My Gun Is Quick

by Mickey Spillane

  “Did you tell them anything, Pat?”

  “Not a thing. They looked for themselves, got the official police report and that’s that. I didn’t want to make a fool of myself by telling them I let a jerky private eye talk me into murder. Those boys are pretty sharp, too. And something else. I’ve had tracers out on your pal.”

  “Pal ... who?”

  “Feeney Last.”

  I was tingling all over and I damn near dropped the phone. Even the mention of the greaseball’s name set me off.

  Pat said, “He’s got a good rep ... as far as we can tell not even an arrest. We found two cities on the West Coast where he was known. In both cases he was employed by businesses who needed strong-arm boys. Feeney’s a trouble kid, but good. The local cops informed me that the lesser punks in town were scared stiff of him because somehow they got the notion he was a gun slinger from the old school and would go out of his way to find something to shoot at. Right out of a grade B western. Feeney played it smart by carrying a license for the gun and the only time he was ever fingerprinted was for the application.”

  “But nothing you can hang on him, eh?”

  “That’s right, Mike.”

  “What happened to the license he had for the job with Berin-Grotin?”

  “He even thought of that. It was returned in the mail. The lad isn’t taking any chances.”

  “So now he sticks to a chiv.”

  “What?”

  “You don’t need a license for a knife, chum, and Feeney likes cold steel.”

  My back was aching and I was getting too tired to talk any more so I told Pat I’d call him later and hung up. I put the phone on the table and rolled into a more comfortable position, then lay there a while trying to think. The redhead’s ring was in my hand and her face was in my mind, but now all the hard lines were gone and it was a pretty face that could smile with relief and anxiety.

  The ring was large enough to fit my little finger. I slipped it on.

  At half past four I heard a key slide into the lock and I came out of my half-sleep with a gun in my hand and the safety kicked off. Across the knuckles was a thin red line of blood where I had caught on a nail under the sofa going for it.

  But it was only Lola.

  My expression scared the hell out of her and she dropped the package she was carrying. “Mike!”

  “Sorry, kid. I’m jumpy.” I dropped the rod on the table.

  “I ... brought your clothes.” She picked up the package and came over to me. When she sat down on the edge of the sofa I pulled her head down and kissed her ripe lips.

  She smiled, running her fingers across my forehead. “Feel all right?”

  “Fine, honey. That sleep was just what I needed. I’ll be sore for a few days, but nothing like somebody else is going to be. It’s been a long time since I was jumped like that, but maybe it did me good. I’ll keep my eyes open the next time and sink a slug into somebody’s gut before I run up a blind alley.”

  “Please don’t talk like that, Mike.”

  A little worried frown tugged at the corners of her eyes. “You’re beautiful, girl.”

  She laughed, a throaty laugh of pleasure. Then she stood up quickly, grabbed the sheet, and flicked it off. “You’re beautiful, too,” she grinned devilishly.

  I let out a yell and got my toga back and she only laughed again. When she started for the kitchen I opened the package and took out my clothes. I was knotting my tie when she called the soup was on. I walked into the kitchen and she said, “I like you better the other way.”

  “Quit being so fresh and feed me.”

  I sat down at the table while she pulled pork chops from the pan and filled my plate. It wasn’t the kind of a meal you’d expect a city girl to cook ... there was just too much of it. I thought that maybe the whole works was for me until Lola piled it on her plate, too.

  She caught my expression and nodded toward the stove. “That’s how I grew so big. Eat up and you’ll get the same way.”

  I was too hungry to talk at the table until I was finished. She topped it with some pie, gave me seconds while she finished her own, then took a cigarette I offered her.

  “Good?” she asked.

  “The best. Makes me feel almost new.”

  She dragged on the cigarette hungrily. “Where away, Mike?”

  “I’m not sure. First I want to find out why I was worked over. Then I want to find out who did it.”

  “I told you Candid was dangerous.”

  “That fat monkey isn’t dangerous, honey. It’s his dough. That’s dangerous. It hires people to get things done he can’t do himself.”

  “I still wouldn’t trust him too far. I’ve heard stories about Murray that weren’t nice to hear. You looked for the books, didn’t you?”

  “No,” I told her. “He wouldn’t keep them in sight. I looked for a place he could stash ’m, but there wasn’t even a sign of a safe in the joint. No, that trip was just reconnoitering. Those boys aren’t dummies by a long shot. If they have any books—and I still think it’s a big if—they’re someplace that will take a lot of heavy digging to root out.”

  I leaned back in the chair and pulled out the butt. It still hurt to sit up straight, but I was getting over it fast. “Supposing I do get something on Candid ... where does it get me? It’s a killer I want, not a lot of sensational stuff for the papers.”

  This time I was talking to myself rather than Lola, trying to get things straight in my mind. So far it was just a jumble of facts that could all be important, but it was like going up an endless ladder. Each rung led to the next one with the top nowhere in sight.

  “So the redhead was killed. She was killed for a reason. She had a ring on while she was alive but it wasn’t there when she was dead. It was a beautiful kill, too ... how the hell it happened I don’t know but I’ll find out. The killer has a perfect cover-up and it’s listed as accidental death. If she was pushed somebody would have seen her get it, or even in his damn drunken stupor the kid who ran her down would have remembered it. But no ... he thought he did it all alone and took off from there. He remembered enough to cover it up so he would have remembered if she were pushed. But what dame is going to take her ring off? Women aren’t like that! And one of those jokers who jumped me had it, so it makes it a legitimate kill and not an accidental one.

  “Bats. If it wasn’t murder, nobody would give a damn any more, but why did she have to get it? What made her so all-fired important that she had to die? So Feeney Last had his blackmail junk lifted ... yet you say she wouldn’t buy that kind of stuff. She was hot, according to another guy, and nobody would go near her. Feeney’s a tough character and has the bull on guys to the extent that they won’t talk. But what are they afraid of? Getting beat up maybe? Or getting shot? Hell’s bells, nobody can go around shooting people up in this town. Sure, it’s a rough place to be in trouble, but pull a rod and see how far you get! Maybe you can scare somebody for a while, but after a bit the scare wears off and you got to prove you’re not kidding. So who would be the guy that could do it and get away with it? Just one... a jerk who thinks he’s got enough protection to carry him through.”

  For the first time Lola interrupted. “Is that Feeney Last?” “Maybe. He’s supposed to be a gunman. But he’s still no dummy. He proved that by turning in his gun license when he lost his job with Berin.”

  She agreed with a slight nod. “You think, then, that he might have killed Nancy?”

  “That, sugar, is something I’d give a lot to know,” I answered. “It’s a screwy affair, but there’s something pretty big at the bottom of it. For somebody to be wiped out, the cause has to be a heavy one. There’s too many ways of doing business without being eligible for the chair ... unless the risk is worth it.”

  “And Nancy was a good risk?”

  “What do you think, Lola?”

  “You might be right. At least you have her death to prove you’re right, but poor Nancy ... I still can’t see why she could be
so important... to have to die. I told you she had a secretive side ... but still, if she weren’t what she was, Nancy could have been a decent kid. By that I mean she had all the aspects of quality. She was gentle, kind, considerate ... oh, you know what I mean.”

  “But she seemed to be in the business for a reason, correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You don’t think she was getting back at a man ... doing it to spite a former lover or something?”

  “Of course not! She had more sense than that!”

  “All right, I was just asking.”

  She leaned on the table and looked at me, long and hard. Her voice was husky again. “Mike ... just what kind of people are they that kill?”

  “Dirty people, kid,” I said. “They have minds that don’t care any more. They put something else above the price of human life and kill to get it, then kill to keep it. But no matter what it is it’s never worth the price they have to pay for it.”

  “You’ve killed people, Mike.”

  I felt my lips pulling back. “Yeah, and I’m going to kill some more, Lola. I hate the lice that run the streets without even being scratched. I’m the guy with the spray gun and they hate me, too, but even if I’m a private cop I can get away with it better than they can. I can work the bastards up to the point where they make a try at me and I can shoot in self-defense and be cleared in a court of law. The cops can’t go that far, but they’d like to, don’t forget it. People are always running down the police, but they’re all right guys that are tied down by a mess of red tape and they have to go through channels. Sure, there are bum cops, too ... not many of them. They get disgusted maybe, because things happen that they have to let happen, yet any one of them boils over inside when he sees mugs get away with stuff that would hang a decent citizen.”

  Her eyes were looking past me now with an eager, intense look. “What can I do to help?” she whispered.

  “Think, Lola. Think over every conversation you ever had with Nancy. Think of things she might have said or implied. See if you can pick out just one thing that may be important. Then tell me.”

  “I will, Mike, I will. But how will I know if it’s important?”

  I reached over and laid my hand on hers. “Look, kid ... I hate to bring it up, but you were in a money racket. It was a no-good racket but it brought in the dough. Anything that might have interfered with that income to certain people could be a cause of death, even if it was something they just suspected. When you think of anything that could be that something, you’re getting warm.”

  “I think I understand, Mike.”

  “Good girl.” I stood up and stuffed my butts back into my pocket. “You know where to call me. Don’t go out of your way for anything unless it’s mighty important. I don’t want you to get on anybody’s list.”

  Lola pushed her chair back and came to me. Together we walked toward the door. “Why?” she asked. “Do I mean that much to you, Mike?”

  She was lovelier than ever, tall and graceful, with a hidden depth to her eyes as she looked at me. I could feel the firm roundness of her pressing against my body and I folded my arms around her. “You mean more than you think to me, Lola. Anybody can be wrong. Not everybody can be right again. You’re one in a million.”

  Her eyes swirled in a film of tears then, and her face was soft as she touched her cheek to mine. “Please don’t, darling, I’ve got so far to go before I’ll ever be right for anyone. Just be nice to me... but don’t be too nice. I—I don’t think I could stand it.”

  There was no answering her with words. I reached for her mouth and felt the fire in her lips that ran like a fuse down her body until she curved inward against me with a fierce undulation, and I knew my hands were hurting her and she didn’t care.

  It was hard to push her away; it was hard for her to let go. I shoved my hat on my head and squeezed her hand without saying anything, but we both knew of the promise it held and I went out of there walking as if there had been no last night at all and my body wasn’t stiff and sore nor my face battered and swollen.

  Chapter Seven

  THERE WAS A PARKING ticket under the windshield wiper of the car staring me in the face. I pulled it off, read it over and stuck it in the glove compartment. Another few hours to be wasted in a police court. I sat there a minute, my hands on the wheel, trying to line things up in order. Hell, there was no order. I was like the chairman of a meeting trying to rap for quiet with a rubber gavel, when the whole assembly was on its feet shouting to be heard.

  Red’s ring was there on my finger, a tiny circlet of gold that had slipped around until it looked like a wedding band. I straightened it, held it out in the dimming light to look at it better, wishing the thing could speak. All right, maybe it could. Maybe. I jammed the car in gear, pulled up to Ninth Avenue and turned south.

  By the time I reached the downtown section most of the smaller shops had closed. I cruised the avenue slowly, looking for a jewelry shop run by an old friend of mine. I found it by luck, because the front had been done over and the lights were out and he was getting ready to go home.

  When I banged on the door he twitched the shade aside, recognized me with a big grin and unlocked the door. I said, “Hello, Nat. Got time for a few words?”

  He was all smiles, a small pudgy man who took prosperity in the same alpaca coat and shiny pants as he did the leaner years. His hand was firm around mine as he waved me in, “Mike,” he laughed, “for you I have plenty of time. Come in the back. We talk about old times?”

  I put my arm around his shoulders. “About times now, Nat. I need some help.”

  “Sure, sure. Here sit down.” He pulled out a chair and I slid into it while he opened a bottle of wine and poured a drink for us both.

  We toasted each other, then spilled it down. Good wine. He filled the glasses again, then leaned back and folded his hands across his stomach.

  “Now, Mike, what is it that I can do for you? Something not so exciting like the last when you made me be bait to trap those chiseling crooks, I hope.”

  I grinned and shook my head as I pulled off the redhead’s ring and handed it to him. Automatically, his fingers dipped into his vest pocket and came up with a jeweler’s glass that he screwed into his eye.

  I let him turn it over several times, look at it carefully, then told him, “That’s the job, Nat. Can that ring be traced?”

  He was silent for several minutes as he examined every detail of the band, then the glass dropped into his palm and he shook his head. “Antique. If it has a peculiar history maybe....”

  “No history.”

  “That is too bad, Mike. It is very important that you should know?”

  “Very.”

  “What I should say, I don’t know. I have seen many rings of this type before, so I am quite certain I am right. However, I am just one man....”

  “You’re good enough for me, Nat. What about it?”

  “It is a woman’s ring. Never inscribed as far as I can see, but maybe an inscription has been worn off. Notice the color of the gold, see? The composition of the metal is not what is used today to harden gold. I would say that this ring is perhaps three hundred years old. Maybe more even. It is more durable than most rings, otherwise the pattern would have been worn off completely. However, it is not as pretty as the gold nowadays. No, I am sorry, Mike, but I cannot help you.”

  “The pattern, Nat; know anybody who could trace that?”

  “If you found the company that made it ...” he shrugged, “their records might go back. But see ... three hundred years means it was made in the Old Country. What with the war and the Nazis ...” He shrugged again, hopelessly this time. I nodded agreement and he went on, “In those days there were no big companies anyway. It was father-and-son business. For a ring like this it was a special order and that is all.”

  I took the ring back and slipped it on my finger again. “Well, Nat, it was a good try just the same. At least I cut down a lot of unnecessary foot
work.”

  His pudgy face warped into a quizzical frown. “Do not the police have methods to bring out inscriptions that have been worn off, Mike?”

  “Yeah, they can do it, but suppose I do find a set of initials. Those would belong to the original owner, and since it’s a woman’s ring, and no doubt passed down through the family, how often would the name have changed? No, the inscription wouldn’t do much good, even if I did find the original owner. It was just an idea I had. If it hadn’t been an antique it might have solved the problem. All it did was set me up in the other alley wondering where the hell I was.”

  I stood up to leave and stuck my hand out. Nat looked disappointed. “So soon you must go, Mike? You could come home with me and maybe meet the wife. It has been a year since the last time.”

  “Not tonight, Nat. I’ll stop back some other time. Say hello to Flo for me, and the kids.”

  “I’ll do that. Them kids, they be pretty mad I don’t bring you home.”

  I left him standing there in the doorway and climbed back in the car. Red’s ring was winking at me, and I could see it on her finger again as she graced a battered old coffee cup.

  Damn it ... I had the key and I couldn’t find the lock! Why the devil would a killer take this thing off her finger? What good was it to him if it couldn’t be traced? And who was the goon that carried it around with him until he lost it? Hell’s bells, it couldn’t be a red herring across the path or it never would have turned up again!

  My mind was talking back to me then. One part of me drove the car away from the curb and stopped for red lights. The other part was asking just why I got beat up at all? Yeah, why did I? And why was it planned so nicely? Oh, it was planned quick, but very, very nice! I wasn’t important enough to kill, but I did warrant a first-class going-over. A warning?

  Sure. What else?

  Murray and his boys didn’t know me from Adam, but they spotted a phony in my story and figured me as a wise guy, or somebody with an angle, so it was a warning to steer clear. And one of the goons who had done the warning had killed the redhead or was tied up with it someway.