Big Al Tolino

Lakemere City in the year of our Lord Nineteen Hundred and Twenty Three was a city with a two bit hood named Big Al Tolino. Wayne Curlev was a special agent assigned to Al,this is their story.

 

It was 3:00 am on a hot August morning in Lakemere City. We were on this stake out in a sleazy little joint near the docks. It was the sort of dump that was somewhere between a flop house and a bad rat hole. Through the filthy stained curtains we took a gander at the main attraction in these parts. An empty warehouse, most of the windows and doors were boarded up and the smell of dead rats lingered in the air. Most of the good citizens of Lakemere believed the dump to be abandoned, but we knew better.  Behind ever piece of broken glass, behind ever boarded up doors and each rat infested pool of slime stood the life blood of a gangster’s empire. Every beer bottle filled; ever hop boiled slapped Uncle Sam clear across the face. This particular operation belonged to the notorious crime boss Big Al Tolino, a two bit punk that had climbed the ladder of success leaving a trail or rotting corpses, widows and orphans in his behind him. If Lady Luck was with us, we would soon be closing down this particular vain of the Empire tonight. We checked our weapons, took a look at our watches, in less then a half hour, Al Tolino would be a little bit poorer and the citizens of this city a little safer as he completed another day’s work in the sleaze of the city.

 

These were tough times; more then one copper had died in the last few weeks. With prohibition in full swing, guys like Al Tolino were popping up like rats on a garbage scowl heading for some far eastern port of call. Things always started slowly, a cop would turn a blind eye to a few old ladies drinking bath tub gin. Then scum like Tolino started appearing and organizing and soon criminal empires would grow like bad weeds in a tomato patch. Soon every city and town in America has a version of Al Tolino running the booze, the dames, the numbers and whatever else they choose. Mayors, alderman, police officers, court clerks and even judges soon began falling in line and excepting a little something here or there. With all those millions in illegally gained cash nothing seemed to stand in their way as their empires, grew and grew.

 

That is where people like me come into the picture; I’m Curlev, Wayne Curlev a special agent with the Prohibition Bureau. I close down breweries for a living and cut them down the hard way when required too. My partner is Rico; his full name as it appears on his badge is Enrico Naquel Mancini.

I started calling him Rico the within twenty minutes of meeting him, I could hardly say my own name three times fast, his well you can guess. After nearly six years on the job, it seemed I was married to the guy. My own sweet wife dumped me for some Canadian guy, said she liked her wine and that Canadian b*****d sure liked to give it to her in more ways then one. Rico’s wife, Maria was a sweet five foot nothing classy lady if there ever was one. She had hair past her waist and a smile with all the gold in old Mexico. Maria often would ask me how her man was; after all she said he was as much my husband as hers.

 

She often would say, “Wayne, you know my Enrico better then me, never though I would share my husband like this.”

 

Maria was right of course as she so often was. Rico and I ate together, slept in the same room if not car for days or weeks on end. From one flea bag hotel to the other, we often joked about the lice infested rooms and named the rats that shared our breakfasts with us. One day it finally seemed right and proper for the three of us to share our lives together. Maria was a natural at trying to match me up with some cousin or neighbour or friend or even occasional someone she met at the market.

 

 I shook myself back to reality as I lit up another smoke, I gazed down at me wrist, 3:20 am, Rico lit up one of those cigars of his from Havana, He was crazy about those things kept telling me he would retire there and roll cigars and rip of rich Yankees.

 

After a long buff, he loved to slowly let the smoke out of his nose and mouth at the same time. “Forgot to tell Maria wants you over for dinner when this caper is over.”

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“Almost time” I said knowing what that meant.

 

“Her name is Lisa, but spelt Lesia.” He said with a laugh knowing what I was thinking. “This one is a really, “he made an hour glass shape as he whistled slightly, “Long hair long legs and somewhat taller them my Maria.”

 

I checked my weapon as I buffed hard on my cigarette, “she’ll never give up will she.”

 

Rico laughed and slapped my shoulder as he reached for his twelve gauge shot gun. “Yha she will, when you are standing before a priest.”

 

The humour Rico provided was a well need break from this caper. It had been a particularly ling stake out, nearly two weeks now. Living on coffee, stale donuts, greasy fried chicken and cigarette made my lungs feel heavy and my stomach weak. I was relieved when he heard a truck moving on Canal Street toward the alleyway. I leaned out the edge of the darkened window as the truck clanged down the broken pavement of the alley. The sudden squeal of rat being run down by the truck drew my attention. As the truck swung by the window Rico and I ducked down not wanting to blow our scheme. Rico moved swiftly out of the room to go alert the other agents and gather up the local boys we had stored away nearby. I picked up my Thompson and checked the bolt and pulled it back hard, when dealing with scum like Al Tolino and his hoods one had to carry heave artillery.

More then once we had to shoot it out with his thugs bloodying his ranks but occasionally being bloodied ourselves. Our last capers three local boys ended up six feet under pushing up daisies.

 

This caper was planned in what I liked to call, “The Classic Style”, Rico, myself and two or three locals would go to the front doors. Our other three agents would go around the back with all the others locals we had gathered up. Rico would open up the front doors with his usual skill and style while Thomas Hunter the new guy would led the rest of the boys in the back or side doors. Hue Nelson a World War One veteran was a marksman of the highest caliber; he took great delight in lying on the roof top of a flop house or warehouse and would pick off any of the funny boys that managed to slip our net.

 

The agents joked about how my “Classic Style” always went down so fast, the local boys those often called it going “Down Hard” because nine times out of ten the joint would had a river of blood flowing out the front doors by the time I was done.

 

It was now 3:30 on the dot, zero hour, all the rats were in the hole and it was time to shut this little operation down permanently. Within a few moments all the agents moved like ghosts in the fog to their signed jumping off points. The locals followed like lambs to the slaughter, many of them looking around like expecting mothers, hands gripped tight on their guns and the Grim Reaper at their heels.

 

Rico moved up the side of one of the truck left outside of the main doors. A burly bald fellow stood with his back to Rico wiping his brow.

“Excúse me usted que el pedazo calvo de la vaca dunk” said Rico in his native tongue. As the man turned around suddenly Rico hit him with the butt end of his twelve gauge. The man few backwards striking the ground, his nose split open and blood oozing out. “usted bajo detención” said Rico with a smile. “Oh Yha, in American; your under arrest when you wake up.”

 

Two of the local boys dragged the burly man to the front of the truck and slapped some bracelets on him and shoveled a rag into his mouth in case he woke too soon.

 

I whispered to Rico, “Something about cow s**t.”

 

“You are finally learning,” he whispered back with a smile waiting for the locals to return. “It is cow dunk not s**t, I am a refined gentleman.”

 

Once the local boys were back in line, Rico moved toward the ajar bay doors, he pointed his twelve gauge at the centre of the doors a moment later his weapon fired as the shoots rung out in the quiet heat of the night, wood chips flew around like those cheap fire crackers the kids light up on the Forth of July.

 

We all bellowed out, “Federal Agents this is a raid drop your weapons.”

 

Rico and one of the local boys put their shoulders to the doors and pushed them aside. As the doors creaked open time it seemed to stand still, sometimes it just seemed to happen that way, if I live to be a hundred years old I will never know why.  When it did those the blood usually flowed and the river began to flow.

 

Rico shouted as he reloaded behind the edge of the door, “Hands up, Federal Raid!”

 

A thin little shoe shine style waif appeared before Rico, his face dirty and his hands up quivering till a strange grin shot across his mug. Suddenly pistol fire echoed out as Rico’s shot gun responded to the weapons call. I whirled to my left then my right just in time to see the Reapers grasp the first of many this night. One of the local boys in blue crumpled like a broken marionette with its strings cut. The shoe shine boy was still in the air like a fly ball at Yankee Stadium except no one caught it, instead he went out of bounds dead as dead could be.

 

Rico scrambled to reload his weapon as the familiar sound of a Thompson echoed out amongst the bags of barley. Rico my partner, my friend of so many years did the thirty second dance of death before taking the old swan dive. I moved forward my gun blazing out for bloody vengenous as I saw the hood near the front fenders of one of Big Al’s trucks. I dove for cover as his weapon peppered area all around me. I crawled for cover ended up behind a row of beer kegs. The barrels began leaking beer like kitchen sieves. My stomach began to turn with the air around me smelt of beer, gun smoke as the rivers of blood began to flow into the night. I waited for my time and cut open with a steadily blast from my Thompson nearly cutting the punk in half like last weeks prime rib.

 

I ducked down one more as a slug torn the top of a barrel wide open near my head, a large sliver of wood torn the top of my hat. As I lay in a pool of rot gut beer I began to become a little more then annoyed at this lot of scum that had killed my partner and ruined a perfectly good Bureau issued overcoat.

 

“You dirty Coppers!” a voice barked out in the distance like Edward G Robinson of some similar character. “You’ll never take Bill Boy Alive!” he said with a laugh as bullets ripped all around the warehouse.

 

Bill Manlee a.k.a “Billy Boy” this hood was wanted in over three states and on three federal wraps. A cheap hood that always smelt of cheap dames and bad cologne, the type of enforcer that men like Al Tolino called his own.

 

I looked around to see where Tolino’s soldiers were but I got was several rounds of weapons fire at me for my snooping. The sound of gun fire echoed out in other parts of the warehouse telling me my other boys were playing patty cake with Al’s hood now too. I tried to see where my other local was, had he pealed off on me? A gander to my right and back a bit answered my question in a flash,

A bloody blue uniform was propped against a toppled keg looking like the headline in the evening papers.

 

 

I decided to shuffle the deck and go for broke; I stood up firing as I moved. Lady Luck or a lucky roll of the dice or what but somehow in the hail of return fire nothing struck my except a flesh wound on the right shoulder. My hat flew off as bullets sent it clear across the warehouse and I knew the Big Guy Upstairs was watching over me. I suddenly had a clear shot at Billy Boy as he ran shrieking toward me like the Hounds of Hell were on his case. I let rip with everything the old Thompson had. Moments later he did the chicken dance and those hounds dragged him to Hell!

 

My gun was smoking as I moved forward with my weapon ready for whatever else Big Al’s boys had planned for me.

 

I could still hear weapons fire from the rest of the warehouse; I knew my boys were still in the thick of it. I stood at the edge of the Brewing Equipment now; the large metal bins would soon be shipped of as scrap metal to Japan or Hong Kong or some over God forsaken land.

 

I stumbled forward as something heavy struck the back of my head, I could feel the blood rushing threw my hair as I staggered forward. I fell to me knees expecting the lights to go out and stand before them pearly gates any moment now. Somehow as I fell I dropped my weapon and as the lights were dimming I pulled my old police thirty-eight my inside my overcoat and let it fire through the back of the lining. I was sure that J. Edgar Hoover would approve if not the Bureau would take it out of my next check. As I fell to the floor I turned over to see a young pimple popper of not more then forteen standing their raising a steel pipe.

 

“Ah, dunk.” I laughed, “Killed by a Pimple Popper!”

 

There was suddenly a red blossom forming in the middle of the kid’s forehead as he slipped backwards with a shocked expression on his face. He met the Reaper as a street punk that never met his dream of graduating to street hood. I took a quick gander around to see the smiling face of Special Agent Thomas Hunter one of my very best hand picked specialists that in the old west would have been labeled as Quick Draw McGraw or some sappy name like that. His 38 special spun in his right had with the barrel still smoking as he said, “Glad to see you ain’t doing the two step no more.” He said with his usually querky laugh.

 

His laughter hadn’t stopped echoing before the grin left his face as a trickle of blood emerged from the corner of his mouth, “Sorry Chief” he gasped as he stumbled forward. A shocked expression emerged on his face as he knew his ticket had been punched for the final time.

 

I pulled out my revolver from under my overcoat firing as I did not sure of what had torn my man down. A short baldy man with a little beard started doing his swan song as three of my bullets struck home, not exactly academy shooting but the man staggered backwards against a large steel distiller machine.

 

In a thick German or Dutch or some damn language he shrieked, “Schwein, töteten Sie meinen Neffeen, ich verfluchen Sie zur Hölle!” as he raised his revolver in the air firing toward the building roof.

 

“Heard that stick before pop!” I bellowed back firing a final time dropping the man to the floor in a puddle of flowing beer.

 

I slowly moved forward my pistol at the ready unsure if it had any shots left in it. I looked about for my Thompson wanted to be reunited with my old friend. I grabbed nest to the truck where so much of this caper had been played out so for. They say when you are a copper long enough your hair starts to raise on the back of your next like a bad two bit hair cut. Mine had been up most of the last while but suddenly it was straight out. I spun around behind the fender just as two of Tolino’s greasy hoods made an appearance. Both had their hands raised up one with a cheese smile on his young face, ten minutes in the back of the wagon and a few slaps later that grin would be all washed away.

 

“Alright punks, keep im up high.” I said as I stood up. “Make like statues next to the side of the truck any monkey business and I’ll fill you both full of lead.”

 

The area was suddenly crawling with cops and sirens filled the early morning air. Before you could blink an eye a dozen flat foot reporters and glory seekers would be here like day old coffee and donuts.  But that was not for me, I found Rico and stuffed a hanky in one of his wounds, a copper gave me several other hankies and clothes but just too many holes to fill. Rico looked up at me the life quickly draining from his familiar mug, I quietly said, “Better not do this scam too long partner, Maria has a new date for me remember.”

 

The first ambulance skidded to a halt next to his frail body, I gave his a smoke that hung on the edge of his lower lip as they loaded him into the meat wagon and raced away with Death right on its’ bumper.

 

One of the locals handed me a large fire axe as the reporters and photographers arrived with flash bulbs in hand. I looked to the flat foots and bellowed, “You B*****d Tony, you made a big mistake!”  As the bulbs flashed away I struck a beer barrel with such forced it split nearly in two with beer exploding out in all directions. I moved toward the valve on a distiller machine, I spat on the machine and smashed the valve off letting a river of beer stream into the alley. “Ain’t no job now, PUNK!” I yelled.

 

I went over to the stretched loading up the late Federal Agent Thomas Hunter, his hand still clutching his thirty eight. I turned to the other agents around me, “It’s war! Gather the boys!”

I said loudly to them. I could see my bloody image in the side of a steel drum as I moved around the warehouse. I was coated in beer, water, blood and vomit but I lost all sense of reason, as I was finally pealed away from the place by one of my boys.

 

Rico never made it back to the loving arms of his Maria; he was buried in a simple family ceremony at the edge of the city. I would stay in touch with Maria for the next couple of years till she scampered off to California to grow fruit or some sort of thing. Thomas Hunter was buried with his thirty eight next to him in a very public display to out the gears to Al Tolino and his gang of cut throats.

 

Other agents were carefully selected and replaced the fallen. I would never be as close to anyone as I was to Rico though. Thomas Hunter’s younger brother Richard or “Richey” as he would become known as would prove to be as quick with the wit and faster on the draw then his older brother. More then once he would arrive just in time to pull me out of some meat grinder. I would watch the daisies bloom many more of my boys before my war came to a bloody end.

 

Little did I realize that the end of Prohibition was right around the lamp post; but that did not end my years with the bureau. They would call me in where ever organized crime reared up it’s scorpion like head and cast out it’s’ nets to entrap the good citizens of some city or town. It seemed whenever Al Tolino would start a new business venture legal or otherwise I could be staring it down. Ten years to the day when Rico and Thomas met their maker it seemed Al Tolino was found riddled with machine gun fire. A fine Cuban Cigar would be found shoved in his face. That case I understand is still unsolved to this day; seemed no one cried too much over his mug.

 

One curious foot note to this whole caper, it seemed when Big Al Tolino took the big sleep someone broke into a local bureau office. The thief broke into the gun lockers and stole one item only my Thompson submachine gun; it appears the file is still open to this day.

 

 

 

 

Story Written & Created by

 

Warren Curle

Author's Note

I put pen to paper and created Big Al as a young teenager before computers were a marvel to be had. I have adjusted but never truly rewritten this as it was my first attempt at a short story.