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Michael Malloy was a drunk, stumbling through life in a whiskey haze. His fellow barflies saw something else . . .
. . . A chance to get rich quick. Just take out life insurance policies on the chump and whack him. Dubbed the Murder Trust, the makeshift band of low-rent thugs—a syphilitic speakeasy owner, a crooked undertaker and a crazed gunman—gave Malloy rounds of wood alcohol on the house, fed him poisoned oysters and tainted sardines, dragged him into the street, repeatedly plowed into his limp body with a taxi, and left him exposed to freezing temperatures.
The Murder Trust waited to collect . . .
But one week later, Malloy stumbled into his favorite haunt with quite a story to tell his friends, or at least the parts of it he remembered. What the Murder Trust did next would inadvertently turn their sadly oblivious victim into a distinguished, headline-making symbol of Depression-era resilience in a crime so convoluted, so singularly outrageous, authorities refused to believe it until the evidence against the Murder Trust proved irrefutable . . .
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