The Snake mh-8

by Mickey Spillane

  "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 kiester once. But hell, what difference does it make? In those days he was a sharp article. Olde 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 l 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 Seven

  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.

  If Mr. Dickerson was Blackie Conley it fitted just right.

  Up in the office I had to wait only fifteen minutes before Pete Ladero came in with a folio under his arm. He laid the stuff on the table and opened it up. "Do I get an explanation first?"

  "Research on Blackie Conley," I said.

  "Aw, for crying out loud, he's been dead for years."

  "Has he?"

  "Well..." He paused and searched my face. "You on to something?"

  "You familiar with this case?"

  "I ran over it. The magazine writers rehashed it enough so I know the general background. Give."

  "If Conley's alive he's got three million bucks in his kick. He might be old and feisty enough to start trouble with it."

  "Boy, bring-'em-back-alive Hammer." He reached for the paper. "You looking for anything special?"

  "Conley's connection with the heist. Take half and we'll go through them."

  So we sat down and read. Velda called and I told her to hop over, then went back to the papers again.

  The prosecution had a cut-and-dried case. Sonny Motley pleaded guilty since he was nailed in the act and faced an automatic sentence anyway. He ranted and raved all the way through the trial, cursing everybody from the judge down, but Torrence and Conley in particular. Torrence because he wouldn't let him alone, but kept hammering for details, and Conley for the big double-cross and a bullet in his shoulder.

  The main item of interest was the missing three million dollars, but despite the speculation and the nationwide police search, not one thing was turning up. Sonny Motley didn't mind spilling his guts if it meant nailing Blackie Conley and the unseen face who engineered the deal. Right then he figured they pulled the double-cross together, but Sim Torrence couldn't get any evidence whatsoever on the one behind the action.

  There was another witness. Her name was Sally Devon and she was called because she was assumed to be a confederate of Sonny's. Her testimony was such that she turned out to be the beautiful but dumb type after all, knowing nothing of the mob's operation. Sonny and the others all admitted she was only a shack job as far as they were concerned and that seemed to end her part in the affair. Only one reporter mentioned a statement that had any significance. Just before she was discharged from the stand she said that "she'd like to get the snake that was responsible."

  And that was what had bothered me. Sue had said the same thing, only there had been a minor discrepancy in her statements. First she said it was a snake that had killed her mother. Later she said the snake! Sue Devon remembered something, all right. Sally had raved in her drunkenness too not about snakes... but about the snake. Old Mrs. Lee just hadn't understood right.

  Now The Snake was emerging. It was the one who engineered the whole damn business. The one nobody knew about or saw. The one who could have engineered it into a massive double-cross to start with.

  Blackie Conley. He really played it cute. He stood by as a lieutenant to Sonny Motley, but it was his plan to start with. He worked it into a cross and took off with the profits. He was bigger than anybody gave him credit for being. He was big enough to hold on until he felt like it and make the most incredible comeback in the history of crime.

  If it worked.

  And it was working.

  I had been looking over the paper too long. Pete said, "You found it, didn't you?"

  "I think I have."

  "Do I get it?"

  "Why not?" I put the paper down and looked at him. "Can you hold it?"

  "Better tell me about it first."

  When I did he whistled softly and started writing. I said, "If it goes out now this guy might withdraw and we'll never get him. You can call the shots, buddy, but I'd advise you to wait. It could be bigger."

  He put the pencil away, grinning. "This is bonus stuff, Mike. I'll sit on it. Make it mine though, will you?"

  "Done."

  "Want Hy in?"

  "Damn right. The office can use the publicity. Give him the same poop."

  "Sure, Mike." He folded the news clips together and headed for the door. "Call me when you need anything."

  I waved when he left, then picked up the phone and dialed Pat. He was home for a change, and sore about being dragged out of bed. I said, "How'd you make out, Pat?"

  "Got something new for you."

  "Oh?"

  "Write off Arnold Goodwin. He's dead."

  "What happened?"

  "He was killed a couple of months ago in an automobile accident near Saratoga. His body's been lying in a morgue up there unclaimed. The report just came in with his prints."

  "Positive?"

  "Look, it was a stiff with good prints. He was on file. He checked out. The dead man was Goodwin. The accident involved a local car and was just that... an accident."

  "Then it narrows things down. You still working on Basil Levitt?"

  "All the way. We've gone over his record in detail and are trying to backtrack him up to the minute he died. It won't be easy, That guy knew how to cover a trail. Two of my men are working from a point they picked up three months ago and might be able to run it through. Incidentally, I have an interesting item in his history."

  "What's that?"

  "After he lost his P.I. license he had an arrest record of nineteen. Only two convictions, but some of the charges were pretty serious. He was lucky enough each time to have a good lawyer. The eleventh time he was picked up for assault and it was Sim Torrence who defended him and got him off."

  "I don't like it, Pat."

  "Don't worry about it. Sim was in civil practice at the time and it was one of hundreds he handled. Levitt never used the same lawyer twice, but the ones he used were good ones. Torrence had a damn good record and the chances are the tie-in was accidental. We got on this thing this morning and I called Torrence personally. He sent Geraldine King up here with the complete file on the case. It meant an hour in court to him, that's all, and the fee was five hundred bucks."

  "Who made the complaint?"

  "Some monkey who owned a gin mill but who had a record himself. It boils down to a street fight, but Torrence was able to prove that Levitt was merely defending himself. Here's another cute kick. Our present D.A., Charlie Force, defended Levitt on charge seventeen. Same complaint and he got him off too."

  "Just funny that those two ever met."

  "Mike, in the crime business they get to meet criminals. He does, I do, and you do. Now there's one other thing. The team I have out are circulating pictures of Levitt. Tonight I get a call from somebody who evidently saw the photo and wanted to know what it was all about. He wouldn't give him name and there wasn't time to get a tracer on the call. I didn't tell him anything but said that if he had any pertinent information on Levitt to bring it to us. I was stalling, trying for a tracer. I think he got wise. He said sure, then hung up. As far as we got was that the call came from Flatbush."

  "Hell, Pat, that's where Levitt comes from."

>   "So do a couple million other people. We'll wait it out. All I knew was that it was an open phone, not a booth unless the door was left open, and probably in a bar. I could hear general background talk and a juke going."

  "We'll wait that one out then. He has something on his mind."

  "They usually call again," Pat said. "You have anything special?"

  "Some ideas."

  "When do I hear them?"

  "Maybe tomorrow."

  "I'll stand by."

  When I hung up I stared at the phone, then leaned my face into my hands trying to make the ends meet in my mind. Screwy, that's all I could think of. Screwy, but it was making sense.

  The phone rang once, jarring me out of my thought. I picked it up, said hello, and the voice that answered was tense. "Geraldine King, Mike. Can you come out here right away?"

  "What's up, Geraldine?"

  She was too agitated to try to talk. She simply said, "Please, Mike, come right away. Now. It's very important." Then she gave me no choice. She hung up.

  I wrote a note to Velda telling where I was going and that I'd head right back for the apartment when I was done, then left it in the middle of her desk.

  Downstairs I cut around back of the cop assigned to watch me, took the side way out without being seen, and picked up a cruising cab at the street corner. The rain was heavier now, a steady, straight-down New York rain that always seemed to come in with the trouble. Heading north on the West Side Highway I leaned back into the cushions and tried to grab a nap. Sleep was out of the question, even for a little while, so I just sat there and remembered back to those last seven years when forgetting was such a simple thing to do.

  All you needed was a bottle.

  The cop on the beat outside Torrence's house checked my identity before letting me go through. Two reporters were already there talking to a plainclothesman and a fire captain, but not seeming to be getting much out of either one of them.

  Geraldine King met me at the door, her face tight and worried.

  I said, "What happened?"

  "Sue's place... it burned."

  "What about the kid?"

  "She's all right. I have her upstairs in bed. Come on inside."

  "No, let's see that building first."

  She pulled a sweater on and closed the door behind us. Floodlights on the grounds illuminated the area, the rain slanting through it obliquely.