Black Alley

by Mickey Spillane

  I told him good morning and he said, “Mike, you got anything going on?”

  “Like what, Billy?”

  “You know, trouble.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Two cars have been keeping a watch on this place ever since I came on at midnight.”

  “Cops?”

  “No way. Both are Buick sedans. The unmarked police cars aren’t that rich. There were a couple of guys in each car.”

  “Recognize them?”

  “Couldn’t get a good look at them. A couple of times one would park across the street fifteen or twenty minutes. I could see a cigarette glow inside, so they were there.”

  He gave me a quick grin. “I did spot the first three numbers on one buggy. They were 411.”

  “That’ll help,” I told him.

  “Suppose they were stolen?”

  “Then it won’t help at all,” I said.

  “Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

  I looked at my watch. It was two minutes past seven. “When did they go by last?”

  “Just before you came down. Look, you can go down the basement and out the back way. Jackie is loading up the air freight truck and he can get you out of the area.”

  “Good idea, pal.”

  “By the way,” he added, “your secretary told me about somebody trying to take you out with a car bomb. We’ve installed some new spotting equipment down there.”

  “You know, I’m going to lose my lease yet,” I said.

  Bill called Jackie on the interphone and after I helped him carry out a couple of packages, he carried me down to Third Avenue where I got out and waited. Nobody was tailing me at all. A taxi spotted me on the corner, swerved in and stopped.

  Just in time. It started to rain. It was too early for the sky to be dirty, so you could see through the big drops that kissed the windows.

  A block away from the precinct house was a corner restaurant that had been in the same family since the turn of the century. It was a bar and grill where the food was the greatest if you weren’t into French cuisine. At the end of each shift the bar crowd would have a couple of quickies before getting on the subway, but the steady customers were the old-timers, the retirees who couldn’t get away from the Job. Ninety percent were either divorced or widowed. They were grey and wrinkled, but there was no denying what they had been before retirement age had swept them into the inactive ranks.

  It had been a long time since I had seen Peppy Marlow. He wore a derby then and an overcoat with a velvet collar. He was a three-gun cop with two pieces on his hip and a throwaway in an ankle holster. The young cops used to call him cowboy, but never to his face. He was head of the squad that tried to enforce prohibition and stayed with vice until he retired.

  I wondered if he’d remember me, but I shouldn’t have bothered. He grinned up from his coffee cup, and said, “Well, Mike Hammer, the old shooter himself.”

  “Hi, Sarge.”

  “Come on, Mike. Let’s not embarrass the rookies. I’m still Peppy. Gettin’ old, but still Peppy. Sit down.”

  I slipped the trenchcoat off, draped it over an empty chair and sat down.

  “You eat yet, Mike?”

  “I had coffee.”

  “Try the Mexican eggs. Something new they came up with.”

  A chubby waitress with a big smile suddenly stood over me. “How about some bran flakes and two percent milk?” She looked a little surprised, but took my order.

  “What’s that all about, Mike?”

  “Doctor’s orders. I’m on a damn diet. I got shot up pretty bad.”

  His “oh” meant so what else is new, but he understood completely.

  For a few minutes we talked over the old days, then when our orders came, Peppy said, “Let’s see, the last time we made contact was about twelve years ago. You wanted something then and I suppose you want something now.”

  I tasted the coffee, spooned up some bran flakes and said, “You have a good memory for the old prohibition days?”

  “Why, you gonna write my biography?”

  “I wouldn’t think of it. You got any dope on Slipped Disk Harris?”

  “Sure. He’s been dead a long time.”

  “How about when he was alive?”

  “Slippery weasel, that one. A nice guy, but a real careful operator.” He took a forkful of eggs. “Whatta you want to know?”

  “His operation. How did he work it?”

  Peppy shrugged, gathering his thoughts together. “He worked the high-class stuff. When the slobs were paying big prices for watered-down booze he was delivering the best Canadian you could buy. It cost, but it was top quality.”

  “Where did he get it?”

  “The trucks came down from Canada and he rode in front of the convoy in an old Reo. In those days the roadways were different and he had his routes mapped out all the way. A real sharp character, that guy. He was only hijacked twice, and those jobs were small potatoes on light loads.”

  “How about the feds?” I asked him.

  “Hell, he drove those guys nutty. They never even came near him. They knew what he was carrying and thought they knew his routes, but their roadblocks never turned up a damn thing.”

  “Didn’t he have a transfer spot?”

  “He must have,” Peppy told me. “He couldn’t take the trucks into the city. Someplace he off-loaded to autos to make the final delivery. Never once was he intercepted.”

  “Old Harris must have made a bundle.”

  “You’d better believe it. And you know something? None of us ever figured out how he worked it, but we were glad he did. The idiots who passed the Volstead Act had their heads up their tails when they tried to play moral good guys. All they did was invite the hoods into the action.”

  “Yeah, but long after prohibition he went back to work supplying the good stuff to joints all over the city. Nobody could figure that deal out at all.”

  “Mike, you know what was strange about that?”

  “What?”

  “With all the tight government control on booze, from distilling to sales, not one brand maker showed any phony paperwork. They had no theft reports that weren’t minor and not ever a hint of any conspiracy. When Harris died, all the action stopped. Nobody even tried to step into his shoes.”

  For a couple of minutes we both sat there without talking. When the waitress filled my coffee cup again I said, “What do you think, Peppy?”

  “I’m not. I’m just wondering what you’re doing back in the old bootleg days?”

  “You remember Marcos Dooley, Peppy?”

  “Yeah. He just got killed.”

  “Someplace he’s involved in this.”

  “Baloney. He was like you, too young to be in that mess.”

  “Then what about Lorenzo Ponti?”

  Peppy nodded and grinned. “Now he was into the bootleg business. That was where he got his start. He’s still up there in the family circle, though I hear the young turks are easing him out little by little. You’d think those old Mafia families would have been wiped out by now, but they’re still in there. Smoother, better educated with higher priced lawyers, but still there.”

  “What do you hear that’s special, Peppy?”

  “I hear lots, Mike, but I’m not going to jeopardize what they’re doing on the job. You know that.”

  “No sweat. Just one thing more. Where do you think Harris was off-loading his booze trucks?”

  “Someplace upstate,” he said. “He didn’t work the coastline stuff at all. All his loads came out of Canada by truck.” He paused, then continued, “Let me tell you what one of the fed guys thought. They were always looking for a convoy, but the trucks came out singly, not drawing much attention, and followed a course until they converged. Then Harris picked them up in his Reo and led them to the area where they unloaded.”

  That made sense, all right. I finished my coffee and picked up both the checks. Just as I thanked Peppy for the information a pair of old cronies came in and sat
down with him. They had the same look that he had, and idly I wondered if they were still playing cops. It was a hard routine to get out of your system.

  It was Pat’s day off and I met him outside his apartment building. He greeted me with, “Has the DA’s office reached you yet?”

  I shook my head. “Why would they?”

  “Because somebody reported Dooley’s ashes being kicked all over that place you put them. You know about that?”

  “Sure.”

  He gave me that disgusted look again. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “Like what? Marshall Brotorrio called me to tell me what happened. I told him to put the dust back and forget it. Who called it in?”

  “Apparently the security man who discovered it.”

  “Then where does the DA come in?”

  “Dooley’s death is still under investigation and for some reason Florence Lake has a big interest in it.”

  “Like about eighty-nine billion bucks’ worth, Pat?” My tone had a flat seriousness to it.

  He turned his head slowly and gave me a penetrating glance. “You were serious about that, weren’t you?”

  I nodded. “Who corroborated it, Pat?”

  “Officially, nobody.” When I didn’t say anything he added, “Homer Watson mentioned some astronomical number like that in passing.”

  “In passing, my behind,” I said.

  “Okay, he was feeling me out, but there was nothing I could tell him. I had forgotten your strange line of thinking about the cartons.”

  I grinned at him, then let out a little laugh. “No, you didn’t, Pat. You just stored it away. Hell, you never forget anything.”

  “A guy can sure buy a big car with that kind of dough,” Pat said quietly. “You going to tell me what it’s all about?”

  A cab came by and I flagged it down. When we got in I gave the driver the address in Brooklyn and settled into the seat. “I wish I knew, Pat. Maybe we can find something in Dooley’s pad.”

  We didn’t have to kick in any doors to get in. I rang the bell and Marvin Dooley opened the door for us. “You didn’t take long to move in,” I told him.

  “No problem,” he said. “I got a good lawyer.” He looked at Pat, his eyes picking him right up as being a cop. “What’re you guys doing here?”

  “We want to look through the house, that’s what.”

  “Supposing I don’t want to let you.”

  “If you want a rap in the mouth it’s okay with me,” I told him.

  He thought for a moment, then held the door open. “Aw, come on in. There’s nothing in here to find anyway. I already tore the place apart, what was left of it.”

  “Oh?”

  “Somebody else was already here. Hell, he tore out some of the walls, ripped up the furniture and the mattresses . . . man, what a mess this was.”

  It only took a quick tour to see what he was talking about. The search had been detailed and thorough, but it was an amateur job. Pat said, “He wasn’t squeezed for time, that’s for sure.” The marks of a rough tool scarred the woodwork where boards had been pried loose and a sharp blade had been used to get into any stuffed material.

  When we finished the inspection Pat asked, “What do you see, Mike?”

  “He never found anything, that’s what I see. He never stopped looking.”

  “Yeah. And he was neat about it. At least he didn’t make any noise. Nothing was thrown over. It was picked up, turned over carefully and checked out. If anything had been found the search would have ended right there.”

  I agreed and we both went back to the living room, where Marvin was straightening up the remnants of the sofa. “Junk,” he said, “it’s all junk now.” He looked at us, his eyes darting back and forth between Pat and me.

  “When did you get here?” I asked him.

  “About an hour ago.” When I didn’t answer him, he said, “I was figuring on moving in. I told you I was going to. Hell, I own it now.”

  “I don’t think you’ll be very comfortable,” Pat said. “You speak to anybody outside?”

  Marvin nodded vigorously. “Damn well told. Except for a kid across the street nobody saw nothing! At least the kid remembered some man who stopped by twice and when he didn’t get an answer he left. He came back a little later, stood there a minute, then came on in. The kid said he thought somebody had opened the door for him. Hell, that old lock wouldn’t’ve kept a cat out. He jimmied that door open.”

  “The kid describe him?”

  “Nah. He was only a strange guy to the kid.” He stopped and wiped his face. “His old lady was at the window, though. She knew who it was.”

  Evidently Marvin was expecting a big reaction from us, but when he didn’t get it, he said, “He had been here a few times before. Drove up then. Big car, brand new.” We still just looked at him and waited. “Twice he got in the guy’s car and drove off. The old lady thought my old man worked for him.”

  Not him, I thought. Dooley had worked for his father. It was Ugo who had tossed Dooley’s place looking for any line to unravel the puzzle.

  Marvin seemed disappointed when we told him thanks and so long. Outside we walked toward the corner in silence, then I told Pat, “Ugo is shaking loose, pal. He hit the urn and Dooley’s own house and hasn’t found anything yet.”

  “I was just thinking that. You know what’s coming next, don’t you?”

  “Certainly. He’ll be coming after me.”

  “What’re your plans, kiddo?”

  “I want to meet him in my own backyard. He’ll only think he’s setting the stage.”

  “And I suppose you’ll want backup on this?”

  “Come on, I’m a citizen. I’d expect it.” I saw the frown start on his face and knew what was bothering him. “You can forget it, if you want to, Pat.”

  “No, I can’t forget it. I was close to Dooley too. What bothers me is any personal involvement that might screw up the works. Dooley wasn’t a big enough event to get his killing on the front page, but if you’re really onto the right kind of money numbers, this fracas has got the makings of one big bust.”

  “Then stay out of it.”

  “Mike . . . you know I can’t. Not now. You made it more than just a killing. Dooley opened up a can of worms and you took the bait.” His eyes tightened somewhat. “Now, so did I.”

  “You want to make it official business?”

  “I can see them trying to get a word out of you,” he said. “There’s not a damn thing they can charge you with and you’re not about to give anything away, are you?”

  “Dooley dropped it in my lap, Pat, remember? The conversation wasn’t recorded and all he did was hand me a joker out of the deck and tell me to make a royal flush of it.”

  At the corner Pat stopped and stared down the avenue for a cab. “You’ll be tangling with the feds and the DA’s office, for starters, Mike. They’re both heavy hitters with big teams to cover all the bases. You know what you’re up against?”

  “You always ask me that, Pat. The answer is the same. No, I don’t know, but I expect I’ll find out pretty soon, don’t you?”

  He grunted and waved his hand toward a cab. “At least you got that right.”

  When the cab stopped we both got in and Pat gave the driver his midtown address. I told him to let me off at Thirty-fourth Street and we stayed quiet until I got out. When the cab pulled away I grabbed another and went up to Bud Langston’s office, where his first words were, “That was a short week, Mike.”

  “This could be a friendly visit,” I said.

  “But it’s not, right?”

  “Right. Things are beginning to happen.”

  “And you want body armor to protect your worn old frame, I imagine.”

  “What I want is to see this stuff. If it’s for real it puts another light on what I’m doing.”

  “Oh, it’s real, all right. And this time everything was going for us. Coulter and I had a locker together at the club where we used to try out our
gadgets in the pool. He mentioned a package he had left there with that new material in it.”

  “And?”

  Bud got up and walked to the closet and came back with what looked like a long-sleeved black sweatshirt draped over a wire coat hanger. “You still an extra large?”

  “You guessed right.”

  He held out the hanger and I took the gadget off the wire. For a few seconds I let my fingers run over the fabric itself, noticing the satin-like texture. It was full-waist length, yet couldn’t have weighed more than a few ounces. “And this will stop a bullet?”

  “I told you . . . anything under a twenty-millimeter.”

  “That’s hard to believe.”

  “Believe it, Mike. I’ve seen the tests carried out.”

  “How does it work?”

  Bud gave me a sad look, and said, “Why is a single strand of spiderweb stronger than a steel wire of the same dimensions?”

  “Beats me,” I told him.

  “Then stop asking silly questions. I fused the material into something you can wear. The trouble with a lot of armor is it leaves the arms open to bullet wounds. This thing is like wearing an undershirt. There’s a flap that comes up between your legs that you fasten with Velcro. Pretty neat, eh?”

  “I didn’t know you could sew,” I said. “You want it back?”

  His eyes seemed to cloud up a little. He had known me too long. “When you’re done with it, Mike.”

  I nodded, told him thanks and went out and got a cab back to my office.

  The rain had started again. This time it had picked up sky dirt and smelled funny. The drops were smaller than before, nature having a last laugh before deciding to drench the city with a downpour. I was glad I had my trenchcoat with me. The belt had started to bite into my side and I loosened it. It was a half hour late for the pain pills, so I just sat back and made faces until I got to the office.

  Velda said I looked pretty pasty when I walked in. I felt even worse until the pills took hold. My legs were shaky and my head was light. I knew I was breathing, but couldn’t seem to feel like anything was going into my lungs. I swung around in my desk chair and leaned back, my feet going up to the windowsill. She had seen me do that so often she figured I was all right, but I was far from it. The greyness of the day outside the glass panes got darker than it should have and I felt as if I were going off into deep sleep in a black alley that was dark and empty.