Dead Street
( Hard Case Crime - 37 )
Mickey Spillane
From Publishers Weekly
One of a handful of novels he was working on at the time of his death, this fine, perhaps final, work from hard-boiled fiction icon Spillane (1918–2006) was prepared for publication by Hard Case vet Max Allan Collins. In it, NYPD detective Jack Stang receives word that his old fiancee, Bettie, who supposedly died in a kidnapping-gone-wrong 20 years earlier, is still alive and residing in a small Florida coastal community. The good news is countered by the fact that, in the car crash that was supposed to have killed her, she lost her eyesight and all her memories. Even worse, the men who had her kidnapped in the first place have perfectly good memories and are still looking for her—and willing to kill for the information locked in her damaged brain. This is a more sentimental Spillane than readers might expect, but the women are still dolls, the bad guys are still louses, and the hero still packs a helluva punch (along with his trusty .45, natch). Spillane always said he wrote for his fans, not for the critics, but both should be pleased with this late addition to the writer's canon.
Product Description
THE FINAL CRIME NOVEL FROM THE KING OF PULP FICTION!
For 20 years, former NYPD cop Jack Stang has lived with the memory of his girlfriend’s death in an attempted abduction. But what if she didn’t actually die? What if she somehow secretly survived, but lost her sight, her memory, and everything else she had… except her enemies?
Now Jack has a second chance to save the only woman he ever loved – or to lose her for good.
Acclaim For the Legendary MICKEY SPILLANE!
“One of the world’s most popular mystery writers.”
—The Washington Post
“Authentic narrative drive and almost hypnotic conviction... set Spillane apart from all his imitators.”
—The New York Times
“There’s a kind of power about Mickey Spillane that no other writer can imitate.”
—Miami Herald
“Satisfying... its blithe lack of concern with present-day political correctness gives it a rough-hewn charm that’s as refreshing as it is rare.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“A superb writer. Spillane is one of this century’s best-selling authors.”
—Cleveland Plain Dealer
“Spillane’s books... redefined the detective story.”
—Wallace Stroby
“A wonderfully guilty pleasure.”
—Tim McLoughlin, The Brooklyn Rail
“A fun, fast read... from one of the all-time greats.”
—Denver Rocky Mountain News
“Spillane... presents nothing save visual facts; but he selects only those facts, only those eloquent details, which convey the visual reality of the scene and create a mood of desolate loneliness”
—Ayn Rand
“A writer who revolutionized a genre [with] heavy doses of testosterone, fast action, brutality and sensuality.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Sexy and frantically paced.”
—Chicago American
“Salty and satisfying... will hit like a slug of Old Crow from the bottom-drawer bottle.”
—The Buffalo News
“Machine gun pace... good writing... fascinating tale.”
—Charlotte Observer
“Simple, brutal, and sexy.”
—Kansas City Star
“As bang-bang as you’d ever want.”
—The Associated Press
“If you think he has lost his touch or drained the well, read this one... the new one is better than ever. If you are a Spillane fan you will enjoy this one more than anything done before. It is fast-moving, easy reading, and has the greatest shocker of an ending.”
—Albuquerque Tribune
“The socko ending is Mickey Spillane’s stock in trade, and never has he done it with greater effect... Sensational.”
—Buffalo News
“A swift-paced, pulsating yarn... which very definitely shows that Mr. Spillane still has control of his fast ball, plus a few sneaky slow ones for the change-up.”
—Springfield Daily News
“Need we say more than — the Mick is back.”
—Hammond Times
I had lain in the wet grass outside Buck Head Benny’s shack where he was holed up with three of his gang of damned killers all armed with AK’s and sawed-off twelve gauge shotguns, looking for more cops to kill. My backup was still a mile away and all I had was ... .45 with four shots left in the clip and their door swung open with a tiny creaking noise and they all came out too fast. They were ready but they didn’t know where I was until Buck Head Benny spotted me and raised the AK in my direction, but before his finger could tighten on the trigger I took him down and he spun into a crazy twist, the AK going into its staccato chatter with the spasmodic yank on the trigger dying men make and the chopper took out all of his killer buddies behind him.
Back then I wasn’t afraid of anything.
Now even breathing didn’t come easily...
SOME OTHER HARD CASE CRIME BOOKS YOU WILL ENJOY:
THE GIRL WITH THE LONG GREEN HEART by Lawrence Block
THE GUTTER AND THE GRAVE by Ed McBain
NIGHT WALKER by Donald Hamilton
A TOUCH OF DEATH by Charles Williams
SAY IT WITH BULLETS by Richard Powell
WITNESS TO MYSELF by Seymour Shubin
BUST by Ken Bruen and Jason Starr
STRAIGHT CUT by Madison Smartt Bell
LEMONS NEVER LIE by Richard Stark
THE LAST QUARRY by Max Allan Collins
THE GUNS OF HEAVEN by Pete Hamill
THE LAST MATCH by David Dodge
GRAVE DESCEND by John Lange
THE PEDDLER by Richard S. Prather
LUCKY AT CARDS by Lawrence Block
ROBBIE’S WIFE by Russell Hill
THE VENGEFUL VIRGIN by Gil Brewer
THE WOUNDED AND THE SLAIN by David Goodis
BLACKMAILER by George Axelrod
SONGS OF INNOCENCE by Richard Aleas
FRIGHT by Cornell Woolrich
KILL NOW, PAY LATER by Robert Terrall
SLIDE by Ken Bruen and Jason Starr
Dead STREET
by Mickey Spillane
PREPARED FOR PUBLICATION BY MAX ALLAN COLLINS
A HARD CASE CRIME BOOK
(HCC-037)
First Hard Case Crime edition: November 2007
Published by
Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street
London
SE1 0UP
in collaboration with Winterfall LLC
Copyright © 2007 by Jane Spillane and Max Allan Collins
Cover painting copyright © 2007 by Arthur Suydam
All rights reserved.
In memory of Jay Bernstein
Chapter One
The street wasn’t dead yet. Not all the way. Old Charlie Wing had given the kids from the next block the last of the leechee nuts, and was packing his meager belongings for a U-Haul ride to Los Angeles and his relatives and then on by plane to his home province in China where he would be the richest man in the village and a big daddy to his horde of great and great-great grandkids.
Two houses down, the wicked witch of the neighborhood, ninety-year-old Bessie O’Brian, hung out the window, cushioning herself on a red velvet pillow as old as she was. When it snowed she stayed inside, only sliding the sash up if she heard gunshots. Hardly anything ever happened that she didn’t know about. She saw Findley get killed, the cops nail the pickup truck loaded with five million bucks worth of narcotics, was able to i
dentify over twenty muggers and was the State’s foremost witness when Tootsie Carmody shot The Frog, the super peddler of heroin in the area. She wouldn’t go to court to identify the shooter. She made the court come to her and for one day her tenement building was jammed past inspection requirements by New York’s legal elite.
Bessie didn’t wave. She just yelled down, “Kill anybody today, Captain Jack?”
“Not yet,” I yelled back.
When I passed the brownstone where Bucky Mohler had lived, I could still see the faint outlines of the white 703 he had painted there when he was a trouble-making twelve-year-old punk. He had been knifed and shot twice before he was sixteen, then the Blue Uptowners nailed him with the radiator of a stolen car because he messed with one of their chicks.
That was a long time ago.
The Street was starting to die about then.
Set fifty feet back from the corner, so there would be ample curb space for a few squad cars, was the timeworn station house. It was an old-fashioned name for an old-fashioned building that had been born in the eighteen hundreds when this part of Manhattan still had goatherds and potato fields.
Until two years ago it had been well taken care of, but the financial cut-off had let the cement chip away from the courses of brick and left a blackboard for the damn graffiti artists to spray-paint insults on. A couple of those slobs were still wearing bandages. The station house wasn’t going at full throttle, but the few left for roll call were the tough apples.
I used to be the boss man there. Captain. Hardass but fair. Good record. I got along with the troops and we kept the area as straight as it could get.
I retired out after wearing the badge for thirty years. I had gone into the Academy straight out of the Marine Corps back in ’75, so I still had some good years ahead.
But I sure missed the Job.
It was quiet today. Overcast with a snap in the air. October was almost here and a fresh season of trouble was gearing up. Sergeant Davy Ross was standing beside an unmarked police vehicle, talking to a tall, thin guy in his fifties wearing black-frame glasses who had a white trench coat draped over his arm. In his hand was an inexpensive cardboard folder people keep receipts in and when Davy turned his head, glanced my way and said something, I knew they were talking about me.
Hell, I was the living anachronism, the old firehorse they couldn’t get out of his stall, a dinosaur at fifty-six. Had to show up at home base the first of every month just to keep an eye on things.
Sergeant Ross grinned while we were shaking hands and said, “You got a fan from Staten Island, Jack. You remember that place?”
“Other side of the river, isn’t it?”
“Roger. I think it still belongs to New York City, though.” He paused and nodded toward the thin guy. “This is Dr. Thomas Brice.”
When I took the doctor’s hand, he said, “I’m a vet.”
“What war?”
He grinned and the eyes behind the specs were alert and blue. “No, I mean I’m an animal doctor, Captain Stang. Don’t want to get off on the wrong foot.”
“No sweat,” I told him. “I’m an animal lover myself.”
Davy Ross cut in with, “You guys have your conversation. I’m going back to work.”
We both told him so long and watched for a few seconds as he walked away.
When Dave went through the door, I said, “What’s all this about, Doctor? You know, I’m not on the payroll anymore. I draw a pension.”
Brice stared at me for a couple of seconds, his eyes reading me as though he were examining a strange breed of dog. It was an expression I had seen a lot of times before, but not from someone who didn’t want to kill me.
Softly, Brice said, “Is there somewhere we can sit down? You must have a coffee shop around here somewhere.”
I told him Billy’s was down the avenue two blocks, an old cop’s hangout that was about to go into the chopper when the station house shut its doors. Billy was finally going to have to go home and eat his wife’s cooking for a change.
Two of the detectives from the other shift were winding up their tour and waved at me. Both of them eyed Thomas Brice with one of those cop glances that take in everything in a blink and they both had the shadow of a frown when they realized he was one of those clean civilian types and figured he probably was some distant relation of mine.
I winked and nodded back. They seemed relieved.
Over coffee and a bagel lathered with cream cheese, I said, “I haven’t been to Staten Island since I was a kid.” My eyes were cold and I scanned his face carefully.
“I understand,” he told me.
“Neither do I remember ever having a case that involved that area.”
His tongue ran over his lips lightly and his head bobbed again. “I know that too. I did some research on you and...”
“I’m clean,” I interrupted.
“Yes, I know. You have a lot of commendations.”
“A lot of scars, too.”
I took a bite of the bagel and sipped at my coffee.
“It’s a tough job, Captain,” Brice said quietly.
“But nothing ever happened on Staten Island.”
He was staring back at me now. I knew my eyes were growing colder.
“Captain, you’re wrong,” the doctor told me softly. “Something did happen on Staten Island.”
I laid the bagel on the plate and under the table my fingers were interlaced, each hand telling the other not to reach for the gun on my belt. I didn’t wear the shoulder holster with the o... .45 Colt automatic snugged in it anymore. I was a civilian now. Still authorized by the state of New York to pack a firearm. But I wasn’t on the Job any more. Caution, I kept telling myself. Easy. Play this hand carefully.
Something was going down.
And the doctor was reading me. His hands stayed on the tabletop.
For several seconds his eyes watched mine, but they were encompassing every feature of my face. Then Dr. Thomas Brice broke the ice. It didn’t tinkle like a dropped champagne glass — it crashed like a piece from a glacier. “Long time ago, you were in love with a woman named Bettie...”
A pair of tiny muscles twitched alongside my spine. It wasn’t a new sensation at all. Twice before I had felt those insidious little squirms and both times I had been shot at right afterward.
He was saying, “She was abducted and stuffed into a van but an alert had gone out minutes before and a police car was in pursuit. The chase led to the bridge over the Hudson River where the driver lost control, went through the guardrails and over the fencing and fell a hundred and thirty feet into the water.”
My hand was on t... .45 now. My thumb flipped off the leather snap fastener and eased the hammer back. If this was a pathetic jokester he was about to die at this last punch line.
Softly, I said, “There was an immediate search party on the site. They located the wreckage. The driver was dead. There was no other body recovered.”
The doctor’s expression never changed, the eyes behind the lenses unblinking. He let a moment pass and told me, “Correct, Captain, no other body.”
Something seemed to jab into my heart. I waited, my forefinger curling around the trigger.
He added, “The next morning, right after dawn, one of the dogs in the cages at a veterinary clinic began whimpering strangely. It awakened the doctor—”
“A doctor named Brice?”
“Yes. But not this Brice — my late father. I was around, but not a vet yet. May I continue?”
I nodded.
“Anyway, my father got up to see what the trouble was. The animal was fine, but it was whimpering toward the rear lawn that bordered on the Hudson River. My father didn’t quite know what was going on, but went with that dog’s sensitivity and walked out the back.”
Somehow, Dr. Brice read my expression. He knew that if there was a downside to his story, he was never going to finish it....
“There was a young girl there. Alive.”
A
live!
“One arm was gripped fiercely around an inflated inner tube.”
He must have seen my arm move. Somehow he knew there was no tense finger around the hammer of a dead... .45 automatic any longer.
“The night before, we had heard about the altercation in the city, and we both knew at once that this girl was the one who had been abducted. The late news mentioned that it was a mob snatch, as they called it, because sources within the NYPD indicated she had information that could seriously damage a major Mafia group.”
“So you didn’t report it,” I stated.
“Fortunately not,” he answered quickly. “My father checked with one of his friends on the local police force, who told him that the heat was on like never before and whatever that girl had could break up crime outfits from the city to Las Vegas.”
“But nothing ever happened,” I said. Something had rasped my voice. It sounded low and scratchy.
“Wouldn’t have mattered,” Brice told me.
“Why not?”
He let a few seconds pass before he said, “Because the girl... and she was a girl, twenty, twenty-one... had no memory at all of anything that had happened before the car crash.”
And it was my turn to take a deep breath. “Nothing.”
Dr. Brice shook his head.
I felt like vomiting. “Damn!”
“And that’s not the only thing,” he added.
“Oh?”
The eyes narrowed behind the lenses. “More than her memory was gone, Captain — she was blind. A terrible blow to her head had rendered her totally sightless. She would never be able to identify anybody ...or be able to remember her past.”
“So she was no threat to the mob....”
“Come on, Captain. You know different. Until an identifiable body turned up, those people would never stop looking.”
“That was more than twenty years ago,” I reminded him.
Brice nodded slowly, his eyes on mine.
Before he could say anything, I let the words out slowly. “Where is she?”
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