Kill Me, Darling

by Mickey Spillane

Pat was right and I told him so.

  We hung up.

  I was flopped in a chair trying to decide whether to hit the rack or gather the energy to do what my buddy had suggested, and just go over to that bastard Quinn’s fancy digs and drag Velda the hell out of there. What was I waiting for? Hadn’t Nolly proven to be worth killing?

  A knock came at the door and I was almost there when a male voice said, “Mr. Hammer—Mr. Bonetti sent us to check on you. Are you all right?”

  Shit, I thought. I forgot to call Bonetti back and tell him what happened at the Five O’Clock Club. That the ten-thousand dollar pay-off plan had died with a farm girl from Minnesota.

  The peephole showed me two big guys in sport coats and slacks who I recognized as two of the bodyguards who’d been lounging in the Betsy bar while I was having my talk with their bosses.

  Just the same, I took the .45 out when I opened the door.

  But before I could use it, hands gripped my arms on either side and a small bottle was uncorked to let the vapors of what must have been chloroform rise up into my face, into my mouth and up my nostrils, the reflexive intake of breath doing their work for them, and I was out.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  They were drunk-walking me down a dock, a big hulking shadow on either side of me, the tops of my shoes dragging and bumping over the planks. The back of my head felt damp and the chances were they’d sapped me after the genie in the chloroform bottle had given them their wish.

  That stuff doesn’t keep you out long, unless you really held a soaked rag to a guy’s face. But that would likely kill him and certainly burn his skin to hell. So the tap on the skull would have been the clincher.

  The headache I was waking to was no worse than the mother of all hangovers and likely a combination of chloroform after-effect and concussion. My hearing was muted, my limbs numb, my eyesight a blur. More gifts from the chemical genie.

  I had vague near-memories of being lugged down endless flights of back stairs and tossed in a waiting car’s back seat and shoved face down on the floor where my arms were jerked behind me and bound tight together at the wrists. Of two male voices sounding far away yet right here, talking but not in conversation, sporadic bursts of speech over a ride that took fifteen minutes or an hour or all night.

  Turn right.

  Here?

  No next one.

  Watch him not me!

  What d’you think I’m doing?

  Might be faking.

  It’s the second left.

  They say he’s dangerous.

  No, not there, next one.

  Where it says Dinner Key?

  Yeah that’s it, that’s the one, right there.

  Even now I hadn’t come completely around and for a while I sensed more than I saw as they pulled me along the dock. The night was cool, the humidity negligible. Gulls were calling to each other. Moored boats of various sizes were on either side of us, mostly dark but a few bigger craft emitted muffled music and distant chatter and laughter. The world seemed otherwise quiet, slumbering, the loudest sound the creak of timber under the size twelves of my captors.

  My lungs were hungry and the sharp tang of sea air fed them and helped wake me further, though I kept my eyes slitted and my body limp, which was no effort at all. These big lumbering dark shadows were dragging me to my death, I knew that, yet I found the sound of water lapping at dock pilings strangely soothing.

  Up ahead a small dark-complected mustached man in white from sneakers to captain’s hat seemed almost to glow in the night. Well, not all in white—he had a black-holstered revolver low on his hip like a TV cowboy. Heel of a hand on the holstered gun butt, our captain was waiting for us beside a big powerboat, white hull, dark-wood cabin, green trim. Forty-some feet, maybe fifty. It would take two engines to power that beauty. You could have a whale of a fishing trip on it.

  Or haul a hell of a cargo of contraband.

  They held my limp frame up with big hands under my arms, like I was a prize fish they were displaying. Nothing but my wrists were bound and they hadn’t bothered gagging me. If I made a sound they’d finish me. And the civilians on these boats, families among them, the giddy fun-seekers on the yachts, would die if they got involved. That I knew, too. These kind of men were not new to me. I was, in my way, one of them.

  I knew even before they dragged me over and onto the deck and hauled me through the cabin and dumped me against the back wall of the cramped little galley that this was a one-way ride, like the “deep sea fishing trip” those dead guys at the motel got taken on by Bonetti’s people.

  Were these Bonetti’s people?

  Whoever they were, these kind of men didn’t cruise out onto the ocean to have a quiet place to talk to you or even to torture you, unless they were in the mood or had the need. And I didn’t have anything to tell them, no special knowledge for them to beat or burn out of me, no.

  This was a disposal run.

  The two big men in sport coats and slacks left me on the galley floor in a pile and moved through the cabin and out onto the rear deck. They cast off and as we rumbled out to sea, they sat out on those swivel chairs sports fishermen use.

  My vision was back, although as far as my captors knew I was still out. They were definitely two of the bodyguards from the Betsy Hotel bar, but which mob boss they belonged to was a mystery that I could only dream of living to solve.

  They were the kind of big men who had gotten so muscularly over-developed that their heads looked too small for their bodies. One had a light brown flattop and a baby face. The other had a dark brown butch and a flat nose. Both had killer tans. That they worked out and probably ate wheat germ didn’t stop them from smoking. The ember eyes of their cigarettes glowed in the darkness like distant lights. They seemed in a pleasant mood.

  Who doesn’t like a relaxing outing?

  I could catch much of their conversation despite the engine purr and water rush because they were talking loud so they could hear each other up over the combined noise.

  The baby-face flattop guy said, “You know that babe from Hialeah I been seeing?”

  “The waitress with the water wings?”

  “Yeah! Cute kid, great body, but also? She has got one smart mouth. Always the back talk. Always with the opinions.”

  “I hate that crap.”

  “Tell me about it. A nice rack only goes so far, you know? But I think I come up with the cure.”

  “Yeah?”

  “She give me some lip last night and I just hauled off and belted her one.”

  “Slapped her?”

  “No, I mean really clipped her one. On the chin. Lemme tell you, the dame’s got a glass jaw. She went down like…” But he couldn’t think of anything to compare it to, and just added, “…right away.”

  His pal got a good laugh out of that. “Man, I wanna be you when I grow up! You know what’s wrong with me and my approach to the cooze?”

  “No. Educate me.”

  “I am too damn nice for my own damn good. I am just a big softie with these broads. I’m ashamed to say it, but the most I ever done with a lippy skirt was slap her around some. And it never seems to do no good.”

  “Well, you gotta really belt her one. Give her something to think about. Something to look at in the mirror for a while. You’ll thank me.”

  “Man, you are a genius. You oughta patent this stuff.”

  Flattop and Flatnose, ladies and gentlemen. Catch them between strippers at the Five O’Clock Club.

  By this time we’d been cruising for five minutes or so, and I had come fully around. I still had the headache but it had backed off into a dull throb and the numbness of my extremities had faded. My vision was clear and my hearing sharp. I was alert in the way only a man fighting for his life experiences.

  For several minutes I’d been feeling at the ropes binding my wrists together. I was lucky—it wasn’t heavy rope, nothing boating grade, and it wasn’t nylon either or anything coated. Just good old-fashioned two-strand
fiber stuff.

  What God’s-two-gifts-to-women out there didn’t know was that I’d been hauled off before by goons who had tied my hands behind me. After I managed to live through it the first time, I got smart and started taking precautions. Like carrying a safety-razor blade in a slit of my belt in back. This required dexterity and patience, because if I fumbled the blade while trying to slip it out of its hiding place, or dropped the thing while using it to saw through the rope, it could hop out of reach. Worse, it might attract attention.

  And even with simple two-strand fiber rope, carving away at it with a three-fingered backward grip was a tedious, frustrating, lengthy, awkward damn process.

  I was just starting to make some headway when Flattop asked his pal, “There any beers in the galley fridge?”

  I froze.

  “I dunno,” Flatnose said. “Suppose I could check.”

  “Don’t suppose it, do it… Hey, watch the bucket! Don’t trip over that thing! Hell of a mess if you do.”

  “Could be worse.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I could kick it!”

  Let’s hear it for them, ladies and gentlemen.

  Flatnose moved quickly through the cabin, got to the galley’s doorless doorway and paused there to look down at me. Then he stepped in and bent down in front of me.

  Was he going to check on my bonds?

  I could feel his eyes on me, crawling on me like bugs. My chin was on my chest and I was giving every appearance of still being out cold or anyway thought I was. He shrugged a little, then turned on his bent legs to get in the small fridge under the counter.

  If I’d had the ropes loose, it would have been perfect. I could have kicked him in the head and pulled the .38 stuck in his belt and shot his buddy through the open door onto the deck and then finished him and climbed the ladder to the flybridge and drilled that damn Cuban captain.

  But I was only half-way through the rope. And at least Flatnose wasn’t checking me—a closer look and I’d be royally screwed.

  “No beer!” he called.

  “Cheap bastard we work for!”

  Flatnose ambled back through the cabin to his chair out on the rear deck. “Well, hell, we are working. You know the boss don’t like drinking on the job.”

  “Beer ain’t drinking. Beer is just socializing.”

  I didn’t disagree.

  With no beer to socialize them, they seemed to have run out of conversation. They just sat out there enjoying the cool evening, two fishermen without poles.

  We had to be out far enough for them to get rid of me. Why the long boat ride? Not that I was complaining…

  I kept sawing away with the blade, hoping it didn’t get dull or break on me, and then finally, yes, the rope gave way and my wrists were free.

  The question was—now what?

  I could rush out there with the advantage of surprise but they were big guys with guns, and up on the flybridge at the wheel was that little Cuban captain with his revolver.

  And me with my trusty razor blade.

  Okay, surprise and a razor blade, but brawny armed bastards backed up by a Cuban cowboy with a heater just might give them the advantage on me…

  Quietly I got to my feet. The galley made such cramped quarters that I could put one hand on the electric stove and the other on the sink counter. Carefully, as soundlessly as possible, I started opening drawers and looking into them. This was a kitchen, wasn’t it? Wouldn’t there be knives? Didn’t there have to be knives?

  And there were knives, all right, in the first drawer I tried—and spoons and forks. Maybe I could butter these bastards to death, only I didn’t have any butter.

  My hands did most of the work as my eyes stayed as much as possible on the two muscle-heads out on deck, chatting again now, lighting up fresh smokes, their backs to me, but glancing at each other occasionally, but should one of them out of the corner of an eye catch a glimpse of me on my feet rifling the galley, the guns would come out in full force.

  I could always hurl silverware at them.

  So I kept opening drawers, which at least cooperated by not scraping or squeaking or causing any clatter of contents. The second drawer gave me towels, goddamn towels, and the third drawer served up hot pads, and the fourth spatulas and measuring spoons and cups and a church key. Maybe the cabinets would have canned goods. A hard-flung can of beans was better than hurling handfuls of silverware, anyway.

  Out on deck, the conversation had come around to me.

  “I don’t get this,” Flattop said.

  “What don’t you get?” Flatnose asked.

  “Why don’t we just put a bullet in the son of a bitch, one behind the ear, pow, and toss his ass over the side?”

  “The boss said what he wanted and that’s exactly how we’re gonna do it.”

  “But why? It can’t be safe, attractin’ those damn things. And I ain’t handling that bucket. Hell no. I say bump him, tell the boss we done it just like he asked, the guy died real hard and terrible and everything, you should have seen the blood, boss, and go on about our merry way.”

  “Not worth risking. Captain Pedro and the boss are tight, remember. He’ll rat us out.”

  “Why don’t we slip Pedro a fin?”

  “Naw. It’s Hammer who’s gonna get slipped the fin.”

  That made them both start laughing, really hard. It had a hollow sound in the night.

  Flatnose’s ice-breaker joke was enough to make Flattop cave in.

  “All right all right! We’ll go along with the boss’s wishes! It’s his stupid boat.”

  I wasn’t loving the sound of any of this, and then the fifth drawer came slowly open and I hit pay dirt.

  Knives.

  Not the silverware variety, but the real stainless steel things, sharp and to the point. The multiple blades reflected a slivered image of my grinning face back at me. Half a dozen beautiful knives, and the one I chose over the bigger carving knife seemed fitting as hell to me.

  I shut the drawer and resumed my position on the floor against the back wall.

  I was still in my suit coat, so the knife wouldn’t show slipped in my waistband at the left, cross-draw style. Forcing the grin off my face, I looped the rope around my wrists and held it in place with my fingers.

  The captain was slowing the engines. We hadn’t come to a stop, but our speed was cut way down.

  What was going on?

  And what the hell were those two muscle-bound idiots doing out there?

  Flatnose had work gloves on, the handle of a good-size bucket in one hand and some kind of metal scoop in the other. He stood at the stern, close to the edge of the boat, leaning out, tossing scoopfuls of something into the water, making little splashes.

  Then I caught glimmers of red in midair before bits and pieces dropped into the sea.

  Bloody chum.

  Flatnose did this a number of times, and finally yelled, “The damn bucket’s empty! You see anything?”

  Flattop said, “No… no. Not a goddamn thing. Wait! There! Oh hell, there!”

  Flatnose backed away and put the bucket down, tossing the scoop into it with a clunk. “Pedro! Stop! Cut the engines!”

  The motors eased to a stop and the steady slosh seemed suddenly very loud, the boat bobbing on the water, no longer cutting through it.

  Flatnose tore off his gloves and tossed them in the bucket, too, and said, “Let’s get him. Get this stupid thing over with.”

  I lowered my head, played dead. If I didn’t handle this just right, very soon I wouldn’t be playing at anything.

  They clomped through the cabin and both of the big men looked very pale. Shit, these guys were scared shitless, and not of me. Not by a long shot.

  A sinking feeling at the pit of my stomach said I already knew why these tough guys seemed about to piss themselves.

  As they dragged me onto the deck to the stern, I saw the dark fins, four of them, no five, cutting calmly through water that would have been as black as they we
re had the waves not been touched by the ivory of a full moon and a sky clustered with stars. Gracefully the fins glided, nothing deadly apparent about them at all, just a sweeping beauty, Nature’s majesty at work, and as both men gaped at the sight, each with a hand holding onto an arm of mine, they hesitated for a moment, horror-struck by what they were about to do, what they were about to witness, hard men made momentarily soft by fear, and my right arm came around and my hand found the fileting knife in my waistband and it came sweeping out to cut a wide swath of ragged red across Flattop’s throat. His eyes were large and so was his open mouth, but nothing came out, and I couldn’t resist giving him a left on the chin that sent him over the side where two fins swooped in to argue over a meal.

  A startled Flatnose was panicky but not enough so that he didn’t go for his gun, only I sank the knife in deep before he could get his hands on the weapon and I cut him open with several sharp turns and twists of the blade, and when I shoved him over, grabbing his .38 revolver from his belt with my left hand as I did, his guts were hanging out of him like tentacles, but he wasn’t dead, not yet, so I like to think he heard me say, “So long, chum!” Behind me the brutal ballet continued as I turned the weapon onto Pedro up on the flybridge. He was goggling at me, the wheel of the bobbing boat at his back, his hands nowhere near the holstered weapon. “I’m just the captain! I’m just the captain!”

  “What, did you blink and miss the mutiny?” I asked. “I’m the captain.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Now take that gun by two fingers and toss it overboard.”

  Then he did something very stupid. When he had the gun out, he suffered an attack of cowboy courage and shifted the weapon into a full grip and bared his teeth and aimed at me. He never got to fire.

  My bullet shattered his smile on its way through him and out of the back of his head. He tumbled off the flybridge, taking some hard bumps on the ride down to the deck that he probably didn’t feel.

  Damn.

  I would rather have kept Pedro alive. I understood very well that he was as much a part of this murder party as the late muscle boys, and seeing him go did not choke me up any. But now there was nobody to identify “the boss,” the man who had dictated my death by shark.