The Last Stand

by Mickey Spillane

  The Last Stand represents the culmination of the final phase of Mickey’s writing life, in which he was more interested in adventure than mystery—although from the beginning, Spillane heroes had been two-fisted adventurers, and all of his work contains elements of mystery and crime fiction. His two published books for pre-adolescents—The Day the Sea Rolled Back (1979) and The Ship That Never Was (1982)—reflect that bent toward adventure, and his love of the sea. His final published novel, Something’s Down There (2003), similarly reflects his enthusiasm for boating and deep-sea fishing, with Mike Hammer replaced by the evocatively (and similarly) named Mako Hooker.

  The Last Stand is a wonderful chance to spend some time with one of twentieth century America’s greatest storytellers in the mellow twilight of his life. In it, he celebrates his love of flying, much as Something’s Down There celebrates the sea; he allows his imagination to soar, as well, while keeping it grounded in the reality of the down-to-earth story he’s telling.

  Mickey’s final novel provides a coda to his larger body of work, and is at once atypical and typical. His hero, Joe Gillian (named for satellite writer Joe Gill) is a tough, confident man, very much in the tradition of Hammer, Tiger Mann and other Spillane protagonists. His story, however, is told in the third person, where the Hammer canon (and the vast majority of the writer’s fiction) is in vivid first person. Here the prose is spare but occasionally poetic, and dialogue drives the narrative.

  In these pages, Spillane returns to his recurring themes of male friendship and male/female companionship. It is easy (as someone once said) to see Hammer’s friend Pat Chambers in Gillian’s friend Pete, and Hammer’s life partner Velda in the lovely Running Fox. The bad rap Spillane gets as a supposed misogynist overlooks the obvious: the women in his fiction are usually strong, powerful and smart, every bit the hero’s equal.

  That Joe Gillian bonds easily with the Indians of an unspecified “rez” is no surprise, either, as Mike Hammer’s friends were often among the outsiders of society. Nor is the modern-day Western aspect of the novel inconsistent with Mickey’s view of Mike Hammer as an urban gunslinger. The Mick’s interest in Westerns is also evident in the unproduced screenplay he wrote for his friend John Wayne, which has led to the posthumous novel The Legend of Caleb York (Kensington Books, 2015) and several sequels.

  Also present, not surprisingly, is the dominant theme of Spillane’s fiction—vengeance. But in The Last Stand, it’s the brute called Big Arms who craves revenge, not hero Gillian, who is a man of a certain age at peace with himself, looking for neither trouble nor riches, though the love of a good woman does hold appeal. Crime-fighting and mystery seem almost to have to seek Gillian out, though seek him out they do.

  Gillian’s very masculine but non-aggressive view on life reflects Spillane in his final years. The Hammer of Black Alley (1996) is definitely a laid-back version of the character, which pleases readers who have followed Hammer’s journey over the decades, but can confuse those who only know the hate-filled young investigator of I, the Jury. Like Black Alley, The Last Stand is a barely concealed rumination on coming to terms with aging.

  Not long after his home was destroyed by Hurricane Hugo in 1989, Mickey and I sat one evening in the makeshift tiki bar he’d built in his backyard. Mickey spoke of his anger at those who had looted his home in the aftermath of the storm. I saw in his eyes the burning rage of Mike Hammer and he held his hands in front of him, squeezing them into fists. He told me what he would like to do to the thieves, then his fists became fingers again, and he said, “But I’m not like that anymore. I don’t do that now.”

  Perhaps not surprisingly, when I spoke to him about The Last Stand on the phone, he said to me, “You know, I really like that Big Arms.” If a voice can have a twinkle in it, his did. With that big-kid quality he often got when he spoke of work he’d done that had pleased him, he said, “I really like that character.” Not Joe Gillian, but Big Arms, who haunts the good-natured pages of The Last Stand like Mike Hammer’s ghost.

  Max Allan Collins

  May 28, 2017

  A BULLET for

  SATISFACTION

  by Mickey Spillane

  and Max Allan Collins

  CHAPTER 1

  The Belmont Hotel was really jumping. Everything had happened so fast. How could just one death raise such a commotion? Maybe it was just this mid-size city. Maybe it was the way people reacted to these things. Or maybe he was just a damn big man, so that any way you looked at it, something big had happened, and big things have to be handled in a big way.

  We pushed our way through the mob. The reporters didn’t waste any time making the scene, looking like flies seeking a dead animal to light on as they headed for the stairs. A couple of uniformed police were having a hell of a time keeping the press boys back.

  I walked up to the policeman in charge. “Where?”

  “Upstairs, Captain Dexter. Second floor, room 224.”

  After answering me, he removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his forehead. I motioned for one of the detectives with me to take over, to give the guy a break.

  We skipped the elevator and took the stairs. When I opened the door of room 224, my partner Fred Jenkins was already there handling things. He walked up to me and gave me a tired smile.

  “How’s it coming?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Not much to go on yet, Captain. It’ll be a tough one. The guy had his share of enemies. Any of them could’ve taken him down. He was a big one, all right.”

  He’d said a mouthful. Mayes Rogers was a big name in politics around here—he’d made it to the top, and on the way ruined quite a few. A lot of people would have liked to see him put underground, and maybe they had good reasons.

  I pulled out a cigarette, stuck the flame of my lighter to it, and drew in the smoke. For a minute I watched some of the boys make an inspection of the room and then motioned for Fred to come back over.

  “What you got so far?” I asked, as I pushed a chair over for him.

  “Just that our local representative was found with a bullet in his head,” Fred said. “Chairs were overturned and things scattered all over. It could’ve been a fight. Looked like there was a party going on, because there’s a record player over there and there’s crumbs and empty whiskey bottles on the floor. No one downstairs knew of a party, though. In fact, they didn’t know Rogers was in his room—they thought he was out.”

  I walked over to the bed. Rogers was lying several feet from it, blood on the lower half of the bed and on the pillow on the floor. The rug was bloody, too, which made it look as if he’d tried to run. Or maybe been dragged.

  The medical examiner came in and began his job without even giving us a glance. I looked over to where a man was sitting with a blank expression glued to his face.

  Fred said, “That’s Bob Bacon. He’s the one who found Rogers.”

  Our eyes met. He glanced at me, barely nodded, and then away. We had exchanged nods before, at the courthouse, but that was about all.

  I went over to him. “Captain Dexter, Homicide. What time did you find the body?”

  “I went out with some of the boys. Mayes was supposed to go with us, but decided to stay in his room at the last minute. Said he was tired. We came in around nine and I went back up. That’s when I found him.”

  “By the looks of things,” I said, gesturing around, “it seems he had a party. You didn’t know anything about one?”

  He shook his head and ran his fingers through what was left of his thinning hair. “No. Like I said, he was going out with us but changed his mind.”

  “Was he alone in the room when you last saw him?”

  He nodded.

  “Was anything bothering him? Did he give an explanation why he didn’t want to go?”

  “He didn’t seem bothered. He just said he was tired and decided to turn in early.”

  I glanced over at Fred. “You said no one downstairs knew he was in the roo
m. Somebody knew he was in this room and blew his brains out. Did you talk with the elevator operator?”

  “Yeah,” Fred said. “Took an elderly couple to the second floor. That’s all. We checked them out. Nothing there.”

  The room was hot and sticky and I could use some fresh air. I went to an open window and stared out at the lights breaking up the darkness—cars, buildings, streetlamps. After I’d filled my lungs with the night, I said to Fred, “Fingerprint boys finished?”

  “Yup.”

  Fred had just got the word out when the medical examiner came over with his usual twisted expression that might have meant the victim was killed with an axe or maybe just died in his sleep. He held up a crumpled piece of metal.

  “A .45, Captain. One bullet in him, one in the wall.”

  A .45 makes the kind of noise not easily ignored—even a silencer has trouble keeping it down. Fred knew what I was going to ask him. “Anybody hear a shot?”

  He shook his head slowly. “We checked all the rooms in possible hearing distance. No one heard a damn thing.”

  “Rogers has a wife, right?”

  “Yeah. His second. First wife and two kids were killed in a car accident shortly after he was elected.”

  “He won twice, so someone must’ve liked him.” I turned away without giving Fred time to comment. When I got to the door, the flash cameras went off and I took one last look at the corpse without a face. Then I closed it behind me.

  Daybreak found me in my office—a kill like this doesn’t allow you time to sleep. The report of the murder was on my desk and reading it took no time at all. When I finished, I tossed it over to the sleepy-eyed younger detective sitting across from me. Fred read it as quickly as I had.

  “Well?” I asked.

  He threw me a puzzled look and shrugged.

  I said, “Someone had a beef with Rogers and settled up, which doesn’t narrow it down for crap. This whole damn thing points to nothing.”

  “So where do we start?”

  Now I shrugged. “I didn’t get enough from Bob Bacon last night. Maybe he wasn’t in the best mood to spit out the answers I wanted to hear. Must be quite a shock to see a good friend stretched out on the floor with a slug in the face.”

  “You know where to reach him?”

  “I’ll find him,” I said.

  * * *

  Bacon was a politically active attorney I’d seen a few times in court. He was fairly new in town and until now I’d no reason to talk with him.

  He was sitting at his desk, fumbling through papers, when he saw me walk in. “Find anything yet, Captain?” he snapped before I even shut the door.

  “That’s why I’m here, Bob. Trying to get a start.”

  I dropped my weight into one of his chairs while he stuffed his papers into a drawer.

  Bacon was going to let me speak first. He sat there wearing a flat look that was hard to read. He was barely middle-aged, but his nearly bald head and serious face made him appear older.

  I asked, “How close were you to Rogers?”

  A bittersweet smile erased the blankness. “I’d say I was his closest friend. I backed him in the elections, and I’ve been at his side ever since.”

  “Then you’d know if anyone had anything against him.”

  The smile vanished and a shrug preceded his reply. “You got me there, Captain. Mayes was a popular guy. That’s why this is such a big shock to me.”

  “You can expect a man in his position to have people who didn’t like him. Who even hated him. He was a public figure, and a powerful one.”

  “Like I said, Captain, I don’t know anyone, offhand, with that kind of grudge against him. If so, I was unaware of it. And Mayes would surely have told me.”

  I sat there quietly while my eyes picked up on a slight tremble of the chin. Bacon wanted to say something, but couldn’t get it out.

  Finally he blurted, “Mayes has a wife. Had a wife. She lives outside a small community called Drake, not far from here. Know it?”

  I nodded.

  He said, “She might know something Mayes never told me about. Wives know things.”

  “Yes they do.” I filed that in the back of my mind and said, “What was Rogers doing in a hotel, with a wife in Drake?”

  Another shrug. “We had a meeting there, some of his staff and me, and it ran late, so he decided to stay over.” He paused for a second. “After the meet, some of the boys decided to go out for a late supper. He was going to come along, like I said, but he changed his mind. Said he’d had a long day.”

  “Did you stay in the hotel?”

  “No.”

  “What made you come back?”

  He paused again. “I went upstairs with some of the other boys, and just stopped at his room to say good night.”

  “Who was in the lobby when you and your friends came in?”

  He thought that over, then said, “To tell you the truth, I don’t believe I saw anyone. Not even anybody at the desk.”

  “There were bottles and food on the floor. Mayes never mentioned a party?”

  “Never. If he was throwing one, I didn’t know about it. He just said he was going to bed.”

  “Maybe he had a circle of friends outside of work he liked to party with.”

  “If so, I couldn’t tell you who that’d be.”

  “Well, someone knew he was in his room—someone with a .45. I guess you know they don’t make a small bang. Somebody should’ve heard it—there were two shots.”

  His eyes narrowed. “The room next to his and several on down the hall belonged to some of the men at the meeting. I guess most of ’em were out.”

  I reached into my shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lit one up. “About his wife.”

  “Like I said, she lives in Drake.”

  A small farm community ten miles from here.

  “You told me that much,” I said.

  “I really know very little about her. Only met her a few times. At political meetings mostly. Occasionally I’d see her when I stopped by his house.”

  “Anybody live there but Mayes and his wife?”

  “No. But I understand her sister has come to stay with her for the funeral and all.”

  “How did Rogers and the sister get along?”

  He blinked at my left-field question. “Normal relationship, I guess. Sister visited them off and on. Sometimes stayed with Mrs. Rogers when Mayes was on a prolonged business trip. Not too much difference in their ages, the sisters.”

  Suddenly his expression shifted.

  “I just remembered something,” he said, sitting forward. “There is a guy who had something against Mayes. Arnold Moore. His brother, George, was after the nomination in Mayes’s first election. George dropped out of the running. Arnold accused Mayes of pressuring his brother out and said, and did, some crazy things.”

  “Interesting. Know anything else about him?”

  “He’s a mechanic at Anderson’s Garage. A bachelor, lives with his mother. That’s all I know about the guy, except that he’s got a hair-trigger temper.”

  “I’ll have a talk with him. But the widow first.”

  “I for one would love to see you find the son of a bitch who did this.”

  I stood up and so did he and we shook hands. He added, “If I can be of any more service to you, drop by.”

  I thanked him and left.

  * * *

  Drake seemed to be a peaceable place, a Saturday Evening Post cover come to life with its green trees, singing birds, and a storybook downtown. Just outside the city limits, I spotted a farmer in coveralls at a curbside mailbox, reading a letter. I pulled over and he looked up with a friendly smile.

  “Excuse me, sir,” I called from the car. “Would you happen to know how to get to the Rogers place? That’s Mayes Rogers?”

  He studied me for a moment, then raised one of his well-used fingers and pointed.

  “Turn left at the crossroads and follow the road for a quarter of a mil
e. Trust me—you won’t miss it.”

  I thanked him and headed that way.

  I drove for what I thought was a full quarter of a mile and then down a dirt road. I was about to think the friendly farmer had given me the wrong directions till I saw the name Rogers on a mailbox at the bottom of a hill on top of which a huge white plantation-style mansion nestled. I mashed the gas and cut up into the long, steep gravel driveway leading directly to the front yard.

  Only one car was parked in front of the house—a bright red Cadillac. I killed the engine under a large oak tree, hopped out and got a breath of the country air. After a couple of moments of just staring, I walked up to the porch and rang the doorbell, twice.

  A good minute passed before a tall, hulking butler in full livery opened the door. Handsome in a vaguely British way, he wore a proud look of distinction that made me stare too long.

  “Yes, sir?” he said, polite but with the expression of a guy staring at a shoe he’d just removed only to find he’d stepped in something.

  I flashed him my badge and said, “I’d like to talk with Mrs. Rogers.”

  The hulking figure stepped closer and the stern look on his face didn’t change. My shield impressed him not at all.

  “Mrs. Rogers is asleep.” That was all he said. The condescension on his face and his heavy masculine tone said the rest. I leaned closer, our bodies nearly touching.

  Through my teeth, which weren’t exactly smiling, I said, “You tell Mrs. Rogers that I’d like to talk to her concerning the death of her husband. I’m sure she’ll be interested.”

  “Mrs. Rogers is asleep and left word not to be disturbed.”

  I was about to knock Jeeves on his can and out of my way when a female voice stopped me.