Michael A. Black holds an MFA degree in Fiction Writing from Columbia College, and has been a police officer in the south suburbs of Chicago for the past twenty-eight years. His short stories have been published in a variety of anthologies and magazines including Ellery Queen and Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine. Mike's other novels include A Killing Frost, Windy City Knights, and A Final Judgment, featuring private investigator Ron Shade. He has also written two standalone thrillers, The Heist and Freeze Me, Tender.
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Follett Corporation .Post World War II New York Mighty Doc Atlas and his crew are about to embark on a quest to eradicate a mysterious masked vigilante known as The Wraith.But the kidnapping of a prominent newspaper magnate's daughter brings the governor knocking on Doc's door with a personal request to assist in the investigation. Soon, Doc finds the two cases strangely intertwined.Can anyone come out unscathed with the preeminent crime fighter of his day and the shadowy avenger of evil running on a collision course?PRAISE FOR MELODY OF VENGEANCE
"A fun, tongue in cheek adventure that keeps the modern reader riveted to the end. The prose is dead on accurate of the flavor of the original pulp fiction. Each character is a wonderful stereotype that plays his or her part to perfection. Romping through dead bodies, masked adventures, and damsels in distress is a fun adventure for all readers." –Barb Radmore, Front Street Reviews"Black has created a pulp action hero right out of the forties. The characters come to life as if leaping off of an old movie serial screen. This is a perfect homage to the work of Walter B. Gibson, Lester Dent, and Henry W. Ralston. Reading this book was pure fun." –Jon Jordan, Crimespree Magazine"Michael A. Black writes with a talent and an energy that cannot be contained by any single genre. Whatever he takes aim at, he nails dead-on. Readers are sure to be clamoring for more of Doc Atlas." –Wayne Dundee, author of the Joe Hannibal series."In this action-packed thriller, adventurer Doc Atlas is up against a mob of killers, the mysterious masked vigilante The Wraith, and a hidden mastermind. This is a novel you won't be able to put down!" –Tom Johnson, author of the Jur series and editor of Pulp Fiction magazine."In Doc Atlas, author Mike Black has created not just another Doc Savage clone but the best in modern pulp excitement that harkens back to the glory days of pulp adventure, but has real heart, soul, and meaning for today's readers. You're in for a real treat with this one!" –Gary Lovisi, editor of Hardboiled Magazine.
MELODY OF VENGEANCE
Chapter One
Only by Death…New York City, 1947The light from a single, dangling bulb cast a garish glow over the small room as Davis 'Butchie' Cole sat behind the big desk, licking his thumb every few seconds while he counted the stolen money. He was a big angular man whose dark eyebrows and sloping forehead gave him an almost simian appearance. His left cheek sported a long keloid, the remnant of a prison knife fight, which had left Cole scarred for life and his two adversaries dead. Two swarthy figures sat across from him in the small office, neither as big as Cole, but both equally sinister looking. The smaller of the two took a couple of nervous puffs on his cigarette then stubbed it out. Standing, the hood strolled over to the front of the desk and eyed the large stacks of bills, each of which Cole had placed into an open black valise after completing his count.
"Pretty good haul, huh, boss?" the little hoodlum said.
Butchie glanced up briefly, his dark eyes flashing his displeasure at being interrupted. When the other man's fingers strayed across the top of one of the stacks, Cole growled, "Don't touch nothing, Weasel."
'Weasel' Phipps withdrew his hand as if a flame had seared him. He walked back to the wall and looked out the glass-framed window next to the door. Beyond the room lay the dimly lighted hallways of the huge factory. It had once been one of the largest icehouses in the city, but with the advent of the refrigerator, the company had eventually gone out of business. Now an obscure company rented the dilapidated shell for storage. It also served as the favorite hideout of the notorious Cole Gang.
"Sit down, Weasel," the second man said. His name was Floyd Calson, and he, too, sported numerous scars on his face. But his were strange looking, like mottled flesh, starting along his jaw line and descending beneath his collar. The scars were the result of a quickly done skin graft that a fledgling doctor had done in a prison infirmary after a vengeful inmate had managed to start a fire in Floyd's cell. Calson hadn't been expected to live, with severe burns over seventy percent of his body, but he'd surprised everybody and pulled through. They found the man who purportedly started the fire months later, dead after slipping over a fifth tier banister. His death was ruled accidental chiefly because witnesses recalled that Calson, the man with the best motive, had uncharacteristically volunteered for kitchen duty that night. Coincidentally, Butchie Cole had been conspicuously absent from his assigned duties, claiming to have been ill in his cell.
Calson took out a pack of Luckies and shook one loose. The Weasel grinned at him and held out his hand. Calson tossed him a cigarette and then flicked his thumbnail over the end of a large wooden match. The brightness of the flame illuminated his coarse features.
"What's the matter with you, Weasel? Or should I say, Rodney?" Calson lighted his smoke and then held out the match. "You got ants in your pants or something?"
"Nah," the Weasel said, twirling the end of his cigarette in the yellow flame. "Just thinking that I'm gonna use my end of the cut to buy a brand new 'forty-seven Caddie. Then I'll be able to get all the broads I want."
"Ya dummy," Cole said, setting down another stack. "The new 'forty-eights will be out in a couple more months."
"Besides," Calson said, the lines of his uneven skin buckling as he smiled. "A Nash is more your style."
The Weasel frowned, inhaling deeply on the cigarette.
"So we gonna get to the broad pretty soon?" he asked. He grinned, letting the smoke seep out from between his uneven teeth. "She's a looker, ain't she?"
"Yeah, well, maybe the boss don't want her messed up," Calson said. "You ever think of that?"
"Huh?" the Weasel said, his mouth losing its smile. "That ain't true, is it, Butchie? The boss didn't say that, did he?"
Cole's face twisted into a grimace as he slammed the stack of currency down on the table. "You damn little idiot. Ya made me lose count. Just for that you ain't even gonna get to touch her until me, Floyd, and Tuterrow have had our fill."
"Aw, come on, you ain't even seen her yet," the Weasel started to say, but Butchie's big palm lashed out, slapping across the smaller man's face. Despite it being only a slap, the Weasel staggered backwards. He recovered, his mouth gaping, his fingers massaging his reddening cheek.
"In fact, we're gonna bring her into this very room, and all you're gonna be able to do is sit and count this money," Cole continued. His big index finger jabbed at the Weasel's face. "And if I find out you made even one mistake…" He paused to watch the other man's reaction, then licked his lips. Cole told Calson, "Go down and get the dame," then turned back to the Weasel. "Now get in that chair and start counting. And remember, I'm gonna check your pockets afterwards."
The Weasel went around the desk and sat, the stacks of money in front of him seeming to mesmerize him. Cole took a long stiletto out of his pocket and began cleaning his fingernails. The quick flash of the blade made the Weasel jump slightly, and he quickly picked up a bundle of bills from the large open burlap bag next to the chair. Cole expertly flipped the knife so it stuck in the center of the table right in front of the Weasel. Cole laughed as the other man's head jerked back.
The laugh died in his throat as the door opened and Calson and another man came in, each holding the arm of a slim, dark-skinned young woman. Calson's hand pulled her raven black hair back from her face. Her brown eyes flashed with a frightened, desperate look beneath her long lashes. Cole's brow furrowed in disgust.
"What the hell did you do, you dumb son of a…" he said. "She's a spic. I told you the boss wanted a white girl for this."
"What the hell's the difference if we're just gonna cut off her ears and throw away the rest?" Calson said. "Besides, she had a better shape to her than the rest of them broads when we hit the bank."
Cole snorted through his nostrils. "Well, I guess we can always go out and get us a hooker or something, if we need to," he said slowly. His eyes swept over the girl's body, checking out each delicious curve. She had full breasts, a narrow waist, and hourglass hips. Obviously, Cole liked what he saw because he clapped his hands together loudly. He reached behind him and grabbed the knife from the desk, rotating it slowly, the blade shimmering under the garish light of the dangling bulb. The girl turned her face away, but Calson twisted his hand in her long hair again, forcing her to look at the gleaming blade.
"Don't cut her face just yet, Butchie," Calson said. "Not till we had some fun."
Cole reached out and grabbed a handful of the lush black hair himself. Then he traced the blade around her ear, letting it sweep slowly down her neck to the top of her white blouse. She stiffened as Cole leaned close and whispered hoarsely, "What's yer name?"
"Maria," she said, rolling the R with the Spanish inflection.
"Maria, huh?" Cole said. He belched in her face and the others laughed. His breath smelled rancid. "We're gonna play a little game now, and how nice we are to you is gonna depend on how nice you are to us. Understand?"
When she didn't respond, he let the point of the knife sink into the flesh of her neck, leaning forward to flick his tongue at the tiny crimson stream.
"Weasel, clear off the desk," Cole said. "I don't want to get dirty."
The little man, who had been watching with a rancorous smile, quickly removed the stacks of bills and placed them in the large black valise. Once they'd cleared the desktop off, they dragged Maria over to it. The Weasel wiped at it with his sleeve, his foul breathing expelling in excited little pants. She tried to squirm away, but the two hoods pressed her arms closer together. As she cried out in pain, Cole took his knife and slowly cut off each of the buttons securing the front of her blouse. He pulled it open, exposing her brassiere and a thin chain, which had a small gold cross attached to it. Cole crudely pawed at her as the others looked on hungrily. Calson and Tuterrow roughly pulled Maria back onto the desk. She tried to pull away, but Calson backhanded her across the face, bloodying her lip. Pinning her arms down on the hard wood, they reached for her legs.
Cole nodded toward the Weasel.
"Take off her skirt," he said.
"No! No, please," Maria bit her lips and tasted blood, as the Weasel's small hands began to probe her. "Please. Don't."
Her voice rose to a scream as he found the catch of her skirt and pulled at it. Seconds later the little man bent over and tried to force his tongue into her mouth. Cole snatched a hank of the Weasel's hair and pulled his head back.
"You wait till all the rest of us are done, understand?" he said.
"But Butchie–" the Weasel started to say.
"Shut up." Cole twisted his wrist, forcing the Weasel to the floor. He leered down at the girl, slipping the thin blade under the chain and lifting it with the blade. "This real gold?"
Maria's eyes darted down toward the knife.
"Well, is it?" Cole hissed. When she didn't reply he laughed. "I think you like me so much, you gonna give it to me, ain't ya?"
She closed her eyes and began reciting something in Spanish. From the cadence, Cole figured it was a prayer. He ripped at the chain, flinging it across the room, then moved the point of the blade lower, hooking it under the front of her brassiere. He drew the knife upward in a quick, slicing motion and when he saw Maria's eyes open, he held the blade up over her face. With a sly grin, he twisted his hand downward, stabbing the point into the desktop next to her face.
Her scream echoed in the room again, louder and more shrill this time.
Cole and the others laughed, and the big man leaned close once more and said, "Go ahead and scream. Ain't nobody gonna hear ya."
He straightened up and unbuckled his belt, letting his trousers fall to the floor to expose a pair of filthy blue-and-white boxer shorts. Cole leaned forward again, grabbing Maria's hair and licking his lips. Suddenly he stopped.
"Hey, what's that?" he asked.
"What?" said Calson.
"Don't you hear it?" Cole said.
The other men cocked their heads as a slight whistling sound traveling up the musical scale, drifted into the room, its melody tuneless, yet familiar at the same time. Then it grew stronger, fuller, more recognizable. A song. A song they all knew.
Cole twisted his head toward the door where a dark shadow appeared though the frosted glass. The door flew inward, striking the wall with such force the glass shattered. A hand rose up next to the doorjamb, and Cole saw a flash of light. A millisecond later he heard the thunder as the hard punch of the round struck his back. Another round hit him in the side as he twisted toward the floor. He was vaguely cognizant of seeing Tuterrow's hand fumbling for his gun inside his coat, then three red flowers blossomed on the front of the hood's shirt. Cole sank to his knees in time to see Calson sagging before him, a neat round hole between his eyes, and then everything faded to blackness.
The Weasel managed to scurry forward and grab the knife from its perpendicular position on the desk. He crouched beside Maria, his left arm snaking around her slim neck. He managed to pull her back toward him as he stood, holding the blade against her throat.
"Hold it," the Weasel snarled. His eyes flashed like a frightened animal's. "I'll stick her. I swear I will. Don't come no closer."
Slowly, a large framed man dressed in a loose fitting black shirt, dark pants, and combat boots stepped completely into the room from the other side of the doorway. He wore a translucent ebony silk screen over his face, strangely obscuring the features beneath it. Atop his head he wore a black Australian-style bush hat, and from his gloved hand, a Government Model Colt .45 extended, the smoke still rising from the end of the barrel.
"Look," the Weasel said. "All's I want is to get outta here. Me and her are gonna get up and walk out, and if you try to shoot, I'll jam this damn knife into her throat. I'll do it. I swear I will."
His voice was a plaintive whine. The dark man did not move, his pistol still pointing forward.
"Hey, you can keep that money over there, see," the Weasel continued. "It's all yours. And I'll let her go as soon as I get out of here. I promise ya I will."
"Only through death," the man in black said, "can you escape my wrath."
Before the Weasel could take another breath, the forty-five roared, sending a heavy round through the hoodlum's right eye. The knife twisted from his numbing fingers as he slumped to the floor. Maria gulped in a breath of air, then, as if suddenly aware of her nakedness, crossed her arms over her breasts. When she looked toward the door again she saw the dark man stooping downward. He straightened up and strode over to her.
"I believe this is yours," he said, extending his hand. Her cross and chain dangled from his gloved fingers.
"Who are you?" she asked.
The masked face looked down at her. "I am called the Wraith."
