Complex 90

by Mickey Spillane

  “No, I don’t imagine you will. Not in front of this many witnesses. What’s the next step?”

  “Your explanation, Mr. Hammer. Your... story. We would very much like to know the circumstances surrounding your escape... and the details of how you managed to kill forty-five people.”

  With the deliberate pace of someone about to enjoy an execution, Senator Asnet sat down, his opinion already formed, the skepticism for anything I might say apparent on his face.

  I wasn’t letting him off the hook that easily.

  I said, “After you, Willy.”

  He blinked at me. Like a half-asleep frog noticing a fly flying past his lily pad, sticking its tongue out at him.

  I said, “You go first.”

  “What...?”

  “I read some of the papers while I was stuck over there, and heard some of the Voice of America and BBC broadcasts... but let’s hear your version of it... since you seem so damn certain of being in total possession of the facts.”

  A murmur started around the table that the senator stopped with a Pope-like raise of his hand. Over by the door, the big Negro M.P. was enjoying the show for all it was worth.

  All those eyes were watching Willy now. His notes were beside him, but he didn’t have to consult them at all.

  “We’ll start with the fifth day of November, of this year,” he said.

  I nodded.

  “You and Senator Jasper checked into the National Hotel at three-thirty p.m., Moscow time. For the next two days, you performed routine bodyguard services, accompanying the senator to one plant, two museums, three restaurants, and the GUM department store. You accompanied him to Red Square to watch the November seventh festivities, and a Kremlin visit was scheduled for the fourth day. But on the evening of day three, at the senator’s orders, you were to stay in your suite until he returned from a meeting at the American embassy.”

  “Suggestion,” I cut in, “not orders.”

  He went on as if I hadn’t spoken. “However, you saw fit to disobey his instructions and went out into the streets alone. One hour and thirty minutes later you made contact with someone the Soviet government was keeping under close surveillance.”

  I asked, “Why was this someone under surveillance exactly?”

  “That particular individual was suspected of representing a foreign power.”

  “No kidding.”

  “There was an exchange of money and documents, and at that point you were taken into custody, and removed to a police prison and held for interrogation. Before that could even take place, you broke out, killing anyone who blocked your path. In the weeks to come you hopscotched across Central Europe spreading mayhem until you were discovered onboard a military transport en route to the United States where you had smuggled yourself.”

  He looked up then, a bland smile tugging at one corner of his mouth, defying me to deny it.

  “Whose version was that, Senator?” I asked him.

  “Our people have been on this since the day of your arrest. It’s the result of an intensive international investigation.”

  “Balls,” I said. “Your people never knew what the hell was going on. They were always two steps behind me, and were never there when they were needed.”

  A bland, quiet voice from the other end of the table said, “Tell it your way, Mr. Hammer.”

  It was that little gray man, eyes placid behind rimless eyeglasses.

  Asnet let his gaze flick toward this unassuming figure, annoyed, then sent his eyes my way again. “Certainly you can tell it your way, Mr. Hammer. No one’s stopping you.”

  I grinned at him.

  I grinned at them all for being such idiots.

  The nasty grin with all the teeth.

  “No,” I said.

  Both Asnet and the general blurted, “No?”

  It was funny. Damn funny.

  I got up. “I’m walking out of here. I have a business to get back to back in Manhattan. There’s a man at the door who might be able to stop me, but he’ll have to kill me to do it. And in that case, there’s sure to be. what’s the term the spooks use?” I let my eyes glide over all their faces. “Collateral damage.”

  Nobody said anything for a second, then the quiet voice from down the table cut into the silence. “Mr. Hammer?”

  I turned and looked at him. Like me, he was a pro in the business, this small, quiet, nondescript-looking individual. You would never suspect the underlying toughness in him unless you were in the business yourself.

  With studied casualness, he said, “Will you consent to a voluntary interrogation?”

  He knew what I’d say. He could read the signs, too.

  “With you,” I said, “yes. These others, no way in hell.”

  Senator Asnet made a noise in his throat, as if clearing it to start yet another speech. But the little man got to his feet and gave the general a look, and the show was over. Some at the table were confused at the power this little man could obviously wield; others were in the know, the ones who shared a status classified at a level to recognize that nonexistent agency he represented at this table.

  I pushed it a little bit. I pointed toward the battle-scarred M.P. “He can be in on it.”

  The little gray man named Arthur Rickerby nodded. “Agreed. But we won’t need all this space, will we, Mike?”

  All those eyes popped now. Mike, not Mr. Hammer.

  After all, Art Rickerby was the guy who had got me my shiny government I.D. with its blue-and-gold card and embossed seal. The man who had once told a very pissed-off D.A. that Michael Hammer’s gun permit would be reinstated, no questions answered or asked.

  And I was the guy who had delivered to Rickerby the Soviet assassin called the Dragon, killer of the valued agent who’d been like a son to this quiet little espionage expert.

  Rickerby looked not to the general or any of these senators for permission to take over, but leveled his gaze at our putative host, Tony Wale.

  “With your permission, Mr. Wale?”

  Tony’s gesture said, By all means. And he gave me the slightest smile. Had he and Rickerby been in this together, all along?

  When I walked out of that chamber, it was a hell of a lot different from walking in. Some of those eighteen eyes hated me even more now, but in a few there was a burning curiosity and in others a little grudging admiration because I hadn’t been willing to be the main course at this banquet table.

  Nor had I been willing to chow down on their garbage.

  * * *

  This room was smaller with a little square table and four chairs. I took one of them.

  “Good to see you, Rickety,” I said.

  “That’s Rickerby.” He took a seat opposite me and smiled the way a dentist does, right before he fires up the drill. “But you know that, don’t you, Mike? Just can’t help yourself. Just gotta rattle authority’s cage, don’t you?”

  “Everybody needs a hobby.”

  Rickerby was a guy with unparalleled training in his background who had seen the tough stuff, and plenty of it, even though he didn’t look the part. He had the M.P. sergeant introduce himself to me.

  “Desmond Casey, Mr. Hammer,” the Negro said, and offered his hand, which I took. His grip was firm but he didn’t show off. “Call me Des.”

  “And I’m Mike. Too young for my war. Korea?”

  He nodded. His manner was calm, and in this parade-rest environment, he seemed easy-going. But no question about it— this was a deadly man.

  The other M.P. was still with us, his back to the still open doorway. I tried to keep a straight face and it wasn’t easy when I asked him, “Am I in your custody, son?”

  He came on strong, frowning, squaring off at the shoulders while his one hand inadvertently drifted toward the holstered gun.

  “Affirmative,” he said brusquely.

  But the scarred-face sergeant said, “We’re here to protect Mr. Hammer, soldier,” chopping his subordinate up with his eyes.

  Rickerby told the
kid to go get us some Cokes from the vending machine, then to wait outside and guard our locked door, all of which put a perplexed look on the junior M.P.’s face. He was just not able to comprehend the sudden switch in attitudes—how had I managed to go from some kind of political prisoner to a VIP?

  When the young man had gone out, looking none too happy with his lot in military life, Sergeant Des Casey grinned at me again and shook his head.

  “Sorry, Mike.”

  “Kids today,” I said.

  Soon Rickerby, Des Casey, and I were alone in the small space, sitting at the little table with our Cokes. I let Rickerby use a handheld tape recorder to take it all down for later analysis.

  Rickerby sighed. “Like the man said, there’s no better place to start than the beginning. Do you know why Senator Jasper took this little Moscow excursion?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “Actually, no. I saw to it that you were given clearance, when the senator’s request came through, seeking to take you to Russia as his bodyguard. But that was the start and finish of my involvement.”

  “Till now.”

  “Till now. And you didn’t utilize any of our people during your escape or the chase that followed. Over two months behind the Iron Curtain, Mike. How did you manage it?”

  I gave him my most eloquent shrug. “I have my own contacts. I’ve done international work, and we have affiliations with private investigative agencies worldwide. And I have my friends in the press. You think my buddy Hy Gardner isn’t hooked up?”

  Rickerby’s sigh seemed small but it spoke volumes. “The beginning, Mike. Why did the senator go to Moscow?”

  “Nothing surprising. He wanted a firsthand look at the Russian economy. He paid for the trip out of his own pocket— he wanted to make a personal evaluation of how much their military expenditures were affecting consumption of civilian goods and the public morale. But, Art... this thing didn’t start in Moscow.”

  “Where did it start, Mike?”

  “Where it always starts for me.”

  Rickerby smiled a little. He knew.

  “New York,” he said.

  “New York,” I said.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The day had been sunny and bright, laying bare the dirt and wear of buildings, the age of this city as apparent as a fading beauty queen’s morning face before make-up. But this was night and filth became subtle tones under artificial light and decay disappeared as if airbrushed away. Through the wall-size window, the glass and steel and concrete structures formed a geometric study with only occasional winking lights to indicate this view was of life going on in the city.

  I was in the penthouse of the Wentworth Hotel just off Broadway in the upper fifties, attending a politician’s idea of an intimate cocktail party, meaning there were over one hundred guests, with invitations required at the door. Senator Allen Jasper and his wife Emily had a chalet-like home in the Catskills, but because the senator’s law offices were in Manhattan, they maintained this cozy apartment that took up the Wentworth’s top floor. Just for convenience and entertaining.

  Tonight was the latter.

  No tuxes or gowns, just the kind of evening attire that few could afford outside the social register. I was circulating, avoiding prolonged conversations and the proffered trays of hors d’oeuvres and glasses of champagne. Every pop of a champagne cork, rising over the clink of glasses and the tinkle of Cole Porter from the guy at the baby grand, got my attention.

  I was working security, of course, in a charcoal suit that might have been off the rack but was as expensive as some of the Italian tailored suits and Paris designer evening dresses around me, cut as it was to conceal the .45 Colt Auto in the shoulder sling.

  A guy of my notoriety can have trouble going undercover, but tonight nobody had recognized me. Or at least nobody made a point of it. Anyway, I wasn’t attracting as much attention these days. Just a middle-aged P.I. who used to make headlines, reduced to taking on jobs where he could find them. Like this one.

  Normally I steered a wide path of political types. But I got a kick out of Senator Jasper—he was a conservative, a rare one from this part of the world, and he spoke his mind, which made him a natural target for the far left crowd and Commie front groups. He’d been attracting a lot of attention lately, not only in his native New York but all across the country.

  Crowds cheered him, other crowds razzed him. But pundits right and left considered him a straight-shooter and a rare no-b.s. politico. He’d had plenty of literal eggs tossed his way, but never got any of the figurative stuff on his face.

  The guy had humble beginnings and had worked his way through law school working construction in the summer. He was a self-made man, at least before he married money, one of that breed called rugged individualist that refused to go out of style but never would. With that chiseled movie-star handsome mug of his on that lanky Lincoln-esque frame, Jasper had no trouble attracting TV time. This was a guy in a position to influence public thinking—so much so that he might pop up on the ballot during a national election one of these days.

  In the last election, I’d done a job for the senator, pulling the rug out from under an opponent whose people had gone for a smear job. I’d been backing up another P.I., Ralph Marley, who worked out of Los Angeles. Jasper had met him out there doing publicity and fundraising, and Marley had been on retainer for two years doing what might be termed bodyguard work.

  I knew Marley going back ten years. We threw each other jobs that were out of our respective licensed jurisdictions. Whenever he was traveling with the senator to New York, Marley would call me in as necessary.

  Like tonight.

  Marley ambled up. He was in a sharp brown suit, the jacket just loose enough to hide the holstered .38 on his hip. He reminded me of Bogart in his heyday, if Bogie had been bigger and left his toupe at home.

  “Pretty easy gig,” Marley said in a wry near whisper. He also lacked Bogie’s lisp. “Lots of good-looking ladies on hand. A hound like you ought to be in heaven.”

  “People have tried to put me there using a less pleasant approach.”

  “There, or the other place.”

  I let my eyes stroll around taking in all the smiling faces, the lightweight summer suits, the low-cut dresses, heads back in laughter or bobbing forward to make a conversational point.

  “Don’t think we’re gonna get any clowns with placards in here tonight,” I allowed. “But with a guy like the senator, an assassination play is always possible.”

  “What, some Lee Harvey crashing the party? Not with that aide of the senator’s on the door, checking invites.”

  “Still. You never know.”

  “No. You don’t.” Marley smiled, then leaned in. “It’s not violence that keeps guys like us in business, Mike. It’s the threat of it.”

  I raised a shush finger. “Don’t tell anybody.”

  We exchanged grins and he drifted off. We needed to work different sides of the room. Earlier he had pointed out and identified key guests—two army generals involved with procurement, Senator Parker from New Jersey, the president of Allied Servo-Electronics, all with their wives. Also, Warren Bentley, socialite and Wall Street genius, who was waiting for his date to arrive, Irene Carroll, the latest Washington “hostess with the mostess,” who was fashionably late.

  “The two have been making the social columns lately,” Marley had said.

  “If she’s his date, why is Bentley by himself?”

  “She lives here in the hotel, when she’s not in D.C. Probably takes her an hour to layer on all that ice.”

  The Carroll dame’s propensity for displays of Gabor-like jewelry was part of why we were on guard duty tonight.

  Other guests on hand were typical New York partygoers, well-known but out of work actors, fashion models, bestselling writers, newspaper columnists, and society page escapees. Marley was right that there was a plentitude of pulchritude on parade, but the actresses were too obvious with their breastworks a
nd the models too subtle with their lack of same.

  One young woman—I made her for late twenties—stood out from the crowd. Marley hadn’t identified her for me, so I had no idea who she was.

  She was under-dressed for the affair and by that I don’t mean her goodies were hanging out. She wore a simple light blue satin blouse and a navy pencil skirt to her dimpled knees and you could see that her legs were as bare as they were pale. None of this summer sun for her—she was as ghostly as that dame in the Charles Addams cartoons but not so tall and much more curvy. Her hair was carefully arranged to look careless, a startling mass of Carmen-esque black curls, her eyebrows heavy and unplucked, her eyes dark, her lips full and moist with blood-red lipstick punctuated by a nearby beauty mark.

  She might have been Liz Taylor’s younger, better-looking sister.

  One of the temptations of a dull security gig is to glom onto a dish like this and spend all your time eyeballing her. I managed not to do that, but I did notice that she seemed to talk only to a handful of the others present—an older gent in his distinguished sixties with wireframe glasses, a mustache, and gray, thinning hair, who smoked a pipe; our congressional host and his wife Emily; and a gawky kid in an ill-fitting seersucker suit with a weak chin, eyeglasses with tortoiseshell frames, and a pronounced overbite.

  That sorry specimen appeared to have accompanied this doll to the do. Was she blind? Did she have a nebbish fetish? If they ever brought back “Henry Aldrich,” he was their man.

  “Mr. Hammer?” The voice was male and resonant.

  I turned and smiled at my host and his wife. She was a very pretty woman in her fifties who probably once had a great figure, but five kids later was plump enough that “matronly” was a compliment. It didn’t help she was in a pink satin example of those nightmarish sack dresses the swishy French designers had foisted on American womanhood.

  Still, her hair looked naturally blonde, her eyes blue, her smile radiant. We had not met. The senator was taking care of that.

  “Mr. Hammer, this is my wife, Emily. She asked for an introduction.”