The Last Stand

by Mickey Spillane

  I nodded. “I’ll give it a shot. Thanks for the time, Mr. Moore.”

  The cigar was riding a corner of his mouth as he let off a nasty grin. “You ain’t a cop no more. If you’re tryin’ to clean this crummy town up, some…well. You want some help, let me know. Like if you need to borrow a wrench or anything.”

  Then he ground the cigar under his heel, and got down to slide back under the Ford.

  * * *

  When I got to City Hall, I hurried up the steps. I spotted a few old ladies taking a coffee break and walked up and asked, “Excuse me—where might I find George Moore?”

  One lady with a face that had been pretty since childhood answered, “He’s in room ten.”

  George Moore was much older than his brother, and a lot more dignified—suit and tie, glasses and mustache.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “Mr. Moore?”

  The gaunt little man straightened and said, soft-spoken, “That I am, son.”

  “Rod Dexter.”

  “Oh?” He looked at me curiously, as though the name made a small dent in his memory. “What can I do for you, Mr. Dexter?”

  “You can tell me about Mayes Rogers.”

  His eyes perked with sudden interest. “Personal information?”

  “I’ll take anything I can get.”

  “We never had much direct contact. He wasn’t the sort of person I’d…cultivate.”

  “That why you were going to run against him in the election?”

  Moore stopped shuffling his papers a moment and put them on the desk, making a neat pile.

  “I thought the time had come to try to move up in the world,” he said, then gestured around the file room. “But let’s face it—this is about the extent of my capabilities.”

  “I’ve talked to your brother. He doesn’t seem to have any love for Rogers.”

  “Arnold got a little sore when I dropped out. He certainly would’ve loved to see me go after that nomination.”

  “Bad enough to want to kill Rogers?”

  He shook his head. “Arnold always had a bad temper, but he would hardly go that far.”

  “How far would he go? He did threaten him.”

  “That never amounted to anything, really. I merely lost interest in running and Arnold didn’t understand.” Moore stuck the last of his papers in a desk drawer and shut it. “Arnold is a good man. A bit wild when he drinks. But don’t bother trying to pin anything on him—you’ll get nowhere.”

  “I’m not trying pin anything on your brother.”

  “I’ll take you at your word, sir. But if you’re checking up on people, try the deceased’s good friends and associates.”

  Friends like Frank Graham and Bob Bacon and maybe a man called Shark.…

  He asked, “Is there anything else?”

  “Did Mayes or those friends or associates you mention pressure you out of the race?”

  Again he shook his head. “I just didn’t have the support, Captain. Yes, I know who you are. Who you were. I simply didn’t have the clout or the monetary backing to make a run worthwhile.”

  * * *

  At the hospital, a friend at the desk let me in after visiting hours to see Fred.

  My ex-partner, his face bandaged and swollen like he’d stuck his head in a beehive, was reading a magazine and didn’t notice me at the door.

  “Honey, I’m home,” I said.

  He tossed the magazine on the bedside stand and pretended to be cross. “About time you came by.”

  “Tell me you feel better than you look.”

  “Doc says I’ll live. Wish I felt that way. Man, did those sons of bitches beat the crap out of me. At least the department okayed my sick leave.”

  “Yeah, great guys.” I pulled up a chair. “I checked out the Moore brothers.”

  “And?”

  “Arnold’s just a working stiff with a temper. If he’d killed Mayes, it would have been a long time ago. And George is a milquetoast who got rolled over by the political machine.”

  “Speaking of which—you meet our new representative yet?”

  “That was fast. Rogers is barely cold.”

  “Not local rep, state rep. You remember Brinkley resigned, when he got sick? Well, they replaced him.”

  I shook my head. “Who with?”

  “John Graves.” He must’ve seen my reaction. “You know him?”

  “Yeah,” I said slowly. “We go way back.”

  That perked him even more. “How far?”

  That was when a nurse came in and politely told me to scram. I said okay, told Fred I’d catch him later, and went down to the lobby to find a pay phone.

  It rang five long times before she picked up.

  “Ginger, can you meet me downtown?”

  “Sure,” she said. “What’s up?”

  “Maybe I could just use some sensitive female companionship.”

  “I’m glad I rate,” she said. “Where?”

  “Dixon’s Coffee Shop on Main. Shake a pretty leg.”

  At Dixon’s, I staked out a booth and ordered coffee. I was on my second cup and third cigarette when Ginger rolled in, pretty as hell in a yellow-and-white frock.

  She came over and looked down at me. “Tired of coming to my place?”

  “It’s your sister’s place. Maybe I wanted a little privacy.”

  “A coffee shop is privacy? Sounds like I’m in for a very good time.”

  I smiled, gestured for her to sit down, and signaled the waiter. He brought her a cup and refilled mine. I let it cool while I drank in the warmth of her.

  Ginger said, blowing her coffee before she tasted it, “How’s your friend Fred?”

  “There’s some men who aren’t easy to kill. He’s one.” I picked up the cup and let the hot stuff go down.

  “Something is going to happen, honey. I can feel it. I’ve seen too many kills in my lifetime and I know the feeling. Here’s the thing—I don’t want you around when the action starts. So I want you to steer clear for a while. I’ll keep you posted. But I want you safe.”

  “I like hearing a man say that, Rod. More than I ever thought I would.”

  “Now don’t get sweet on me, baby.” I meant it kidding, but the look she gave me, I realized I’d hit a nerve. And seeing that look in her eyes, and feeling what it made me feel, I realized that maybe there was something here it wasn’t good to kid about.

  “You worry me, Rod. You do know I…I care about you, don’t you?”

  “I feel the same about you, baby.”

  She kept her face down, not looking at me, and I placed my hand over hers and grinned at her. “Hey—they won’t get me. I hate them more than they hate me.”

  That made her laugh, but no joy was in it.

  Next morning, after Ginger was on her way back, I stopped by Larry’s. The chubby little guy was in a booth shoveling in his breakfast courtesy of his own short-order cook. He stopped eating and signaled me over and offered me a bite to eat. I passed that up and settled for coffee and a hard roll.

  “So what’s new?” I asked.

  He wiped egg from his mouth and said, “That dame you went out with. She was back here this morning. Looking around for someone. You, maybe. But she didn’t say.”

  “I better check her out. She alone?”

  “Yup. Like I said, waiting for somebody who didn’t show.”

  I watched Larry shovel in the last of his eggs. I thought back, a long time ago, to when Larry wasn’t too well off. He got mixed up with some young hoodlums that hit a filling station. Cops brought them into the PD and I happened to spot a chubby kid with a clean face and no leather jacket standing out like a sore thumb among a bunch of would-be James Dean crumbs. He was crying. I talked with him, put in a few good words to the sergeant, and he got off light. He still thanks me for it. Not with words, but with favors.

  I got up from my seat and thanked Larry, then left.

  Jean Banner lived in a rundown apartment building that had sneaked its way past the health
inspectors, a long way from the society page. I knocked twice on the door and, when it opened, a girl Jean’s age slithered her curvy body over, not properly concealed under her nightgown.

  “Who’s calling?” she asked. She was a little shopworn but still a hot number, though her eyes chilled.

  “Jean Banner in?”

  “Not now she ain’t.” She batted her lashes at me and I felt sick all of a sudden. Little Jean had an outright prostie for a roomie.

  “When you expecting her?”

  “Around five. You ain’t by chance that Dexter fellow she’s been yappin’ about, are you?”

  “I’m him.”

  “I thought she said you was good-looking.”

  I had to smile. “To each her own.”

  She thought it over. “You ain’t my type.”

  She meant I didn’t pay.

  I started to turn away and she said, “Told me to tell you to come back at seven, if you stop by. That’s seven at night, mister. Sounds like you two got something going.”

  “Maybe I’m her type,” I said.

  She smirked and shut the door on me. I could swear I heard her slither off.

  At seven I was back, and this time Jean answered, in a pink silk blouse and red skirt. She said nothing, just waved me in.

  Something was wrong. I could tell it by her eyes. But I was already inside before I saw the guns.

  “Hold it right there, Dexter,” somebody said.

  They moved into the light—only two of them. One was a dark-complected guy with pockmarks and a twisted smile. The other was a grinning Bob Bacon.

  “The trap has finally sprung,” he said. The balding attorney tried to look tough, but it was a phony act, just like he was.

  The other one grabbed Jean. She tried to break away and he slapped her until she was still. He was dead—he just didn’t know it yet.

  Bacon shoved the gun in my back and shoved me toward the door. Jean followed me with her own gun-in-the-back escort. Down on the street a black Chevy was waiting for us. Bacon pushed me in the front seat and the other guy climbed in the back with Jean.

  Something made me want to ask a foolish question. “Where we headed, fellas?”

  Behind the wheel now, Bacon smiled and let a slow, rumbling laugh come deep from his throat. “What have you got against a little joy ride, Dexter?” He laughed again. So did the guy in the back.

  Killing them would be a pleasure.

  Bacon put it in gear and took off. He was having fun. “We’re going to take you to a place where we’ll make sure you don’t interfere anymore. The girl, too.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “What a coincidence! That’s where we’re headed.”

  I was sitting there thinking about how stupid they were. Bacon knew my .38 had been taken from me on my dismissal. But he hadn’t thought I might have another—they hadn’t even bothered to search me. It was so goddamn funny, I almost burst out laughing.

  We finally made it to the place he had in mind—a small shack on a dirt road somewhere out of town, on a stretch I didn’t know. You couldn’t even see the road. Yes, it was a good place for a killing.

  “Get them out!” Bacon ordered his stooge. He flashed the gun by my face to let me know he still had it and I said something nasty to him. The pockmarked guy at the back poked his gun in my neck and told me to get out. I did.

  I followed Jean into the shack with Bacon breathing down my neck. Bacon gave me a shove and I pivoted around and clipped him under the chin. I was about to show them the surprise in my hip holster when the other guy, behind me, sapped me and I was on my knees.

  I saw Bacon’s foot coming but the only thing I could do was curse it. It caught me above the forehead and I felt like I was scalped. I made a dive for the blurry figure that was someone’s legs, missed, and fell face down on the floor.

  Somebody laughed.

  By the time things came into focus, they had Jean tied, her hands bound behind her back. She was kneeling, as though saying a prayer.

  And I saw what he was about to do.

  The pockmarked stooge ripped the blouse from Jean’s back. She wore nothing underneath. You never saw anything more beautiful or ugly. The bastard smiled and licked his lips.

  He eased down, never letting his eyes leave her, and picked something up—a steel chain.

  He balled half of it in one hand and brought it down across her back. She cringed but made no sound. The next blow sent her on her stomach. I wanted to make a play for the .38, but Bacon had his eyes and gun on me the whole time.

  The third blow of the chain made her mouth and eyes open wide and her body quivered. By the fifth one it didn’t matter. She was dead.

  The beautiful woman had been turned to bloody pulp and the two sadists loved it. They must have because they looked at their handiwork too long, and Bacon’s eyes shifting to her gave me the chance I wished had come sooner.

  With what I had left in me, I rolled across the floor and before they could get off a shot, I had already put three slugs into the stooge’s face, making holes that added oversized pockmarks to a hideous array, spattering brains on the shed wall behind him, while another of my slugs caught Bacon in the arm and spun him like a top, losing his gun on the trip.

  The shyster panicked when he got a look at his friend’s bullet-ridden face and made a break for the door. I let him almost get there before I put one in each calf. He screamed and made a rattling thud when he hit the floor on his face.

  I managed to get up. Bacon looked back me, his face a distorted thing punctuated by the round whites of his eyes and the screaming blood-bubbling hole that was his mouth.

  I had one bullet left in the .38 and it had to count. So I stuck the nose of the gun against the bridge of his nose, between his eyes, which crossed comically as he reflexively tried to see what was about to happen. His scream was cut off when I pulled the trigger, collapsing the upper part of his face, which filled with blood gushing from somewhere, the life draining from him. The only bad thing was how quick he’d gone.

  I felt sick as hell. Not from what was left of these clowns—the attorney with the caved-in forehead, the pockmarked stooge slumped there with what had been inside his head dripping down the wall behind him. No. It was what they had done to Jean.

  I would have held her in my arms if it would’ve done any good, but she was just meat now. I couldn’t even look at her. I didn’t have it in me. I made tracks for the door, hopped in the Chevy out back, and got away, leaving hell behind.

  CHAPTER 4

  It was almost daylight when I got home. Everything was beating away at my brain as I fumbled for my keys and unlocked the door, exhausted as hell but wondering if sleep could come with my nostrils twitching with the cordite-tinged stench of death. I opened it, cursing back the tears for that poor dead girl.

  Ginger said, “Hi,” softly, turning it into three embarrassed syllables somehow.

  I switched on the light and when I saw her I breathed deeply—she was stretched out on the couch, propping herself up on her elbows, barefoot, her blonde hair tousled, her face free of make-up but lovely as ever, her shape only hinted at under my terry bathrobe, cinched at the waist.

  “I told you to stay away.”

  “Sorry,” she said, in a clipped, hurt way.

  “Sorry back at you,” I said, sighing. “How did you get in, anyway?”

  “Your super believed me when I said I was your girl and wanted to surprise you.”

  I could see why he had, but I’d been negligent not to tell the guy not to be so free and easy with my security.

  Even though I was sick to my soul, aching physically and emotionally, I smiled. She eased herself up and came to me, and I took her in my arms.

  “Rod…”

  “Yeah?”

  “I waited all night for you…to hold me. Just hold me.”

  I held her.

  * * *

  The super made it up to me by loaning out the furnished apartment one floor up for
me to get some sack time without worrying about getting murdered in my bed. Ginger hadn’t slept much through the night, waiting and anxious. While I’d have preferred to get her well the hell out of town, Ginger insisted on heading back to the nearby little community of Drake to be with her sister at the Rogers place.

  Meanwhile I had things on my mind, including some followup questions for George Moore, the guy who almost challenged Mayes Rogers in the last election. Something there wasn’t sitting right. His address was in the phone book and I headed over.

  I pulled to the curb across the way and down half a block, switched off my headlights and shut off my engine. I staked the little bungalow out for forty minutes and three cigarettes, and then I saw him.

  Still in a suit and tie from work, George Moore was leaving his house, walking as though late for something. The auto mechanic’s smaller brother got in his car in the drive, backed out and sped off. I waited a few seconds, then followed.

  He sped up. Maybe he guessed someone was tailing him. I eased off the gas and let him move way ahead—so way ahead that I lost him.

  But I played a hunch and it paid off—I drove to Morgan’s Lounge and his car was parked at the rear of the club with the employees. That was hardly the place to question him or to risk a confrontation right now. So I headed back to his place and returned to stakeout, like I was still a cop.

  Three hours and change went by and I had almost dropped off to sleep when his headlights roused me, and this time if he hadn’t spotted me, he was blind. He pulled into his drive, got out, walked to his door and shut himself in.

  I sauntered up to the front stoop, rang the bell, and when he opened up, he smiled as politely as if I were expected, and invited me in.

  I found a chair in a modestly furnished front room and started in: “A few unanswered questions, Mr. Moore.”

  He sat across from me and shook his head. “Mr. Dexter… Captain Dexter…please make this brief. I feel I’ve answered enough questions already, and after all, you have no official standing.”

  I ignored that. “You made a remark the other day about Mayes Rogers and his friends, and his associates. Flesh that out a little.”

  “I don’t care to go into any further detail. You want to pursue it, pursue it. But I don’t want to get involved.”