The Mike Hammer Collection, Volume 1

by Mickey Spillane

  “Oodles.”

  “Like your boss?”

  “Which one?”

  “Juno.”

  Connie spread her hands out in a noncommittal gesture. “Juno never interferes with me. She had seen my work and was impressed with it. When I had a call from her I was thrilled to the bones because I hit the top. Now all she does is select those ads that fit me best and Anton takes care of the rest.”

  “Juno must make a pile,” I said observingly.

  “I guess she does! Besides drawing a big salary she’s forever on the receiving end of gifts from overgenerous clients. I’d almost feel sorry for Anton if he had the sense to care.”

  “What about him?”

  “Oh, he’s the arty type. Doesn’t give a hoot for money as long as he has his work. He won’t let a subordinate handle the photography, either. Maybe that’s why the agency is so successful.”

  “He married? A wife would cure that.”

  “Anton married? That’s a laugh. After all the women he handles, and I do mean handles, what mere woman would attract that guy. He’s positively frigid. For a Frenchman that’s disgraceful.”

  “French?”

  Connie nodded and dragged on her smoke. “I overheard a little secret being discussed between Anton and Juno. It seems that Juno met him in France and brought him over here, just in time for him to escape some nasty business with the French court. During the war he was supposed to have been a collaborator of a sort ... taking propaganda photos of all the bigwig Nazis and their families. As I said, Anton doesn’t give a hoot about money or politics as long as he has his work.”

  “That’s interesting but not very helpful. Tell me something about Clyde.”

  “I don’t know anything about Clyde except that looking like a movie gangster he is a powerful attraction for a lot of jerks from both sexes.”

  “Do the girls from the studio ever give him a play?”

  She shrugged again. “I’ve heard rumors. You know the kind. He hands out expensive presents to everybody during the holidays and is forever treating someone to a lavish birthday party under the guise of friendship when it’s really nothing but good business practice. I know for a fact that the crowd has stuck to the Bowery longer than they ever have to another fad. I’m wondering what’s going to happen when Clyde gets ordinary people.”

  “So am I,” I said. “Look, do something for me. Start inquiring around and see who forms his clientele. Important people. The kind of people who have a voice in the city. It’ll mean getting yourself invited to the Inn but that ought to be fun.”

  “Why don’t you take me?”

  “I’m afraid that Clyde wouldn’t like that. You shouldn’t have any trouble getting an escort. How about one of those ten other guys?”

  “It can be managed. It would be more fun with you though.”

  “Maybe some other time. Has one of those ten guys got dough?”

  “They all have.”

  “Then take the one with the most. Let him spend it. Be a little discreet if you start to ask questions and don’t get too pointed with them. I don’t want Clyde to get sore at you too. He can think of some nasty games to play.” I had the group of photos behind my back and I pulled them out. Connie came over to look at them. “Know all these girls?”

  She nodded as she went through them. “Clotheshorses, every one. Why?”

  I picked out the one of Marion Lester and held it out. “Know her well?”

  She made a nasty sound with her mouth. “One of Juno’s pets,” she said. “Came over from the Stanton Studio last year when Juno offered her more money. She’s one of the best, but she’s a pain.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, she thinks she’s pretty hot stuff. She’s been playing around a lot besides. One of these days Juno will can her. She’s got a tramp complex that will lose the agency some clients one of these days.” She riffled through some of the others and took out two, one a shot of a debutante-type in a formal evening gown that was almost transparent. “This is Rita Loring. You wouldn’t think it, but she saw thirty-five plenty of years ago. One of the men at the show that night hired her at a fabulous sum to model exclusively for him.”

  The other photo was a girl in a sports outfit of slacks, vest and blouse, touched with fancy gimcracks that women like. She was photographed against a background that was supposed to represent a girls’ dormitory. “Little Jean Trotter, our choice teen-age type. She eloped the day before yesterday. She sent Juno a letter and we all chipped in to buy her a television set. Anton was quite perturbed since she left in the middle of a series. Juno had to pat his hand to calm him down. I never saw him get so mad.”

  She handed the pictures back to me and I put them away. The evening was early so I told her to get busy on the phone and arrange herself a date. She didn’t like it, but she did it so I’d get jealous. She did the damndest job of seduction over a telephone I’d ever heard. I sat there and grinned until she got mad and took it out on the guy on the other end. She said she’d meet him in a hotel lobby downtown to save time and hung up.

  “You’re a stinker, Mike,” she said.

  I agreed with her. She threw my coat at me and climbed into her own. When we reached the street entrance I did like I said and carried her out to the car. She didn’t get her feet wet, but the snow blew up her dress and that was just as bad. We had supper in a sea-food place, took time for a drink and some small talk, then I dumped her in front of the hotel where she was to meet her date. I kissed her so long and she stopped being mad.

  Now I had to keep me a couple of promises. One was a promise to outdo a character named Rainey. I followed a plow up Broadway for a few blocks, dragging along at a walk. To give it time to get ahead of me I pulled to the curb on a side street and walked back to a corner bar. This time I went right to the phone and shoved in a nickel.

  I had to wait through that nickel and another one before Joe Gill finally pulled himself out of the tub and came to the phone. He barked a sharp hello and I told him it was me.

  “Mike,” he started, “if you don’t mind, I’d rather not ...”

  “What kind of a pal are you, chum? Look, you’re not getting into anything. All I want is another little favor.”

  I heard him sigh. “All right. What is it now?”

  “Information. The guy is Emil Perry, a manufacturer. He has a residence in the Bronx. I want to know all about him, socially and financially.”

  “Now you’re asking a toughie. I can put some men on his social life, but I can’t go into his financial status too deeply. There’re laws, you know.”

  “Sure, and there’re ways to get around them. I want to know about his bank accounts even if you have to break into his house to get them.”

  “Now, Mike.”

  “You don’t have to do it, you know.”

  “What the hell’s the use of arguing with you. I’ll do what I can, but this time we’re even on all past favors, understand? And don’t do me any more I’ll have to repay.”

  I laughed at him. “Quit being a worrier. If you get in trouble I’ll see my pal the D.A. and everything will be okeydoke.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. Keep in touch with me and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Roger, ’Night, Joe.”

  He grunted a good-by and the phone clicked in my ear. I laughed again and opened the door of the booth. Soon I ought to know what Rainey had on the ball to scare the hell out of a big shot like Perry. Meanwhile I’d find out if I could be scared a little myself.

  The Globe presses were grinding out a late edition with a racket that vibrated throughout the entire building. I went in through the employees’ entrance and took the elevator up to the rewrite room where the stutter of typewriters sounded like machine guns. I asked one of the copy boys where I could find Ed Cooper and he pointed to a glass-enclosed room that was making a little racket all its own.

  Ed was the sports editor on the Globe with a particular passion for exposing the crumbs t
hat made money the easy way, and what he didn’t know about his business wasn’t worth knowing. I opened the door and walked into a full-scale barrage that he was pouring out of a mill as old as he was.

  He looked up without stopping, said, “Be right with you, Mike.”

  I sat down until he finished his paragraph and played with the .25 in my jacket pocket.

  My boy must have liked what he wrote because he had a satisfied leer on his face that was going to burn somebody up. “Spill it, Mike. Tickets or information?”

  “Information. A former hood named Rainey is a fight promoter. Where and who does he promote?”

  Ed took it right in stride. “Know where the Glenwood Housing project is out on the Island?”

  I said I did. It was one of those cities-within-a-city affairs that catered to ex-G.I.’s within an hour’s drive from New York.

  “Rainey’s in with a few other guys and they built this arena to get the trade from Glenwood. They put on fights and wrestling bouts, all of it stinko. Just the same, they pack ’em in. Lately there’s been some talk of the fight boys going in the tank so’s a local betting ring can clean up. I got that place on my list if it’s any news to you.”

  “Fine, Ed. There’s a good chance that Rainey will be making the news soon. If I’m around when it happens I’ll give you a buzz.”

  “You going out there tonight?”

  “That’s right.”

  Ed looked at his watch. “They got a show on. If you step on it you might catch the first bout.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “It oughta be real interesting. I’ll tell you about it when I get back to the city.” I put on my hat and opened the door. Ed stopped me before I got out.

  “Those guys I was telling you about—Rainey’s partners—they’re supposed to be plenty tough. Be careful.”

  “I’ll be very careful, Ed. Thanks for the warning.”

  I went out through the clatter and pounding beat of the presses and found my car. Already the snow had piled up on the hood, pulling a white blind over the windows. I wiped it off and climbed in.

  One thing about the city; it was mechanized to the point of perfection. The snow had been coming down for hours now, yet the roads were passable and getting better every minute. What the plows hadn’t packed down the cars did, with big black eyes of manhole covers steaming malevolently on every block.

  By the time I reached the arena outside the Glenwood area I could hear the howling and screaming of the mob. The parking space was jammed and overflowed out onto the street. I found an open spot a few hundred yards down the street that was partially protected by a huge oak and rolled in.

  I had missed the first bout, but judging from the stumble-bums that were in there now I didn’t miss much. It cost me a buck for a wall seat so far back I could hardly see through the smoke to the ring. Moisture dripped from the cinder-block walls and the seats were nothing more than benches roughed out of used lumber. But the business they did there was terrific.

  It was a usual crowd of plain people hungry for entertainment and willing to pay for it. They could do better watching television if they stayed home. I sat near the door and let my eyes become accustomed to the semidarkness. The last few rows were comparatively empty, giving me a fairly full view of what went on in the aisles.

  There was a shout from the crowd and one of the pugs in the ring was counted out. A few minutes later he was carted up the aisle and out into the dressing room. Some other gladiators took their places.

  By the end of the fourth bout everybody who was going to be there was there. The two welters who had waltzed through the six rounds went past me into the hall behind the wall trailing their managers and seconds. I got up and joined the procession. It led to a large, damp room lined with cheap metal lockers and wooden plank benches with a shower room spilling water all over the floor. The whole place reeked of liniment and sweat. Two heavies with bandaged hands were playing cards on the bench keeping score with spit marks on the floor.

  I walked over to one of the cigar-smoking gents in a brown striped suit and nudged him with a thumb. “Where’s Rainey?”

  He shifted the cigar to the other side of his mouth and said, “Inna office, I guess. You gotta boy here tonight?”

  “Naw,” I told him. “My boy’s in bed wita cold.”

  “Tough. Can’t maka dime that way.”

  “Naw.”

  He shifted the cigar back bringing an end to that. I went looking for the office that Rainey was inna. I found it down at the end of the hall. A radio was playing inside, tuned to a fight that was going on in the Garden. There must have been another door leading to the office because it slammed and there was a mumble of voices. One started to swear loudly until another told him to shut up. The swearing stopped. The voices mumbled again, the door slammed, then all I heard was the radio blaring.

  I stood there a good five minutes and heard the end of the fight. The winner was telling his story of the battle over the air when the radio was switched off. I opened the door and walked in.

  Rainey was sitting at a table counting the receipts for the night, stacking the bills in untidy piles and keeping the tally in a small red book. I had my hand on the knob and shut the door as noiselessly as I could. There was a barrel bolt below the knob and I slid it into the hasp.

  If Rainey hadn’t been counting out loud he would have heard me come in. As it was, I heard him go into the five thousand mark before I said, “Good crowd, huh?”

  Rainey said, “Shut up,” and went on counting.

  I said, “Rainey.”

  His fingers paused over a stack of fives. His head turned in slow motion until he was looking at me over his shoulder. The padding in his coat obscured the lower half of his face and I tried to picture it through the back window of a sedan racing up Thirty-third Street. It didn’t match, but I didn’t care so much either.

  Rainey was a guy you could dislike easily. He had one of those faces that looked painted on, a perpetual mixture of hate, fear and toughness blended by a sneer that was a habit. His eyes were cold, merciless marbles hardly visible under thick, fleshy lids.

  Rainey was a tough guy.

  I leaned against the door jamb with a cigarette hanging from my lips, one hand in my pocket around the grip of the little .25. Maybe he didn’t think I had a gun there. His lip rolled up into a snarl and he reached under the table.

  I rapped the gun against the door jamb and even through the cloth of the coat you could tell that it was just what it was. Rainey started to lose that tough look. “Remember me, Rainey?”

  He didn’t say anything.

  I took a long shot in the dark. “Sure, you remember me, Rainey. You saw me on Broadway today. I was standing in front of a plate-glass window. You missed.”

  His lower lip fell away from his teeth and I could see more of the marbles that he had for eyes. I kept my hand in my pocket while I reached under the table and pulled out a short-nosed .32 that hung there in a clip.

  Rainey finally found his voice. “Mike Hammer,” he said. “What the hell got into you?”

  I sat on the edge of the table and flipped all the bills to the floor. “Guess.” Rainey looked at the dough then back to me.

  The toughness came back in a hurry. “Get out of here before you get tossed out, copper.” He came halfway out of his seat.

  I palmed that short-nosed .32 and laid it across his cheek with a crack that split the flesh open. He rocked back into his chair with his mouth hanging, drooling blood and saliva over his chin. I sat there smiling, but nothing was funny.

  I said, “Rainey, you’ve forgotten something. You’ve forgotten that I’m not a guy that takes any crap. Not from anybody. You’ve forgotten that I’ve been in business because I stayed alive longer than some guys who didn’t want me that way. You’ve forgotten that I’ve had some punks tougher than you’ll ever be on the end of a gun and I pulled the trigger just to watch their expressions change.”

  He was scared, but he tried to bluff it
out anyway. He said, “Why don‘tcha try it now, Hammer? Maybe it’s different when ya don’t have a license to use a rod. Go ahead, why don’tcha try it?”

  He started to laugh at me when I pulled the trigger of the .32 and shot him in the thigh. He said, “My God!” under his breath and grabbed his leg. I raised the muzzle of the gun until he was looking right into the little round hole that was his ticket to hell.

  “Dare me some more, Rainey.”

  He made some blubbering noises and leaned over the chair to puke on the money that was scattered around his feet. I threw the little gun on the table. “There’s a man named Emil Perry. If you go near him again I’ll put the next slug right where your shirt meets your pants.”

  I shouldn’t have been so damn interested in the sound of my own voice. I should have had the sense to lock the other door. I should’ve done a lot of things and there wouldn’t have been anybody standing behind me saying, “Hold it, brother, just hold it right there.”

  A tall skinny guy came around the table and took a long look at Rainey who sat there too sick to speak. The other one held a gun in my back. The skinny one said, “He’s shot! You bastard, you’ll catch it for this.” He straightened up and backhanded me across the mouth nearly knocking me off the table. “You a heist artist? Answer me, damn you!” The hand lashed out into my mouth again and this time I did go off the table.

  The guy with the gun brought it down across the back of my neck throwing a spasm of pain shooting through my head and shoulders. He stood in front of me this time, a short pasty-faced guy with the urge to kill written all over him. “I’ll handle this, Artie. These big boys are the kind of meat I like.”

  Rainey retched and moaned again. I picked myself up slowly and Rainey said, “Gimme the gun. Lemme do it. Goddamn it, gimme that gun!” The skinny guy put his arms around his waist and lifted him to his feet so he could hobble over to the wall where I was.

  The guy with the automatic in his hand grinned and took a step nearer. It was close enough. I rammed my hand against the slide and shoved it back while his finger was trying like hell to squeeze the trigger. It didn’t take much effort to rip it right out of his hand while I threw my knee between his legs into his groin. He hit the floor like a bag of wet sand and lay there gasping for breath.