The Mike Hammer Collection, Volume 3

by Mickey Spillane

  “No, they never did.”

  With her eyes still closed she shook her head. “Never thought they would. He was a thinker. Even heard where he was going after they stole it.”

  “Where, Miss Lee?” I asked softly.

  She didn’t answer. She was asleep.

  “Damn,” I said.

  The picture was suddenly getting a sharp outline.

  I dropped Joey at his AGVA office and went back to my own where Velda was waiting. She had compiled a report on Del Penner for me and from what it looked like he was in solidly now, a natural inheritor of Kid Hand’s old territory. It was a step up and he was ready for it, taking advantage of an occupational hazard. Nothing was solidified yet, but he was there and holding on.

  When I finished it I got Pat on the phone, asked him if he could pull a package on Blackie Conley from the file, then told Velda to run over and pick it up. When she left I sat back in my chair and swung around so I could stare out the window at the concrete escarpment that was New York.

  It was getting dark out and a mist was closing in. Another hour and it would be raining again. The multicolor neons of the city were bursting against the gray overcast like summer heat lightning and someplace across town a siren wailed. Another followed it.

  Trouble out there. Trouble all over, but trouble out there all the time. Someplace was a guy with a slug in him and a gun in his hand. Someplace was Marv Kania, hurting like hell, waiting for me to show up so he could put one in my gut too. It was Levitt who had done it, but me in his mind. I was the living one, so I did it. Screw him. Let him hurt.

  Three million dollars. That could bring trouble to a city. That could bring a man back to power and buy muscle. That was big starter money and a prize for anybody.

  Sim Torrence thought Blackie Conley could have made it. Okay, suppose he did. Suppose he sat on that three million all these years, afraid to spend it, not wanting to convert it because of the loss he’d take in the transaction. He just sat on it. It was power to him. Brother, he sure waited for the heat to cool, but it happens like that sometimes. Harmony Brothers sat on a million and a half for forty-one years and only told where it was on his deathbed. Frankie Boyle kept seventy thousand in his mattress for sixteen years, sleeping happily on it every night without ever touching it, then went out of his mind when the rooming house was burned down along with his unspent fortune.

  So Blackie Conley got away and sat on three million for thirty years. In the last of his life he gets a power complex and wants to buy his way back in. He’d know how to do it all right. If he could stay undercover thirty years he could still do it.

  Blackie Conley! Mr. Dickerson.

  A big, fat possible.

  Question: Why try to knock off Sue Devon?

  Answer: A cute possible here too. If Blackie was in love with Sally, and IF Sally had a child by another man, there might be enough hatred to want the child destroyed.

  There was only one thing wrong with the premise. Too many people wanted Sue dead. Basil Levitt was trying for it when Kid Hand and Marv Kania came in.

  But there was an answer to that one too, a money answer. Sue was a target with a price on her head and if it was big enough the shooters would fight each other for a crack at her. Kid Hand could use the dough and make himself a big one in somebody’s eyes at the same time. That could explain why Levitt came in so fast after I got there. He thought I was after head money too.

  Blackie Conley, Mr. Dickerson, three million bucks. And the vultures.

  Velda came in then and laid the package on my desk. Inside the folder was a picture of Conley. I had seen one like it not too long before in Sue’s room. Blackie Conley was the guy in the nightclubs with Sally Devon.

  His arrest history went back to when he was a child and if he was alive today he’d be eighty-two years old. There were a lot older people still around and some of them right up there with the best. Age doesn’t hit everybody the same way.

  Pat had included some notes for me suggesting I go into a transcript of the trial if I wanted more information on Conley since it was the last that he was ever mentioned. He was tied in with the gang and his history brought out, but since the trial was a prolonged affair it would take a lot of reading to pick out the pieces.

  I looked up at Velda and she stuck her tongue out at me. “I know, you want me to do it.”

  “You mind?”

  “No, but what am I looking for?”

  “Background on Conley.”

  “Why don’t you ask Sonny Motley?”

  “I intend to, kitten. We have to hit it from all sides.”

  I filled in the picture for her, watching her face put it together like I did. She nodded finally and said, “You could have it, Mike. It . . . seems right.”

  “But not quite?”

  She ran the tip of her tongue between her teeth. “I just have a feeling.”

  “I know. Missing pieces. Suppose you meet Annette Lee and see if you can get any more out of her. It won’t come easy, but try. She might give you someplace to start with Conley too.”

  “Okay, lover.”

  “And be careful, honey. That nut Kania is still loose. So is Arnold Goodwin. Those guys could be keys to this thing.”

  “Pat said he’d call you if anything came in on them.”

  “Good.”

  “And he said to tell you Charlie Force is protesting your association with the agency you work for.”

  “He knows what he can do.”

  “That Inspector Grebb is trouble. He’s covering you like a blanket. Do you know you have a tail waiting downstairs?”

  “I expected it. I know a way out too.”

  “You’re asking for it, wise guy. I just don’t want to see you get killed, that’s all. I want to kill you myself. It’ll take days and days.”

  “Knock it off.” I swung off my chair and stood up. She grinned, kissed me lightly, and picked up her handbag.

  “I arranged for an apartment for you. It’s furnished and the key’s in the desk. It’s got a big double bed.”

  “It’s polite to wait till you’re asked.”

  Velda cocked her head and smiled. “There’s a couch in the living room if you still want to be the gentleman.”

  “Can’t you wait until we get married?”

  “No.” She pulled on her raincoat and belted it. “If I don’t push you you’ll never come.”

  “I suppose you have a key.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Change the damn lock.”

  She made a face and walked to the door. “So I’ll do like you and shoot it off. Adios, doll.”

  Sonny Motley had closed his shop an hour ago, but the newsboy was still in his kiosk and told me the old guy had a beer or so every night in a joint two blocks down.

  It was a sleazy little bar that had sort of just withered within the neighborhood, making enough to keep going, but nothing more. A half-dozen tables lined one wall and the air smelled of beer and greasy hamburgers. Two old broads were yakking it up at the bar, a couple of kids were at the other end watching the fights on TV while they pulled at their drinks, and Sonny Motley sat alone at the last table with a beer in front of him and a late-edition tabloid open in front of him. Beside his feet was a lunchbox and change of a dollar on the table.

  I sat down opposite him and said, “Hello, Sonny.”

  He looked up, closed the paper, and gave me a half-toothless smile. “By damn, didn’t expect you. Good you should come. I don’t see many people socially.”

  “This isn’t exactly social.”

  “ ’Course not. When does a private cop and a con get social? But for me any talk is social. Sometimes I wish I didn’t finish my time. At least then I’d get to see a parole officer for a chat once in a while. But who the hell has time for an old guy like me?”

  “Ever see any of your old mob, Sonny?”

  “Come on . . . what’s your name? Hammer . . .” He ticked off his fingers, “Gleason, Tippy Wells, Harry the
Fox, Guido Sunchi . . . all dead. Vinny Pauncho is in the nuthouse up by Beacon and that crazy Willie Fingers is doing his big stretch yet in Atlanta. I wrote to Willie once and never even heard back. Who’s left?”

  “Blackie Conley.”

  “Yeah, he’s left dead.”

  “Sim Torrence thinks he might have made it.”

  “Baloney.”

  I told the bartender to bring me a beer and turned back to Sonny. “Suppose he did.”

  “So let him.”

  “Suppose he came back with the three million bucks you guys heisted? ”

  Sonny laughed abruptly and smacked his hands on the table. “That would be the funniest yet. What the hell could he do with it? All that stud wanted was broads and at his age it would be like shoving a wet noodle up a tiger’s . . . no, Hammer, it wouldn’t do him no good at all.” He sat back and chuckled at the thought and waved for another beer.

  “Let’s consider it,” I insisted.

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  “So he’s old. He wants one more crack at the big-time.”

  “Who the hell would listen to him?”

  “You could pull a power play from behind the scenes. Three million bucks can do a lot of talking and if somebody is fronting for you who knows what you look like?”

  Sonny stopped smiling then, his face wrapped in thought. Then he dragged on the beer and put half of it down at once. “No,” he said, “Blackie ain’t coming back, Hammer. He never ain’t.”

  “Why not?”

  His grin was tight-lipped, satisfied with what he was thinking. “Because I nailed old Blackie, I did. Man, with a rod I was good. I mean good, Hammer. You know he got me with that damn rifle. It put me down and stopped me, but I had one chance at him when he took off in that taxi and let one go while he still had the rifle poked out the window. I didn’t miss with that shot. I think I got old Blackie and he crawled off and died or wound himself and the taxi both up in the drink.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Okay, so I’m wrong. Hope I am.” He chuckled again and finished the beer. “Like to see old Blackie again. I’d like to find out if I really did get him or not.”

  “Ever hear of Mr. Dickerson?” I asked him.

  “Nope. Should I?”

  “Not especially.”

  “Who is he?”

  “I don’t know either.”

  “Like hell you don’t.”

  “Why do you say that?” I asked him.

  “Because I’ve lived with cons too damn long, Hammer. You get so you can tell things without them having to be said. Take now, f’instance. You ain’t asked all you came here to ask yet, have you?”

  It was my turn to buy and I yelled for another brew. “Okay, old-timer, I’ll put it straight. You remember Sally Devon?”

  Sonny frowned slightly and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sure. Used to be my broad.”

  “I thought she was Conley’s.”

  “That bastard would go after anything in skirts no matter who she belonged to.”

  “Even yours?”

  “Sure. I warned him off a few times. Had to knock him on his keister once. But hell, what difference does it make? In those days he was a sharp article. Older than we were and pretty smooth. Sally was always sweet on him. If I didn’t bounce her around she woulda left me for him any day.”

  He stopped suddenly, his eyes going cold. “You’re thinking maybe because of her Blackie dumped the heist and tried to take me?”

  “Could be.”

  Then the coldness left his eyes and the age came back. He let out a muted cackle and shook his head at the joke. “Damn,” he said, “that guy was always thinking.”

  “Where were you going with the money if that job paid off, Sonny?”

  “What’s the matter, don’t you read?”

  “You tell me.”

  He bobbed his head, relishing the moment. “I even see it done on some TV shows now, but it woulda worked. We had a truck with a tailgate ramped down. We was to drive the cab right in there and take off. So the cops found the truck and another one we was going to change to. It’s all down. Instead that bastard Blackie crossed us.”

  “What were you going to do to the driver?”

  “Toss him out, bump him. Who knows? We woulda figured somethin’.”

  “You had a hideout?”

  “Yeah, a house in the Catskills we had rented ahead of time. The cops plastered that looking for Blackie. He made all the arrangements on that end and never got to use ’em. Coulda been the crime of the century.”

  “Maybe it was,” I said.

  Sonny was reaching for his glass and stopped short. “What’re you thinking, boy?”

  “Maybe while Blackie was making plans for you he was making other plans for himself. Suppose he arranged for an alternate hideout and made it after all. Suppose he bumped the driver, ditched the car, and holed up all these years and finally decided to come back again. Now he’s here with three million bucks taking his last fling, buying himself an organization.”

  He listened, sat silent a moment, then shook his head and picked up his beer. “Not old Blackie. He couldn’t live without the broads and now he’s too old.”

  “Ever hear of a voyeur?”

  “What’s that?”

  “They can’t do it so they just watch. I know a few old jokers who get their kicks that way. They got millions too.”

  “I think you’re nuts,” he said, “but any time you want to talk about it come back and talk. You’re the first company I had around in a long time.”

  “Sure.” I wrote down my new address on a matchbook cover and passed it to him. “Reach me here or at the office if you get any ideas. You can earn some cash.”

  I put a buck on the table and left. Behind me Sonny was still chuckling. I’d like to be there if he ever got to meet Blackie face to face.

  CHAPTER 7

  I called Hy from a drugstore on the avenue and got Pete Ladero’s address from him. I reached him at home and asked him if he could get the newspaper clips on the Motley-Conley job thirty years ago and bring them up to the office. He griped about leaving his favorite TV program, but his nose for news was too big and he said it would take an hour, but he’d be there.

  At the Automat on Sixth between Forty-fourth and Forty-fifth I picked up a tray, loaded it with goodies, and went upstairs to think for a while. It wasn’t accidental. I knew Jersey Toby would be there the same as he had been there at the same time every night the past ten years. I let him finish his meal, picked up my coffee, and joined him at his table. When he saw me he almost choked, gave a quick look around, and tightened up.

  “Damn, can’t you get off my neck? Whatta you want?”

  “Talk, Toby, just talk.”

  “Well, I said all I’m gonna say. Scratch off, Mike. I don’t want no part of you, buddy. You know I got asked questions already?”

  “Who asked?”

  “Some broad in the other joint. She knew you all right. I tried to lie out of it and said you was looking for a dame for that night but she wouldn’t buy it. Said she knew you too well. You’re hooked for somebody else. You’re putting my tail in a sling.”

  “So I’ll make it short.”

  “Like hell. You won’t make nothing.”

  “Okay, Toby, then tomorrow a pickup goes out on you. You get rousted every time you step on the street. Lineup twice a week, complaints . . .”

  Jersey Toby looked at me, his face white and drawn. “Come on, you wouldn’t do that.”

  “Try me.”

  He finished his coffee, looked around nervously again until he was assured we were alone, and nodded. “You would at that. Okay, spill it.”

  “Let’s go back to Dickerson again, Toby.”

  “We went through that once.”

  “You get the word.”

  “Sure . . . secondhand through the broads.”

  “Good enough. What’s the word on the money angle? If out-of-town hoods are moving
in, something’s drawing them. Who’s spreading the green around?”

  Toby’s tongue flicked at dry lips and he pulled on the butt. “Look . . . if I prime you, this is the last?”

  I shrugged.

  “Let’s hear it, Mike.”

  “You bought it. I’ll back off.”

  “Okay then, Marge . . . she’s the redhead. She was with . . . a guy one night. No names, Mike. I ain’t giving you names. I specialize in that end of the trade. Marge, she’s a favorite with the hard boys. Does a lot of fancy tricks for them, see? Well, this guy . . . like he’s representing somebody big. He’s like muscle on lend. He comes in to do a favor. He’s Chicago and ready. He ain’t saying what’s to do, but he stands ready. Now his boss man lends him out because a favor was asked, only his boss man don’t do no favors. It’s got to be bought or got to be forced. Somebody’s got something on his boss man and is making a trade.

  “Don’t ask what it is. Who am I to know? I just put two and two together until it works out. Somebody is building an organization and although money is there it’s the pressure that’s bringing the boys in.”

  I tipped back in the chair watching him. “It plays if somebody is building an organization. Whatever the pressure is, it brings muscle in that can’t be bought, then the muscle can be used to square the money.”

  “You play it,” Toby said. “I don’t even want to think on it no more.”

  “How many are in?”

  “Enough. With a mob like’s here I could damn near run the town single-handed.”

  “These boys all come from big sources?”

  Toby’s head bobbed once. “The biggest. The Syndicate’s lending men. They come out of the individual operations, but the boss men are the Syndicate men. You’re trouble, boy.”

  “Thanks, kiddo. You’ve been a help.”

  “For that I ain’t happy. I hope they get you before they tie me into anything.”

  “Forget it,” I said and got up from the table.

  I left him there and walked out into the rain back toward my office. If Jersey Toby was right Mr. Dickerson was pulling off a cute trick. It figured right, too, because he’d be smart enough and would have had the time to work it out. Little by little he could have built the things he needed to pressure the big ones into line. He had the background, experience, and the desire. One thing led to another. Once the mob was in, an organization could be built that could utilize three million bucks properly.