Kill Me, Darling

by Mickey Spillane

  I was about to get in the convertible when I got the sense he was heading my way. Just another retiree type. Cream-color knit sport shirt, yellow slacks and sandals with socks, a dark tan that was a collaboration between God and Florida. Miami Beach was full of guys like this.

  Then as he drew nearer I got a better look at the oval face with its smart monkey features—narrow close-set eyes, weak chin, slicked back dark hair going gray.

  Mandy Meyers.

  No bodyguards were in view, and he was clearly unarmed, just the two of us in the empty cavern of cars. Three, counting the pooch. But just the same, my hand lifted itself as if unbidden to where the .45 in the shoulder sling lurked under my unbuttoned suit coat.

  He paused and lifted his hand like an unlikely pope making a benediction. His Pomeranian took the opportunity to lift its leg, not in benediction. Meyers waited patiently for it to finish, neither man nor beast having any compunction about soiling a public place.

  Then as if following the trail of dog piss down the slope of cement, he came over saying in a measured baritone, just loud enough to echo, “No need for that, Mr. Hammer.”

  He meant I didn’t need to take my rod out and rid the world of him. I wasn’t sure I agreed.

  “Just out walking the dog, Mr. Meyers?” We’d never met but he knew me all right, and I felt I knew him. We occasionally made the same tabloids. “Always nice to get a little fresh air. Hard to beat an auto ramp for that.”

  “No need to drag out your wit, either, Mr. Hammer. I’m not here to duel, with words or… anything else. I just have an invitation for you. A request.”

  “Okay.”

  “A few close friends of mine are getting together for drinks in a suite at the Betsy Ross Hotel this afternoon. We’d like you to join us.”

  “When exactly is this cocktail party?”

  The dog was looking at its master and then at me and back again. It had done its business, after all, and the tiny black eyes in the blast of orange fur were wondering why the hold-up.

  The gangster’s smile was small yet enormously unsettling. “Why, right now, Mr. Hammer.”

  “You want me to come with you, Meyers? I don’t see any muscle making me.”

  The laugh that came out of that thin cut of a smile was equally small. Equally awful. “No one’s going to force you into the back of a black limousine at gunpoint, Mr. Hammer. No one’s taking you for a ride. I do my best not to deal in clichés.”

  The Pomeranian had gotten bored and tested the limit of its leash, then began leaving a little brown present near a Cadillac.

  I said, “I guess I’ve been dealing with an uncouth breed of hoodlum up to now.”

  The smile disappeared and the slitted eyes grew hard. His monkey face suddenly had real jungle in it.

  “There’s no need for insults, Mr. Hammer. I try to make sure my approach with other professionals has a basis in mutual respect. This is just an invitation, like I said, a request… and you are free to decline. But I think it would be advantageous for you to accept. Possibly even lucrative.”

  I shook my head and grinned at him. “I’m not getting in a car with you, Meyers, whether you got muscle or guns or not. Leave it at not wanting that dog shedding on me. Give me the room number and maybe I’ll meet you over there.”

  That seemed to satisfy him. “It’s the Paul Revere Suite. On the third floor. Do you know the way to the Betsy? It’s in South Beach.”

  “Stick a lamp or two in the window, and I’ll see if I can track it down.”

  His upper lip twitched. “I’m sure you will, a detective of your skills.”

  He and the dog started off, and I called to them.

  “By the way, Meyers, how is it we just happened to run into each other, here in this particular parking garage?”

  His expression was as bland as his tone. “We didn’t.”

  “Starting to sound like maybe you’re the detective.”

  “No. It’s just that we keep an eye on the feds around here, and who they talk to.”

  Then he gave me a nod and a little wave, and he and the mutt moved on.

  * * *

  Amid the curves and geometry of so many Miami Beach hotels, the three-story Betsy Ross was resolutely old-fashioned, from its four-column portico to its shuttered windows. Having only whiteness and palm trees in common with its streamlined neighbors, the Colonial-style hotel offered seclusion and privacy even at the height of busy season. In off-times like this, the Betsy was an elegant old Southern mansion suitable for haunting. With no ghosts available, gangsters would have to do.

  With its churning ceiling fans, potted palms and Early American furnishings, the lobby looked like a turn-of-the-century outpost in Guam. The small bar seemed to have been invaded by a convention of wrestlers, eight heavies sitting around small tables reading The Racing News, Ring and Confidential with bottles of Coke in front of them. Maybe it was a book club with a chat session later. First topic of discussion might be the bulges under their left arms.

  I took a self-service elevator that didn’t remind me at all of 1776. On three, I moved down a hallway with blue Liberty Bell-pattern carpeting, then knocked at a door with a gold plaque that read Paul Revere Suite in old-timey script.

  Mandy Meyers himself, still in casual attire right down to his socks and sandals, answered the door and flashed that same nearly invisible smile.

  He said, “Good,” and gestured me into a living room that gave no hint that we were in the Orange State beyond sunlight streaming through filmy-curtained windows framed by ruffled valances. The walls were hung with gilt-framed Revolutionary War prints and portraits of Washington and Jefferson, and the colors ran to burnt reds and muted greens. Like the lobby, the furniture was Early American, too new-looking to be antiques.

  The only genuine antiques in the room were Meyers and three other senior citizens. More like Early Twentieth Century than Early American. No sign of the Pomeranian, so maybe I wouldn’t have to watch my step.

  Or would I?

  The other three gents were just as casually dressed as Meyers, but you would mistake them for harmless retirees at your own peril.

  Seated on a cushioned maple couch were Alberto Bonetti, head of one of the five New York Mafia families, and next to him Carlo Civella, top dog of the Chicago Outfit. On a matching chair nearby perched Santo De Luca, Detroit mob boss who dated back to Purple Gang days.

  Nobody got up upon my entrance, and nobody offered a hand to shake. I didn’t offer my hand to anybody, either.

  Meyers dragged an unpadded birch chair over for me to sit and face this distinguished group. Then he took a hard chair at Bonetti’s end of the couch, and sat with arms folded and legs crossed. There was no sign of refreshments at this supposed cocktail party. It felt like I was applying for a job.

  Bonetti took the lead. He was a big man with a well-grooved oval face and slicked-back salt-and-pepper hair, though his black eyebrows were stark black and thick as three-ply carpet. Big dockworker hands lay limp in his lap. He was an executive now, but had killed many men in his day.

  “Mr. Hammer,” he said, in an affable growl, “we appreciate you stopping by.”

  “Always up for a party.”

  “It’s a real show of good faith, you accepting Mandy’s invite. A demonstration of respect, and that is also appreciated. In that same spirit, you’ll note that no one has asked you to stand for a frisk. And that we four are alone, without our usual, you know, staff members on hand.”

  I smiled. “I saw your boys in the bar downstairs. You’ll be glad to know nobody was drinking on the job. They’ve turned the place into a Christian Science Reading Room.”

  Bonetti smiled a little, perhaps just to be polite. The other three didn’t. Tough room.

  Civella picked up. He was a medium-sized guy with stark white hair in a Julius Caesar cut, and the same dark eyebrows as Bonetti. Cheekbones prominent, eyes hooded, he sported a funeral home pallor that Florida had done nothing about.

&nbs
p; “We’ve never had dealings, Mr. Hammer,” Civella said, his voice smoothly uninflected. “But we’re aware of your skills and of course your reputation. We would like to discuss hiring you.”

  “I make a point of not hiring out to people in your line of business.”

  Now De Luca, skinny, fox-faced, chimed in. “We ain’t approaching you in that business capacity, Mr. Hammer. We don’t do that type of business in Miami. Which is the goddamn point.”

  If it was, I didn’t get it.

  Bonetti stayed low-key. “That’s not to say we don’t do business in Miami. After the feds came down hard on gambling here, we moved out into legit endeavors. Plenty of ways to make an honest dollar around here—construction, nightclubs, hotels, jukeboxes, liquor distribution, waste disposal. All very profitable and honest enterprises, Mr. Hammer.”

  Civella sat forward and gestured with an open hand. “In addition to our legitimate business interests, Mr. Hammer, individually and together, we each of us has a winter home down here. Often bring our wives, and frequently our grown kids and grandkids come to visit. It’s an old tradition going back to Al and Frank.”

  Capone and Nitti. Well-known family men.

  De Luca, who was edgier than the others, was damn near falling off his chair. “We are not going to have no prick upstart put all of that at risk! We got good goddamn will goin’ down here. We’re solid citizens!”

  “I believe you,” I said. “And I might know what prick upstart you mean.”

  Meyers finally joined in.

  “I’m at fault here,” he began, and the others waved that off, saying, “No, no, oh no!” and so on.

  But he continued: “I’m the one took Nolly Quinn under his wing. I knew him for over ten years, way back when he was a fresh-faced kid taking on his first contracts. I watched him put together the top call girl ring in Manhattan! Enough to make a guy proud. Then he wanted to retire down here, at age thirty-five no less, and do some dabbling in business, he said. And now he’s in construction with Alberto over there, and fruit and vegetables with Carlo.”

  De Luca piped up, “I don’t do nothin’ with him!”

  Meyers plowed on. “I went in with Nolly in that nightclub of his. I negotiated with local officials to put in a casino, with assurances that we would not expand past that point. It’s been going over a year and so far so good.”

  Bonetti raised one black eyebrow. “But now this punk kid is gettin’ big ideas. He’s running dope through here from Cuba, though he swears up and down he ain’t. Now, you might think that Miami would make us a natural contraband conduit, and who knows? Maybe someday it will—”

  “Never!” Meyers snapped.

  Raising a hand, Bonetti said, “That’s a discussion for another day… but for now, and we all of us in this room agree, narcotics are strictly off-limits in Miami. Just too goddamn risky. Hell, it’s less than two years since that federal gambling crackdown. We are in the meantime minting money in our legit enterprises. Plus, as far as that particular type of merchandise is concerned, we already have sufficient European supply routes. And, like Carlo said, we winter with our goddamn families here! We live here half the damn time. And where I come from—which is where you come from, Mr. Hammer—a person does not shit where he eats.”

  Hanging his head, Meyers said, “I’m afraid I gotta plead mea culpa again.”

  This time nobody disagreed with him.

  He was saying, “I viewed that boy like the son I never had, and now he’s like the son I wish I’d never had.” He sighed heavily. “But when I was moving my gambling interests to Cuba, I took Nolly along the first few times. He’s very presentable, that boy. And apparently he made connections behind my back.”

  Disgusted, De Luca said something in Sicilian.

  Bonetti said, his voice as reasonable and calm as a marriage counselor’s, “Mr. Hammer, we believe in this instance we got a mutual interest with you. We are aware that you came to town on account of Nolly being shacked up with that secretary of yours. She is a lovely girl and also good with a .32, I hear. Anyway, we can certainly see why you would have a grievance with Nolly Quinn. A score to settle.”

  I saw an opening and took it. “What do you know about the murder of Wade Manley, Mr. Bonetti? How about you, Mr. Meyers? That was in your town, right? The one you fellas don’t shit in?”

  Meyers held up a hand like he was getting sworn in. “I had my problems with Manley going back to Luciano days. I don’t deny it. But I respected the Big Man. And anyway, cops are off limits. Remember what happened to Dutch Schultz? I think I can speak for all of us in that regard.”

  Nodding, Bonetti said, “Mandy speaks for me, all right. I never put the finger on a cop in my life. But I will say this, Mr. Hammer… I am personally convinced that Nolly Quinn had a hand in the Manley kill.”

  Frowning skeptically, Meyers said, “He was in Florida at the time.”

  Bonetti shook his head. “Don’t matter. He a hundred percent had it done. I heard it on good authority that somebody doing business with Quinn did that crime.”

  I said, “Seems to me there are several people in this room who’re in business with Nolly Quinn.”

  “Not me!” De Luca exploded.

  Civella said, “With the exception of Mandy’s piece of that casino, all of our enterprises involving Quinn are on the up and up.”

  All very interesting if not terribly surprising.

  I said, “So where do I come in?”

  “You, Mr. Hammer,” Bonetti said, the big hands on his knees now, “come in where we can’t. Our standing as respectable businessmen and good winter citizens of Greater Miami would be called into question if there were a, uh… how shall I put it?”

  “Gangland-style slaying,” I said.

  He nodded. “Yes. That’s how the papers would label it. And we can’t have that. So we would like to, well—encourage you in your efforts.”

  I frowned. “Encourage my efforts?”

  He nodded toward Meyers. “Mandy saw you confront Quinn at his club.”

  “What I did,” I said, “was belt him one and I had him about half-way strangled when his goon squad dragged me off.”

  “Those were probably bouncers,” Bonetti said with a smile. He glanced at Meyers, who confirmed that with a nod. “You’d no doubt like to get him away from his protectors. That nightclub of his is the worst place to do that. Bouncers all over that joint. But his regular crew is limited to a couple of washed-up fighters.”

  I said, “A blond bozo and a knuckle-dragger? We’ve met.”

  “They’re more flunkies than bodyguards,” Bonetti said with offhand contempt. “Nolly is a cocky son of a bitch, with plenty of self-confidence. Good and goddamn casual about goin’ around by himself, nobody to back him up. If you want to corner Nolly Quinn, Mr. Hammer, it shouldn’t be that damn difficult.”

  I shook my head. “Tracking him seems to be. He doesn’t follow any regular schedule.”

  Bonetti nodded. “True. But we might be able to help on that score.” He glanced around and got some nods. He dug in his pocket and handed me a slip of paper. “You can reach me there. If I don’t know where Nolly is, any given day, and what he’s up to, one of my friends here likely will.”

  Civella said, “He has a meeting with me in an hour in Miami at our produce warehouse. Should last the rest of the afternoon.”

  Bonetti locked eyes with me and said, “If there’s any other information you need, Mr. Hammer, just ask. Call any time. For instance, Quinn owns two cars. A black ’54 Cadillac convertible and a white ’52 Jaguar convertible.”

  “You’ve lost me,” I said. “Where do I come in again?”

  De Luca snarled, “We want you to kill the bastard!”

  I guess I’d seen it coming, but hearing it like that still had some shock value, and I couldn’t help but grin.

  Bonetti leaned forward again, smiling like your favorite uncle, the fingers of his big hands interlaced and hanging between his spread knees. “We’re
inclined to think you’ll likely do that, anyway, Mr. Hammer. But we’ve asked you here today to offer you… an incentive.”

  I hadn’t seen the briefcase tucked alongside the couch next to where Civella sat. He reached down and brought it up and over the couch arm to set it in his lap like a salesman’s sample case. He unsnapped it and swiveled it around to show me the contents.

  Rows and rows of stacked green. Image after image of Benjamin Franklin, to join in with his fellow founding fathers around us.

  “One hundred thousand dollars, Mr. Hammer,” Bonetti said. “No fussing around with so-much-down, so-much-later. This is payment in full. We have no doubt that you can get this job done. Like Carlo says, your reputation precedes you.”

  I frowned. I waved a finger at the open briefcase. “Close that thing up,” I said.

  Frowning in confusion, Civella shut the case.

  “Not enough?” Bonetti asked.

  “Plenty. Generous. But I don’t want your money.”

  Bonetti’s expression registered mild irritation. “If your eccentric sense of morality forbids you indulging money from shady sources, Mr. Hammer, why don’t you just consider these funds as coming from the legitimate side of our enterprises? Why not view this as a retainer from some upstanding businessmen and citizens here in Miami?”

  Who were hiring a murder.

  “No,” I said.

  “No?” De Luca blurted. His face was radish red.

  It occurred to me then what a favor I’d be doing the world to just pull my Betsy out from under my arm and riddle these four evil bastards with .45 slugs.

  But tomorrow another four would just take their places, and today I’d have to blast my way out of here through the eight triggers downstairs.

  And I had things to do before I died.

  “You don’t have to pay me, boys,” I said, getting up. “This one’s on the house.”

  * * *

  The red-tile-roofed pink stucco one-and-a-half story just off Collins Avenue probably dated to the ’20s when the Miami real estate boom went bust. But the Mediterranean Revival near-mansion had been refurbished in recent years and must be worth a pile now. A six-foot gated black wrought-iron fence in front and equally high hedges along the sides down to the oceanfront kept most people out.