was an event that didn’t go right. And as a result, it was decided that there would be a payback.

Can you tell me about it?

"Yeah, I can, and will give you the whole thing once I get these weapons finished. Do you know how to clean a Thompson?

I know how to clean one, but I don’t know how to take one apart.

Okay, this thing I have in my hand is a ‘Stick Magazine,’ it holds twenty rounds. It’s called stick because it is straight. The other magazine is called a ‘Gat,’ and it comes in two sizes. One is a fifty-round Gat, and the other is a hundred-round Gat. The magazines, just like the gun, gets thoroughly cleaned after they are used. Whether you fire five rounds or fifty, they get the same treatment. Do a good job, no exceptions. You got all that?

Yes, absolutely.

While you’re cleaning what is left, I will begin a story about how we work, what we do and the details of the business. You ready?

Yes, I’m ready. This is exciting.

I can assure you that it is more than exciting. It’s a whole lot more than that.

Lesson Number One

Bobby Amoroso began his tale about the McClarty affair, from the annals of the crew’s historical records, firmly implanted in the minds of those people that were there at the time.

"The story about Paddy McClarty began a while back as his brother Tommy was going on trial for a series of crimes. His brother Patrick was going to the courthouse the morning of the trial for moral support. That was about all that he could muster to aid his brother who was most likely heading in for the last time and would not see the outside of a prison during his lifetime. He never made it, and that is where this story and the bad things that came with it are about to take place. But first a little background about Mr. Patrick McClarty.

Patrick McClarty, or Paddy, as he was known to his friends, was not a major player in anything. He normally fucked up most of what he tried to do, so his main claim to fame was as an assistant. He, of course, was a pain in the ass to everyone who knew him, so it didn’t come as any surprise when he got blasted. A lot of people on our side thought it was too little and too late. However, he was one of the local boys in the Irish mob, so giving him a proper funeral was the right thing to do. Actually, taking care of their own business was the right thing to do. But they didn’t, so it was left up to us, ‘the Italian Boys,’ to straighten it out. In June of last year, we did just that.

The Bus Stop

"A few days before the presummer festivities, as Tommy McClarty was getting ready for his big appearance in District Court, his brother Patrick McClarty was preparing to begin his trip in town to the courthouse, to be on hand when his brother got the book thrown at him. It was a foregone conclusion that Tommy was not going to beat this rap. In fact, there were about ten raps he was going to face when the bell rang for round one in the courthouse.

"The first leg of Patrick’s journey was the bus ride on the first run of the day, from the end of the line to the station. Showing support for his brother, who was scheduled for trial, was the least he could do. Having a lengthy criminal record meant the prosecutor was going to pursue a life sentence and the judge would most likely agree. Either way, there was not much Patrick could do, beside sitting in the audience and making his presence known whenever his brother happened to look in his direction.

"Tommy’s issue would not have been nearly as dire if he had used a little common sense in the process of his career. He was known as a guy that did not plan his crimes very well. Normally forgetting some of the most relevant steps and screwing up the easiest forms of crookery and paying a price for it.

"This was the culmination of a short career of screw ups he had amassed and was now going to face the music. He had served time before and learned very little from the experience. Now he was heading to the big house for a big time. Support from his family was rather weak. His father was fond of saying, ‘I got two sons, Patrick and Thomas, one is stupid as shit, and the other is a complete asshole.’

With glowing testimonials like those, you have to wonder why either one of them would venture into a life of crime.

"Patrick knew he was on the ‘Pizza Shit List,’ as it was called, and was taking all necessary precautions to make sure he didn’t end up in the oven as a result. The ‘Pizza Shit List,’ as it was known by the Irish crooks, was a hypothetical schedule, organized by their adversaries to indicate who was next to be ‘bumped off.’ The Irish mob, as they were referred to by the press were colloquially known as ‘The Mics,’ while their Italian counterparts were referred to as the ‘Guineas.’

"The plan from both camps, was to stay clear of situations that could get you in trouble with your adversaries. In other words, ‘Don’t start no unnecessary shit.’ Paddy’s, plan was to stay in the shadows at the bus stop until it was time to leave. The first bus of the day stayed for about ten minutes at the end of the line stop to allow the early morning riders to gather and get ready for work, or wherever they were going to. When the driver gave the, heads up call, he would walk quickly to the door and hustle up the steps, before the rest of the crowd