Mickey Spillane - [Mike Hammer 02] (26 page)

It was a night she thought she’d never have.

It was a night I’d never forget.

 

I was alone when I woke up. The tinkling of a miniature alarm clock on the dresser was a persistent reminder that a new day was here. Pinned to the pillow next to mine was a note from Lola and signed with a lipstick kiss. It read, “It ended too soon, Mike. Now I have to finish the job you gave me. Breakfast is all ready—just warm everything up.”

Breakfast hell. It was after twelve. I ate while I was getting dressed, anxious to get into things. The coffee was too hot to touch and while it cooled I snapped the radio on. For the first time in his life the news commentator seemed genuinely excited. He gave out with a spiel at a fast clip, pausing to take a breath at the end of each paragraph only. The police had staged two more raids after I left Pat and the dragnet was pulling in every shady character suspected of having dealings with the gigantic vice ring that controlled the city.

The iron fist had made a wide sweep. It closed in on places and persons I never thought of. A grin crossed my face and I ran my hand over the stubble of beard on my chin. I was seeing Pat again, acknowledging the knowledge of the existence of such a ring, yet readily agreeing that there was little that could be done about it. He was eating his own words and liking it.

One thing about a drive like that, it can’t be stopped. The papers take up the crusade and the hue and cry is on. The public goes on a fox hunt in righteous indignation, ready to smash something they had unconcernedly supported with indifference only the day before. To them it was fun to see a public name groveling in the mud, a thrill to know they were part of the pack.

But the big scenes weren’t written yet. They’d come later in a courtroom after postponements, stalls, anything to gain time to let the affair cool down. Then maybe a fine would be handed out, maybe a light jail sentence here and there, maybe a dismissal for lack of evidence.

Evidence. The kind that could stick. The police would do their share, but if the evidence didn’t stick there would be people walking out of that court with the memory of what had happened and a vow never to let it happen again. They’d be people with power, of course, filthy, rotten squibs who liked the feeling of power and money, determined to let nothing interfere with their course of life. They’d undermine the workings of the law. A little at a time, like the waves lapping at the sand around a piling, uncovering it until it was ready to topple of its own accord. Then they could get in their own kind ... people who would look the other way and interpret the law to their own advantage.

I got into my coat and went downstairs for a paper, hurrying back to the apartment to read it. The story was there complete with pictures, but it was the columnists that went further than fact. They hinted that more than one prominent personage had been hurriedly called away from town on the eve of the investigation, and if the revelations continued the number in the Blue Book was going to diminish by many pages. One of the more sensational writers inferred that the police were getting able assistance outside their own circle, a subtle implication that they couldn’t handle the situation unless they were prodded into action.

The police themselves had little or nothing to say. There was no statement from higher headquarters as yet, but a few of the lesser politicos had issued fiery blasts that the law was taking too much on its shoulders and was more concerned with smear tactics than law enforcement. I had to laugh at that. I was willing to bet those boys were trying to cover up by making more noise than the police.

I picked up the phone and dialed Pat. He was dog tired and glad to hear from me. “Read the papers yet?” he asked.

“Yeah, and listened to the radio. The exodus has begun.”

“You can say that again. We’re picking them up left and right trying to beat it. Some of them talked enough to lead us into other things, but all we have are the mechanics, the working group of the outfit. And the customers.”

“They’re the ones who support the racket.”

“They’re going to pay more than they expected to. It’s getting rougher. A lot of dirty noses are looking for someone to wipe them on.”

“And you’re the boy?”

“I’m the boy, Mike.”

“Who’s going bail for all the big names?”

“It’s coming in from all over. I’ve been called more dirty names than any one guy in the city....”

“Except me.”

“Yeah, except you. But nobody wants your job like they want mine. I’ve been cajoled, threatened, enticed and what not. It makes me feel ashamed to know that I live within a hundred miles of some people.”

He yawned into the phone and muttered, “I have news, friend. Murray Candid has been seen in the city, hopping from one place to another. He’s accompanied by an alderman in a downtown district.”

“He isn’t trying to make a break for it, then?”

“Evidently not. He’s keeping out of sight until something happens. I think he wants to see how far we’re going to go. He’ll be pretty surprised.”

“You have a murder warrant out on him?”

“Couldn’t make it, Mike. He had an alibi for that. He’s ducking out on this investigation. Here’s something else that might interest you, but keep it under your hat. There’s been an influx of tough guys who are walking around the city just being seen by the right persons. One look and you couldn’t make them talk for love or money.”

“How do you like that!”

“I don’t. They have records, most of them, but they’re clean now and we can’t touch them. We started holding them for questioning. It didn’t work. Every one of them is loaded with dough and sense enough to have a lawyer pull them out fast. None of them was armed or talked back to a cop, so there wasn’t a thing we could stick them with.”

My hands got sticky with sweat. “That’s big money talking again, Pat. The combine is still in business, using its retrenching dough to scare off the talkers. Those babies can do it, too. They aren’t just kidding. What the hell is happening ... are we going back to the wild West again? Damn it, if they keep that up, you’ll have a jugful of clams on your hands and I don’t blame them! It’s not nice to know that sooner or later you’ll get bumped because a guy has already been paid to do the job and he’s a conscientious worker.”

“Our hands are tied. That’s the way it is and we’re stuck with it. They know where to go, besides. It seems like they’ve contacted right parties before we got to them.”

Damn! I smacked my fist against the back of the chair. All right, let them play tough. Let them import a gang with smart, knowing faces and minds that weren’t afraid of taking a chance. They were just mugs who couldn’t think for themselves, but they could feel, and they had emotions, and they could scare just as easily as anyone else, and when they saw the blood run in the streets they wouldn’t be quite so cocky or eager to reach for a rod. They’d run like hell and keep on running until their feet gave out.

“You still there, Mike?”

“I’m still here. I was thinking.”

“Well, I’m going home and get some sleep. You’ll be there tonight?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

“Right. Keep out of sight. The D.A. is getting ideas about me and if he finds out that you have a hand in this I’ll be on the carpet.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll stay dead until I need resurrection. I told Lola to get in touch with you if it’s necessary. Do me a favor and don’t ask questions, just do what she asks. It’s important.”

“She working on it, too?”

“Lola’s handling the most important end of this case right now. If she finds what I think she might find, you cinch your case without kickbacks. See you tonight. I’ll be there, but you won’t see me.”

I said so long and hung up. The end was near, or at least it was in sight. The showdown was too close to risk spoiling it by getting myself involved. All I wanted was Feeney. I wanted to get his neck in my hands and squeeze. But where the hell would Feeney be now? The city was too big, too peppered with fox holes and caves to start a one-man search. Feeney had to be forced out into the open, made to run so we could get a crack at him.

The catch was, the little guys did the running. The big boys stayed out of sight after they buried their gold, ready to dig it up again when the enemy was gone. Feeney wasn’t big. He was the kind that would watch and wait, too, ready to jump out and claim part of the loot. It could be that he wanted more than his share and was ready to take all if he had the chance. Murray Candid, another one content to stay at home, still trusting the devices they had set up to protect themselves. Cobbie Bennett waiting to die. How many more would there be?

I grabbed the phone again and asked for long-distance, waited while the operator took my number and put it into Mr. Berin’s address. I asked for my client and the butler told me he had left for the city only a short while before, intending to register at the Sunic House. Yes, he had reservations. He asked who was calling, please, and wanted to take a message, but there wasn’t anything I could tell him, so I grumbled good-bye and put the phone back.

Velda must have been out for lunch. I let the phone ring for a good five minutes and nobody picked it up. Hell, I couldn’t just sit there while things were happening outside. I wanted to do some hunting of my own, too. I pushed out of the chair and slung my coat on. Something jingled in the pocket and I pulled out a duplicate set of door keys Lola had left for me and each one had lipstick kisses on the shanks, with a little heart dangling from the chain that held them together. I opened the heart and saw Lola smiling up at me.

I smiled back and told her picture all the things she wouldn’t let me tell her last night.

There was still a threat of rain in the air. Overhead the clouds were gray and ruffled, a thick, damp blanket that cut the tops off the bigger buildings and promised to squat down on the smaller ones. From the river a chill wind drove in a wave of mist that covered everything with tiny wet globules. Umbrellas were furled, ready to be opened any instant; passengers waiting for buses or standing along the curb whistling at taxis carried raincoats or else eyed the weather apprehensively.

Twice a radio car screamed its way south, the siren opening a swath down the center of the avenue. I passed a paper stand and saw a later edition and an extra, both with banner headlines. A front-page picture showed the alderman and a socially prominent manufacturer in a police court. The manufacturer looked indignant. A subcaption made mention of some highly important confidential information the police had and wouldn’t disclose at the moment. That would be Murray’s code book. I wondered how Pat was getting on with it.

At a bar on the comer I found a spot in the rear and ordered a beer. There was only one topic of discussion going on in the place and it was being pushed around from pillar to post. A ratty little guy with a nose that monopolized his face said he didn’t like it. The police were out of order. A girl told him to shut up. Every fifteen minutes a special bulletin would come out with the latest developments, making capital of the big names involved, but unable to give information of any special nature.

For a little over two hours I sat there, having one beer after another, hearing a cross-sectional viewpoint of the city. Vice was losing ground fast to the publicity of the cleanup.

When I had enough I crawled to the phone booth and dialed the Sunic House. The desk clerk said Mr. Berin had arrived a few minutes before. I thanked him and hung up. Later I’d go up and refund his dough. I went out where the mist had laid a slick on the streets and found another bar that was a little more cheerful and searched my mind for that other piece to the puzzle.

My stomach made growling noises and I checked my watch. Six-thirty. I threw a buck on the counter for the bartender and walked out and stood in the doorway.

It had started to rain again.

When I finished eating and climbed behind the wheel of the car it was almost eight. The evening shadows had dissolved into night, glossy and wet, the splatter of the rain on the steel roof an impatient drumming that lulled thoughts away. I switched on the radio to a news program, changed my mind and found some music instead.

Some forty-five minutes later I decided I had had enough aimless driving and pulled to the curb between two sheer walls of apartment buildings that had long ago given up any attempt at pretentiousness. I looked out and saw that there were no lights showing in Cobbie Bennett’s room and I settled down to wait.

I might have been alone in that wilderness of brick and concrete. No one bothered to look at me huddled there, my coat collar turned up to merge with the brim of my hat. A few cars were scattered at odd intervals along the street, some old heaps, a couple more respectable by a matter of a few years. A man came out of a building across the way holding a newspaper over his head and hurried to the corner where he turned out of sight

Off in the distance a fire engine screamed, demanding room, behind it another with a harsh, brassy gong backing up the order. I was listening to the fading clamor when the door of Cobbie’s house opened and the little pimp stepped out. He was five minutes early. He had a cigarette in his mouth and was trying to light it with a hand that shook so hard the flame went out and, disgusted, he threw the unlit butt to the pavement and came down the steps.

He didn’t walk fast, even in the rain, nor a straight course. His choppy stride carried him through a weaving pattern, avoiding the street lights, blacking him out in the shadows. When he came to a store front I saw his head turn to look into the angle of the window to see if he was being followed.

I let him turn the comer before I started the car. If the police were there, they weren’t in sight. Nothing was moving this night. I knew the route Cobbie would take, and rather than follow him, decided to go ahead and wait, taking a wide sweep around the one-way street and coming up in the direction he was walking.