The Wages of Syn

By John L. French

Ten stories featuring Jericho Syn, alias The Scarecrow — lurking in The Shadows, shining law and vengeance on the city’s underbelly. Just walk to darkened corner booth ...

In Harbor City there are the police, and there’s the Outfit. And in the middle is Jericho Syn. He walks the fine line between crime and the law. Known as the Scarecrow, he’s the man to see when no one else can or will help you.
Syn knows where the bodies are buried. He should — he’s put a few in the ground himself. But he’s always willing to help if the cause is just and the money is right.
So if you’re in trouble and don’t know where to turn, just step into The Shadows and look for Jericho Syn in the back booth. It’s dark there, better for him to hear your confession. But don’t expect absolution. The Scarecrow only deals in penance and he makes certain the guilty always pay.

JOHN L. FRENCH is a retired crime scene supervisor. As a break from the realities of his job, he started writing science fiction, horror, fantasy, and crime fiction. He is the author of 20 novels.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bold Venture Press
• Release date: May 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215911631

John L. French

JOHN L. FRENCH is a retired crime scene supervisor with forty years' experience. He has seen more than his share of murders, shootings, and serious assaults. As a break from the realities of his job, he started writing science fiction, pulp, horror, fantasy, and, of course, crime fiction. John's first story "Past Sins" was published in Hardboiled Magazine and was cited as one of the best Hardboiled stories of 1993. More crime fiction followed, appearing in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, the Fading Shadows magazines and in collections by Barnes and Noble. Association with writers like James Chambers and the late, great C.J. Henderson led him to try horror fiction and to a still growing fascination with zombies and other undead things. His first horror story "The Right Solution" appeared in Marietta Publishing's Lin Carter's Anton Zarnak. Other horror stories followed in anthologies such as The Dead Walk and Dark Furies, both published by Die Monster Die books. It was in Dark Furies that his character Bianca Jones made her literary debut in "21 Doors," a story based on an old Baltimore legend and a creepy game his daughter used to play with her friends. John's first book was The Devil of Harbor City, a novel done in the old pulp style. Past Sins and Here There Be Monsters followed. John was also consulting editor for Chelsea House's Criminal Investigation series. His other books include The Assassins' Ball (written with Patrick Thomas), Souls on Fire, The Nightmare Strikes, Monsters Among Us, The Last Redhead, the Magic of Simon Tombs, and The Santa Heist (written with Patrick Thomas). John is the editor of To Hell in a Fast Car, Mermaids 13, C. J. Henderson's Challenge of the Unknown, Camelot 13 (with Patrick Thomas), and (with Greg Schauer) With Great Power ... You can find John on Facebook or you can email him at him at [e-mail].

Book preview

The Wages of Syn

A Jericho Syn Casebook

John L. French

Bold Venture Press

Copyright

Editor: Audrey Parente

Design: Rich Harvey

Copyright © 2023 John L. French. All rights reserved.

Bold Venture Press edition, June 2023

This is a work of fiction. Though some characters and locales may have been inspired by history, the events and characters depicted herein are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

To Edgar Greene

What I knew and what I accomplished

as a CSI in Baltimore all started with him.

For the wages of sin is death

Romans 6:23

Contents

Copyright

Dedication

Romans

Introduction: Legacy of Syn

The Wages of Syn

A Kind of Justice

Scavenger Gulls

Devil’s Game

Cop Killer

The Wednesday Wife

Only the Weapon

Murphy’s Luck

The Abduction of Robert Gray

Death in The Shadows

Step into The Shadows

About the author

About the Publisher

Introduction

Legacy of Syn

In early 18th Century literature, Christopher Syn was a respectable small-town, college-educated vicar and doctor in England who turns pirate, smuggler and lawbreaker. Syn is the lead character in a collection of books by Russell Thorndike. The first book Dr. Syn: A Tale of Romney Marsh appeared in 1915. In the early stories Syn is a criminal and also vengeful toward a good friend who ran off with his girl.

After many dramatic escapades with gangs and pirates, Syn purchases a great black stallion from horse-traders and dons a scarecrow’s outfit as a disguise. He rescues some of his smuggler associates and becomes their leader. Eventually he creates a more elaborate costume, with eerie luminous paint, and rides at night. As the feared leader, with a sidekick named Mipps, he organizes the smugglers into a band called The Devil Riders, with weird disguises and code-names.

Syn outwits government forces and continues his encounters, but is killed at the end — maybe. But, like many characters who have survived in literature to the present — including Zorro, known to have influenced new costumed vigilante-types like Batman — Syn may have survived and left progeny. Meet one of them in John French’s Wages of Syn.

Jericho Syn is a likeable character who doesn’t wear a costume. He is a slender, messy-haired fellow walking a fine line between crime and the law. Like his ancestor, he is known to the underworld and the police as The Scarecrow. He deals in penance, and he makes sure the guilty always pay.

The Wages of Syn

A Kind of Justice

I was sitting in the back booth of The Shadows, a restaurant on the north side of Harbor City. The place was nothing fancy, just a neighborhood bar and grill with good food and good drinks at good prices. It’s usually quiet, but not that night.

There was a couple at one of the front tables. His name was Scott something. He appeared to be in his late forties and had the build of someone who had once played college ball but hadn’t exercised much since he got his diploma. Not exactly fat, but soft. Good looking, I guess, with brown hair a little longer than fashionable.

Scott had been coming in, usually alone, for the past half-year. But in the last month or so, he’d been with a woman. She was somewhat shorter than his six feet with dark red hair, nice legs, and what looked to be a decent figure under her modest dress. The way he held the chair for her when she sat told me that they were probably more than friends. How much more was none of my business. Not then, anyway.

I didn’t know her name. I knew Scott enough for us to nod to each other when we saw each other and ask what the score was when we were watching the game at the bar, but not enough for introductions. Still, she looked familiar. The first time I saw her I got the feeling I’d seen her before. And with the work I do, that kind of feeling was usually right.

I was halfway through my open-faced hot roast beef platter when I heard a slurred voice say,

Dakota, Dakota Rivers, is that you?

That was a name I knew. It was from Baltimore where I had once been a cop.

There was a scared look of worry on the woman’s face as she said, I’m sorry, but you must have me mistaken for someone else. My name is Penny Lake.

No way. You might have covered up the body but there’s no forgetting that face or those legs.

Miss Lake shook her head and again denied being Dakota Rivers. The guy wasn’t having it. He drunkenly insisted she was and tried to grab her arm.

That was when Scott stood up.

Scott had the guy on height and maybe age but where he was soft flesh the guy was hard muscle.

This is not going to end well, I thought.

There were two waiters on the floor. Both were frozen in … let’s be generous and call it indecision. Mallory, the owner and bartender, had picked up the phone but in the time between she called the cops and they arrived it would all be over but the crying and the bleeding.

So she looked at me.

Damn.

I quickly weighed my options. There wasn’t but a few seconds before words were said and punches were thrown. I could shoot the drunk but that would be noisy and messy. I could get between the two men but that would probably get me hit.

There was only one thing I could think of doing.

I stood up and, as loudly as I could, shouted, Dakota Rivers! This I gotta see.

Both Scott and the drunk turned to look at me as I walked to the table. There I made a show of giving Miss Lake a good once over.

I had seen her before, many years ago, several times on the stage of the Gaiety Theatre on Baltimore’s Block. Word was she did more than dance.

The lie was out of my mouth before Scott could decide which one of us he was going to hit.

Yeah, I said, affecting my own slur, this lady does look a little like Dakota Rivers around the face, but I’ve seen Dakota in all her glory, and glorious it was, and let me just say that her North Dakotas, I cupped my hands in front of me in a gesture all men know and all women hate, were much bigger than this lady’s. No offense, Ma’am.

A quiet and relieved Penny Lake blushed and said, None taken, as I went on.

As for her South Dakota … Ma’am, I don’t suppose you’d mind standing … oh never mind, forget I asked.

Putting my arm around the drunk’s shoulder, I gently led him away from the table and toward the bar. Tell you what, why don’t I tell you about the time I saw Dakota and Blaze Starr do a double act at the Hamilton? Hey, Mallory, a special for my friend here.

One special later, my new friend, whose wallet said he was August Potter, was passed out in a side booth.

Scott and Penny (let’s call her that) held hands during their meal, which was on the house. (Actually, it was on Potter, as was mine. He had enough twenties in his wallet that he wouldn’t miss a few.) As they left, I got a grateful nod from Scott and a questioning smile from Penny. She knew I knew, and I knew things were not yet over.

Two nights later, Mallory called.

There’s a woman here asking for you.

Who is it?

Depends on who you believe.

That told me all I needed to know. I left my bed, apologized to my company, and headed for The Shadows.

She was there in the back booth, the one that’s mostly in the dark. Mallory called it my office. I slid in across from her just as Mallory sent over an RC Cola.

The woman’s glass had something clear and golden in it. I caught a whiff of Calvert Rye and promised myself a taste later in the evening.

As I sat down I knew what she was going to say. They all said it, the ones who come looking for help.

You’re the Scarecrow, aren’t you?

Long ago I gave up explaining that The Scarecrow was my uncle Ted, who fought gangsters, Nazis, and maybe monsters and who retired to the mountains of Frederick, Maryland after my aunt died. I look enough like him—tall and slender, stronger than I appear, light brown hair that never stays combed—that when he left, the name fell to me. So I answered her the way I do everyone who asks.

Some people call me that. The name on my driver’s license is Jericho Syn. Now, what should I call you?

Ignoring my question, she said, First of all, thank you for the other night. Scott’s a good man, and I love what he was going to do, but he would have gotten hurt.

I nodded my agreement. How did you two meet?

I moved into the Nash seven weeks ago. There are two apartments per floor. Mine’s on the fifth, across from his. We got to talking and started going out. The other night, I was going to ask him to stay over.

Did he know?

That the somewhat average Penny Lake was the notorious Dakota Rivers? Another nod from me. He does now. When we got home I told him everything.

And?

He sighed, stood up, hugged me, and kissed my cheek. Then he told me he needed time to think and left.

Then, as it sometimes did, my dark booth in The Shadows became a confessional.

I never worked the streets, Penny said. You have to understand that. I ran away from home at fifteen. Old story there. A mother who didn’t care. A stepfather who cared too much, if you know what I mean. I started stripping at sixteen. I was good at it, she said with pride. By twenty I was headlining. But that’s all I did, strip, taking off all that the law allowed, and sometimes more if the cops were fixed.

What happened?

I was told that I could make more money doing ‘private performances’ for select clients. From the way they told me, I didn’t have much choice, so I did. And I was good at that too. No pride this time, just fact. Soon I had two or three clients in every city. Taking off my clothes in private paid much better than taking them off in public.

You kept dancing.

I liked dancing. I liked seeing the name Dakota Rivers on the marquee. And I liked the applause. There’s no applause in a bedroom, only money and sex. And the men who traded one for the other liked the idea of ‘being with’ a famous stripper. So I kept dancing, otherwise, I was just a whore.

The confession was over. But Penny wasn’t there for absolution. I waved over another RC and a fresh glass of rye.

What do you want from me? I asked, because that’s why people come to the dark booth in The Shadows.

One morning in Boston about five years ago, I woke up alone and realized that I had a lot of money, no self-respect, and no future. So I left. I left stripping, I left ‘performing,’ I left Dakota Rivers. I traveled around becoming Penny Lake. And when that’s who I was when I moved into the Nash and met Scott.

When you left, who did you tell?

Penny shook her head. Nobody. I just left.

I saw her problem. If it’s vice—dope, drinking, gambling, stripping, hooking—even if it’s legal, the Outfit has a piece of it. The locals keep most of it and send the rest on. It’s the way things work. Even Louis Martinelli, who rules the gangs of Harbor City, pays his share to keep the peace.

The Outfit doesn’t like it when people who are making them money leave without permission. And Dakota Rivers was a moneymaker, both on the stage and on her back. And the Outfit could not let moneymakers leave without permission and a final payoff. It wasn’t the money, they had plenty of that. It was the disrespect. That was something they never forgot.

Not that they’d go looking for her, but if she suddenly fell into their lap …

I’ll see what I can find out, I told her.

Thank you.

I’ll do what I can but you should be ready to leave it all behind.

Her eyes told me that wasn’t an option. Even if he never forgave her there was Scott to consider. He was now connected to her. If she left, he could wind up paying the price of her old life.

I gave her my number and got hers. She thanked me with a nod and smile. After putting down enough money to cover our drinks and a decent tip, she left. As I watched her leave, I couldn’t help but notice that South Dakota looked as good as ever.

***

Dave’s Place was a bar off Blair Road in northeast Harbor City. It started as a pool hall and turned into a speak easy when Prohibition hit. After Repeal, Dave’s went legit, mostly. It became a meeting place for mobsters, gangsters, and everyone else on the wrong side of the law.

Dave’s Place was neutral ground—no fists, knives, or gunplay. Break that rule and you’re never seen again and nobody remembers your name. Because of this, Dave’s in a good place to meet friends, make deals, plot crimes, and pick up the latest news and gossip. The last was why I was there.

There was the usual pause when I walked in. Most of them knew me and what I did. As long as I wasn’t a cop they didn’t care. I greeted the ones I knew and went up to the bar. They had Gunther’s on tap and I ordered a glass.

The place still smelled of plaster and paint. Looking around, I could just make out the bullet holes from when the cops shot up the place and took out most of the Harbor City gang leaders, leaving Martinelli the last boss standing. There were still questions about that but not ones anyone asked openly.

Charly Dehart was behind the bar. He was one of the survivors of the shootout. More or less healed up, he was still pulling pints one-handed.

Charly, I said as he put the glass in front of me.

Scarecrow. How are things? By that he meant was I there on business.

Slow. Too many people behaving themselves. Just stopped in for a drink and some talk. Never know when somebody’s going to need something done.

Charley nodded in understanding, then went to serve another customer. I left money on the bar, found an empty table, sat, drank, and listened in the way my uncle taught me.

At first there was nothing but the indistinct murmur of a crowded room. I thought of it as radio static which in my mind I tuned until the diverse conversations became clear. I couldn’t tell where they were coming from or who said what but that didn’t matter. I just stared into my beer as if thinking about my problems and let the words wash over me.

I listened for certain words—stripper, hooker, Dakota—words like that. If the drunk in The Shadows was in any way connected, he might have talked and the news would spread. And if it spread, my name might have been mentioned.

Two beers later and there had been nothing worth hearing. If I wanted to, I could have told the cops about an eastside jewel heist and where Carl Lombardi’s next poker game was going to be. But that was another rule of Dave’s Place—you don’t talk about what you hear. And for all I knew, what I heard could have been a setup for my benefit, to see if I was working for the police. I wasn’t. Not then anyway.

I made a few more stops, showing my face, making sure it was seen, and listening. My last stop was Moby’s, a place on the waterfront. If there was a tourist trade in Harbor City it was the waterfront. Fancy restaurants and bars, first-run movie houses and roadshow theaters, high-end hotels and shops. And it was close enough to the houses on Convent Way so that out-of-town businessmen looking for a good time could find one.

Moby’s was a holdover. A seafood restaurant that was there before the Mayor and City Council decided it was time to polish Harbor City’s image and change its reputation as more dangerous than Baltimore and dirtier than New York.

Moby’s was a dive, a hangout, a joint visitors wouldn’t want to be caught dead in. In the past a few had. The city fathers had tried to close it down but Moby had always made sure to follow the rules and besides, he owned the building.

Or he used to before his last heart attack. Now his daughter did. Annie Dickens knew the value of waterfront property and was waiting for the city to up its offer yet again before selling out to them.

I took a table in a poorly-lit corner opposite a picture of a great white whale standing on his fins, holding a harpoon in his right flipper. He was picking his teeth with it while in his left flipper he held a one-legged sea captain. The caption at the bottom read, Don’t Mess with Moby. I had switched to RC two bars ago. I quieted my mind and began to listen.

The Crabs were down by three in the eighth. Some guy thought his wife was cheating on him. Someone else was selling stolen watches. Two women were planning to run a Murphy game on the next mark who came in. Hearing that I thought, Have to tell Annie about those two.

That thought ruined my concentration. I decided to hit the restroom to make room for another RC and try again.

I ordered another RC and decided I’d finish that and