Mickey Spillane - [Mike Hammer 13] (19 page)

She peered through the glasses again, then said, “You should have been at the Alamo. We would’ve won.”

“Kitten, I would have been outside that church long before Santa Anna got there. Now, if you can spot them, there are four depressions like that so you could go out from or into the main building.”

“I see one to the right.”

“Can you see the windows?”

“Only the outline. They have no glass in them.”

“And they’ll be barricaded. If you notice up under the eaves there are some decorative wooded sections with a few slots in them. Get the glasses on them while there’s still some light.”

When she located them she studied them carefully. She handed the glasses back to me with a serious frown tugging at her eyes. “Boss, you surprise me,” she said. “For someone straight out of New York . . .”

“I didn’t say I grew up there, kitten.”

“Okay, what are those things? They don’t make sense to me.”

“The don’s got a place that’s
real
early American. He’s got a damn fortress there and we’ve only seen the front side. These slotted jobs are shooting stations too. You slide open the slots and you can aim down at the enemy from high ground, and whatever he has for weapons must be pretty substantial.”

Her voice was incredulous. “And you’re taking them on?”

“I didn’t say that either.” I gave her a small grin. “Besides, I wouldn’t be surprised if all that ground was seeded with remote-activated land mines.”

“Why remote?”

“So you couldn’t set them off accidentally.”

“Who would want to go out there at all?”

“Nobody who lived in the house, that’s for sure.”

I handed her the glasses and she packed them back in her bottomless purse. “You know, Mike,” she said to me, “I think I enjoyed this stuff more back in the city. You don’t get hung up on thistle bushes and briars, or get stuck by pine needles.” She pushed a branch away from her face and said a low, “Damn!”

“Quit complaining,” I told her.

“And there aren’t any bats in the city.”

“There aren’t any bats here either,” I reminded her.

“Why weren’t any in the cave at Harris’ place? On TV they always come swooping out of old caves at sundown.”

“Look, if you want bats, I’ll find you some. Don’t you know that—”

“They don’t get caught in your hair,” she finished for me. “Yes, I know they are naturally radar guided and have nothing to do with vampires and keep the insect population in control, but the damn things scare me and please let me have my idiosyncrasies.”

“Okay, but out here in the brush look out for snakes. This is copperhead heaven.”

She stopped dead in her tracks and stared at me. “Did you have to say that? I’m terrified of snakes. If you want to carry me . . .”

“Honey . . .” I tried to placate her “. . . what would I know? I didn’t grow up here.”

There was a long pause. “Mike, do you know how to kill a snake?”

“Sure. Turn a mongoose on him.”

“That’s what I thought,” she said sourly. “Why don’t you just keep walking and keep quiet.”

It took the better part of an hour to see the don’s house from all angles. A lot of thought had gone into its construction, even the placement of the outbuildings, which could well have tunnel connections with the big house. Back in the early thirties this setup would have been perfect for the vacation quarters of the head of a family. Or even as the seat of the organization. It would be totally self-sufficient, with water, food and disposal naturally taken care of. They could sit inside their snug fortress and nobody could get to them at all. Not without dying, that is.

We had just reached the cover of the trees when a black limousine came around the curve and drove up to the main entrance. I snapped my fingers for the glasses and Velda handed them to me. I saw Patterson get out from the driver’s seat, open the back door and help Don Ponti out. The old man was dressed in country clothes this time: khaki pants, rolled up high enough to show tan boots, and a plaid shirt with a cowboy vest over it. He carried what looked like a sheepskin jacket to keep the mountain chill off. The front door opened and a bald, stout middle-aged guy came out, bowing and scraping to the don, hauling his bags out of the limo’s trunk, then leading the way back into the house, standing aside at the door so the don could make his grand entrance. Patterson got back in the limo and circled the house to the garage area. He didn’t come back, so he must have gone in through another entrance.

“What do you make of that?” Velda asked.

“He’s up here for more than overnight. Those bags probably had personal items he likes to have around him. Clothes and everything else would be here.”

“Wouldn’t he have more of his men around him?”

“Wait, kitten. They’ll be here.”

Two men carrying shotguns came out of the woods, walking on either side of the drive. Another minute and two more limos eased into the area and we could see the white faces of the men behind the glass. Just as the cars reached the house another pair of men walked up. There were no shotguns this time. Both of them cradled assault rifles in their arms and their eyes searched every place an enemy could be. They didn’t go in the house. They simply melted into the shadows and we couldn’t see them at all.

Very carefully, we went back the way we had come. I was wondering why they didn’t have a canine guard around, but maybe they felt safe enough as it was. In another hour we were back at the car and I picked up the road that led back toward the motel. Somehow Velda had managed to get the knots out of her hair and dry-brushed herself back to decency. But the way she fit into her jumpsuit sure turned heads at the Cinnamon Motel.

And I was glad she was a magnet for all those eyes, because one set belonged to Howie Drago and another to one of the don’s soldiers. She must have picked up on it as soon as I did because without a word to them, she walked into the office of the motel and I knew she’d be leaving out the back door. Women don’t like to leave their goodies behind them. She’d get in her room, grab her stuff and be expecting me to pick her up outside her door without a single break in routine. So I just pulled away as if I were only the driver, went down the drive onto the street, turned left back to the entrance and kept on going past the knot of Ponti’s men and they didn’t even recognize the second pass of the same car. I pushed the door open on the passenger side and Velda came out of her room, slid in with her canvas bag and, as I drove back to the road, casually tossed it on the backseat.

“I told the clerk we were leaving and gave him sixty bucks to cover tonight. I didn’t bother to get a receipt.”

“Just put it on the office expenses.”

“Don’t worry. I will,” she said. “Now, what were those people doing there?”

“That’s the only motel around here.”

“I’m not going to come apart, Mike. They could have gone with Ponti like the others.”

“Okay, he’s got a rear guard. He has enough men in his private army to set up a roadblock wherever he wants around here.”

“Mike . . . how would he know?”

The highway was directly ahead. So far there had been no attempt at an interception. I said, “The don’s no dummy. This is where the thing started and it looks like it will end here too. Ponti didn’t need any road maps. All he has to do is wait. He thinks that the only one who knows where eight-nine billion bucks are stashed is me. And by association, you.”

“But we don’t!”

“We still have an edge if he thinks so,” I told her.

As we turned south on the highway she stared out the window. “How are you going to get into the house?”

“Ponti’s going to invite me in.”

“Mike . . .”

“You’re not going with me, doll. I need somebody on the outside.”

“You can have an . . . accident. . . .” Velda suggested, leaving the rest unsaid.

I tapped the cruise control button and kept the car on the posted limit. Civilization started to appear little by little and at the third turnoff I swung to the right and followed the road to the Hawthorn Motel that I had seen on a billboard a mile back.

This time the desk clerk was a pleasant-faced lady in her sixties and when I asked for two rooms she gave me a startled look and said, “Why?”

“Because we’re not married yet.”

Her eyebrows went up and she drew back a bit. “Well, I’ll be darned. This her idea?” She gave Velda a disapproving look.

“No,” I said, “it’s mine. We’re only engaged.”

“Well, friend, you had better get ready for some practice time then. I have one room left and it’s a double.”

“Two beds?”

“Yes, why?”

“Ever see
It Happened One Night
?”

Velda was glaring at me when I took the keys. Her mouth was hiding a smile while her eyes were biting me. The desk clerk just shook her head, not able to figure me out. Now I was beginning to enjoy being a good guy.

Inside the room Velda said, “Do we really have to put up the walls of Jericho?”

“Not if you behave yourself.”

I chased her into the shower and she came out beautifully dampened in a black nightgown. It was one of those accessories that had a specific purpose in mind, but from the look on her face it was like shooting blanks.

When I came out, teeth brushed, shaved and showered, in my fresh pajama bottoms, the single bed lamp was on very low and she waved me over to her side. “Do I get a good night kiss?”

I reached for her wrists and folded my fingers around them. She was silky to feel and she let me hold her arms down on either side of her head. She was beginning to understand the game now. The tip of her tongue traced a sparkling wetness across her lips and they parted as I bent over her. She was warm and lovely and that little bit of her that I touched was alive with suppressed fire. I could feel it and I could taste it. I pulled away reluctantly, then said softly, “I love you, kitten.”

Her eyes told me all I wanted to know. I went to my own bed. There was another debt I owed to the army. It taught me how to sleep under any conditions.

When I gassed up the attendant directed me to a car rental spot and I got a Ford Mustang for Velda. There was a breakfast spot a block away so after we ate we tried to put it all together again. There were no new answers.

Then an answer walked in the door, looked around deliberately until he spotted us and came over to our table. Both of us had been around too long to seem surprised, so I said, “Sit down, Homer. You have breakfast yet?”

Homer Watson shook his head. “No, I thought I’d join you.” He indicated he’d have what we had ordered and sat back smiling.

I didn’t let him get in the first word. “You have any trouble locating us?”

“Just a little,” he told me. “The federal government has fingers that reach into every nook and cranny of American life. You weren’t hard at all.”

“Oh?”

He made a wry face. “We can make immediate connections with any local police agency if we want look-outs. Knowing pretty well where this affair was taking you made it a lot easier. Of course, we knew you’d be getting another car, so calls went out to all rental agencies in the area and presto, an hour ago we knew where you were.”

Velda leaned forward, her fingers laced together. “Do you mean that we have the entire United States government backing up a homicide investigation?”

That took him off his direct line of thought, making him frown a moment.

“Marcos Dooley,” Velda reminded him. “He was murdered.”

If he tried to make a wise remark he knew I was going to lay a fist right in his mouth and he stopped it before it was born. Instead, he said, “You know what I’m looking for.”

“And what are we looking for, Homer?”

He took a deep breath and studied us with deliberate patience, as though we were being recalcitrant students. “Your secretary here made some interesting inquiries regarding funds obtained by the organized underworld.”

“That was all public information, Mr. Watson,” Velda said. “Printed periodicals.”

“Two weren’t. Computer information was tapped into that we had red-flagged.”

“Sneaky, Homer,” I said.

“Not really. Just a minute corner of our agency was involved to get this far. This is very amateur stuff for our bureau.”

“Then why haven’t you found what you’re looking for?”

“We will.”

“You can’t,” I said. “Hell, you don’t even know what you’re after.”

His voice had a driven edge to it. “There are up to a hundred billion dollars of unreported, untaxed money . . .”