Killer's Town (2 page)

matter to him, one way or another. The men stopped at the edge of the porch. One of them had soiled his highly polisged brown shoes, and muttered an obscenity.

"Are you Matthew Crumb?" he said.

"I am."

"We want to talk to you."

The Governor-General of New Metropolis lowered his beer can and wiped his mouth with a filthy sleeve.

"Go ahead and talk," he said.

The headline tells the story:

Killer Koy Loses Appeal Ganglord and top aides to be Deported

Killer Koy was proud of his nickname. He had earned it. During his violent career up to that point, it was alleged that he had committed four murders himself and ordered a dozen more. He was indicted four times but was never found guilty. The cases were dismissed for lack of evidence —witnesses against him forgot, or disappeared. In those years, Koy was involved in almost every major crime known to man. Robbery, arson, extortion, bribery, assault, drugs, prostitution, and, of course, murder. He was finally nailed down and sentenced to ten years in a federal penitentiary for income-tax evasion, just like his idol, the late A1 Capone. He served the sentence with three years off for good behavior. He came out, arrogant and roaring mad, determined never to spend another hour in jail.

But he was promptly hauled before the Immigration Service to face deportation. It seems that Koy, an immigrant, had never taken the time to become a citizen. He hired a battery of lawyers and fought the deportation from court to court, but finally lost—to the relief of practically everybody in the fifty states of the Union.

This created a new problem. Nobody wanted him. His native Rumania took one horrified look at his record and said no I Thirty other nations on both sides of the Atlantic also said no. Koy was livid.

"Find me a place," he roared at his hard working-aides —a polite name for thugs.

"We're trying," said one aide. "So far, thirty places said no."

"There are a lot more countries," said another aide hopefully. "We'll find one."

"Not a big one, a little one," said Koy. "A place where I can operate—without law."

"No law? Like where—the North Pole?"

"No North Pole. A warm place," shouted Koy. The aides
18

left
him in his, cell; he was now being detained by the Immigration Service.

"Make it fast I've had enough of bars," he called after them.

When Koy said fast, he meant fast. His thugs worked frantically. They contacted every criminal gang in the west- iTii world. They tried South America, - Asia, and Africa. They tried Bangalla. They found New Metropolis.

Eagle and Sport were the two Koy aides who found the place. Eagle was a disbarred lawyer; Sport was a former professional wrestler and dance-hall bouncer. Brains and brawn.

"You own this place?" said Eagle.

"Lock, stock, and barrel," said Matthew Crumb, adding a belch for emphasis.

"Want to sell it?"

"What part?"

"All of it."

Matthew chuckled and had another gulp.

"This rubbish heap? You're either crazy or pulling my leg."

Sport growled, "Want me to work him over?"

"No, stupid. We're serious. We want the whole place. How much?"

"Hell, I'd settle for a case of booze," said the Governor- General.

"You got a deal," said Eagle.

Matthew's eyes opened wide for the first time. He sat up.

"Wait a minute. I got a thousand acres. I want a good price."

"Don't worry. You got a good deal," said Eagle.

"Bangalla? Where in hell's that?" asked Koy.

They showed it to him on the map, which meant nothing to him.

"It's in the jungle," explained Eagle.

"How about the law."

"No law."

"How come no law?"

"The whole place is yours. You're the law."

"Me?" said Koy, excited for the first time. "You sure, Eagle?"

"Sure," said Eagle, holding up his briefcase. "I've got the papers."

"What do they call this place?" said Koy. "New Metropolis." "That's a lousy name."

"It's your place. You can give it a new name." "Yeah, I've got to get a good new name for
my
town, said Killer Koy, grinning.

The departure of Killer Koy and his entourage did not p> unnoticed. Reporters and TV cameras were at the airport, as well as immigration officials to make sure Koy ac- tunlly left.

"Where you going, Killer?" a TV reporter asked, shoving ii microphone at Koy.

"None of your damned business," said Koy, snarling a few choice epithets into the live microphone, which •hocked a mid-afternoon housewives' audience from coast to coast.

Koy's arrival at the Bangalla airport also did not go unnoticed. Black Police Chief Togando watched the six toughs who came down the plane's stairs with Koy. All carried heavy-looking hand luggage. They left the airport with two dozen trunks and boxes. Four taxis carried them through I he town and into its outskirts. Chief Togando followed in a squad car as far as the jungle's edge and watched with surprise as the cars turned into the jungle, onto a dirt road known as the Phantom Trail. What would these men do in the jungle, he wondered. Perhaps they carried camping equipment, though they didn't look like campers. He left a man to see if they returned. The jungle was not in his jurisdiction.

"That's the place," said Eagle proudly.

Koy stared at the ghost town. It was already being transformed as a small army of workmen moved among the ruined buildings.

"That's my town?" said Koy in disbelief. "That dump heap?" He turned angrily on Eagle. "Is this your great idea?"

"Patience, Killer," said Eagle, retreating a step. "They're fixing it up. Wait till they finish it."

"Yeah, meantime, am I supposed to sleep under a bush?" shouted Koy.

"Now take it easy, boss," said Sport in his deep rumbling voice. "Eagle got you a fancy suite at the hotel in town."

"Yeah. We stay there till this is ready. You'll love it."

A barefoot man tottered toward them. He tottered because he was drunk.

"Mr. Eagle," he called. "Where's my money?"

"Who's that bum?" growled Koy.

"Matthew Crumb, the guy we bought this place from," said Eagle.

"Mr. Crumb, this is Mr. Koy, the new owner," said Eagle.

Koy looked contemptuously at Crumb, the ragged pants and soiled shirt, dirt from head to foot, tobacco juice leaking from his mouth.

"Pleased to meet you," said Crumb, putting out his hand.

Koy chewed his cigar, looked stonily at Crumb, then spit out a wad of tobacco that hit Crumb's waist. Crumb pulled back his hand, and retreated a step from the menacing face of the new owner.

"My money?" he said.

"You'll get all that's coming to you," said Eagle.

"My room, too. Don't forget my room," said Crumb anxiously.

"What room?" demanded Koy.

"Part of the deal," said Eagle apologetically. "He wanted a place to live. I promised him he could have a room in the new hotel."

Koy looked at the anxious watery eyes, at the trembling tobacco-stained mouth of the barefoot derelict. Koy knew bums. He'd known them all his life.

"Sure," he said, suddenly gentle. "Why not?"

Then he looked around at the alien jungle, the big trees, the strange colors. "Let's get back to town," he said.

Mawitaan's principle hotel, the Queen's Plaza—the name was a relic of the old colonial days—was in the center of town. It was a large sprawling comfortable place with huge rooms, high ceilings with revolving fans, broad colorful gardens. Koy felt more at home. Modern plumbing, wall-to- wall carpeting, room service. Liquor and ice were served, the men took off their coats and shoes, and were about to order lunch when Police Chief Togando knocked politely and entered. The Chief was black and his accent was strange, but he was a cop. Koy and his men were silent and wary.

"What are you doing here, Mr. Koy?" said the Chief.

"Passing through," said Koy.

"You all have visitor's visas. They expire in three months."

"We know that, Chief," said Eagle brightly.

"We're private citizens, and we like privacy," said Koy,
Blaring
at the Chief.

The jungle-bred Togando was not to be put down by a foreign hoodlum.

"No funny business in this town, Mr. Koy. We obey the law here. We don't want any trouble from you," said the Chief quietly, his fingers idly playing with his gunbelt.

Koy nodded. The chief looked coolly at the standing men —Eagle, Sport, the tall one called Slim, the fat one called Fats, the bald man called Baldy, the stocky one with curly hair called Spaghetti—a walking rogues gallery.

"Good afternoon," said the Chief politely, and left. Koy spat on the carpet, smashed his burning cigar into the veneer finish of an end table, and swore.

"That damned cop," he growled. "I'd like to let him have it."

"Easy, Killer," said Eagle. "We're in his country."

"Not for long," said Killer. "Where's my lunch?"

Chief Togando's department policed the capital city of Mawitaan and its suburbs. Beyond that lay a thousand miles of jungle, bordered by seven nations. This was policed by the Jungle Patrol, an elite organization, two and a half centuries old, that was financially supported by all seven nations. This area of the world had been a haven for centuries for pirates, bandits, and escaped criminals. The Patrol's jurisdiction covered the long jungle borders and extended ten miles deep. A vast territory. The deep jungle, the land of the interior tribes, was beyond Patrol jurisdiction. It was ruled by the tribal chiefs and, it was whispered, by another whose name and person were lost in mystery. But more of him later.

Chief Togando was troubled by the memory of the men he saw in the hotel suite. He was used to dealing with criminals, but these weren't like the usual run. He had sensed vicious brutality backed by money and a widespread powerful organization. He took his worries to his counterpart in the Patrol, Colonel Randolph Weeks, commanding officer (but not Commander) of the Jungle Patrol. Weeks was a cool, unflappable leader who had spent most of his adult life in this international patrol and had risen from the ranks to become its colonel.

"What's a big-time hood like Koy doing in our little town, I keep asking myself," said Chief Togando, as he sat in Weeks's office at Jungle Patrol headquarters. "But I get no answers."

He described bis meeting with Koy and the gang.
"A
frightening crowd." Weeks nodded.

"Here on a visitor's visa, all of them," said Weeks. "The question is, where do they go from here? We know practically every country on earth has refused them a visa. The Bangalla foreign office was generous enough—or foolish enough—to give them a temporary visa. Maybe that was
a
mistake."

"Yes, what worries me is why did they pick this place? They went directly from the airport into the jungle along the Phantom trail. Why, or how far in, I don't know," said Togando.

"Neither of us has any answers," said Weeks. "I'll get Koy over here. Maybe he can supply some." He talked into his phone.

"Send Sergeant Hill in, please," he said.

A husky young patrolman entered, walked smartly to the desk, and stood at attention. There is no saluting in the Patrol.

"Sergeant, a man named Koy is at the Queen's Plaza. Will you bring him to my office? I want to see him," said Weeks.

"Yes sir," said Sergeant Dave Hill.

"He is the gangster."

"Yes sir, I know."

"Some of his men are with him. Perhaps you need help."

"How many men, sir?" said Sergeant Hill.

Weeks glanced inquiringly at Chief Togando.

"Koy and six others," said the Chief.

"I'll manage it, sir," said Sergeant Dave Hill, smiling. There was an old adage in the patrol:
One patrolman can handle ten criminals.
True or not, they believed it. It was a fact that the patrolmen were the most carefully selected elite corps on earth. A thousand young men applied for entrance each year from all over the world. After rigorous physical and mental tests, only the top ten were accepted.

"Right away, Sergeant Hill," said Colonel Weeks.

"Yes sir."

Killer Koy was still grumbling about Chief Togando when Sergeant Dave Hill knocked politely, then entered. Koy was having his lunch. Eagle spoke to Dave Hill at the door, then asked him to wait in the anteroom and reported to Koy. Though the doors were closed, Dave could hear Koy's angry roar. Eagle returned, white-faced.