Mickey Spillane
Me, Hood!
Me, Hood!
THEY picked me up in a bar on Second Avenue and waited for the supper crowd to flow out before they made their tap, two tall smiling lads with late model narrow-brim Kellys that helped them blend into the background of young junior executives.
But both of them had that almost imperceptible cock to their arms that comes from wearing a gun too long on one side, and that made them something else again.
When they came in they pulled out stools on either side of me and began the routine, but I saved them all the trouble they had planned to go to. I finished my drink, pocketed my change and stood up. “We go now?”
Without changing the size of his smile the one with the pale blue eyes said, “We go now.”
I grinned, nodded toward the bartender and walked to the door. On the street a gentle nudge edged me north, then another turned me at the corner to where the car was parked. One got behind the wheel and one was on my right. I didn’t feel any gun rubbing against my hip where it should have, so I knew the guy on my right had it in his hand.
At the door the squat little man stood with his legs spraddled and hands in his pockets, looking at nothing, yet watching everything. The other one sat on the window ledge at my shoulder without saying anything.
Across the city the clock on the square boomed nine. Behind me the door to the inside office opened and a voice said, “Bring him in.”
Smiling Boy let me go ahead of him, followed me in and closed the door.
Then, for the first time, I was wishing I hadn’t played the wise guy. I felt like an idiot for being so damn dumb and while I was trying to put it together I could feel the coldness creeping over me like a winter fog. I shut my mouth and grinned so I wouldn’t start sounding off and let them see the hate I wore like my own skin.
Cops. Out of uniform, but cops. Five in front, one behind me. Two more in the room outside. There was something different about the five, though. The mold was the same, but the metal seemed tempered. If there were any cutting edges they were well hidden, yet ready to expose themselves as fast as a switch blade.
Five men in various shades of single-breasted blues and greys with solemn dark ties on white that hinted at formality not found in general police work. Five pairs of expressionless, yet scrutinizing eyes that somehow seemed weathered and not too easily amused.
But the thin one at the end of the table was different, and I watched him deliberately and knew he was hating my guts just as hard as I was hating his.
From his place at the door, Smiling Boy said, “He knew us. He was waiting for us.”
The thin one’s voice had a flat quality to it. “You think much for… a punk.”
“I’m not the kind of punk you’re used to.”
“How long have you known?”
I shrugged. “Since you started.” I told him, “Two weeks.”
They looked at each other, annoyed, some angry. One leaned forward on the desk, his face flushed. “How did you know?”
“I told you. I’m no ordinary punk.”
“… I asked you a question.”
I looked at the guy at the table. His hands were tight and white at the knuckles, but his face had lost its flush. “I’ve been a while at this game myself,” I said. “Every animal knows it’s got a tail no matter how short it is. I knew I had mine the first day you tacked it on.”
The guy looked past me to Smiling Boy. “Did you know that?”
My buddy at the door fidgeted a second, then: “No, sir.”
“Was it ever suspected?”
Another hesitation. “No, sir. None of the reports from the other shifts mentioned it.”
“Great,” the man said, “just great.” Then he looked back at me again. “You could have shaken this tail?”
“Anytime.”
“I see.” He paused and sucked his lip into his teeth. “But you preferred not to. Why?”
“Let’s say I was curious.”
“You have that kind of curiosity about someone who could be there to kill you?”
“Sure,” I said. “I’m a foolish man. You know that.”
“Watch your mouth, feller.”
I grinned at him so hard that the scar across my back got tight. “Go to hell!”
“Listen…”
“No, you listen, you stinking, miserable little slob… don’t tell me to watch my mouth. Don’t tell me one lousy little thing to do at all or I’ll tell you where to shove it. Don’t try to peg me because I have a record…”
In back of me the tall boy stopped smiling and hissed, “Let him say it out.”
“Damn right, let me say it out. You got no choice. You’re not fooling with a parolee or a hooker who’s scared stiff of cops. I hate cops in general and right now you slobs in particular. This little shake has all the earmarks of a frame and brother, you’re going in over your head if you try it.”
“That all?”
“No,” I said. “Now I’m done playing. I went along for the ride to see what the bit was and it stinks. So I leave. If you think I can’t, then put the arm on me and try stopping me. Then you monkeys are going to have a pretty time trying to explain this set up to a couple of tabloids I got friends on.”
The thin one said, “Finished?”
“Yeah. Now I’m leaving.”
“Don’t go.”
I stopped and stared at him. Nobody had moved to get in my way at all. There was something tight about the way they all stood there, something all wrong about the play that I couldn’t make. I could feel my back going tight again and I said, “What?”
The thin one swung around in his chair. “I thought you said you were a curious person.”
I went back to the table. “Okay, friend. But before I get suckered in, answer me some questions.”
The thin one nodded, his face impassive.
“You’re cops.”
He nodded, but now there was something new in his eyes. “All right, I’ll qualify it. We’re cops… of a sort.”
I asked, “Who am I?”
His answer was flat and methodical. “Ryan. The Irish One. Sixteen arrests, one conviction for assault and battery. Suspected of being involved in several killings, several robberies and an uncooperative witness in three homicide cases. Associates with known criminals, has no visible source of income except for partial disability pension from World War II. Present address… ”
“That’s enough,” I said.
He paused and leaned back. “Also—you’re rather astute.”
“Thanks. I went to college for two years.”
“It made a difference criminally?”
“It made no difference one way or another. Get on with the pitch.”
His fingers made a slow roll on the table top.
“You knew you had been tailed for two weeks. Do you know why?”
“First guess is that you’re figuring a fix for me to turn stoolie,” I said. “If that’s it you’ve wasted time because you aren’t that smart to catch me off base.”
“Then you think you’re smarter than an entire law enforcement agency?”
They watched me. Nobody said a thing. Finally I said, “Okay. I’m a curious guy. Spell it out slow in punk language so I won’t miss the juicy parts.”
The others left the room when the thin one nodded.
He said, “There is a job that must be done. We can’t do it because of several factors involved. One is simple enough to understand; it is possible… even probable that we are known to those of… the opposition forces. The other reason has a psychological factor involved.”
“It must be a beauty,” I said.
He went on as if he had never heard me. “Our groups are highly skilled. Although those chosen to aug
ment our group are of the finest calibre, the most select, elite… they still have certain handicaps civilized society has inflicted on them. Maybe you can finish it for me.”
I nodded. “Sure. Let’s try a lucky guess. You need an animal. Some improver of the breed has run all shagginess out of your business-suit characters and you need a downtown shill to bait your hook. How close did I come?”
“Close,” he said.
“I’m still listening.”
“We need somebody of known talents. Like you. Somebody whose mind can deal on an exact level with… the opposition. We need someone whose criminal disposition can be directed into certain channels.”
“An animal,” I said, “the dirty kind. Maybe a jackal that can play around in the jungle with the big ones without being caught.”
“It’s descriptive enough.”
“Not quite. The rest of it is that if he’s killed he wouldn’t even be missed or counted for a loss.”
When he answered, he said, “That isn’t exactly ‘punk language’.”
“But I’m there, huh?”
“You’re there,” he said solemnly.
I shook my head slowly. “Brother!” I pushed away from the desk and straightened up. “I think you made a mistake in nomenclature, buddy. It’s not a psychological factor involved, it’s a philosophical one. Only your appeal is psychological. You posed me a pretty, laddie.”
“I… don’t suppose it would do much good to appeal on a patriotic basis?”
“You suppose right. You can shove flag-waving and duty-to-your country crap with the rest of it.”
“Then how do I appeal?”
“To curiosity and one thing more. Money!”
“How much?”
I grinned real big, all the way across my face. “A bundle, friend. For what you want, a bundle. Tax-free, no strings, in small, used bills.”
“What is it that I wanted?” he asked.
For fun I played it straight. I said, “You clued me, friend. Patriotism doesn’t exist on any local level. Suddenly we’re international and I can only think of three fields where you striped pantsers could exploit me. The narcotic trade through Italy, Mexico or China; illegal gold shipments to Europe; then last, the Commies.”
He didn’t answer.
“How much?” I asked.
“You can get your bundle.”
“Like I said? Tax free, small bills…”
“Like you said,” he repeated.
“One more point.”
“Ask it,” he told me.
“What makes you think I’ll like the bit?”
“Because you hate cops and politicians and those are the kind of people you’ll get a chance to really crack down on.”
I squinted at him. “You’re leaving something out.”
“You’re right, Irish. You’re communicating now, boy. I left out the needle. Money is a powerful motivator, but the needle still has to be there. If you take the deal we supply the toxin-anti-toxin.”
“So?”
“You’ll take it?”
I nodded. “Sure. What’d you expect me to say?”
“Nothing.” With his fingers he drew a paper from his pocket, unfolded it so the bottom showed with the signature line and nothing more, then he passed me his pen. “Sign it.”
The laugh came out of me of its own accord. Why ask to read it? I had nothing I could sign away and nothing to confess to that couldn’t be broken in court and nothing makes me more curious than signing first and asking to read later. I signed.
I said, “What’s the pitch?”
“Nothing you’d appreciate. To protect ourselves or yourself under impossibly remote circumstances you now have a certain measure of legal protection.”
“Like what?”
“Like you were just made a cop,” he said.
I took it easy and said all the words slowly and plainly so he wouldn’t miss a one and after a long time I ran out. His face had turned white and the corners of his mouth were pulled back tight.
“You finished?” he said.
“It’s all the punk language I can think of right now.”
“I don’t like the arrangement any better than you do. It’s a necessity or it never would have happened. You’re in.”
“Suppose I crap out?”
“You won’t.”
“Okay, I asked for it. Now what do you do, indoctrinate me or something?”
“Not at all. All you’re going to do is be given a name. You’ll find that person. Then whatever is necessary to do… you do.”
“Damn, man, can’t you make sense?”
The smile came back again. “Making sense of it is your job. The picture will come clear by itself. You’ll know what to do.”
“Sure. Great.” I asked the question. “Who?”
“The name is Lodo.”
“That’s all?”
He nodded. “That’s all. Just find him. You’ll know what to do.”
“Then the loot?”
“A big bundle of it. More than you’ve ever had in your life.”
“How long do I have?”
“No time limit.”
I let the laugh out easily. His eyes tightened when the laugh spread to my face. “Just for the record before we turn the machine off, friend… who steered you to me?”
“A man named Billings. Henry Billings. Familiar?”
Something choked the laugh off in my throat. “Yeah, I know him.”
Know him? The lousy slob ratted on me to the M.P.’s about liberating 10 grand of some kraut’s gold hoard back in ’45 and while I was getting the guardhouse treatment when some planted coins were found in my footlocker, he walked off with the stuff himself. The day I caught up with him would be his last.
When I knew nothing was showing on my face I said, “Where could I find him?”
“Out in Brooklyn… in a cemetery.”
I felt like kicking the walls out of the building. I had nursed that hate for too long to have it snatched away from me like that. Thirteen years now I had been waiting.
“What happened?”
“He was shot.”
“Yeah?”
“He was after the same name.”
I said, “Yeah?” again.
“Before he died he recommended you. He said you were the only one he knew who was a bigger bastard than he was himself.”
“He was lying.”
“You still with it?”
“Sure.” I wouldn’t miss it for anything now. Someplace Billings had bought something with that 10 G’s and whatever he got was mine now no matter who I had to take it away from. “Where do I start?”
“With a phone number. Billings had it on him.”
“Whose?” I said.
“You find out. We couldn’t figure it.”
Once again he dipped into his pocket. He came up with a pad and wrote a phone number on it, a Murray Hill exchange. He let me see it, then tore it out and held a match under it.
Outside, I whistled up a cab and cruised back toward the main stem, trying hard to think my way out of the situation. It had all the earmarks of a sucker trap and somehow I got elected to try it out. Me, strictly Brooklyn Irish, old Ryan himself, heading straight for the plastic pottie boobie prize.
Man, I thought, I’m not new to this business. I’ve been around a long while and made plenty the easy way without pulling time. Even the hard boys on the big team uptown stayed off my back.
At 49th St. and Sixth Ave. I paid off the cabbie and walked to Joe DiNuccio’s. I went into the back room where I knew Art Shay would be and slid in across the booth from him.
Art’s a funny guy. He does feature writing for a syndicated outfit, but he could have been a great reporter or TV analyst if something hadn’t happened between him and some broad before he got back from Germany in ’45. Now he was spending all his time on assignments, working hard to get himself killed.
His eyes peered at me over the top of the galley proofs he was che
cking. “What’re you crawling after now?”
I grinned at him. “Something funny’s happening to me.”
“That shouldn’t be a new feeling for you, Ryan. Who’s bump list you on now?”
“Art,” I said. “Tell me something. Have you ever known the fuzz to use a hood for anything except a stoolie?”
The corners of his eyes stretched taut. “No. Not the straight boys, anyway. What have you got going?”
“Nothing special. I’m just curious about a few things.”
“Any story in it?”
“Maybe.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not yet. Things aren’t squared away. Maybe you can fit in some pieces. Ever hear of a man named Billings?”
His eyes opened a little wider. “Same one who got gunned down a few days ago?”
I nodded.
“It was just a squib in the paper. Called a gang killing.” He stopped suddenly and looked at me hard. “Ryan… I remember ten years back when you were talking about killing a guy by that name. Did you tap him?”
“I didn’t have the luck, kiddo. That tap was somebody else’s.”
“The conversation is fascinating, Ryan. Keep it up.”
“Okay, read this. Billings wasn’t a small tap at all. That guy had something so big it would have made front page for a week.”
“Like what?”
I shook my head. “I’m new to it too.”
“How are you involved?”
“Because Billings had something he knew could get me killed too. It was the last thing he ever did, but he did it good. That warped slob had to live like a snake just to stay alive ever since he framed me and he made up for it, all right.” I stopped and grinned real big. “At least he thought he did.”
Art dropped his chin in his hand and nodded. “What can I do?”
“As an accredited reporter, you can get some official answers. Get any statement Billings made and any details on how he was killed. Can do?”
“Shouldn’t be hard. Those reports are on file.” He waited a moment, then said, “You’re giving me a small worm for a big hook.”
“Thanks.” I uncurled myself and got up. “Ever know anyone called Lodo?”
He thought a moment, then shook his head. “Nothing there. Important?”
“Who knows. Think on it.”
Me, Hood! Page 1
