Phantom Point
by Gary Inbinder
July 1907: Chicago is sweltering, and hard-boiled detective Max Niemand has a hot, new case. A wealthy socialite hires Max to rescue her wayward artist brother from the clutches of a femme fatale and her dubious California artists’ colony. The job is lucrative, with the promise of a large bonus for good results.
Arriving on the West Coast, Max becomes embroiled in a murder case and a fight over oil rights. In the course of his investigation, he encounters hard-nosed cops, gangsters, an Old West marshal, a tycoon, a cagey lawyer, fast cars, faster women and a malevolent gold-toothed hitman. Before long, Max realizes the odds of living long enough to collect his bonus are definitely not in his favor.
Chapter 27: The Posse
part 1
“I can ride, shoot, and I’m one of the best drivers hereabouts. What’s more, I’m working on a case with the Los Angeles police that involves the Placco gang. I’ve every right to go with you.” Eve dug in her heels and tried to stare down Marshal Rivers.
Rivers rubbed his chin thoughtfully before saying, “I don’t know, Miss Sinclair. I’ve never deputized a woman.”
“There’s a first time for everything, Marshal,” Eve said. “Besides, we’ll be getting the vote soon. Think about it.”
“Votes for women, huh?” The marshal smiled and shook his head skeptically. “Maybe, but not while I’m still in office.” He turned to Max. “What do you think, Deputy?”
“I don’t know about her shooting,” Max replied, “but she drives the Mercedes like a champ. We might have use for another driver.”
“What about you, Mr. Merwin?” the marshal asked.
“I can vouch for her skill with a gun and behind the wheel. She’s a professional detective and she knows the risks. I say deputize her.”
Rivers turned to Eve. “All right, miss. Raise your right hand and repeat after me...”
* * *
Rivers drove to the Eyrie with twelve deputies in three cars, the marshal’s Packard and two Model-F Fords. The marshal and his deputies were armed with a variety of Winchester rifles and assorted sidearms along with several belts and boxes of ammunition. They also brought smoke bombs and dynamite, “just in case.” Max, Eve, Karl and John Merwin armed themselves with guns from Merwin’s private arsenal: each carried a Winchester Model 1895 and a clip-fed Mauser pistol.
The sun was setting over the Pacific, an orange fireball in a flaming sky over an expanse of sparkling blue water. Sea birds circled overhead; a brisk wind came in from the ocean, causing the flags flying above the Eyrie’s crenellated towers to flap and flutter.
Karl and Eve brought out the Mercedes and the auto wagon to join the marshal’s motorcade. The posse assembled on the green bordering the driveway in front of the mansion. They milled about, smoking, joking and horsing around until the marshal called them to order.
“All right, boys — and young woman — settle down. Most of you have been out with me before and many served with me in Cuba. So you know the drill. No drinking or horseplay until the job’s done. I lead, you follow. Our posse’s split up into three units. Two are shutting down the gang’s operations in town and closing off the escape route through Santa Teresa. We’re going to surround the roadhouse and cut off the road to the north.
“The gang might make a break for it up the old dirt trail that joins the county road where it ends, at Phantom Point. If they try that, we’ll take our two fastest cars, Mr. Merwin’s Mercedes and my Packard, up the county road and head ’em off at the point. Any questions?”
“I got a question, Marshal,” one joker said. “What’s the girl doing here?” The question was followed by a burst of laughter.
Rivers frowned and held up a hand for silence. “Miss Sinclair’s a detective. She can shoot straight and drive a fast automobile, which is more than I can say for most of you shit-kickers.”
This comment got another good laugh, but not from Eve. After a moment, the posse settled down. The marshal checked his watch and said, “All right, gentlemen — and lady — time to saddle up and ride.”
* * *
The roadhouse was quiet as a cemetery. No customers, and the bartenders, dealers and performers hadn’t shown up for work. Duke Placco figured the rats had abandoned the sinking ship. He called Augie into his office.
“Close the door, pal, and come over here.” Placco got up from his desk.
Augie did as he was told. “What’s up, boss?”
“You hear anything from Jack or Pete?”
“Not a word.” Augie frowned and shook his head.
“How many of the boys have we got here?”
“Louie, Moose and Aldo.”
“That’s all?”
“Yeah, boss. You want me to call into town?”
“No,” Placco growled. “Too late for that. The heat’s on.”
“We gonna lam out of here?”
“Yeah. I got a plan, but it’s for two. Me and you, Augie. You follow?”
“I’m with you, boss.”
“All right.” Placco grabbed Augie’s jacket sleeve and pulled him closer. “You say nothing about this to the other guys. See that bag in the corner?” Placco pointed to a black leather briefcase on the floor behind his desk.
“Yeah, I see it.”
“That bag is filled with fifty grand in paper and gold. Jack and Pete are probably in jail, and I suspect they ratted on us and a posse’s coming. When the shooting starts, you and me sneak out the back way and get into the Jack Rabbit with the bag. We drive up the old dirt road to Phantom Point, then we ditch the car where the road ends. We high-tail it through the woods to a little fishing village about a mile up the coast. There’s an Indio smuggler in that village who’ll sail us south and get us across the border into Baja. I got friends in Tijuana. The Mexican police will leave us alone for a price, and we’ll have plenty left over to live like kings.”
“What about the other guys?”
“What about ’em? They ain’t got a murder rap hanging over them, unless they kill someone in the shootout. Anyways, they’re on their own.”
“OK, boss.” Augie grinned, thinking more about his share of the loot and the high life south of the border than the fate of his erstwhile compadres.
* * *
Twilight. The motorcade drove down the shadowy highway. At intervals the lawmen were greeted by passersby lining the roadside, country folks who had never seen such an assemblage of motor vehicles at one time in one place. The more reform-minded among the locals waved and cheered.
As the posse passed through the Red-lght district, they saw horse-drawn Black Marias bound for the county jail, filled with prostitutes, pimps, madams, saloon keepers and other gang employees who hadn’t had the foresight to take a powder before the law came down on them. Marshal Rivers had stopped the single trolley car and detailed deputies on horseback and foot to clear Main Street while the raids were ongoing. This precaution allowed the motorcade to drive through town at a steady thirty miles per hour.
The motorcade halted when they reached the roadhouse turnoff. A detail of sharpshooters, including Max and Karl, stepped down from the cars and ran up the driveway under cover of darkness. Their objective was to set up an advance skirmish line around the perimeter. As soon as the skirmishers were in place, the drivers extinguished the automobile lamps and proceeded in line up the dirt road.
* * *
The roadhouse lights were off, the entrance barricaded, the window glass knocked out to provide a clear field of fire. Louie, Moose and Aldo had taken up defensive positions at the front entryway and windows, Placco and Augie covered the rear. The Jack Rabbit, with its motor running, was parked in a carriage house connected to the main building by an exit door.
Moose, armed with a Browning pump-action shotgun, knelt behind the barricade made up of furniture, a mattress and the broken-down bat-wing doors. Louie and Aldo covered the windows with their Winchesters.
“They’re comin’, boss,” Moose called out.
“All right,” Duke shouted from the back. “Let them fire the first shot, then blast ’em.”
Duke turned to Augie. “As soon as the shooting starts, we grab the bag and run for it.”
“Right, boss.”
* * *
Marshal Rivers and the remainder of the posse stepped down from the cars. One detail, including the marshal, John Merwin and Eve, took cover behind the parked automobiles. The rest fanned out on the perimeter to reinforce the skirmish line.
The sound of idling motors and boots running through the brush along the tree-line merged with the common rural sounds of chirping insects and hooting owls. The moon cast its beams on the scene like a spotlight aimed at a stage. There was an electric tension in the air that you sense before a battle or an execution.
Rivers raised a megaphone to his lips. “The game’s up, boys. I have warrants for Duke Placco, Augie Roche and the rest of your gang. I’ll give you one minute to put down your weapons and come out with your hands up before we commence firing.” Rivers took out his watch and started the countdown.
* * *
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Aldo muttered. “I’m gonna plug ’em.”
“The boss said to let them take the first shot.” Moose turned and glared at Aldo.
“Yeah,” Aldo replied. He peered through the sight and aimed in the direction of the marshal’s voice.
Back in the office Placco said, “Not long now, pal.”
Duke grabbed the money bag and grinned at Augie.
* * *
As soon as they were relieved by a pair of deputies, Max and Karl dashed back to the auto wagon. They lit cigars and prepared for phase two of the plan Max worked out with the marshal.
The second hand swept around the marshal’s watch dial. Rivers raised his revolver and aimed toward the road house. The one minute grace period expired. Marshal Rivers fired and yelled, “Give ’em hell!”
The skirmish line exploded with yellow muzzle flashes and the crack of gunfire, the country air filled with the sharp stench of powder. Bullets whizzed toward the roadhouse like angry hornets, some pinged and ricocheted off walls or flew on through the windows and entryway. Woodchips and sawdust blew up in a cloud from the storm of metal-jacketed lead crashing into the frame structure.
Moose, Louie and Aldo answered fire, but they were well outgunned. A few of their shots smashed into the Fords and auto wagon, which provided cover for the posse and the indispensable Mercedes and Packard.
The auto wagon was pointed at the front entrance. Karl put the vehicle in gear and opened the throttle. He and Max, each carrying a smoke bomb, ran behind the truck bed for cover. Moose, Louie and Aldo concentrated their fire on the advancing truck. The auto wagon gained speed with Karl and Max sprinting behind. The truck started rolling up the steps.
Max and Karl lit the fuses on their smoldering cigars, hurled the bombs through the open windows, and hit the dirt.
The high-wheeled auto wagon climbed onto the porch and crashed through the barrier. The bombs exploded, filling the saloon with choking, eye-tearing smoke.
Duke Placco and Augie ran out the back door to the garage. Duke jumped behind the wheel, placed the money bag on the passenger seat, whipped out his .44 and plugged his “pal” between the eyes. Augie sprawled forward onto the seat. Duke shoved the bleeding corpse back onto the garage floor. “So long, sucker,” he said as he put the Jack Rabbit in gear and streaked out of the garage.
* * *
Copyright © 2022 by Gary Inbinder
