Maddog 1 The Begining, p.1
Copyright 2012 Tom Golabek with Inmrc. Inc.
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Special thanks to Mindy Sellers, Julia Burkiewicz, and my lovely wife Myrna Smith.
Special thanks to Ron Mahon, my publisher. www.writerpublish.com.
Visit Toms Website at: https://tomgolabek.com/
Find out more about Maddog, and his sidekick. Read free chapters of each of his books, find all about Maddog 5. Toms Pictures for Nam, and sign up for his newsletter to keep informed about special pricing and deals. Visit Toms Website at: https://tomgolabek.com/
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Table of Contents
CH 1 My Most Vicious and Cruelest Case. It All Started When…
CH 2 Mike’s Nightlife of Blood and Gore
CH 3 Chaos at the Heavyweight Championship Fight.
CH 4 “Putting on the Squeeze” in the Locker Room.
CH 5 Getting Info at the Yonkers Police Department.
CH 6 Lola’s in Trouble and “MADDOG” Arrives!
CH 7 WARNING! Don’t Mess with Lola.
CH 8 Working the Case
CH 9 Finding Out the “Nuts and Bolts” of What Went Down.
CH 10 The “Beautiful Snake in the Grass.”
CH 11 Broken Arms and Broken Heads.
CH 12 Working the Case, Part 2.
CH 13 Lookout Johnny Dragon…”I Wouldn’t Want to Be You!”
Ch 14 Preparing for the “OK Corral.”
CH 15 Death in ‘Nam! Death at the Barn! Death for …?
CH 16 The Tables Are Turned. Who is “Mr. Big”?
CH 17 Revenge…Death in the Bronx.
CH 18 Epilogue
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Toms Other Books in this series
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The novel details the latest case of Mike “MADDOG” Murdock, the borderline depraved crime-fighting private detective.
Follow the action as no-holds barred Maddog, fueled by a genuine rage against crime...busts his way through the mean streets of New York City.
The explosion of violence is more overt than the usual detective story, and leaves little to the imagination.
Written in the first person, Murdock describes his violent encounters with relish.
Action, Murder, Sex, interwoven with mystery and suspense will keep you reading.
Reminiscent of Mickey Spillane’s adventures. A real page turner!
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CH 1 My Most Vicious and Cruelest Case. It All Started When…
Murdock is the name… Mike Murdock… six two, two hundred and twenty pounds. In my business, Private Detective, I rub elbows with some of the slimiest degenerates around. Those of you, who are familiar with the Bronx and Yonkers, know that to stay on top of the game you must be a tough S.O.B. I’ve become “hard-boiled” during my thirty-three years in the trenches, and readily admit that I’m not always on the “up and up.” One rule I live by is that no one jerks me around, and walks away unhurt.
It’s 1968 and the world is going nuts. Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy have just been assassinated. There are anti-Vietnam protests, and race riots throughout the nation. The price of gas has soared to thirty-four cents a gallon, and a new Chevy now costs almost three thousand dollars.
My last case was one of the cruelest, most vicious that I’ve been in, and I’ve lived through some very violent escapades. Let me give you a few of the facts about it, and you will see what it takes to stay alive the way I live… as a Private Detective in New York City.
It all started last March, when I walked into the pillbox that I used for my office, uptown in the Bronx on 238th Street. I eased up the steps to the first floor of the seven-story structure, opened the door reading “M.M. Murdock, Private Investigator,” and strolled in to see what the agenda of the day was. There, sitting on a plump, tan leather chair behind her huge mahogany desk, with her feet propped on the edge, was my blond bomber of a secretary… SOUND ASLEEP!
I took off my coat, tiptoed to the desk, opened the bottom drawer, and pulled out my always-ready super squirt water pistol. The hem of her dress was halfway up her lovely thighs. Notwithstanding the temptation, I snuck up, stuck the water pistol between her shapely legs, and WHOOSH! I knew I shouldn’t have done it, but just couldn’t resist the urge. She came flying at me like a “bat out of hell,” breathing flame and fire. There was nothing I could do but retreat to the rear like a faint-hearted coward. Before she cooled off I had managed to duck a bottle of ink, two pens, a paperweight, and the wastepaper basket, which were vehemently thrown across the room, aimed at my head.
“Lola baby” I said, “Can’t you take a little joke? I love ya sugar. Make love not war.”
Lola wasn’t much of a secretary, but she was pretty good at my type of recreation. I noticed that her hard blue eyes once again regained their usual warm, tender look, as I held out my arms for her to enter.
She was a gorgeous, tempting, luscious, and loveable broad. You know, the kind you just want to “grab” on sight. As I gave her a peck on the cheek, I saw that all was forgiven, at least until the next time I pulled another “Murdock Special.” She was getting used to my off-the-wall, carefree way of life. I’ve always felt you’ve got to roll with the punches, give a little, and take a little, unless of course it’s me. I couldn’t help but notice the flow of saliva in my mouth as I looked at her. She knew what I liked, and it didn’t help matters any when she pulled up her dress to wipe off the beads of water that remained. However, this was neither the time nor the place. Business was to be had, money was to be made, and another new day was upon us.
The phone rang… Lola answered it. “It’s for you Mike.”
“This is Rico. Did you make those collections for me?”
That’s right; I was employed at the moment by a bookie to collect a few debts for him. Don’t knock me for that. Two hundred clams for collecting a few bills is alright. Every once in a while you gotta pay for the salami.
“Yeah,” I shouted into the phone, “I had to break a Joey B’s rib, and flatten Lenny’s nose. They’ll pay you from now on with no trouble. They learned their lesson the hard way.”
After a few more words, I hung up, and looked at the sorted mail on my desk. The last envelope I opened contained two reserved tickets to Madison Square Garden for the heavyweight championship fight being held the following night. No letter, just two tickets. They were probably sent from Dennis Chiulli, the promoter of the fight. He owed me a couple of favors, and these sure did the trick. There was no doubt in my mind where I was gonna spend that night. I shoved them in my pocket and looked at Lola, who was bent over picking up a bottle of ink, two pens, a paperweight, and a wastepaper basket. Her rear view looke
I yelled out, “Hey big busts, you feel like going to the movies tomorrow?”
She looked at me strangely, smiled, and squealed, “I’d love to.”
“I don’t. I’m going to the fights.”
“Oh, you’re terrible.”
“OK! You can go with me.”
Lola knew immediately she was going because I take her almost everywhere I go. She smiled, and ran to me squeezing her warm, firm body close to mine. So close that my mouth met hers. She was warm, enticing, and exciting, but as I said before, this was neither the time nor the place. I managed to force out, “Later baby.”
She let go of me with a devilish smile on her face and said, “Any time is the right time with you Mike.”
The weather outside was miserable due to the cold, rain, and fog. I pushed one of my Camels out of its pack, and flicked a light to it. Today was definitely not a working day so I decided to drop on down to Joe’s Pool Hall, and shoot a game or two.
I told Lola where I would be if anything came up, and walked down the thirteen newly waxed stairs to the street. The wind bit through my sports coat as I dashed to my car, jumped in, turned the key in the ignition, and heard the 425 horses of my engine scream. I backed out my ‘65 Pontiac G.T.O., and sped toward Warburton Avenue in Yonkers. Reaching Warburton, I hooked a right into an open space with a fire hydrant in front of it. Before getting out and locking up, I took my little orange press card and placed it on the dashboard. That card had come in handy several times.
Joe’s place wasn’t exactly in the best part of town. It was a place where no sixteen-year old punks would rip up the tables, or distract the players. Joe also kept a tight rein on drunks as well.
I opened the door and heard the typical clatter of balls as I climbed the dusty stairs to the second floor parlor. There was Joe behind his brown wooden desk, with his hand out to greet me.
“Long time no see,” he said.
“Yeah, I’ve been pretty busy Joe.”
His hand was strong as I threw my paw into it. I jabbed at my pack of butts, shoved one in my mouth, lit up, and walked to table six where a big game was going on. Looking over everybody’s heads, I eyed the two who were playing… Big Boo Boo Schaefer and Nick the Greek. They were two of the best, and the score was “nip and tuck” with Boo Boo on a thirty-six ball run as Nick stood in the corner nonchalantly watching the shots. One of the local punks tapped me on the shoulder and asked me if I wanted to shoot for a few bucks. I know my way around a pool table, and consider myself a semi-hustler at times. This looked like some easy money to line my pockets with. The kid must have come in from another billiard parlor looking for a hustle. If he had played here often, he wouldn’t have asked me.
Joe grinned as he handed me my cue stick from behind the counter. I chalked up as the punk racket. As time went by, I had about a hundred and fifty clams of winnings in my pocket. That was about a week’s pay and a lot of money for a working boy around here.
I could see that the kid was getting edgy, but I wasn’t going to give him any slack. He called his ball, bent over, and positioned his cue. Only he positioned a little sloppy, and touched the cue ball with the tip of his stick. The punk must have thought I was a pigeon or something, and went on as if he didn’t scratch. I don’t like cheaters, especially the ones who think I’m a sucker.
I grabbed his cue before he followed through and spat out, “You touched the cue ball kid. You ain’t playing with a blind man.”
He pulled the cue out of my hand and said, “You’re crazy turkey. You better see an eye doctor.” I grabbed his thin frame by his shirt, picked him off the floor, and threw him against the wall. The punk was burnt up now. I saw his hand dig into his pocket and come out with something shiny. I didn’t recognize what it was until the click sounded. A six-inch piece of cold, clean steel whipped out. The punk was cursing me up and down, and was threatening to cut me if I didn’t give him his money back. What a sore loser!
Nobody gets tough with Mike Murdock, and walks away without bruises.
The runt with the knife looked like he was gonna take a fit when I spit on his puny, stupid face. He came at me with his blade, slashed, and looked pleased with what he did. The rat succeeded in slicing the sleeve of my blue blazer from the elbow to wrist’ and managed to get a little of my hand.
I looked down at my paw… BLOOD. I get real mad when I see my own blood. It’s times like these that earned me the nickname “MADDOG.”
I edged around the table with the cue aimed like a spear in my hand. The young punk realized then that he shouldn’t have pulled his knife on me, but it was too late to talk his way out of it now. I knew he could see the blood in my eyes, and sense the danger he had gotten himself into. Suddenly he tried another dash at me with his knife. I jabbed the cue at his head. The point of the stick met his face between the nose and left eye. As I pushed and twisted the stick, his eyeball popped out of its socket. It looked like a wet, slimy eel was trying to crawl into a hole in his face.
I don’t think the runt realized yet that his eye was hanging down to his mouth. He tried another pass at me with the blade, but missed. This time I took the back of my hand, and backhanded the hanging eyeball. The blob of guts almost came loose from its stretched, torn muscles that had been holding it. The kid let out a scream now, but still tried another slash with his steel. This yo-yo had spunk, or else he was awfully dumb. His eye was no longer white. It was a dripping red mass of sewage.
This time, the punk ran the blade across my chest. Blood began to stain my shirt, and now I became the true “MADDOG” that I was noted for.
I rushed the early twenty-year-old son of a bitch. With my right hand going for the bloody clot that used to be his eye, I grabbed it, and gave it a yank. From twenty feet away you could hear the “PLOOP” as the eyeball came away from his body. About a quarter of a pound of gory, red strings of muscle and other indescribable garbage were attached to the eye. The kid went down to the floor with part of his face missing. I still had the slimy mess in my hand when the police walked in. I dropped it to the floor.
One of the cops was a plain-clothes man. As he came closer, I realized it was my buddy, Frank Komo, who fortunately for me was a Lieutenant in the Yonkers Police Department. During the questioning, the whine of an ambulance sounded in the street outside. Seconds later two men in white coats carried in a stretcher, fit the kid onto it, and wheeled him out. I called out to one of the attendants, “You forgot his eyeball,” and flung it at him. He caught the pile of waste, and blood from the eye splattered his pretty white coat. What can I say… occupational hazard!
After the usual questioning of the witnesses and myself, I was told I could go. Five people had testified that the kid had pulled a knife on me, and that I was just protecting myself. I said sorry and so long to Joe, shook his hand and headed to my apartment to clean up.
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CH 2 Mike’s Nightlife of Blood and Gore