Black Alley

by Mickey Spillane

  “Look, if you want bats, I’ll find you some. Don’t you know that—”

  “They don’t get caught in your hair,” she finished for me. “Yes, I know they are naturally radar guided and have nothing to do with vampires and keep the insect population in control, but the damn things scare me and please let me have my idiosyncrasies.”

  “Okay, but out here in the brush look out for snakes. This is copperhead heaven.”

  She stopped dead in her tracks and stared at me. “Did you have to say that? I’m terrified of snakes. If you want to carry me . . .”

  “Honey . . .” I tried to placate her “. . . what would I know? I didn’t grow up here.”

  There was a long pause. “Mike, do you know how to kill a snake?”

  “Sure. Turn a mongoose on him.”

  “That’s what I thought,” she said sourly. “Why don’t you just keep walking and keep quiet.”

  It took the better part of an hour to see the don’s house from all angles. A lot of thought had gone into its construction, even the placement of the outbuildings, which could well have tunnel connections with the big house. Back in the early thirties this setup would have been perfect for the vacation quarters of the head of a family. Or even as the seat of the organization. It would be totally self-sufficient, with water, food and disposal naturally taken care of. They could sit inside their snug fortress and nobody could get to them at all. Not without dying, that is.

  But Babylon had been like that once too. Giant stone walls encased it, a river ran through it, but the Babylonians threw a party the night the Mede and Persian armies cut off the water flow from the Euphrates River and thousands of armed men walked through the great opening in the wall and slaughtered all the drunks.

  We had just reached the cover of the trees when a black limousine came around the curve and drove up to the main entrance. I snapped my fingers for the glasses and Velda handed them to me. I saw Patterson get out from the driver’s seat, open the back door and help Don Ponti out. The old man was dressed in country clothes this time: khaki pants, rolled up high enough to show tan boots, and a plaid shirt with a cowboy vest over it. He carried what looked like a sheepskin jacket to keep the mountain chill off. The front door opened and a bald, stout middle-aged guy came out, bowing and scraping to the don, hauling his bags out of the limo’s trunk, then leading the way back into the house, standing aside at the door so the don could make his grand entrance. Patterson got back in the limo and circled the house to the garage area. He didn’t come back, so he must have gone in through another entrance.

  “What do you make of that?” Velda asked.

  “He’s up here for more than overnight. Those bags probably had personal items he likes to have around him. Clothes and everything else would be here.”

  “Wouldn’t he have more of his men around him?”

  “Wait, kitten. They’ll be here.”

  Two men carrying shotguns came out of the woods, walking on either side of the drive. Another minute and two more limos eased into the area and we could see the white faces of the men behind the glass. Just as the cars reached the house another pair of men walked up. There were no shotguns this time. Both of them cradled assault rifles in their arms and their eyes searched every place an enemy could be. They didn’t go in the house. They simply melted into the shadows and we couldn’t see them at all.

  Very carefully, we went back the way we had come. I was wondering why they didn’t have a canine guard around, but maybe they felt safe enough as it was. In another hour we were back at the car and I picked up the road that led back toward the motel. Somehow Velda had managed to get the knots out of her hair and dry-brushed herself back to decency. But the way she fit into her jumpsuit sure turned heads at the Cinnamon Motel.

  And I was glad she was a magnet for all those eyes, because one set belonged to Howie Drago and another to one of the don’s soldiers. She must have picked up on it as soon as I did because without a word to them, she walked into the office of the motel and I knew she’d be leaving out the back door. Women don’t like to leave their goodies behind them. She’d get in her room, grab her stuff and be expecting me to pick her up outside her door without a single break in routine. So I just pulled away as if I were only the driver, went down the drive onto the street, turned left back to the entrance and kept on going past the knot of Ponti’s men and they didn’t even recognize the second pass of the same car. I pushed the door open on the passenger side and Velda came out of her room, slid in with her canvas bag and, as I drove back to the road, casually tossed it on the backseat.

  “I told the clerk we were leaving and gave him sixty bucks to cover tonight. I didn’t bother to get a receipt.”

  “Just put it on the office expenses.”

  “Don’t worry. I will,” she said. “Now, what were those people doing there?”

  “That’s the only motel around here.”

  “I’m not going to come apart, Mike. They could have gone with Ponti like the others.”

  “Okay, he’s got a rear guard. He has enough men in his private army to set up a roadblock wherever he wants around here.”

  “Mike . . . how would he know?”

  The highway was directly ahead. So far there had been no attempt at an interception. I said, “The don’s no dummy. This is where the thing started and it looks like it will end here too. Ponti didn’t need any road maps. All he has to do is wait. He thinks that the only one who knows where eight-nine billion bucks are stashed is me. And by association, you.”

  “But we don’t!”

  “We still have an edge if he thinks so,” I told her.

  As we turned south on the highway she stared out the window. “How are you going to get into the house?”

  “Ponti’s going to invite me in.”

  “Mike . . .”

  “You’re not going with me, doll. I need somebody on the outside.”

  “You can have an . . . accident. . . .” Velda suggested, leaving the rest unsaid.

  I tapped the cruise control button and kept the car on the posted limit. Civilization started to appear little by little and at the third turnoff I swung to the right and followed the road to the Hawthorn Motel that I had seen on a billboard a mile back.

  This time the desk clerk was a pleasant-faced lady in her sixties and when I asked for two rooms she gave me a startled look and said, “Why?”

  “Because we’re not married yet.”

  Her eyebrows went up and she drew back a bit. “Well, I’ll be darned. This her idea?” She gave Velda a disapproving look.

  “No,” I said, “it’s mine. We’re only engaged.”

  “Well, friend, you had better get ready for some practice time then. I have one room left and it’s a double.”

  “Two beds?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Ever see It Happened One Night?”

  Velda was glaring at me when I took the keys. Her mouth was hiding a smile while her eyes were biting me. The desk clerk just shook her head, not able to figure me out. Now I was beginning to enjoy being a good guy.

  Inside the room Velda said, “Do we really have to put up the walls of Jericho?”

  “Not if you behave yourself.”

  I chased her into the shower and she came out beautifully dampened in a black nightgown. It was one of those accessories that had a specific purpose in mind, but from the look on her face it was like shooting blanks.

  When I came out, teeth brushed, shaved and showered, in my fresh pajama bottoms, the single bed lamp was on very low and she waved me over to her side. “Do I get a good night kiss?”

  I reached for her wrists and folded my fingers around them. She was silky to feel and she let me hold her arms down on either side of her head. She was beginning to understand the game now. The tip of her tongue traced a sparkling wetness across her lips and they parted as I bent over her. She was warm and lovely and that little bit of her that I touched was alive with suppressed fire. I could feel it an
d I could taste it. I pulled away reluctantly, then said softly, “I love you, kitten.”

  Her eyes told me all I wanted to know. I went to my own bed. There was another debt I owed to the army. It taught me how to sleep under any conditions.

  When I gassed up the attendant directed me to a car rental spot and I got a Ford Mustang for Velda. There was a breakfast spot a block away so after we ate we tried to put it all together again. There were no new answers.

  Then an answer walked in the door, looked around deliberately until he spotted us and came over to our table. Both of us had been around too long to seem surprised, so I said, “Sit down, Homer. You have breakfast yet?”

  Homer Watson shook his head. “No, I thought I’d join you.” He indicated he’d have what we had ordered and sat back smiling.

  I didn’t let him get in the first word. “You have any trouble locating us?”

  “Just a little,” he told me. “The federal government has fingers that reach into every nook and cranny of American life. You weren’t hard at all.”

  “Oh?”

  He made a wry face. “We can make immediate connections with any local police agency if we want look-outs. Knowing pretty well where this affair was taking you made it a lot easier. Of course, we knew you’d be getting another car, so calls went out to all rental agencies in the area and presto, an hour ago we knew where you were.”

  Velda leaned forward, her fingers laced together. “Do you mean that we have the entire United States government backing up a homicide investigation?”

  That took him off his direct line of thought, making him frown a moment.

  “Marcos Dooley,” Velda reminded him. “He was murdered.”

  If he tried to make a wise remark he knew I was going to lay a fist right in his mouth and he stopped it before it was born. Instead, he said, “You know what I’m looking for.”

  “And what are we looking for, Homer?”

  He took a deep breath and studied us with deliberate patience, as though we were being recalcitrant students. “Your secretary here made some interesting inquiries regarding funds obtained by the organized underworld.”

  “That was all public information, Mr. Watson,” Velda said. “Printed periodicals.”

  “Two weren’t. Computer information was tapped into that we had red-flagged.”

  “Sneaky, Homer,” I said.

  “Not really. Just a minute corner of our agency was involved to get this far. This is very amateur stuff for our bureau.”

  “Then why haven’t you found what you’re looking for?”

  “We will.”

  “You can’t,” I said. “Hell, you don’t even know what you’re after.”

  His voice had a driven edge to it. “There are up to a hundred billion dollars of unreported, untaxed money . . .”

  “Let’s keep it around eighty-nine billion, Homer,” I said softly.

  Suddenly, his eyes came alive. “Damn it, Hammer, you know where it is.” This time his voice was flushed and quiet. He was like a hunter who had spotted his deer and was taking a careful sight on its vital spot.

  I said, “I only know some numbers, buddy.”

  “You can be arrested, you know.”

  “For what?”

  “Withholding information.”

  “Drop dead, clown.”

  Muscles in his neck tightened, the cords standing out behind the fat. He didn’t like the adjective at all.

  “Don’t tempt me, Hammer. I could dream up a dozen charges real fast to put you in a cage for a few days.”

  “They’d have to be phony, wouldn’t they?”

  “Who cares?” he asked flippantly.

  I looked at Velda with a small grin. “That all down on the recorder?”

  She nodded. “Every word.”

  “I don’t think you’ll pull that stunt now, will you? Incidentally, you got a gun on you too?”

  He looked at my hand hovering near the opening into my coat jacket, then at my eyes, and didn’t like what he saw. “We have to be armed,” he told me.

  “That’s nice to know.” I didn’t take my hand away until his two hands were flat on the table.

  The waitress came with his breakfast and he made a deliberate effort to get into it. I sipped at my coffee and watched him carefully, trying to get some mental background on where he stood. It was common knowledge that the government had been making a big effort to get inside the working of the Mafia. In some ways it was working. Overseas the bosses had been picked up and jailed, here the same thing had happened. But whether the government took them out or their own organization gunned them down, it didn’t seem to matter at all. Someone else was ready and able to step right into the emptied position and a new don was born. Some of them were tough, some of them had sense, and some had both, but eventually they all become losers.

  Along the line, some of them saw what was coming up and prepared for the occasion.

  All that mattered was money. People could come and go, but the money was the constant. They’d fight over it, kill for it, but if the bosses could hide it where only they could get to it, their retirement could be secure and their position permanent. Trouble was, all the old dons were gone except Lorenzo Ponti. He should have had it, but a caretaker, a grass-cutter he employed to handle the loot, had screwed him royally.

  “Watson,” I said, “with all this supposed money somewhere, how come your bureau sends you out alone?”

  Before he could answer I held my hand up. “Don’t lie, pal. I could make a call to your department and see what’s up. Or alert them to the whole package.”

  He swallowed, wiped his plate with a piece of toast and stuck it in his mouth. When he washed it down with coffee, he wiped his lips and said, “This has been a project of mine for ten years. The bureau chief assigned it to me.”

  “That’s a long while, Homer.”

  “There never was a time limit on it. We had suspected what was going on, but when the young turks started getting interested things picked up.”

  “No hard evidence?”

  After a pause he said, “None.”

  “What put you on Dooley?”

  “Just the fact that he worked for Ponti. He didn’t seem to fit the profile of someone who would associate with a known mobster. Ponti didn’t use casual help like that for very long or as intimately.”

  “You report all this?”

  “Of course.”

  “And your superiors just brushed it aside as mere speculation.”

  He didn’t want to admit it, but I was right.

  “Well,” he said, “it was speculative. Nobody seemed to believe the amounts I had told them, even though they had their own research to look at. The difficulty was they couldn’t see the Mafia organizations hoarding that kind of loot. It had always gone somewhere—into casinos, businesses, union operations.”

  “So they left you out on your own all that time?”

  “I am well paid.”

  “What made you tie it together?”

  “You, Mr. Hammer.” He leaned back in his chair and looked at me coolly. “When Marcos Dooley was shot down a memo reached me because I had made a notation about him on my report. What really alerted me was his asking only for you. I knew that this was one of those rare historical times when a door was opened and the end was right in sight.”

  “So you think he told me something,” I stated.

  “I know he told you something. You know where ... was it eighty-nine? . . . billion dollars is hidden. Those are billions, Mr. Hammer. That’s an incredible amount of money. That’s big enough to take a big hunk out of this country’s deficit. With it this country can—”

  “Tell it to the politicians, Homer. I’m looking for a person who killed my friend.”

  A baffled hatred touched his eyes a second. He said, “Tell me this then, Mr. Hammer. You can tell the truth, can’t you?”

  “When necessary.”

  “Let this be necessary then.”

  “W
hat, Homer?”

  “Do you know where the money is?”

  For a good three seconds I stared straight into his eyes. When I said it my voice was direct and straightforward and he knew I wasn’t lying.

  “No,” I told him.

  “Why are you here then?” There was defeat in his question.

  Again, I told him truthfully, “I thought I knew where to look.”

  “That cave on Lorenzo Ponti’s estate has been in use as a mushroom farm for over thirty years,” Watson told me.

  I felt Velda’s knee twitch against mine, his words surprising the both of us. I didn’t let my expression show what I felt, and asked, “How would you know that?”

  “Because the area is inspected periodically. He has a healthy business there and the IRS keeps a close watch on those things. Nothing goes on there we don’t know about.”

  “How big is it?”

  He smiled indulgently and said, “The cave itself is about sixty feet wide and twenty tall. It goes back approximately one thousand feet. At the moment it is completely filled with a new mushroom crop. The place could hold many billion dollars, but be assured, there is nothing in there except fungi. Edible, of course.”

  “And the government agents are welcome on his estate?”

  “They go through the proper notification. The process has been in place many years.”

  Velda and I looked at each other. There was no despair in our glances, just an air that had an “oh, well” attitude to it and Homer Watson took it all in.

  “I’m sorry to spoil your expectations, Mr. Hammer. I’d much rather you did know and had told me. Frankly, though, I suspected this would happen. There is no way that a person like Dooley would have a part in a money movement like we are talking about.”

  “Probably not,” I agreed.

  “And now, where do you go from here?” he asked.

  “To see the don, Homer.”

  His eyes narrowed again. “Why?”

  “Because I’m looking for a killer, not a fortune.”

  Homer got up and picked up the tab on the corner of the table. I let him have it. It was like getting a rebate on my taxes.

  When he left, Velda said, “About going to see Ponti . . .”