Fan Fiction: Short Stories

The Horror of the Nazi Phantom
by Greg Daulton

New York City - 1943   

  The night was unbelievably calm as a group of a dozen well-dressed men crowded the spacious backroom of Fat Paulie's Pool Hall on the Southside of Manhattan. As rain began to lightly tap the windows, a large clock in the far corner of the room struck midnight. The group of burly henchmen belonging to New York's largest and most wealthy crime family, the Grizeedos, were scattered about, waiting nervously as they had been called to the seedy establishment for an emergency meeting. From out of nowhere, the head of the family, Geraldo Grizeedo, approached the long table encompassing the men.

  Standing front and center, the tall and stocky, middle-aged crime boss began to pace back and forth, stopping momentarily to light a thick cigar. Suddenly, he noticed one of his cronies nervously stepping forward.

  "We got the message Boss. So why are we here?"

  "Oh, my boy, Anthony," Grizeedo finally spoke in a whisper, eyeing the young teenager up and down, "you're a good kid, like a son to me. Unfortunately boys," he began to eye everyone from under brushy black brows, "one of you is going to die tonight." He causally took another puff from his cigar.

  Instant chatter filled the room. The henchmen talked nervously amongst themselves, casting eyes back and forth, wondering who the traitor was. Grizeedo looked on, growing increasingly annoyed. Finally, to cease the incessant noise, he pulled a pistol from his thick wool coat and raised it, firing a shot into the ceiling. Plaster fell in small shards, landing around the boss. His irritation grew.

  "Quiet, you slugs," the crime boss ordered furiously. "I found out yesterday that there is a turncoat amongst us. It is someone whom I have trusted for a long time. He has worked his way through the ranks of our organization and I had even considered making him an Underboss." His voice trailed off as if a surge of emotion pressed against his chest. Then, just as quickly, sternness and rage filled his pores. "The problem is, we are the most powerful gang in New York! We have access to anything we want, including government information." His beady eyes narrowed. "This person is using the family to access American secrets for the purposes of selling it to the Germans. In short, one of you is a Nazi spy," he growled.

  Once again the crowd of goons began to go wild, not being able to fully take in what they had just heard. Having little patience, Grizeedo fired another shot that effortlessly ricocheted off the wall.

  "I know this is disturbing news," Grizeedo smiled synthetically. "God knows I love America and would do anything for my country. Rather than let the Fed's take this guy and have them think me a conspirator, I'm going to let one of you goons have him. Hell, we'll make a game of it. The first one to whack this guy is the next Underboss. So Luis Carsona, or should I say Joseph Sinclair, you're dead."

  The announcement came as a shock. Not Luis, someone muttered to another as whispers erupted. The head mobster manically pointed him out in the crowd of henchmen with his pistol.

  Every goon in the place frantically tried to pinpoint the traitor but suddenly realized that he was nowhere to be found. The leader immediately moved about the large room, slamming empty chairs aside. The light was so dim in the back of the rectangle-shaped room, Grizeedo could barely make out those present. As the lanterns along the walls flickered brighter with the movement of air and the lone light bulb above head swung precariously, he saw for himself that the man in question was absent.

  "He was here a moment ago, you fools. Find him!" Grizeedo fiercely demanded.

  At once every man in the place scrambled out the partially-opened back door and began to head toward the dark wooded area directly behind the pool hall. As each mobster began to search for the defector, some armed with flashlights, others wielding pistols, Grizeedo stayed behind, viewing the hunt behind the safety of a backroom window. The mobsters raced through the dark woods in pursuit of their quarry when all of a sudden, a shot was fired. The supposed defector began firing his own pistol at the mobsters, who quickly returned fire. Suddenly, one of the mobsters unexpectedly snuck up behind the defector, bludgeoning him with the butt of his firearm. As the defector immediately went down, he was hammered with shot after shot of the mobster's .45 caliber ammunition.

  After the manic henchmen were satisfied, they ceased fire and began examining the body to make sure all signs of life had ceased as well.

  "Well boys," one of the goons uttered. "That's that. So sad to see Luis hafta go out like that."

  "What are you talkin' Mickey?" another thug spoke up. "That guy was a Nazi. The bastard's dead, now let's go. One of us is gonna be a new Underboss."

  "Yeah you're right. I'm glad I shot him," a third mobster chimed in, sparking an argument between the men as they began to head through the dark woods and back to the pool hall.