The Mike Hammer Collection, Volume 1

by Mickey Spillane

  I got up and sat on the arm of her chair, then ran my fingers through her hair. “Nothing’s going to happen, baby. Keep talking ... all of it.”

  For an answer she buried her face in her hands and sobbed uncontrollably ; I could afford to wait. In five minutes she was cried out, but still shaking. There was a haunted look in her eyes that went with the tenseness in her shoulders and her nails had drawn blood from her palms. I lit another butt and handed it to her, watching while she sucked on it gratefully, taking the smoke down deep, seeking a relief of some sort.

  Then she turned those haunted eyes on me and said, “If they find out I told you ... or anybody, anything at all, they’ll kill me, Mike. They can’t afford to have people talk. They can’t afford to have people even suspect. I’m afraid! And what could you do ... it’s been going on forever and it will keep going on as long as there are people. I don’t want to die for something like that.”

  I picked my words carefully because I was getting mad again. “Kid,” I told her, “you don’t know me very well. You don’t, but there are plenty of guys who do. Maybe they’re able to scare the hell out of decent citizens, but they’ll drop a load when I come around. They know me, see? They know damn well I won’t take any crap from them and if they get tough about it they’ll get their guts opened up for them. I got a gun and I’ve used it before ... plenty. I got a license to use it, which they don’t have and if somebody gets killed I go to court and explain why. Maybe I catch hell and get kicked out of business, but if they pull the trigger they sit in the hot seat. I’m calling the plays in this game, kid. I like to shoot those dirty bastards and I’ll do it every chance I get and they know it. That’s why they scare easy.

  “And don’t you worry about anything happening to you. Maybe they’ll know where it came from, but they won’t do anything about it, because I’m going to pass the word that I want somebody’s skin and the first time they get rough they’ll catch a slug in the front or back or even in the top of the head. I don’t care where I shoot them. I’m not a sportsman. I’d just as soon get them from a dark alley as not and they know it. I play it their way, only worse, and somebody is going to worry himself into a grave over it.”

  My hand was resting on her shoulder, and she turned her head and kissed my fingers. “You’re kind of wonderful, even if you do tell me yourself,” she said.

  The haunted look in her eyes was gone now.

  Lola took another drag on the cigarette and snubbed it out, then reached for the glasses. When they were filled she handed me mine and we touched them briefly and drank deep. She finished hers with one breath in between, then set it back on the table. She was ready to talk now.

  “Nobody seems to know who’s behind the system, Mike. It may be one person or it may be several. I don’t know the details of the pay-off, but I do know how the racket operates. It isn’t a haphazard method at all, and you’d probably fall flat on your face if you knew who was involved. Right now there are some girls with an amazing social standing who were, at one time, no better than me. They got out in time. They made the right contacts between ‘appointments’ and married them.

  “You see, the real call system is highly specialized. The girls are of only the highest caliber. They must be beautiful, well educated, with decorum enough to mingle with the best. Their ‘clients’ are the wealthy. Generally an appointment means a week end at some country estate or a cruise along the coast line on some luxurious yacht. Of course, there are other appointments less fancy, but equally as lucrative, as when somebody wants to entertain a business associate. Apparently tactics like that pay off to the extent that the money involved means nothing.

  “A girl is carefully investigated before she is approached to take part in the racket. It starts when she is seen around town too often with too many men. In the course of her travels she meets other girls already in the racket who seem to have everything they want without having to do much to earn it. These acquaintances ripen into easy friendships and a few hints are passed and the girl begins to take the attitude of why should she do the same things for free when she can get paid for it.

  “So she mentions the fact and introductions are made to the right people. She is set up in a nice apartment, given an advance and listed in the book as a certain type. When a party wants that type he calls, or makes the arrangement with an in-between, and you’re off on your date. Whatever gifts the girl gets she is allowed to keep and some of them make out pretty well. The money that is paid for her services is passed in advance and the girl gets a cut from that, deposited to her account in a bank.

  “Oh, it’s all very nice and easy, a beautiful deal. There aren’t any ties on the girl either. If she happens to run across someone she cares for she’s free to quit the racket and get married, and she can expect a juicy bonus for the time in service. That’s one reason why there’s no kickback. The girls never talk because they can’t have anyone know of their associations, and the system won’t force them to stay because there’s nothing more dangerous than a hysterical woman.

  “But there are times when one of the girls becomes dangerous. She can develop a conscience, or take to drink and find herself with a loose tongue, or get greedy and want more money on the threat of exposure. Then the system takes care of itself. The girl simply disappears ... or has an accident. If we hear of it it’s a lesson to us to do one thing or another ... keep quiet or get out ... and keep quiet then, too.

  “I learned my lesson well. When I got careless and became a disease carrier I lost my place in the system. Oh, they didn’t mention the fact ... one of the other girls did. I suddenly had an expensive apartment on my hands and no income, so I cashed in what I had and moved on down the ladder. I was too ashamed to go to a doctor and I didn’t know what else I could do, so I started drinking. I met some more people again. These people didn’t care what I had. They got me a room in a house and I was in business again. It took me a long time to get smart, but I did, and I went to the hospital. After I came out the house was gone, Nancy was dead and you were there.”

  She slumped back in the chair and closed her eyes as though she were exhausted. I said, “Now some names, Lola.”

  Her eyes were mere slits, her voice practically a whisper. “Murray Candid. He owns some night clubs, but he’s always at the Zero Zero Club. He is the contact man I met. He made all the arrangements, but he isn’t the top man. The town is worked in sections and he covers the part I worked. He’s dangerous, Mike.”

  “So am I.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “I don’t know, kid. You can’t go in and accuse a guy without proof, even if you know you’re right. The law’s on his side then. I need proof ... what could I use to stick him?”

  “There are books, Mike ... if you could find them. They’d love to do without books because they’d be almost clean then, but they can’t because they can’t trust each other.”

  “Would this Candid guy have them?”

  “I doubt it. He’d keep temporary records, but the big boy has the important data.”

  I stood up and finished my drink. “Okay, Lola, you did fine,” I said. “It’s something to work on ... a place to start. You don’t have to worry because I won’t bring you into it. Sit tight around here and I’ll call you from time to time. There are still things you probably know that I don’t, but I can’t tell what they are yet.”

  Lola came up from her seat slowly and slid her arms around my waist. She laid her head on my shoulder and nuzzled her face into my neck. “Be careful, Mike, please be careful.”

  I tilted her chin up and grinned at her. “I’m always careful, sugar. Don’t worry about me.”

  “I can’t help it. Maybe I ought to have my head examined, but I’m crazy about you.”

  She stopped me before I could speak by putting her forefinger on my lips. “Not a word, Mike. Let me do the liking. I’m no good and I know it. I’m not going to mess into your life a bit so you can let me go on liking you if I ple
ase. No obligations, Mr. Hammer, I’ll just sit on the side lines and throw kisses your way, and wherever you are you’ll always know that where I am is a girl you’ll always have to yourself. You’re a nice guy, you big lug. If I had the sense to lead a normal life you’d never get away from me.”

  This time I shut her up. Her body was a warm thing in my hands and I pressed her close to me, feeling tremors of excitement run across her back. Her lips were full and ripe, and whatever she had been was cleansed and there was no past for a brief instant. When I kissed her mouth was like a flame that fluttered from a feeble glow into a fiery torch.

  I had to shove her away roughly before everything else was forgotten. We stood there, two feet apart, and my voice didn’t want to come. When it did I said, “Save it for me, Lola, just me.”

  “Just you, Mike,” she repeated.

  She was still there in the middle of the room, tall and beautiful, her breasts alternately rising and falling with a craving neither of us could afford, when I went out the door.

  The Zero Zero Club was a cellar joint off Sixth Avenue that buried itself among the maze of other night spots with nothing more than two aughts done in red neon to proclaim its location. But it was doing a lively business. It had atmosphere; plenty of it ... that’s why they called it the Zero Zero. Both visibility and ceiling were wiped out with cigar smoke.

  Down the stairs a cauliflower-eared gent played doorman with a nod, a grunt and an open palm. I gave him a quarter so he wouldn’t remember me as a piker. The clock on the wall read eleven-fifteen and the place was packed. It wasn’t a cheap crowd because half of them were in evening clothes. Unlike most joints, there was no tinsel or chromium. The bar was an old solid mahogany job set along one wall and the tables were grouped around a dance floor that actually had room for dancing. The orchestra was set into a niche that could double as a stage for the floor show if necessary.

  The faces around me weren’t those of New Yorkers. At least those of the men. Most could be spotted as out-of-towners looking for a good time. You could tell those who had their wives along. They sat at the bar and tables sipping drinks with one eye on the wife and the other on the stray babes, wondering why they had been talked into taking the little woman along.

  Yeah, the atmosphere was great, what you could see of it. The Zero Zero Club took you right back to the saloons of a Western mining camp and the patrons loved it. Scattered throughout the crowd were half a dozen hostesses that saw to it that everyone had a good time. I got a table back in one corner that was partially screened by a group of potted plants and waited. When the waiter came over I ordered a highball, got it and waited some more.

  Five minutes later a vat-dyed blonde hostess saw me there and undulated over to my table.

  She gave me a big smile from too-red lips and said, “Having fun?”

  “Not so much.”

  I leaned over and pulled out a chair for her. She looked around once and sat down with a sigh, using me as a breather between courses. I signaled the waiter and he brought her a Manhattan without asking. She said, “It isn’t tea, friend. You’re paying for good whiskey.”

  “Why tell me?”

  “The farmers out there have read too much about hostesses drinking cold tea. They always want to taste it. So we don’t drink at all, or have a small cola.”

  There wasn’t much sense fooling around with chitchat here. I finished my drink, called for another, and while I waited I asked, “Where’s Murray?”

  The blonde squinted her eyes at me a moment, checked her watch and shook her head. “Beats me. He hardly ever gets here before midnight. You a friend of his?”

  “Not exactly. I wanted to see him about something.”

  “Maybe Bucky can help you. He’s the manager when Murray’s away.”

  “No, he couldn’t help me. You remember Nancy Sanford, don’t you?”

  She set her glass down easily and made little rings on the table with the wet bottom. She was looking at me curiously. “Yes, I remember her. She’s dead, you know.”

  “I know. I want to find out where she lived.”

  “Why?”

  “Look, honey, I’m an insurance investigator. We have reasons to believe that Nancy Sanford was actually somebody else. She was using a phony name. Oh, we know all about her, all right. But if she was this somebody else, we have a policy on her we’d like to clear up. The beneficiaries stand to collect five thousand dollars.”

  “But why come here?”

  “Because we heard she used to work here.”

  There was a sad look in the blonde’s eyes this time. “She was working in a house....”

  “It burned down,” I interrupted.

  “Then she moved over to an apartment, I think. I don’t know where, but ...”

  “We checked there. That’s where she lived before she died. Where was she before either one?”

  “I don’t know. I lost track of her after she checked out of here. Once in a while someone would mention seeing her, but I never did. I’m afraid I can’t help you at all. Perhaps Murray could tell you.”

  “I’ll ask him,” I said. “Incidentally, there’s a reward that goes with finding the place. Five hundred bucks.”

  Her face brightened at that. “I don’t get it, Mac. Five bills to find out where she lived and not who she was. What’s the angle?”

  “We want the place because there’s someone in the neighborhood who can positively identify her. We’re having trouble now with people putting in phony claims for the money, and we don’t want to lead them to anybody before we get there first, see?”

  “In other words, keep all this under my hat until I find out. If I can find out.”

  “You got it.”

  “I’ll buy it. Stop back again soon and see if I learned anything. I’ll ask around.” She finished her drink and turned on her “having fun?” smile, waved to me and went back to the rest of the party. The kid wanted money, all right. She’d keep it under her hat and ask around. It wasn’t exactly what I had come for, but it might give me a lead sometime.

  Five drinks and an hour and a half later Murray Candid came in. I had never seen him before, but when the waiters found something to do in a hurry and the farmers started chucking hellos over, looking for a smile of recognition that might impress the girl friend, I knew the boss had come in.

  Murray Candid wasn’t the type to be in the racket at all. He was small and pudgy, with red cheeks, a few chins and a face that had honesty written all over it. He looked like somebody’s favorite uncle. Maybe he was the one to be in the racket at that. The two guys that trailed him in made like they were friends of the family, but goon was the only word that fitted them. They both were young, immaculately dressed in perfectly tailored tuxedos. They flashed smiles around, shook hands with people they knew, but the way they kept their eyes going and the boss under their wing meant they were paid watchdogs. And they were real toughies, too. Young, strong, smart, with a reckless look that said they liked their job. I bet neither one of them smoked or drank.

  The band came on then, with a baby spot focused on the dance floor, and as the house lights were dimming out I saw the trio turn into an alcove over in the far corner. They were heading for the place I wanted to see ... Murray Candid’s office. I waited through the dance team and sat out a strip act, then paid my check and picked my way through the haze to the alcove and took the corridor that opened from it.

  There were two doors at the far end. One was glass-paneled and barred, with EXIT written across it. The other was steel, enameled to resemble wood, and there was no doorknob. Murray’s office. I touched the button in the sill and if a bell rang somewhere I didn’t hear it, but in a few seconds the door opened and one of the boys gave me a curt nod.

  I said, “I’d like to see Mr. Candid. Is he in?”

  “He’s in. Your name, please?”

  “Martin. Howard Martin from Des Moines.”

  He reached his hand to the wall and pulled down a house phone. Whi
le he called inside I felt the door. It was about three inches thick and the interior lining was of some resilient soundproofing material. Nice place.

  The guy hung up and stepped inside. “Mr. Candid will see you.” His voice had a peculiar sound; toneless, the ability to speak without accentuating any syllable. Behind me the door closed with a soft click and we were in an anteroom that had but one decoration ... another door. This time he opened it and I stepped inside at once.

  I was halfway across the room before I heard a cough and looked to see another door about to close. The place was lousy with doors, but not a sign of a window.

  Murray Candid was half hidden by a huge oak desk that occupied most of the wall. Behind his head were framed pictures of his floor-show stars and studio photos of dozens of celebrities, all autographed. There was a couch, a few easy chairs and a small radio and bar combination. That was all, except for the other goon that was stretched out on the couch.

  “Mr. Candid?”

  He rose with a smile and stretched out his hand. I took it, expecting a moist, soft clasp. It wasn’t. “Mr. Martin from, ah, Des Moines, is that correct?”

  I said it was.

  “Sit down, sir. Now, what can I do for you?”

  The goon on the couch hardly turned his head to look at me, but he rasped, “He’s got a gun, Murray.”

  He didn’t catch me with my pants down at all. “Natch, brother,” I agreed, “I’m a cop, Des Moines police.” Just the same, it annoyed the hell out of me. The coat was cut to fit over the rod and you weren’t supposed to notice it. These guys were pros a long time.

  Murray gave me a big smile. “You officers probably don’t feel dressed unless you’re armed. Now, tell me, what can I do for you?”

  I sat back and lit a cigarette, taking my time. When I flicked the match into a waste basket, I was ready to pop it. “I want a few women for a party. We’re having a convention in town next month and we want things set up for a good time.”