Advance Praise
“In Every Man for Himself, Buffalo has a new hero in Pat Brogan. In Mark Hannon’s well-told tale, Brogan works tirelessly to keep the ethnic streets of 1950s Buffalo safe from the bad guys. Readers will enjoy the colorful characters and recognize the places they inhabit.”
—Tim Bohen, author of Against the Grain: The History of Buffalo’s First Ward
“Mark Hannon has written a crime novel that summons a vanished city. Precise, authentic and alive.”
—Stephan Talty, author of Black Irish
“Mark Hannon’s new crime novel about illegal pinball gambling is a fun, full tilt read that will keep you on your toes!”
— Matthew Hobson, Ph.D, author of “The Audubon Guide to North American Suicides,” published by the Baltimore Review.
Every Man For Himself
Every Man For Himself
Mark J. Hannon
Apprentice House
Loyola University Maryland
Baltimore, Maryland
Copyright © 2016 by Mark Hannon
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission from the publisher (except by reviewers who may quote brief passages).
First Edition
Printed in the United States of America
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-62720-094-3
E-book ISBN: 978-1-62720-095-0
Design: Mary Del Plato
Editorial Development: Alexandra Chouinard
Edited by Elizabeth Leik & Alexandra Chouinard
Author photo: Oleg Panczenko
Published by Apprentice House
Apprentice House
Loyola University Maryland
4501 N. Charles Street
Baltimore, MD 21210
410.617.5265 • 410.617.2198 (fax)
www.ApprenticeHouse.com
To Jerry, Dorothy and Barry
“Before the destruction of Carthage, the People and the Senate of Rome together governed the Republic peacefully and with moderation. But when the minds of the people were relieved of that dread, wantonness and arrogance naturally arose, vices which are fostered by prosperity. Thus the peace for which they had longed in time of adversity, after they had gained it proved to be more cruel and bitter than adversity itself. For the nobles began to abuse their position and the people their liberty and every man for himself robbed, pillaged, and plundered.”
—Sallust, The War with Jugurtha
CHAPTER 1
THE WEST SIDE, BUFFALO, 1950
Pat Brogan lay back into the worn leather passenger seat of the patrol car and stretched his legs as far as he could, figuring his partner, Ray Zeoli, was squared away to drive. They were rolling over the ice down Niagara Street; the speedometer read twenty-five, and he had just settled his hat forward when the radio crackled. “Units respond to the armed robbery . . .” Ray slammed both feet down, one on the accelerator, the other on the siren switch.
“Take it easy, rookie!” Pat shouted over the siren. “What’s the address, how many are there?” He grabbed the door handle as the big Plymouth went around the corner onto Delevan, fishtailing within six inches of a parked car. Pat tried to break in on the radio, but now everyone in the Fifth Precinct was calling in and responding.
“I think he said two suspects at Delevan and Grant,” Ray said, slamming on the brakes to avoid a car stopped at a red light and skidding sideways. This time, Ray quickly regained control and roared off around the stopped traffic.
Pat was unbuttoning his long coat to get at his weapon when he spotted a guy with dark hair and a green jacket jogging down the sidewalk. He’s got a gun in his hand, Pat thought, then shouted, “Stop the car!” Pat popped the door open as the car banged into the curb. Jumping out, he told the wide-eyed rookie, “Keep going to the scene. Get the other guy!”
The guy in the green jacket bolted up Congress, and Pat was glad he had done what the old timers had told him—turn your gun belt around so the holster is in the front and you can get your weapon out quickly from under the reefer coat. He drew the long barreled Colt and went around the back of the car, hesitated, and looked around the corner down Congress for the gunman, whom he thought was toting a .45 automatic in his right hand. There he was, trying to sprint up the icy sidewalk about fifty feet away. Pat ran after him along the edge of the shoveled part of the sidewalk, getting better traction in the snow. At thirty feet away, the guy slipped, regained his balance, and kept going.
“Stop! Police!” Pat shouted as two women carrying shopping bags full of groceries jumped out of Green Jacket’s way at twenty feet. At ten feet, Pat thought, I’ve got him, and then the guy turned and started to raise his pistol. Pat tried to raise his, but collided with Green Jacket just as Green Jacket’s .45 went off. Pat grabbed the gunman’s wrist and squeezed it as hard as he could as they crashed down on the ice. I’m stronger than this bum, Pat thought, as he tried to shake the gun loose, but the guy wouldn’t let go. Pat looked into the gunman’s red-eyed face and head-butted him just above the nose. He heard a cracking sound as skull met ice, but the guy still wouldn’t let go. Pat slammed his head against him again, harder. This time Green Jacket moaned and dropped the gun.
Pushing his knee into Green Jacket’s chest, Pat swept the .45 out of his reach. Grabbing the crook’s gun arm with both hands, he lifted his knee and turned him over. Reaching under his coat, he fumbled for his handcuffs. Oh shit, he thought, I turned the belt all around. Where are they? A crowd was starting to gather.
“What’s he done?”
“Did he shoot him?”
“What are all the sirens about?”
Finally, Pat grabbed both wrists and yanked Green Jacket up to his feet. The man was bleeding from the front and back of his head.
Pushing the hood around, Pat started leading him back down Congress towards Delevan but realized he’d lost his hat and stopped. Looking around, he saw his hat in one place, handcuffs in another, and the .45 in a third. Dragging the gunman, he scooped up the pistol and dropped it in a coat pocket. He picked up the handcuffs and exhaled while he slapped them on the groaning suspect. A kid ran up and handed him his hat. “Thanks,” Pat said to the beaming kid as he put it back on and hoped it was halfway straight. When they got close to Delevan and Grant, five police cars were parked at the scene, lights flashing. Captain Sturniolo was there, standing in the doorway of his car, giving directions over the radio microphone. He spotted Pat and the suspect approaching and waved to Lieutenant Bremer, who turned.
“Emerling, Harrigan, give Brogan a hand with that suspect!”
As they took Green Jacket away, Bremer came up. “You okay, Pat?”
Pat nodded and looked around. Surrounded by police cars was a blue pickup truck with both doors open. On the sidewalk next to it was a fat guy in green work pants and a plaid coat with blood pooling out from under him. Pat felt bile rising in his throat.
“Siddown here on the bumper, Pat,” Bremer told him. “You’re turning green.”
I’m not gonna throw up, Pat thought, choking back the puke.
“Holy shit,