The Last Stand

by Mickey Spillane

  “I know this is tough on her. She needs time. But she has plenty of it and I don’t. My big problem is getting someone to believe me, and taking action. No one in a public service job will stand up against Graham.”

  She was gazing at me in that strange little way women have when they’re so damn seductive without trying and I stood, lifting her up and pulling her close to me. She responded and I knew all the things she had told me were true, not just about Graham but her own loneliness and pent-up desire for something real, something lasting.

  I kissed her, barely letting our lips meet, and when I tasted the moist sweetness of her lips, I pulled her tighter against me.

  Her breathing was heavy but she got it out, like a bittersweet nothing in my ear: “Don’t keep after this thing, Rod—it’s not worth it. Go start over somewhere. Maybe I could… Rod, I’m scared for you.”

  I held her out to where I could look in her lovely face. “It’s got to be this way. If I run away, I’m not a man anymore. They can take my badge, but not who I am.”

  “But where will it end? When you’ve gunned them all down? Then will you go out for more? Those gangsters, maybe? And be alive at the end of it?”

  What she said hurt me. She meant that I wasn’t a cop anymore and there was no use pretending I was anything but a hate-filled thing. I shook it off and kissed her again.

  Then I said, “I need to talk with Doris.”

  She shook her head. “You can’t, Rod. Not now. Please trust me.”

  “So I’ll talk with her later. When she’s up to it. Where’s that butler character?”

  “Marsh?” She smiled. “His day off. If he were here, he’d never leave me in here alone with you, with the door closed. He’s very protective of both Doris and me.”

  “Good that someone is,” I said. “But everybody needs a day off.”

  I took her by the hand and led her back to the couch. Soon the thoughts of killing became lost as I let my mind turn to better things, like the whisper of fabric and whisk of zippers and the soft warmth of flesh.

  * * *

  The fat man was in his office going through papers and when he saw me at his door, he gave me a half smile that burned me up.

  “You wanted to see me?” I said.

  “Good!” the D.A. said. “You got my message. Have a seat, Mr. Dexter.”

  I did so, sat down, and returned his half smile. “You’re very good, Graham. I have to hand it to you. Suddenly my performance reviews for the last year reflect what a lousy job I’ve been doing. I get shown the door with only the vaguest references getting in the papers about the real reason.”

  He folded his hands. “Maybe you’d like your job back. Maybe those performance reviews were a…clerical error.”

  “How would that happen?”

  “You would agree to limit your investigation into the Mayes Rogers murder to…non-political avenues. You would stay out of my business, and away from political matters that are of no concern to you. It might even prove a profitable decision on your part.”

  “Always room in the barrel for one more apple?”

  He frowned. “Think about it. You have twenty-four hours to make a decision. Now get out.”

  I got up and moved to the door, then turned back to him. “I don’t need twenty-four hours. Here’s my decision—I’m not through with you. I’m going to get you and your entire crooked bunch. I may wind up in jail, or dead, or maybe even get my badge back. But you, my fat friend, will be over. That I guarantee.”

  Graham stood up and shook a pudgy fist, his voice a sharp squeal. “Get the hell out!”

  I said, “I was just going,” and closed the door behind me. Suddenly I felt better.

  Soon I was sitting at a booth at the rear of a bar near City Hall, drinking alone but not overdoing it, strictly beer, and watching an overaged broad trying to get money out of a drunk. She was doing her best to get her night’s earnings without going to bed with anybody and the man was too drunk to realize it.

  The woman was still hounding the drunk when he walked up to my table, kicked a chair out, and sat down. The drunk’s name, by the way, was Fred Jenkins.

  “Fred, old buddy,” I said, “where you been? I thought the boys from the PD would’ve sent me a food basket by now.”

  “How’s unemployment?”

  “It’s a breeze. They working you hard?”

  “Damn right. They brought in this new captain from Capitol City to take your place. He’s trying to make an impression.”

  “You still working on the case?”

  He nodded. “But not getting anywhere. Why do you want to know?”

  “Why do you think? Let me clue you in, Fred. Rogers’ sister-in-law shared some interesting things. She overheard Frank Graham blabbing his mouth at a party Mayes threw last year. Seems his campaign contributions include some big ones from a very shady source.”

  “…Syndicate?”

  “That’s one name for it.”

  “Dangerous stuff, my friend. I mean, Jesus, Rod—you don’t even pack a gun anymore. Stay out of it.”

  “You really think I could do that?”

  “Hell no. You’re as bull-headed as they come and you’ll fight this thing to the finish. I know this is a hell of a thing for a cop to say, but I’ll say it anyway. Get yourself a gun.”

  “Now there’s an idea.”

  Fred got up, kicked his chair back under the table, and looked down at me. I knew what was going through that mind of his.

  He raised his hands in slightly drunken surrender, and whispered, “I’ll get a piece to you. A rod for Rod. I just hope you won’t need it.”

  I put a hand on his arm. “So long, Fred. Tell ’em hello at the office.”

  He said he would and stumbled out.

  I got a little drunk myself, but nothing to compare to yesterday. When I met the night air I felt somehow refreshed, all the hate inside me cooled. Maybe I had the beer to thank, or the thought of that gun Fred would get me. Anyway, I walked, with nowhere in mind.

  The only thing I heard was the night sounds. It was still the same old night for me—nothing had changed. You had to walk the streets to really know what the city was all about, though what you learned would probably make you sick.

  And I was learning that I wasn’t alone.

  I’d heard the strange noise, like muffled clicking of heels, behind me. I thought nothing of it at first, then it got louder. I walked faster and the noise ceased.

  But when I slowed down, I heard it again—real close. On a stretch where the streetlamp was out, I came to a complete stop, spun around, and met him face to face.

  In the night I saw the flicker of the blade, the darkness unable to cover that up, or his gleaming white teeth that rictus-smiled. He made a dive at me, swiped me across the sleeve with the blade, and jumped back waiting for the next move.

  This guy wasn’t a killer—a killer would’ve made a quick play out of it. This boy thought he was real cute. He made his move again and I met him with the palm of my hand across his mouth, cupping his chin, shoving him back. He spat blood and tried it again, and this time I let him almost make the swipe before I dropped and kicked up, into his gut with the flat of my shoe.

  He went down choking and when he hit the sidewalk, I kicked him in the ribs a few times to make him stay there, and he started puking.

  I got a good look at his face. He was olive-complected, maybe Italian, skinny, slight, in a dark suit with a black shirt and a white tie and pointed patent leather shoes. Like I said, cute. He still had the knife in his hand but he wasn’t paying any attention to it. I kicked it from his fingers and brought him up by the shirt front, a few buttons jumping ship.

  I said, “Okay, pal. Let’s talk.”

  His mouth was hanging open and he didn’t even seem to know I was there. I slapped him and he squinted at me, then faked the goddamnedest smile you ever saw, like he was daring me to do something about it.

  So I belted him in the gut and he doubled over
.

  While he was losing the rest of his supper, I stepped into the nearby alley and picked up a discarded piece of an iron pipe and brought it back over to him. I yanked him up by one arm and let him get a close look as I held the pipe in front of him.

  “Ever see somebody wiped out with one of these?” I asked conversationally. “The good thing is, you pass out after two or three good ones, and you’re dead with the next couple.”

  “Now…wait…wait! I was…”

  “You were what?” I tapped him gently on the noggin with the pipe. His face went blister white.

  “Please! Please…come on, you win. You win.”

  “What, is it a contest? Who sent you?”

  He shook his head. “If I talk, I’m dead.”

  I made a click in my cheek. “Tonight’s just not your night, boy. You lose either way. But with me, it’ll be sooner. Now, who sent you?”

  He just shook his head again.

  I tapped him with the pipe a little harder this time.

  “Okay! Okay…but I ain’t one of them. I’m strictly smalltime. They…they offered me two C’s to tail you and cut you up a little. Just a few swipes with the knife.”

  “Who’s ‘they?’ ”

  “They is him. There’s one person and he calls the plays. When he talks, everybody shuts up and listens. He’s big, man—big in size, big in how’s he hooked up.”

  “His name, buddy. Say it.”

  “All I know is, they call him Shark.” He started whimpering. “They’ll kill me if they find out!”

  “Nobody’s going to hear it from me. But I don’t like knife jobs. Maybe I should do your friends a favor.”

  Tears were making their way down his face and he was trembling like he was having a fit. He had failed and then spilled and if it got out, he would have to face the jury, and they would give him a death sentence.

  I had one more question for him. “Where is this Shark character?” I’d been a cop in this town for a decade and never heard of him.

  He shook his head, a sob still lodged in his throat. “Who knows?” he said. “He moves around.”

  “Did I mention I didn’t go for knife jobs?”

  His lower lip quivered. “Try Morgan’s. Shark owns the joint now.”

  He sank to his knees and covered his face with his hands and really broke down—he had that much fear for who sent him. If this Shark was such a powerful character, he should be ashamed, sending an excuse for a man for a job like this.

  I walked away, tossing the pipe with a metallic clunk, and left him crying on the pavement, praying for a mercy that wasn’t likely to come.

  CHAPTER 3

  The shrill ringing of the phone woke me from a disturbed sleep. I was glad to hear Ginger’s voice.

  “I’ve been worrying about you,” she said. “When you didn’t call me, I thought something might’ve happened.”

  “It did, but I’m fine. I got jumped by a punk who didn’t know any better. Guy called Shark hired him—a name you’ve heard before.”

  I heard her breath catch. “You’re scaring me.”

  “Don’t be. Now things will begin to tie up.”

  “When are you coming over?”

  “Soon, baby, soon. But first I got some work to do. In the meantime, see what you can squeeze out of Doris, if you can.”

  “Do my best.”

  Nearing eleven that morning, I turned my Ford down a street that took me to a rough section of town I knew all too well. Everything was pretty quiet, but would be hopping by nightfall.

  Morgan’s Lounge was probably the biggest nightspot in this district, and just respectable enough for a hood to operate out of safely. Too early to stop by, so there was time to kill.

  I ended up at Larry’s Place, a hole-in-the-wall I frequented when I was down here. I dropped myself at the bar and, a ways behind the counter, spotted a little chubby bartender with no hair and a red face.

  I leaned over and said, “Boo.”

  “Rod! Rod Dexter! Where in the happy hell you been keeping yourself?” He handed off a pilsner glass to the other bartender, trundled down and reached over to give me half a hug.

  I gave him half a smile back. “I been around.”

  “They still workin’ you to death? I hope nobody said there’s trouble in here. This joint’s always been cool.”

  A feeling came over me that almost made me wish I hadn’t come in. “Larry, I’m not with the force anymore.”

  His sad look made me feel even worse. He started to say something but I beat him to it.

  “Forget it,” I said. “These things happen.”

  He drew two beers behind the counter. We drank them without talking and, when I finished, I said, “I can use a little help.”

  “Name it.” We walked over to a booth and Larry told his fellow bartender to bring us over a couple more beers.

  “I might be through as a cop,” I said, “but I want to go out in style. I’m working on something that’s as big as hell and twice as dangerous. I don’t want to get you involved, not directly, but I need some answers.”

  He nodded, his smile saying there was nothing I could spring on him that would faze him.

  “Who is this Shark character?”

  The smile left his face. “Big is right. Shark’s a guy with big ideas, for sure. But nothing good.”

  “What kind of ideas?”

  The back-up bartender set the beers in front of us and Larry gave him time to get out of earshot.

  Then he said, “He’s buyin’ up politicians like he’s picking out steaks at a meat counter. I don’t know too much about the details, just what I pick up from chatter in here. I get the feeling he represents big interests from Chicago who want to own this town.”

  “He ever come in here?”

  Larry sipped his beer. “Naw. We’re too smalltime for him. Some of his boys come in occasionally. He bought old Jake Morgan’s place down the street. I hear he paid quite a sum, too. Held onto the name to keep under the radar. Otherwise a copper like you woulda heard.”

  “Ex-copper. How long has he been in town?”

  “Not long. Doesn’t take long, though, for money to buy a foothold.”

  “How do I get to meet him?”

  “Believe me, you don’t want to.”

  “Don’t figure I’m tough enough?”

  “Nobody’s tough enough when they’re dead.” He shrugged. “If you gotta, just go over to Morgan’s. You’ll find him there, if you can squeeze through his wall of bodyguards.”

  I grinned and finished off the beer.

  As I slipped out of the booth, I said, “Keep your ears open, buddy.”

  “Will do, old friend.”

  “See you around.”

  So soft I could barely hear, he said, “I sure hope so.”

  I killed the rest of the afternoon at a show. The movie was one of those extra-long spectaculars with guys and girls in short skirts and lots of swords and plenty of gore and no plot other than some patched-together history lessons. After I got out, I walked until eight.

  By that time, the nighttime foot traffic, with plenty of upright citizens slumming, had started filing into Morgan’s and I made my way in with them.

  Shark evidently hadn’t made any changes to the place—same large room with low ceiling and little light but lots of fake black leather and chrome trimmings, plus mirrors to make it seem even bigger. It was as noisy as usual, people talking, a small combo playing jazzed-up standards, and glasses clanking.

  I quick scanned the room—a couple of swarthy men leaned at the bar trying to make a pimple-faced bottle blonde wearing a tight black dress that she spilled out of like two too many grapefruits in a bin. The men must not have gotten what they wanted out of her, or vice-versa, because they walked away grumbling. Maybe the price wasn’t right.

  I spotted an empty stool at the bar, sat down, and gave the waiter my order of beer. When he threw a foaming mug in front of me, I threw a bill down, and he swept it up, gave
me a going over like I was too young to buy it, then tossed me my change.

  The combo was playing at a steady beat and I drained my glass, thought about a refill, but changed my mind when I spotted them. Three men walked slowly out of a small room at the rear. They took a seat in the middle of the room and a waiter brought them drinks. I let my eyes stay on them, trying to get a good look at their faces, but the place was too damn dark.

  I slid off the stool and crossed the floor. On my way there, I studied the tall man seated between the obvious bodyguards. He had the kind of face only a mother would love, or maybe not even her. It was a long thing with sharp angles off of which flesh drooped.

  I went over and jerked out the only vacant chair at their table and shocked the hell out of them by sitting down. I knew it was him. His stone-faced bodyguards on either side were itching for me to make a move or just say the wrong thing.

  Shark knew who I was, too. I could tell by the way he eyed me. He was half-grinning, but his dead black eyes, like his namesake’s, told me the full story. Shark was a hard man. Age had slowly crept up on him, but his skeletal frame retained signs of muscle under a sharkskin suit that I guessed was a trademark.

  His dark high-cheekboned face leered at me, the way some guys do a dame.

  I didn’t like the silence, so I said, “Name’s Dexter.”

  He didn’t speak, but deliberately held out his long, lean hand. Just as deliberately, I took it, and felt his power as he returned the squeeze. His face sucked in and he broadened his smile.

  He sat back and, in a thin, sharp voice, said, “I’ve heard of you, Mr. Dexter. You made the papers. Disgraced after years of such a good record. Shame.”

  “Goddamn shame.”

  What came out next was almost a laugh: “You’re a very interesting man, Mr. Dexter.”

  “How so?”

  “Most people in your position would get out of town, since nobody here’s likely to hire you. Or are you looking for work on my crew?”

  “No. I just wanted to tell you not to insult me again.”

  His eyebrows raised but the expressionless eyes stayed the same. “When did I insult you?”

  “When you sent a boy with a knife to do a man’s job.”

  Shark’s smile curled at both ends. “Looks like I should have sent a man with a gun.”