The Mike Hammer Collection, Volume 3

by Mickey Spillane

“He’s the guy Basil Levitt shot, buddy. I’d say his name was Marv Kania.”

  “Mike . . .”

  “I know his history. You got something out on him?”

  “For a month. He’s wanted all over. You sure about this?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “He must want you pretty badly.”

  “Pat, he’s got a bullet in him. He’s not going to last like he is and if he’s staying alive it’s to get me first. If we can nail him we can find out what this is all about. If he knows he’s wanted he can’t go to a doctor and if he knows he’s dying he’ll do anything to come at me again. Now damn it, a shot-up guy can’t go prancing around the streets, you know that.”

  “He’s doing it.”

  “So he’ll fall. Somebody’ll try to help him and he’ll nail them too. He just can’t follow me around, I move too fast.”

  “He’ll wait you out, Mike.”

  “How?”

  “You’re not thinking straight. If he knows what this operation is about he’ll know where you’ll be looking sooner or later. All he has to do is wait there.”

  “What about in the meantime?”

  “I’ll get on it right away. If he left a trail we’ll find it. There aren’t too many places he can hole up.”

  “Okay.”

  “And, buddy . . .”

  “What, Pat?”

  “Hands off if you nail him, understand? I got enough people on my back right now. This new D.A. is trying to break your license.”

  “Can he?”

  “It can be done.”

  “Well hell, tell him I’m cooperating all the way. If you look in the downstairs apartment in the building across the street from where Velda was staying you’ll find a sniper’s rifle that belonged to Basil Levitt. Maybe you can backtrack that.”

  “Now you tell me,” he said softly.

  “I just located it.”

  “What does it mean?”

  I didn’t tell him what I thought at all. “Got me. You figure it out.”

  “Maybe I will. Now you get those slugs down to me as fast as you can.”

  “By messenger service right now.”

  When I hung up I called Arrow, had a boy pick up the envelope with the two chunks of lead, got them off, then stretched out on the couch.

  I slept for three hours, a hard, tight sleep that was almost dreamless, and when the phone went off it didn’t awaken me until the fourth or fifth time. When I said hello, Velda’s voice said, “Mike . . .”

  “Here, kitten. What’s up?”

  “Can you meet me for some small talk, honey?”

  My fingers tightened involuntarily around the receiver. Small talk was a simple code. Trouble, it meant, be careful.

  In case somebody was on an extension I kept my voice light. “Sure, kid. Where are you?”

  “A little place on Eighth Avenue near the Garden . . . Lew Green’s Bar.”

  “I know where it is. Be right down.”

  “And, Mike . . . come alone.”

  “Okay.”

  On the way out I stopped by Nat Drutman’s office and talked him out of a .32 automatic he kept in his desk, shoved it under my belt behind my back, and grabbed a cab for Lew Green’s Bar. There was a dampness in the air and a slick was showing on the streets, reflecting the lights of the city back from all angles. It was one of those nights that had a bad smell to it.

  Inside the bar a pair of chunkers were swapping stories in a half-drunken tone while a TV blared from the wall. A small archway led into the back room that was nestled in semi-darkness and when I went in a thin, reedy voice said from one side, “Walk easy, mister.”

  He had his hands in his side pockets and would have been easy to take, loaded or not, but I went along with him. He steered me past the booths to the side entrance where another one waited who grinned in an insolent way and said, “He carries a heavy piece. You look for it?”

  “You do it,” the thin guy said.

  He knew right where to look. He dragged the .45 out, said, “Nice,” grinned again, and stuck it in his pocket. “Now outside. We got transportation waiting. You’re real V.I.P.”

  The place they took me to was in Long Island City, a section ready to be torn down to make way for a new factory building. The car stopped outside an abandoned store and when the smart one nodded I followed him around the back with the thin one six feet behind me and went on inside.

  They sat at a table, three of them, with Velda in a chair at the end. A single Coleman lamp threw everything into sharp lights and shadows, making their faces look unreal.

  I looked past them to Velda. “You okay, honey?”

  She nodded, but there was a tight cast to her mouth.

  The heavy-set guy in the homburg said, “So you’re Mike Hammer.”

  I took a wild guess. “Del Penner.”

  His face hardened. “He clean?”

  Both the guys at the door behind him nodded and the one took my .45 out and showed it. Del said, “You came too easy, Hammer.”

  “Who expected trouble?”

  “In your business you should always expect it.”

  “I’ll remember it. What’s the action, Penner?”

  “You sent her asking about me. Why?”

  “Because I’m getting my toes stepped on. A guy named Kid Hand got shot and I hear you’re taking his place. I don’t like to get pushed. Now what?”

  “You’ll get more than pushed, Hammer. Word’s around that you got yourself some top cover and knocking you off can make too much noise. Not that it can’t be handled, but who needs noise? Okay, you’re after something, so spill it.”

  “Sure. You are stepping up then?”

  Penner shrugged elaborately. “Somebody takes over. What else?” “Who’s Dickerson?”

  Everybody looked at everybody else before Del Penner decided to answer me. He finally made up his mind. “You know that much, then you can have this. Nobody knows who Mr. Dickerson is.”

  “Somebody knows.”

  “Maybe, but not you and not us. What else?”

  “You pull this stunt on your own?”

  “That you can bet your life on. When this broad started nosing around I wanted to know why. So I asked her and she told me. She said they were your orders. Now get this . . . I know about the whole schmear with you knocking off Kid Hand and getting Levitt bumped and leaving Marv Kania running around with a slug in his gut. I ain’t got orders on you yet but like I said, when anybody noses around me I want to know why.”

  “Supposing I put it this way then, Penner . . . I’m the same way. Anybody tries to shoot me up is in for a hard time. You looked like a good place to start with and don’t figure I’m the only one who’ll think of it. You don’t commit murder in this town and just walk away from it. If you’re stepping into Kid Hand’s job then you should know that too.”

  Penner smiled tightly. “The picture’s clear, Hammer. I’m just stopping it before it gets started.”

  “Then this bit is supposed to be a warning?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Or maybe you’re doing a favor ahead of time.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Like Kid Hand was maybe doing a personal favor and stepped down off his pedestal to look like a big man.”

  The silence was tight. Del Penner just stared at me, not bothered at all by what I said. His hand reached up and touched his homburg and he sat back in his chair. “Warning then, Hammer. Don’t make any more noise around me. I imagine you’d be about a fifteen-hundred-buck job. One thousand five hundred bucks can buy both of you dead and no mud on my hands. Clear?”

  I put both hands on the table and leaned right into his face. “How much would you cost, Del?” I asked him. He glared at me, his eyes hard and bright. I said, “Come on, Velda. They’re giving us a ride home.”

  We sat in the front next to the driver, the skinny guy in back. All the way into Manhattan he kept playing with my gun. When we got to my office the
one behind the wheel said, “Out, Mac.”

  “Let’s have the rod.”

  “Nah, it’s too good a piece for a punk like you. I want a souvenir.”

  So I put the .32 up against his neck while Velda swung around in her seat and pointed the automatic at the skinny guy and his whine was a tinny nasal sound he had trouble making. He handed over the .45 real easy, licking his lips and trying to say something. The one beside me said, “Look, Mac . . .”

  “I never come easy, buddy. You tell them all.”

  His eyes showed white all the way around and he knew. He knew all right. The car pulled away with a squeal of tires and I looked at Velda and laughed. “You play it that way by accident, honey?”

  “I’ve had to read a lot of minds the past seven years. I knew how it would work. I just wanted you ready.”

  “I don’t know whether to kiss you or smack your ass.”

  She grinned impishly. “You can always kiss me.”

  “Don’t ask for it.”

  “Why not? It’s the only way I’m going to get it, I think.”

  Teddy’s place is a lush restaurant about as far downtown as it’s possible to get without falling in the river. It seemed an unlikely spot for good food and celebrities, but there you got both. Hy Gardner was having a late supper with Joey and Cindy Adams, and when he spotted us, waved us over to the table.

  Before we could talk he ordered up scampi and a steak for both of us, then: “You come down for supper or information?”

  “Both.”

  “You got Joey really researching. He comes to me, I go to somebody else, and little by little I’m beginning to get some mighty curious ideas. When are you going to recite for publication?”

  “When I have it where it should be.”

  “So what’s the pitch on Sally Devon?”

  “All yours, Joey,” I said.

  He could hardly wait to get it out. “Boy, what a deal you handed me. You threw an old broad my way. There was more dust on her records than a Joe Miller joke. Then you know who comes up with the answers?”

  “Sure, Cindy.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Who else?”

  “Drop dead. Anyway, we contacted some of the kids who worked with her only like now they’re ready for the old ladies’ home. Sure, she was in show business, but with her it didn’t last long and was more of a front. Her old friends wouldn’t say too much, being old friends and all, but you knew what they were thinking. Sally Devon was a high-priced whore. She ran with some of the big ones for a while, then got busted and wound up with some of the racket boys.”

  Velda looked at me, puzzled. “If she was involved with the rackets, how’d she end up with Sim Torrence, who was supposed to be so clean? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Sure it does,” Hy told her. “He got her off a hook when he was still an assistant D.A. Look, she was still a beautiful doll then and you know the power of a doll. So they became friends. Later he married her. I can name a couple other top politicos who are married to women who used to be in the business. It isn’t as uncommon as you think.”

  He put his fork down and sipped at his drink. “What do you make of it now?” When I didn’t answer he said, “Blackmail?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted.

  “Well, what else do you want?”

  For a moment I sat there thinking. “Torrence is a pretty big wheel now, isn’t he?”

  “As big as they get without being in office.”

  “Okay, he said repeated threats were made on him by guys he helped put away.”

  “Ah, they all get that.”

  “They all don’t have a mess like this either.”

  “So what?”

  “This, Hy . . . I’d like a rundown on his big cases, on everyone who ever laid a threat on him. You ought to have that much in your morgue.”

  Hy shrugged and grinned at me. “I suppose you want it tonight.” “Why not?”

  “So we’ll finish the party in my office. Come on.”

  Hy’s file on Sim Torrence was a thick one composed of hundreds of clippings. We all took a handful and found desk space to look them over. A little after one we had everything classified and cross-indexed. Joey had four cases of threats on Sim’s life, Cindy had six, Velda and I both had three, and Hy one. He put all the clips in a Thermofax machine, pulled copies, handed them over, and put the files back.

  “Now can we go home?” he said.

  Joey wanted to go on with it until Cindy gave him a poke in the ribs.

  “So let’s all go home,” I told him.

  We said so-long downstairs and Velda and I headed back toward the Stem. In the lower Forties I checked both of us into a hotel, kissed her at the door, and went down to my room. She didn’t like it, but I still had work to do.

  After a shower I sat on the bed and started through the clips. One by one I threw them all down until I had four left. All the rest who had threatened Sim Torrence were either dead or back in prison. Four were free, three on parole, and one having served a life sentence of thirty years.

  Life.

  Thirty years.

  He was forty-two when he went in, seventy-two when he came out. His name was Sonny Motley and there was a picture of him in a shoe repair shop he ran on Amsterdam Avenue. I put the clips in the discard pile and looked at the others.

  Sherman Buff, a two-time loser that Sim had put the screws to in court so that he caught a big fall. He threatened everybody including the judge, but Torrence in particular.

  Arnold Goodwin who liked to be called Stud. Sex artist. Rapist. He put the full blame for his fall on Torrence, who not only prosecuted his case but processed it from the first complaint until his capture. No known address, but his parole officer could supply that.

  Nicholas Beckhaus, burglar with a record who wound up cutting a cop during his capture. He and two others broke out of a police van during a routine transfer and it was Sim Torrence’s office who ran him down until he was trapped in a rooming house. He shot a cop in that capture too. He promised to kill Torrence on sight when he got out. Address unknown, but he would have a parole officer too.

  I folded the clips, put three in my pants pocket, and leaned back on the bed. Then there was a knock on the door.

  I had the .45 in my hand, threw the bolt back, and moved to the side. Velda walked in grinning, closed the door, and stood there with her back against it. “Going to shoot me, Mike?”

  “You crazy?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “What do you want?”

  “You don’t know?”

  I reached out and pulled her in close, kissed her hair, then felt the fire of her mouth again. She leaned against me, her breasts firm and insistent against my naked chest, her body forming itself to mine.

  “I’m going to treat you rough, my love . . . until you break down.”

  “You’re going back to bed.”

  “To bed, yes, but not back.” She smiled, pulled away, and walked to my sack. Little by little, slowly, every motion a time-honored motion, she took off her clothes. Then she stood there naked and smiling a moment before sliding into the bed where she lay there waiting.

  “Let’s see who’s the roughest,” I said, and lay down beside her. I punched out the light, got between the top sheet and the cover, turned on my side and closed my eyes.

  “You big bastard,” she said softly. “If I didn’t love you I’d kill you.”

  CHAPTER 5

  I was up and dressed before eight. The big, beautiful, tousled blackhaired thing who had lain so comfortably against me all night stirred and looked at me through sleepy-lidded eyes, then stretched languidly and smiled.

  “Frustrated?” I asked her.

  “Determined.” She stuck her tongue out at me. “You’ll pay for last night.”

  “Get out of the sack. We have plenty to do.”

  “Watch.”

  I turned toward the mirror and put on my tie. “No, damn it.”

&
nbsp; But I couldn’t help seeing her, either. It wasn’t something you could take your eyes off very easily. She was too big, too lovely, her body a pattern of symmetry that was frightening. She posed deliberately, knowing I would watch her, then walked into the shower without bothering to close the door. And this time I saw something new. There was a fine, livid scar that ran diagonally across one hip and several parallel lines that traced themselves across the small of her back. I had seen those kind of marks before. Knives made them. Whips made them. My hands knotted up for a second and I yanked at my tie.

  When she came out she had a towel wrapped sarong-fashion around her, smelling of soap and hot water, and this time I didn’t watch her. Instead I pulled the clips out, made a pretense of reading them until she was dressed, gave them to her to keep in her handbag, and led her out the door.

  At the elevator I punched the down button and put my hand through her arm. “Don’t do that to me again, kitten.”

  Her teeth flashed through the smile. “Oh no, Mike. You’ve kept me waiting too long. I’ll do anything to get you. You see . . . I’m not done with you yet. You can marry me right now or put up with some persecution.”

  “We haven’t got time right now.”

  “Then get ready to suffer, gentleman.” She gave my arm a squeeze and got on the elevator.

  After breakfast I bypassed Pat’s office to get a line on the parole officers handling Buff, Goodwin, and Beckhaus. Both Buff and Beckhaus were reporting to the same officer and he was glad to give me a rundown on their histories.

  Sherman Buff was married, lived in Brooklyn, and operated a successful electronics shop that subcontracted jobs from larger companies. His address was good, his income sizable, and he had a woman he was crazy about and no desire to go back to the old life. The parole officer considered him a totally rehabilitated man.

  Nicholas Beckhaus reported regularly, but he had to come in on the arm of his brother, a dentist, who supported him. At some time in prison he had been assaulted and his back permanently damaged so that he was a partial cripple. But more than that, there was brain damage too, so that his mental status was reduced to that of a ten-year-old.

  The officer who handled Arnold Goodwin was more than anxious to talk about his charge. Goodwin had been trouble all the way and had stopped reporting in three months ago. Any information we could dig up on his whereabouts he’d appreciate. He was afraid of only one thing . . . that before Goodwin was found he’d kill somebody.