Me, Hood!

by Mickey Spillane

  Karen Sinclair was next. If she told me straight, and there was no reason for her not to, I was right in the middle of somebody else’s game. She claimed to be a Federal agent and nobody was saying anything. Her job with the FCC could be a great cover. She had passed me something that could make or break our national security and I boffed it.

  Damn it, I felt like one hungry trout in a small pond on the opening day of the fishing season! A lousy rabbit that accidentally jumped the fence into a pen of starving hounds.

  First move then: I could clean Big Step off my back and the fuzz too if I found Penny Stipetto’s killer. But that left Karen Sinclair and the ones she spotted tailing her. That left a whole damn Federal agency who would be breathing down my throat for that capsule.

  And Fly had that.

  So find Fly first. Go into Big Step’s back yard and find Fly. It wasn’t going to be easy. The little weasel never holed up in the same place twice and slept in as many doorways as he did beds, but he did leave himself wide open on one count… he had told Lisa he was hurting for a blast and thought the cap he took from me was heroin. If it was, there could be trouble. If it wasn’t, the trouble was even worse. I had to find out.

  Dusk came a little after seven and as soon as the supper crowd had cleared the streets I went back downstairs, got a scared glance from the gay boy at the desk and went outside to the drugstore on the corner and put in a call to Bill Grady who did a syndicated column across the nation and waited for him to answer.

  His secretary asked me who I was and I gave the name of the State Senator. It got action fast. She told me he was at his hotel, gave me the number to call and before she could notify him I had my dime in the slot and was dialing.

  I said, “Grady?”

  “Roger. Who’s this?”

  “Irish.”

  There was silence for a second, then: “Boy, you sure don’t fool around. Where are you?”

  “Not too far away. Can we talk?”

  “Come on up.”

  “There’s a statute about aiding and abetting.”

  “So I’ve heard. There’s also freedom of the press and the unwritten law of protecting news sources. I smell a story.”

  “Ten minutes.”

  “I’ll be waiting. Alone.”

  Bill Grady lived in a hotel on West Seventy-Second Street, an old conservative place left over from a different era. I took the elevator up to his floor, touched the buzzer and when he opened the door, stepped inside. I hadn’t seen him for three years, but it didn’t make any difference. We were still a couple of Army buddies who had a short lifetime together and nothing had changed.

  We had one drink before he nodded to a chair and said, “Sit down and talk. You’re the hottest item in town.”

  I shook my head. “It only looks that way, friend.”

  “Oh?”

  “Are we off the record?”

  “Natch. Shoot.”

  So I told him. When I finished he still hadn’t touched his drink, but his face looked tight and his fingers were bloodless around the glass in his hand. I said, “What’s the matter?”

  He took a sip of his highball and put the glass down. “You’ve just confirmed something that’s been a rumor if I read it right.”

  “So tell me.”

  Grady hesitated, debating within himself what he should let out. Finally he turned around and stared at me. “I trusted you with my life a few times. I don’t see why you’d blow the whistle on this. Have you read about the Soviet oceanography work going on since ‘46?”

  “Some. They’ve been mapping the ocean floor, studying currents, tidal effects, marine life and all that jazz. Why?”

  “You know how the Polaris missile works, don’t you?”

  “Compressed air fired from a submerged vessel until airborne then rocket effect takes over with a guidance system to the target. Where does that come in?”

  “The Reds have been working in International waters about twenty miles off our coasts for years. There’s nothing we can do about it except keep them under surveillance. Supposing they developed a Polaris-type missile and located them on a permanent pad a few miles from our shorelines. A half dozen could destroy our major seaport cities, population and military bases with one touch of a button. They could sit there undetected until they were ready to be used and then we’d have it.”

  “You said they were under surveillance.”

  “Irish buddy, the ocean is a big place. Submarine development and underwater exploration has come a long way. They could have had decoys going while the real thing sneaked up past our screen and while we’re tangled in nuclear disarmament talks and peace treaties, playing big brother to all the slobs in the world, the Soviets are laying the groundwork for our own destruction if the surface negotiations don’t go their way. Like idiots, our military appropriations don’t allow for full protection. The jerks who handle the loot fight a war in Viet Nam with WWII aircraft, let our guys get killed, they yank out MacArthur who could have won the Korean thing, they make us look stupid around the globe and dig their own graves while they all try to soak up newspaper space so they can run for office when they get promoted up and out.”

  “Get to the point.”

  Bill Grady nodded and made himself another drink. He swirled the ice around in the glass and took a swallow from it. “From unauthorized sources, I hear Karen Sinclair was a Fed, all right. I checked her b.g. and she was an Oceanography major at a west coast university. She started out on an assignment with six others, all of whom have died under peculiar circumstances. A further check puts her with a relatively unimportant Navy department engaged in subsurface research, ostensibly charting the shelf off our coast. Let’s suppose her job was a secret one, to locate these possible underwater missile sites. Let’s suppose she did. You think the Soviets wouldn’t be aware of their presence and try to stop it? But let’s suppose she alone got away with a record of their positions somehow. They couldn’t afford to let her live. She couldn’t be left to make her contact. They would have put every resource at their command to nail her and it looks like they might have… and you, my friend, were entrusted with the goodies.”

  I got up, my lips tight across my mouth. “Why me?”

  “Because she had to do something and you look like you do.”

  “Nuts!” I slammed the drink down and glared at him. “That’s too damn many suppositions. I don’t like any of them.”

  Quietly, he said, “Suppose they’re true?”

  “Why the hell do I have to get trapped in the middle?”

  “Kismet, my friend. Maybe you’re lucky.” He took a pull of the drink again. “Or maybe all of us are.” Then he looked at me and waited.

  “All right, Grady, cut it fine. If I go to the cops they slap my can in a cell for homicide. I sweat. If I tap the Feds they turn me over to the cops anyway. If I give them the story they won’t believe me because I can’t come up with a lousy capsule and Karen Sinclair isn’t able to talk. If she dies, I’ll be dead too. If I prowl the streets, either Big Step hits me or the cops do, so where does that leave me?”

  For the first time Bill Grady let out a sardonic laugh. “I don’t know, old buddy, but it’s going to be mighty interesting. Even your obituary written from a speculative viewpoint ought to buy new readers.”

  “Great. Thanks a bunch.”

  “No trouble.”

  “And where do you go from here?”

  His grin got bigger. “Nowhere. I’m going to sit back and watch. I want to see a big war hero who digs the hood bit turn patriotic, not because he wants to, but because he has to. It will be an interesting study in human behavior. You’ve always been an enigma to everybody, now here’s your chance to be an even bigger one. All I want is the story.”

  “Go screw yourself.”

  “Physically impossible,” he laughed again. “It’s you who’s screwed. To make it worse I went and upset your weird idea of morality and now I want to see the action. You got no choice any long
er, Irish. You’re the only one who knows all the facts you have to get out of the trap. If you do and when you do, I’ll rate a scoop bonus. How about that?”

  I put my glass down and stood up. “Maybe, Bill, maybe.”

  “What’s with the maybe?”

  “I might need a liaison man. If you want the story, then you’re tagged.”

  He licked his lips, slammed one hand into the other and said, “I might have figured it. So what do you want?”

  “Get me in to see Karen Sinclair.”

  “It can’t be done. You’ll be spotted. She’s got a uniformed police guard and a dozen of the pretty boys stationed around her room. It’s impossible.”

  “So do it anyway,” I told him.

  At ten p.m. a makeup man from NBC dropped a curly headed rug over my short hair, fitted me with a London mustache, clear-lensed glasses and with a Graflex in my hand, I passed for a Manchester newspaperman whose press card had been lifted from a passed-out owner an hour before. We both had to put down a gallon of ginger ale before he went out on double scotches, but it worked and we made the front desk where a police spokesman told us Karen Sinclair was still too critical to be interviewed. A group of other reporters gave us the laugh for making the try and went back to playing cards on an upside down tray set on their knees.

  But Grady didn’t stop there. He got the plainclothes man down in the lobby. “Look, maybe she can’t talk, but all we want to do is make sure.”

  The cop said, “Sorry, she isn’t to be seen.”

  “Maybe there’s more here than we know about. Since when do innocent bystanders in a shooting get this kind of treatment? I think a little legwork might come up with a tasty bit.”

  The young guy in the blue gabardine frowned. “Listen…”

  “I don’t listen to anybody. I write, mister. I do a column and have carte blanche and if you want it that way, I can raise a lot of interesting questions.”

  “Wait here a minute,” the guy said. He walked to a phone, dialed a number and spoke for a good two minutes. When he came back he nodded for us to follow him. “You can take a look… that’s all. She’s out cold and there’s nothing more to it than that. She has a police guard because of this Stipetto business and she might have been a possible eye witness to what happened.”

  I picked it up quicker than Grady did. “What do you mean… what happened?”

  The guy was trapped. All he could do was say, “Sorry but…”

  Before he could turn away I grabbed his arm. “You mean there was more than the shooting?”

  When he turned around he was composed again, his face inscrutable. “If you’re a police reporter you know what I mean about eye witnesses. Now if you want to see the dame, you have one minute to take a look.”

  “Sure, but you know us,” I said. “Always questions.”

  “Yeah, but keep it quiet. You’ll be the first ones allowed in for a look, and no pictures,” he added, pointing to my camera.

  I acknowledged and slapped the Graflex shut. The elevator took us to the sixth floor where our guide led us past the others stationed at strategic points along the corridor. The doctor met us at the door, told us to be quick and make no noise, then turned the knob, spoke to the nurse inside and let us pass.

  Somebody had taken off Karen Sinclair’s makeup and for the first time, I saw her as she was. Even lying there, her face waxen pale, she was a stunning woman, the sheets adhering to every contour of that magnificent body, the lustrous gleam of her chestnut hair framing her beauty. One shoulder was swathed in bandages and another bandage was outlined at her waist.

  The nurse beside us reached for her pulse automatically, seemed satisfied and laid her arm back down. “How badly was she shot?” I asked her.

  “Luckily, clean wounds. The bullets missed vital organs.”

  “Is she out of danger?”

  “That is for the doctor to say. Now if you don’t mind…” She walked to the door and held it open. Grady followed her, but I hesitated just a moment. There was a barely perceptible flicker of her eyelids, then they opened slightly and she was looking at me.

  I had to do it quickly. I had to make myself known and hope she could think fast despite her condition. I knew I was unrecognizable by my face, but I could duplicate a situation. Without moving my lips, I said softly, “What was the powder in the capsule? Was it heroin?”

  For a half second there was no response, then she got it. In the same way, with no motion, her voice a whisper, she said, “Powdered sugar.” Then her eyes closed again and I walked away.

  Our impatient guide who waited for us in the corridor said, “Satisfied?”

  Bill nodded and shrugged. “Sorry to bother you. It’s nice to be sure.”

  “The press will be officially notified of any changes. We’d appreciate it if you would not speculate and stay with the communiqués.”

  “Sure.” Bill looked at me. “Let’s go. Thanks for the tour.”

  The guy bobbed his head. “Don’t mention it… to the other reporters, I mean.”

  When we were on the steps outside the hospital, I steered Grady to one side and held a match up to the cigarette in his mouth. “They have something hot on this one. Did you get what he said in the beginning?”

  “About what happened?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let’s make a phone call. I have a solid in at headquarters. They’ll feed me any action if I promise not to let it out until it’s cleared.”

  We crossed the street to a drug store and I waited while Bill put in his call. When he came out of the booth his face was serious, his eyes dark with concern. He sucked nervously on the cigarette and let the smoke stream through his nostrils. “Well?”

  “You could have been the key, Irish,” he told me. “She was an agent, all right.”

  “That wasn’t what you had on your mind.”

  He dropped the butt and ground it out under his heel. “The police recovered the spent slugs and matched them with the guns. The shots that hit her didn’t come from the police or Stipetto guns. Bullets from those guns got Vincent Stipetto and Moe Green too.” He looked at me hard. “Can you break it down now?”

  “I think so,” I said, “the Stipetto mob was laying for me. When she came out the others starting banging away and the Stipetto boys were caught in between and thought it was part of a crash out on my part. They never lived long enough to find out different. Then Newbolder and Schmidt made the scene and nailed the rest of the gang. In the meantime, the others saw Karen go down and since they thought they nailed their target, they cut out. All the cops saw was the Stipetto boys, tied them in with me and didn’t look any further.”

  “Until now,” he mused.

  “And where do they go from here?”

  “No place until the Sinclair woman can talk. She’s the crux. She brought the thing to a head. Trouble is, none of it’s over. She’s still alive and you’re still free.”

  “And you got my obituary already written.”

  “No,” Bill said, “but I’m thinking of it.”

  Chapter 4

  THROUGH Pete-the-Dog I passed the word down the street to start scratching for Fly. He was hooked on H and someplace he had to locate a source of supply so he’d be hitting a dealer. If he tried mainlining with the sugar in the capsule he’d find out in a hurry he had nothing going for him and would do a crazy dance to get a charge. He wouldn’t even try to be careful and the word would go out like a brush fire. What I had to hope for was that he wouldn’t discard the microfilm in the capsule where I couldn’t find it. A junkie with a big hurt is liable to do anything. If I was lucky he’d keep the cap for a reserve and stick with his regular pusher. He had been in the business long enough to have solid contacts but let trouble touch a hophead and everybody steered clear. Right now little old Fly could have trouble if I knew Big Step. For letting me bust loose he could be getting the hard squeeze.

  Chuck Vinson’s saloon had a side entrance and I didn’t have to go through
the bar to snag a booth in the back room. I took the furthest one back and pushed the button for the waiter. Old Happy Jenkins came shuffling back, napkin over one arm and a bowl of pretzels in his hand. He had to peer at me over his glasses a second before he saw who it was, then he swallowed hard and looked back toward the front with eyes suddenly scared.

  “You bugs, Irish? You outa your mind? What the hell you doon in here?”

  “Trying to get a beer,” I said.

  “A half hour ago Big Step himself come in asking. Chuck said he ain’t seen you but it don’t mean they ain’t covering from outside.”

  “So I’m all shook up over it. Do I get that beer?”

  “Irish… come on. Step had that new guy with him—the one from Miami. They’re looking, man. They want you bad.”

  “Doesn’t everybody?”

  He licked his lips again and edged in closer. “The cops got a tail on Step in case he finds you. You know that too?”

  “It figures. Now get me a tall Piel’s with a foamy head like you see on TV and I’ll blow. And ask Chuck if I got any phone calls.”

  Happy nodded joylessly and shuffled off. Two minutes later he was back with a Stein, slid it over in front of me and said, “You got a call from somebody.” He handed me a matchbook cover with a number scrawled on it. “You gotta buzz ‘em back. Chuck says not to use his place like an office while the heat’s on.”

  When he left I finished half the beer, found a dime and hopped into the phone booth beside me. The number was a Trafalgar exchange which put it somewhere in the West Seventies but I didn’t recognize it. The phone rang just once before it was picked up and a cautious voice said, “Yeah?”

  “Irish. You call?”

  “Where you at?”

  “Chuck Vinson’s.”

  That seemed to satisfy him. He said, “Pete-the-Dog saw me today. Said you wanted to know about Fly.”

  “Got anything?”

  “No, but I know where he gets his junk from. He was peddling for Ernie. Ernie paid him off in H. If you want Fly, try him.”