Chapter 10 Little Joe

"The Locker" was as unsavory a place as its reputation suggested. Its dim lighting helped hide the fact that paint was peeling off the walls of the saloon--which was what it was, an old-fashioned saloon--but could not conceal the fact entirely. A perpetual haze hung in the air, and decades of smoke had permanently stained the exposed wood of the bar. The floor looked as though it had needed sweeping a week before. Its nautically-themed decor had probably not been changed since the place had opened seventy-five years earlier; an anchor, mermaids, a helmsman's wheel, a fishing net and fishes of all varieties hung on the walls and from the ceiling. The giant in the corner booth looked at home there. Even seated as he was, it was apparent his height was more than six feet, and although his bulk was hidden beneath a navy-blue pea-soup jacket, it was obviously in excess of two hundred pounds. A wool cap sat atop his head, curly black hair fighting to escape. His jaw stuck out, as if partially unhinged from its joint. He had apparently shaved a few days earlier. Bushy black eyebrows capped a prominent brow ridge. The combined effect gave the sailor the appearance of the fabled Neanderthal man. A livid scar slithered like a crimson snake from the right corner of his mouth to the edge of his eye. It looked as though carved by a dull knife, and had not been treated in a timely manner. The large sailor's demeanor said "stay away if you want to keep your health intact". His physique underlined the "if you want to keep your health intact" part of it. The giant quietly read a newspaper, as if this were just the place for that sort of thing. The afternoon papers were full of stories about "the Medusa killer", who turned his victims to stone. The body count neared a dozen, according to the article. A shadow abruptly fell over the newspaper, and the burly sailor moved it aside to see who intruded upon his solitude. A nattily-dressed man, wearing tweeds, stood there. An old-style Victorian moustache the color of caramel adorned his upper lip. His forearms were a little too large, giving the impression that they'd had some sort of allergic reaction and swelled up. He was out of place in a rundown saloon like this one. "Beat it, slick," said the sailor in a gruff voice. He went back to reading his newspaper. "Are you the man who has been inquiring about work?" asked the dapper man. "The man who doesn't care what kind of work it is?" The large sailor lowered the paper, scowling at the dandy. It was a ferocious scowl. "Who wants to know?" "My name is Shanks," replied the well-dressed man with the too-large forearms. The sailor stood, towering over Shanks, whose own height was more than five-and-a-half feet. He extended a large, calloused hand. "Little Joe Blosser," said the giant, taking the hand that natty Shanks offered. He squeezed it tightly, testing the dandy's mettle. Moustachioed Shanks did not flinch, and Little Joe released the hand. Flexing his aching hand, Shanks eyed the giant sailor appreciatively. "I think you'll do just fine," he said. Natty Shanks gestured toward the door. "If you'll follow me." "Wait a minute," said burly Little Joe, not moving. His tone said more than his words. They might as well have been carved in stone. "I thought you didn't care about the work," Shanks snapped. "I don't care about the work," retorted the unsavory-looking sailor, scar twitching unnervingly. "I care about the pay." Dapper Shanks laughed softly, reminding the giant Little Joe of a snake hissing in anticipation of its next meal. "Oh, yes. You'll do just fine." Shanks finally said, "There will be plenty of pay I assure you." He named a sum. Little Joe let loose a low whistle. "I'm all yours, brother." Natty Shanks and large Little Joe Blosser left the smoke-filled ramshackle building. Shanks' automobile was a large black sedan which was a few years old. It looked in good shape--no dents or rust--and sounded even better when started. The motor purred like a contented cat. Dapper Shanks, behind the steering wheel, removed a handkerchief from his breast pocket and handed it to his burly passenger. "Tie this over your eyes, Mr. Blosser." "What is this?" growled the giant sailor. "I don't go in for games." "My employer wishes to be discreet," explained nattily-dressed Shanks. "This way, if my employer does not approve of you, no harm will have to befall you." Little Joe laughed heartily, as if the possibility of harm befalling him was one of the funniest things he had ever heard. "All right," he said. "I'll play along. But don't try anything funny." Little Joe took the blindfold from the dapper man. "Neither of us would like it if you did," he said meaningly. When the makeshift blindfold was in place, Shanks put the car in gear, and drove away from the disreputable dive known as The Locker. "And call me Little Joe," the giant added amiably, the earlier disagreement with Shanks apparently forgotten. Money solved a lot of disagreements. The vehicle went on its way and the smell of sea water remained strong in the sailor's nostrils, so he was certain they were driving along the waterfront, keeping close to the shore. The automobile eventually came to a stop, not many minutes later. Little Joe could not be sure how far they had travelled, but he had a fair idea. The giant sailor heard Shanks leave the vehicle, then open his own door. "Let's go," said the dandy's familiar voice. A hand on Little Joe's arm helped pull him from the automobile. Little Joe Blosser was led toward the shore. He stumbled, stepped onto a narrow, swaying path--a gangway. They were boarding a ship. The giant, herded up the gangway by Shanks like a cow at a slaughterhouse, reached the deck, stepped down solidly upon it. Voices and the shuffling of feet told big Little Joe that a dozen or more men were on deck, moving heavy objects around. It also gave him the approximate dimensions of the ship, judging by the distances to the sounds. This, combined with the residual odor of burnt coal, meant that this ship was a tramp steamer. Little Joe was led below decks. "That's far enough, Little Joe," said Shanks, from somewhere ahead of the sailor. Whispers in the dark. Little Joe thought he heard his name mentioned. "You can take off the blindfold now, Little Joe" Shanks said finally. Big Little Joe removed the cloth from his eyes. It was completely dark. He blinked a few times, rapidly, to accustom his eyesight to the blackness. The giant finally made out Shank's natty form a few feet from him. He handed the dandy back his monogrammed handkerchief. The big sailor was suddenly aware of another presence in the darkened room, more through intuition than his physical senses. He reasoned that this must be Shanks's "discreet" boss. Little Joe could not make out the features of this second man, only the outline of his form. The big sailor wasn't sure "he" wasn't a prop dummy, in fact, until "he" spoke. "Search him," said the undifferentiated form. Little Joe did not resist as Shanks patted him down, turning out pockets, feeling for hidden compartments in clothing. The dandy knew his job, the sailor reflected. "Nothing suspicious, sir," clipped Shanks. "The telephone number of The Locker in a matchbook, a broken pencil, a penknife, his DD-214 naval release papers--honorable discharge--and a small--very small--amount of money." "I've got big appetites," Little Joe said defensively. "Shanks tells me you are not too picky about the kind of work you do," said the man in darkness. He seemed to be standing behind a desk. "So?" said the sailor, non-commitally. "There will be trouble from the law, with this job." "It wouldn't be the first time I've had trouble with the boys in blue," said Little Joe, glancing about the room, as if bored. "Doc Savage may become involved," said the voice, in a tone which gave the giant sailor the impression that his reaction to this information was a test. Little Joe shrugged unconcernedly. "I've never met anybody I couldn't drop in two punches," said the burly sailor, with a trace of pride. "But I don't get any press when I let a guy have it." The man behind the desk seemed to weigh this reply, wondering, perhaps, how much of it was boast, how much truth. "I read he's in town investigating those 'Medusa murders'," Little Joe added. "That you?" he ventured. The voice laughed with cold mirth. "Curiosity doesn't kill just cats, Little Joe." The giant sailor stuck his formidable jaw out. "Something wrong with me wanting to know what I'm getting into?" he growled. The man behind the desk laughed again, somewhat more softly this time. "We'll be out of the city for some time, Little Joe. The destination needn't concern you," he added. "We leave shortly. Do you have any problems with that?" A final test. "I've got no one who will miss me," Little Joe replied simply. Shanks led the big sailor out of the room. On deck, natty Shanks took Little Joe to some large wooden crates and metal drums where men were engaged in moving them into the hold of the ship. The cargo seemed to have been loaded onto the deck in hurry, without regard to order. "You'll help these men stow this equipment," Shanks explained. Little Joe noticed that the crates were labelled. There was enough gear and supplies for an extended expedition away from civilization. The big, burly sailor went right to work, immediately earning his keep. Doc Savage--disguised as Little Joe Blosser--was keenly aware of a pair of eyes closely watching him from a portal.

The Stone Death Written By: Jeff Deischer Dedicated to "Kenneth Robeson X" for his encouragement. The Stone Man is a work of fan fiction. Doc Savage is © Conde Nast Back to: Top of Page Index Page Home Page