The Death Dealers

by Mickey Spillane

  In the elevator they were quiet and I didn’t offer them anything more than a knowing grin just to bother them a little. When we reached the door of the suite the one on my left touched the buzzer, waited until a hotel maid opened it and said, “Mr. Mann to see Miss Locca.”

  I watched the way the maid looked me over and knew her primary employment wasn’t with the hotel. The police had this job locked. “She’s waiting for him,” she said. “Please come in.”

  I waved so long to the agency boys, handed the maid my hat and said thanks. With a look of casual disdain she tossed the porkpie on a table and led the way.

  They hadn’t spared any expense to make Teish El Abin’s entourage comfortable. The luxury of the place rivaled a king’s palace in every detail down to a private bar in the living room that matched that of any saloon in town. The maid waved her hand toward it and said, “Help yourself,” with a tone no genuine maid would ever use.

  Before I could mix one a cool voice from across the room said, “And you may make me one too, Tiger. Something refreshing.” Vey Locca stood in the doorway smiling at me and all I could think of was that she’d never play on Broadway because she couldn’t quick-change. After all this time she had finally reached the fluffy housecoat stage and that was all. She waved at the maid, a small gesture of dismissal. “You may leave now.”

  “But, madam...”

  Vey Locca looked at her as if she didn’t exist at all, but her voice had a hard tone of command reserved for disrespectful servants. “I said you may leave,” she repeated.

  This time I walked her to the door. “You do that,” I told her, and when she glared at me, said, “Give my regards to the Lieutenant,” and locked the door behind her.

  I made a light highball for myself, a tricky bit in an old-fashioned glass for Vey, and stood swirling the ice in the glass. I heard her call out, “Bring it in here, please.”

  There was a full-length mirror on the wall and she stood in front of it, twisting and turning to see herself, pirouetting the way a kid would when she thinks she is alone. The brilliant white of the housecoat was a lovely contrast to the darker sheen of her skin and her hair lay like a black cloud on her shoulders. The lights on either side of the mirror silhouetted her through the sheer fabric so I could see all of her at once, a teasing vision in a deliberate pose and to make her stop I put the drink in her hand, raised my glass and said, “Lovely.”

  Her eyebrows arched even further, the Oriental cast to her eyes showing mock surprise. “That is all you can say?”

  “Tigers don’t talk much.”

  “Ah,” she smiled, “then you have heard the story.”

  I took a pull of the highball and didn’t answer her. She took a step nearer, a look of amusement crinkling the corners of her eyes.

  “What do tigers do then?” she offered.

  The challenge was neat and I didn’t let it stand there. I grinned at her over the top of my glass and before she could move I had the neckline of that flimsy thing in my hand and tore it off her with a single wrench and it ripped with a soft sigh into a mound on the floor.

  Vey Locca was one of those women who could never be called naked. She was a nude, a beautiful, provocative nude that was all high-breasted pride that swept into a gentle concave belly and serpentine thighs that swayed enticingly with an almost erotic movement. She was a tawny color, the black of her hair enriching the shade of the muted satiny texture of her skin. She seemed to ripple then, a subtle, flowing muscular movement that started at her shoulders until it came to the center of her stomach.

  And in her navel she had a blood-red ruby that sparkled hypnotically, an evil eye of promise and desire that seemed to have a life of its own.

  “You said I am a tiger too. I am a cat.”

  I never took my eyes off her. I said, “In the cat family the female doesn’t give. The male takes. When he’s ready.”

  She gave me an impertinent little smile of amusement again, stretched herself as though she were clawing for the ceiling and said, “You are a Tiger.”

  But the game was over. I was already halfway out the door headed for the bar.

  I realized she had planned the whole thing when she came back before I had finished a fresh drink, a shimmering green gown molded to her body, a white mink stole hung carelessly over one arm. The only jewelry was a small diamond pendant that threw pinpoints of light from the base of her throat and her hair fell in a natural curve down onto one shoulder.

  When she took the drink I made her I fingered the single diamond speculatively. “The ruby made more of an impression.” I grinned into her eyes. “How do you keep it there?”

  “Supposing you find out later.”

  “You’re an engaged woman, Vey. Murders have been committed for less.”

  She tilted her head and agreed with a nod. “Perhaps, but there is a certain broad-mindedness adopted by cultures other than yours that do not take the same attitude.”

  “And yours is one?”

  “Mine is one.”

  “Teish El Abin might think differently.”

  Her eyes went large a scant moment, a fiery passion there, thinking, recalling, refiecting. “I’m afraid not. Teish has certain ... odd habits too.” She finished half her drink and put the glass on the bar. “But, if you like, you may ask him yourself. We are going to join him in a few minutes.”

  “I thought ...”

  “It is his request. He has asked to see you. They are in his suite now waiting for us.”

  “Who are ‘they’?”

  “Representatives of your government.”

  I slid my glass over beside hers. “That ought to be interesting. Let’s go.” She hooked her arm under my arm and held out her hand. I turned my palm up and she dropped her key into it. “For later,” she said.

  There was a uniformed cop at the elevator door and two stationed beside the doors to the room. The one who admitted us was in plainclothes and the guy who stood patiently behind him was another kind of cop assigned from Washington. He recognized me with a nod and let us pass. Vey simply acted as though they were members of the hotel staff, there to serve the mighty and for nothing else.

  Apparently this was a special suite, reserved for presidents and kings. The appointments were more fabulous than those in Vey Locca’s apartment, the service more ornate and the quiet hush that prevailed was almost funereal. About twenty people were there, the dark blues and blacks that identified the guests sprinkled with white-coated waiters who seemed a little awkward in their ministrations, for the first time working cold because their nipped-in mess jackets didn’t leave room to wear the gun that was so much a part of them.

  In one corner behind a desk Teish El Abin lounged comfortably in an overstuffed armchair, a foot-long cigarette holder clamped in his teeth, the end empty. Beside him in earnest conversation with Haskell from the State Department was Sarim Shey.

  I stopped to lift a drink off a tray and got a curious glance from the guy who held it while Vey went to Teish with a smile and a greeting, getting a fatherly nod in return. She kissed him affectionately, said something that brought a condescending laugh from Sarim Shey and shook hands with the dignitaries he was speaking to.

  Teish said something then and Vey Locca turned, indicated me, and the old man looked past her toward me and waved his hand in greeting and with a flip of his fingers indicated that he wanted me to come over.

  You could hear the change in the tone of the conversation throughout the room. The hum of it seemed to increase deliberately, and though nobody was looking, everybody was watching. Haskell’s eyes were angry, and at the introduction, his handshake perfunctory. You see, we had met before. I had landed a foot in his behind one night and he never forgot it.

  With the usual “Ah,” Teish looked at me and said, “Mr. Mann, I would like to speak to you. Privately, of course.” His small motion of the eyes was enough. The king had spoken. Vey Locca and Sarim Shey moved off and Haskell, along with the others, excused themselves to
get a drink.

  Maybe the old boy was trying to feel me out. I didn’t know and didn’t give a good goddamn either. He was in my country and here I was king and he was just another jerkwater tourist and if he was figuring I would kiss his ass he was on the wrong horse.

  I felt good enough to make it stick and said, “How’re you making it, buddy?”

  Teish leaned back, puzzled. “Please ...”

  “American idiom for ‘How goes it?’ ”

  He still didn’t get it for a minute, then he thought it out and smiled. “Very expressive. Not ... too understandable, but expressive.”

  “Watch out for us damn yankees,” I said. I took a drink of the lousy martini and looked around the room. They were still watching us.

  Teish said, “I have inquired into your affairs, Mr. Mann.”

  “Oh?”

  “You have quite a sizable interest in AmPet Corporation.” Playing the executive too busy to talk to impoverished kings came easy. “One of my sidelines.”

  “Shall we not play games?”

  I pulled a chair over and sat down next to him, wondering how much crap the other people had fed him. “Let’s not,” I said, not looking at him.

  “AmPet Corporation originally discovered the potential of my country. It was a gallant venture, coming in there like that.”

  Then I threw a stopper at him. “In that case, you know you can’t operate without us. We’re the only ones with a process that can recover your oil.”

  “True. But this is not what intrigues me.” He beckoned a waiter over, took a plain glass of ginger ale from the tray the guy obviously had waiting and didn’t say anything until the waiter had moved off. “You are the unknown factor.”

  “Not if you’ve looked into me as you said you did.”

  “It’s you the person I’m speaking of. For instance ... your performance at the reception.”

  “My pleasure, Teish.”

  “Let this be my pleasure, in that case. I prefer to make ... how do you say it?”

  “First impressions.”

  “Ah, yes, that is it. You are aware of the situation that exists between my country and yours?”

  I wanted to tell him that his country compared to this one was like backwoods bayou, a pile of camel dung to be flushed down the sewer when you make a distinction, but for Teddy’s sake and an inside straight in the poker game of international politics I let it go and let him have his illusions. All I did was nod and sip my drink, the expression I wore totally noncommittal.

  Teish smiled broadly. “Then perhaps you will be interested to learn that your government and I ... have reached an understanding. Of course there are certain remunerations to be worked out, but I prefer that the United States oversee this project. Are you pleased?”

  “Up to a point,” I said blandly.

  “Well put, Mr. Mann.” Teish grinned, amused with his bait. “I further stipulated that I prefer AmPet Corporation to handle it all.”

  “You won’t make many friends that way,” I said.

  “Like you, Mr. Mann, I am not here to make friends. I gather you have many ... shall we say, enemies? ... here in this room, persons not satisfied with my decision. Unfortunately, they are in no position to object. Now, while we complete the arrangements, my wish is that you accompany my bride-to-be in her tour of the city and make sure she has a good time.”

  I put my glass down and waved off the waiter who hurried up with another. Like Teish, I waited until he was out of ear-shot before I said, “Wouldn’t you prefer your adviser? He speaks the language....”

  Teish held his hand up and shook his head. “I must have him here to help me work out the details of our mutual association. Sarim is my right arm. Mr. Mann, without him I am lost. It is he who knows Western ways and the peculiarities of people outside our small country. I trust him implicitly and I must lean on him.”

  From the other side of the room I caught Vey Locca’s eyes and she was watching us with an intense look of curiosity. I stood up and looked down at the old man in his armchair, almost surrounded by it. “I’ll show her a good time, Teish.”

  He sat forward and leaned on the desk, his eyes sharp and bright. “Yes, you must. She is to be my bride and I intend to please her. I am the leader of many people and we must have sons. They must be the right sons that can be kings over a small but important nation. No one can influence or condemn my choice of a bride. They can only condemn me for not having sons that can lead them. Am I making myself clear, Mr. Mann?”

  For the first time I saw the king of Selachin in the pathetic light that barely illuminated him. I understood his desires and his foibles, the comedy and the tragedy that went with being a king, no matter how small or large.

  I said, “Loud and clear.”

  And all the while I felt like a stallion being put out to stud.

  chapter 7

  Vey Locca waited until she was in the cab before she turned her smile back on me again. She picked up the handbag that lay between us, tossed it to the other side and slid over close to me, her hand stretching out to find mine, then entwined her fingers around my own. Gently, she leaned her head over on my shoulder and thrust both legs toward the door so that the bright green hem of her dress rode up her thighs. “Do our ways seem strange to you, Tiger?”

  “I’ve seen stranger.”

  “For instance,” she prodded, “tell me where and when.”

  “And how?”

  “Naturally,” she said easily.

  I squeezed her hand until I made her wince, grinning when I felt her stiffen beside me, but she never took her head away. “The world is all alike, baby. There’s nothing you can’t find in it that you can’t find right here in New York. It’s Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. The dirty and the beautiful, the lusty and the frigid. There’s life and death in your own back yard and sex with all its variations. You only see what you want to see and whatever you look for you’ll find. What do you want to see?”

  “The tiger.”

  “They don’t walk out on a lawn to be fawned over like housecats, sugar. They stay in the jungle and grow and live because nobody’s been able to kill them. They’re nightwalkers with an incredible intuition and finely trained senses that allow them to survive. If you want a tiger you have to go looking for one and even then you have to be careful because the chances are he’ll find you first and then you’re dead.”

  “But when a tiger finds another tiger looking for him...?”

  I let go her hand and tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Stop at the next comer.”

  Vey said, “You didn’t answer me.”

  “Maybe he’ll take her head off. Maybe he’ll nudge her back to his hidy-hole and eat her alive.”

  “Take me back to your hidy-hole, Tiger,” she asked me.

  I looked sidewise into those great black eyes and said, “Drop dead,” and she grinned back and stuck out her tongue.

  She didn’t like the first place I took her for a drink. It was all tourists wearing trophies from the World’s Fair in their pockets, too loud and commercial, and even though it was a segment of New York she wanted to leave. We tried the bistros where price came before quality and the slop chutes where the bums had to be brushed off like flies and the queer joints from lower Broadway to the upper Fifties, yet nothing seemed to satisfy her.

  Before it closed we dropped into the Blue Ribbon on Forty-fourth for something real in gourmet eating and with Augie presiding she indulged herself in an outlandish plate of a German specialty while I put a sizzling platter of Welsh Rabbit away. Only then did she do what every woman does, sit back and say, “That’s what I wanted.”

  Beside us, Augie smiled and lit her cigarette for her. He’s a funny guy with a weird sensitivity. He never inquired about her origin nor was he told, but he knew. He sensed other things about her I was reluctant to admit, but he was in a position to force the issue just to make me uncomfortable. “Perhaps the lady would like to see ... well, some of her hom
eland.” He looked down at her, still smiling. “Is that so?”

  “You are very astute, Augie. What do you suggest?”

  Then he dropped it in my lap. He shrugged and indicated me. “Ask Tiger. He knows. If it is in the city, he can take you there.”

  Vey Locca smiled at me, the edges of her teeth a glaring white against the dark maroon of her mouth. She tucked her lower lip between them a moment and cocked her head inquisitively. “You were supposed to entertain me, you know.”

  Augie knew when to duck out. He said good night to us both and retired somewhere out of sight and I said, “Say it then. What do you want to see?”

  Vey sucked deeply on the cigarette, then let the smoke out in a thin, hazy cloud through pursed lips. “Do I really have to tell you?” she asked.

  “No.” I reached for her stole and held it out for her to shoulder into. “With modifications. There are still laws in this state. I could go all the way but I don’t want to play guns with a broad hanging on my arm.”

  We grabbed a cab on the comer of Broadway and I told him to take us downtown to the Turkish Gardens. The driver looked back, grinned and nodded, then took off into traffic, threading his way through the other cabs around Times Square. He cut over and took Ninth Avenue down past the darkened faces of the office buildings, staying with the lights until we were in another part of the city that so few knew about.

  The Turkish Gardens were on the second floor of an old building with twisting stairs leading up that sagged and creaked underfoot. Halfway up you began to hear the sensual tinkling of bells and the rhythmic beat of drums that throbbed through the thin walls. Neither the instruments nor the music were native to New York. They had come off the streets of Istanbul, transported here by a farseeing immigrant who knew the tastes of his own kind would never leave them.

  I opened the door and let Vey walk into the haze of blue smoke that rose from the multitude of cigarettes and cigars to boil at the ceiling before being sucked into the maw of two exhaust vents on either side of the room.