THE TOUGH GUYS by Mickey Spillane
A Good Nympho Can Get A Lot of Guys Killed. . . ÓHe was a little man, Ó she said. ÓHe Got himself killed. What kind of man are you, Mr. Cat Cay?Ô
A zipper made that funny sound and her shorts were suddenly hanging loose down one side. She smiled, her mouth wet and waiting. I stood up. ÓThanks for the offer, honey, but like I said, Chuck was my friend. There ought to be a period of mourning.Ô
She giggled. ÓYou got to be a big man to say no.Ô Then she stripped off the shorts in one swift motion, held them high overhead and let them fall to the floor. She let herself fall back onto the chaise-lounge, still smiling, knowing damn well what was happening to me.
ÓNow say no.Ô Her voice was husky. ÓNo,Ô I said.
The Tough Guys
ÓKICK IT OR KILL!Ô An old switcher engine pulled the two-car train from the junction at Richfield over the 12-mile spur into Lake Rappaho. At the right time the ride could have been fun because the cars were leftovers from another era, but now it was a damn nuisance. Coal dust had powdered everything, settling into the mohair seats like sand and hanging in the air so you could taste it. Summer was two months gone and the mountains and valleys outside were funneling down cold Canadian air. There was no heat in the car. Ordinarily, I wouldnÒt have minded, but now the chill made my whole side ache again under the bandage and I was calling myself an idiot for listening to that doctor and his wild ideas about me having to take a complete rest. I could have holed up just as well in New York, but instead I fell for the fresh air routine and took his advice about this place. Lake Rappaho was the end of the line. A single Limp sack of mail and a half dozen packages came off the baggage car as I stepped down from the last one. On the other side of the platform, a black Ñ58 Chevy with a hand painted TAXI on its door stood empty. I saw the driver, all right. He and a wizened old stationmaster were in the office peering at me like I was a stray moose in church. But thatÒs mountain country for you. When youÒre out of season and not expected, everybody goes into a G.I. hemorrhage. I waved my thumb at the taxi, picked up my old B-4 bag and the mailing tube I kept my split bamboo rod in, walked across the station to the car, threw my gear in the back seat, then got in front for the drive into Pinewood. It was another five minutes before the driver came out. He opened the door on the other side. ÓAfternoon. You going to Pinewood?Ô ÓAnyplace else to go?Ô He shook his head. ÓNot for fifty miles, I guess.Ô ÓThen letÒs go there.Ô He slid under the wheel and kicked the motor over. In backing around the corner of the station he made a pretense of seeing my duffel in the back. ÓYou going fishing?Ô ÓThatÒs the general idea.Ô ÓNo fishing now, you know. Wrong season.Ô ÓItÒs still open, isnÒt it?Ô He nodded. ÓFor the rest of the month. But thereÒs no fish.Ô ÓShut up,Ô I said. It was a four-mile trip into the fading sun to Pinewood and he didnÒt say anything again, but every foot of the way his hands were white around the wheel. Pinewood had a permanent population of 2,500. It lay where the valley widened on one end of Lake Rappaho, a mile and a half long and four blocks wide. The summer cabins and homes on the outskirts were long closed and what activity there was centered around the main crossroads. The Pines Hotel stood on the corner, a three-story white frame building whose second-story porch overhung the entire width of the sidewalk. I paid the cabby, grabbed my luggage and went inside. The two big guys bordering the door waited until I had crossed the lobby and was at the desk. Then they came up and watched while I signed the register. The heavy one took my card from the clip and looked at it. ÓMister Kelly Smith, New York City,Ô he said. ÓThatÒs a big place for a whole address.Ô ÓSure is.Ô The clerk edged up from his desk with a small, fixed smile divided between the other two and me. ÓIÒll be here two weeks,Ô I told him. ÓI want a room upstairs away from the sun and take it out in advance.Ô I pushed a hundred dollar bill across the desk and waited. ÓLike if somebody wanted to find you in New York . . .Ô the big guy started to say. I snatched the card from his fingers. ÓThen you look in the phone book. IÒm listed,Ô I said. I was feeling the old edge come back. ÓSmith is a common name . . .Ô ÓIÒm the only Kelly Smith.Ô He tried to stare me down, but I wasnÒt playing any games. So instead he reached out and picked up my C note and looked at it carefully. ÓHavenÒt seen one of these in a long time.Ô I took that away from him too. ÓThe way youÒre going youÒll never see one,Ô I said. The clerk smiled, his eyes frightened, took the bill, and gave me $16 back. He handed me a room key. ÓTwo-nineteen, on the corner.Ô The big guy touched me on the shoulder. ÓYouÒre pretty fresh.Ô I grinned at him. ÓAnd youÒre a lousy cop. Now just get off my back or start conducting a decent investigation. If itÒll make you happy, IÒll be glad to drop by your office, give you a full B.G., let you take my prints, and play Dragnet all you want. But first I want to get cleaned up and get something to eat.Ô He suddenly developed a nervous mouth. ÓSupposing you do that. You do just that, huh?Ô ÓYeah,Ô I said. ÓLater maybe,Ô and watched him go out. When the door closed the clerk said. ÓThat was Captain Cox and his sergeant, Hal Vance.Ô ÓThey always pull that act on tourists?Ô ÓWell, no ... no, of course not.Ô ÓHow many are in the department here.Ô ÓThe police? Oh ... six, I think.Ô ÓThatÒs two too many. They pull that stunt on me again while IÒm here and IÒll burn somebodyÒs tail for them.Ô Behind me, a voice with a cold, throaty quality said, ÓI donÒt know whether I want you here or not.Ô I glanced at the clerk. ÓNice place you run here. Who is she?Ô ÓThe owner.Ô He nodded to a hand-carved plaque on his desk. It read, Miss Dari Dahl, Prop. She was a big one, all right, full breasted and lovely with loose sun-bleached hair touching wide shoulders and smooth, tanned skin. ÓYou havenÒt any choice, honey. I got a receipt for two weeks. Now smile. A lovely mouse like you ought to be smiling all the time.Ô She smiled. Very prettily. Her mouth was lush like I knew it would be and she hip-tilted toward me deliberately. Only her eyes werenÒt smiling. She said, ÓDrop dead, you creep,Ô and brushed by me. There was something familiar about her name. The clerk gave me the answer. ÓIt was her sister who killed herself in New York last year. Flori Dahl. She went out a window of the New Century Building.Ô I remembered it then. It made headlines when she landed on a parked U.N. car and almost killed a European delegate about to drive off with a notorious call girl. The tabloids spilled the bit before the hush needles went in. ÓTough,Ô I said, Óonly she oughtnÒt to let it bug her like that.Ô I had supper in WhiteÒs restaurant. I had a table in the corner where I could see the locals filter in to the bar up front. The few who ate were older couples and when they were done I was alone. But everybody knew where I was. They looked at me often enough. Not direct, friendly glances, but scared things that were touched with some hidden anger. My waitress came over with a bill. I said softly, ÓSugar . . . what the hellÒs the matter with this town?Ô She was scared, too. ÓSir?Ô was all she could manage. I walked up to the bar. At 8 oÒclock, Captain Cox and Sergeant Vance came in and tried to make like they werenÒt watching me. Fifteen minutes later, Dari Dahl came in. When she finally saw me her eyes became veiled with contempt, then she turned away and that was that. I was ready to go when the door opened again. You could feel the freeze. Talk suddenly quieted down. The two guys in tweedy coats closed the door behind them and walked up to the bar with studied casualness. Their clothes were just the right kind, but on the wrong people because they werenÒt Madison Avenuers at all. One was Nat Paley and the bigger guy you called Lennie Weaver when you wanted to stay friends, but, if you had a yen for dying quick, you gave him the Pigface tab Margie Provetsky hung on him years ago. I felt that crazy feeling come all over me and I wanted to grin, but for now I kept it in. I pushed my stool back and thatÒs as far as I got. The little guy who stormed in was no more than 20
, but he had an empty milk bottle in one hand and he mouthed a string of curses as he came at Paley and Weaver. Trouble was, he talked too. much. He tried to spill it out before he cut loose. Lenny laced him with a sudden backhand as Nat grabbed him, took the bottle away, and slammed him to the floor. He wasnÒt hurt, but he was too emotionally gone to do anything more than cry. His face was contorted with hate. Lenny grunted and picked up his drink. ÓYou crazy, kid?Ô ÓYou dirty bastard!Ô The words were softly muffled. ÓYou talked her into working for him.Ô ÓGet outa here, kid.Ô ÓShe didnÒt have to work up there. She had a job. You showed her all that money, didnÒt you? ThatÒs why she worked. She always talked about having that land of money. You bastards! You dirty bastards!Ô When Nat kicked him, the blood splashed all over his shoes and the kid just lay there. He twitched, vomited, and started to choke. The only one who moved was Dari. She managed to get him face down and held him like that until he moaned softly and opened his eyes. She glanced up with those wild eyes of hers and said, ÓSonny was right. YouÒre dirty bastards.Ô ÓWould you like a kick in the face too, lady?Ô Lennie asked her. For a second it was real quiet, then I said, ÓTry it, Pig-face.Ô He spun around and my shoe ripped his sex machine apart and while he was in the middle of a soundless scream I grabbed NatÒs hair and slammed his face against the bar. He yelled, swung at me, and one hand tore into the bandage over my ribs and I felt the punk draining right out of me. But that was his last chance. I almost brained him the next time and let him fall in a heap on the floor with his buddy. I faked a grin at Dari, walked past the two cops at the table, and said so everybody could hear me, ÓNice clean town you got here, friend,Ô and went outside to get sick. The window was open and I could see my breath in the air, but just the same I was soaked with sweat. When the knock came on the door I automatically said to come on hi, not caring who it was. My side was one gigantic ball of fire and it was going to be another hour before the pills I had taken helped. There was no sympathy in her voice. The disdain was still there, only now it was touched by curiosity. She stood there, her stomach flat under her dress, her breasts swelling out, and I remembered pictures of the Amazons and thought that she would have made a good one. Especially naked. ÓSonny asked me to thank you.Ô Trying to make my voice sound real wasnÒt easy. ÓNo trouble.Ô ÓDo you . . . know what youÒre doing?Ô She paused. ÓWhat do you want in Pinewood?Ô ÓA vacation, kitten. Two weeks. I have to do it. Now, will you do me a favor?Ô I closed my eyes. The fire in my side was building up again. ÓYes?Ô ÓIn my flight bag over there ... in the side pocket is a bottle of capsules. Please . . .Ô I heard the zipper run back, then the sharp intake of her breath. The gun she found in the wrong side pocket suddenly fell to the floor with a thump and then she was standing over me again. She had the bottle in her hand. ÓYouÒre a damned drug addict, arenÒt you? ThatÒs the way they get without their dosage. They get sick, they sweat, they shake.Ô She poured the caps back in the bottle and capped it. ÓYour act in the restaurant stunk. Now act this one out.Ô With a quick flip of her wrist she threw the bottle out the window and I heard it smash in the street. ÓYou filth,Ô she said and walked out. It was three in the afternoon when I woke up. I lay there panting and, when the sudden sickness in my stomach subsided, I got to my feet and undressed. Outside, a steady light rain tapped against the windows. A hot shower was like a rebirth. The .45 was still on the floor where Dari Dahl had let it drop and I hooked it with my foot, picked it up, and zippered it inside my leather shaving kit. Every time I thought of that crazy broad throwing that bottle out the window I felt like laying her out. That wasnÒt getting those capsules back, though. I had maybe another two hours to go and I was going to need them bad, bad, bad. I stuffed 50 bucks in my pocket and went downstairs. Outside my window, I found the remains of the bottle. The capsules inside had long since dissolved and been washed away by the rain. I shrugged it off, found the drugstore and passed my spare prescription over to the clerk. He glanced at it, looked at me sharply, and said, ÓThis will take an hour.Ô ÓYeah, I know. IÒll be back.Ô I headed for the restaurant. Although lights were on in store fronts and the corner traffic blinker winked steadily, there wasnÒt a car or a person on the street. It was like a ghost town. The restaurant was empty. The waitress recognized me with a peculiar smile, took my order, and half-ran to the kitchen. The bartender walked across the room to me. He was a graying man in his late 40s, a little too thin with deep tired eyes. ÓLook, mister,Ô he said, ÓI donÒt want trouble in here.Ô I leaned back in my chair. ÓYou know who those jokers were?Ô He nodded. ÓWeÒll handle things our own way.Ô ÓThen start by keeping out of my hair, friend,Ô I told him. ÓI donÒt know how or why those punks are here, but theyÒre the kind of trouble people like you just donÒt handle at all, so be grateful for the little things, understand?Ô He didnÒt understand at all and his face showed it. He glanced outside toward the distant slope of the mountain. ÓYou arenÒt. . .on the hill?Ô ÓMac, I donÒt know what the hell youÒre talking about. I think you people are nuts, thatÒs all. I pull those punks off the kidÒs back last night while you, the cops, and everybody else just watch and / catch the hard time. I donÒt get it.Ô The door slammed open and Sergeant Vance came in. He came sidling over and tossed a sheet of paper down on the table. It was my prescription. ÓThis calls for narcotics, mister. You better come up with a damn good explanation.Ô Real slowly I stood up. Vance was a big guy, but he wasnÒt looking down on me at all. Not at all. His face was all mean but scared too like the rest and his hand jumped to the butt of his service revolver. I said, ÓOkay, you clown, IÒll give you one explanation and if you ask again IÒll shove that gun of yours up your pipe. ThatÒs a legitimate prescription you got there and, if you do any checking, you check the doctor who issued it first. Then, if itÒs bad, you come back to me. Meanwhile, you have a certain procedure to take thatÒs down in black and white in the statute books. Now you take that prescription back and see that it gets filled or youÒll be chewing on a warrant for your own arrest.Ô He got it, all right. For a minute, I thought I was going to have to take the rod away from him, but the message got through in time. He went out as fast as he came in. What a hell of a vacation this was. Brother! Willie Elkins, who owned a garage, was willing to rent me his pickup truck for 15 bucks a week. It was a dilapidated thing, but all I needed. He told me how to find old Mort Steiger, who rented boats. The old guy let me have my pick, then shook his head at me and grinned through his broken plate. ÓYou ainÒt no fisherman, are you?Ô ÓNope,Ô I shook back. ÓI try once in a while, but IÒm no fisherman.Ô He paused, watching me warily. ÓYou on the hill?Ô ÓWhat is this ÑhillÒ business? WhoÒs up on what hill?Ô He waited a moment, sucking on his lips. ÓYou kid-dinÒ? No, guess you ainÒt.Ô He pointed a gnarled finger over my shoulder. ÓBig place up there just around that ridge. CanÒt see it from here, but she has a private road that comes right down to the lake, all fenced in. Whole place like that. You canÒt get in or out unless they let you.Ô ÓWho lets you?Ô ÓCity people. ThatÒs Mister SimpsonÒs place. Big manufacturer of something or other. Never met him myself. He likes it private.Ô I let out a grunt. ÓHe sure does. He has a real goon squad working for him. I met a couple last night. They needed straightening out.Ô This time his grin got broader and he chuckled. ÓSo youÒre the one. Willie told me about that. Could be youÒll make trouble for yourself, if you donÒt watch out.Ô ÓIt wonÒt come from two-bit punks, pop. Trouble is, if SimpsonÒs such a big one, whatÒs he doing with guys like that on his place?Ô ÓMaybe I could tell you.Ô I waited. ÓThis Simpson feller was a big one long time ago. Bootlegging or something, then he went straight. He had all this money so he went into business. Few times a year he comes up here, does some business, and leaves.Ô ÓEverybody in town is scared, pop. ThatÒs not good business.Ô His eyes seemed to scratch the ground. ÓAinÒt the business he does.Ô ÓWhat then?Ô ÓThe girls. He sends down to Pinewood for girls.Ô ÓThe place looks big enough to support a few hookers.Ô ÓMister, you just donÒt know country towns. Conies end of summer and those girls pack up and le
ave. ItÒs the others he gets.Ô ÓListen, a guy that big wouldnÒt try ...Ô He interrupted with a wave of his hand. ÓYou got me wrong. He ... employs them.Ô ÓWell, whatÒs wrong with that?Ô ÓThey go up there, all right, but they donÒt come back . . . well, the same . . . Rita Moffet and the oldest Spencer girl moved over to Sunbar. Bob RayburnÒs only girl, she never would speak to anybody and last year they had to send her to the State Hospital. She still wonÒt speak to anybody at all. Flori Dahl and Ruth Gleason went off to New York. Flori died there and nobody has heard from Ruth in months.Ô ÓNice picture.Ô ÓOthers, too. ThatÒs not all. Some are still here and every time Simpson and the bunch comes in they go up there to work. Like they enjoy it. He pays them plenty, oh, you can bet that. What stuff they buy, and all from New York.Ô ÓAny complaints?Ô The old man frowned. ÓThatÒs the funny part. None of Ñem say nothing.Ô I stood up and stretched. ÓYou know what I think? This Simpson guy pays them mighty generously and for the first time they get a look at how the other half lives and want to give it a try. So they leave town. ItÒs an old story. The others wonÒt leave, but let the gravy come to them. How about that?Ô ÓHe got funny people working for him. They bring trouble to town, mister.Ô ÓOkay, so he hires hoods. I know reputable businessmen who have done the same.Ô Steiger thought it over. ÓMaybe, but did you ever see such a scared town in your life, mister?Ô The drizzle had stopped. I zippered up my jacket and shoved my hat on. Mort Steiger watched me carefully. Finally he said, ÓYouÒre a funny one, too, mister.Ô ÓOh?Ô ÓYou got a real mean look. YouÒre big and you look mean. You tell me something true?Ô I opened the door of the pickup and said over my shoulder, ÓSure IÒll tell you true, pop.Ô ÓYou ever kill anybody?Ô I slammed the door shut and looked at him. He was completely serious. Finally I nodded. ÓYes. Six people.Ô ÓI donÒt mean in the war, son.Ô ÓI wasnÒt talking about the war.Ô ÓHowÒd you do it?Ô ÓI shot them,Ô I said and let the clutch out. The druggist had my prescription ready and handed it over without a word. I knew he had checked on the doctor who issued it and had another check going through different channels. I ordered a Coke, took two of the capsules, and pocketed the rest. A fresh rain slick was showing on the street and the weather forecast was that it would continue for a few days. So IÒd fish in the rain. IÒd take a six-pack of Blue Ribbon and a couple sandwiches along and anchor in the middle of the lake under an umbrella. I went outside, flipped a mental coin to see where IÒd eat. The coffee shop in the hotel won and I hopped in the truck. At the corner the blinker was red on my side and I rolled to a stop. As I did, a new black Caddy with Kings County (New York) plates made the tuna and I had a fast look at the driver. His name was Benny Quick, he had done two turns in Sing Sing on felony counts and was supposedly running a dry-cleaning place in Miami. There was somebody beside him and somebody in the back, but I couldnÒt make them out. I made a U turn, passed the sedan, turned right two blocks farther on, and let the Caddy pass behind me. ThatÒs all I needed to pick up the license number. A friend back in New York would do the rest. I couldnÒt figure what Benny Quick was doing up this way, but I made a living being nosy and I had been too long at it to let a vacation take me out of the habit. Back at the Pines Hotel, I shared the coffee shop with a half dozen teen-agers sipping coffee and feeding the juke box. None of them paid any attention to me. The waitress snapped the menu down in front of me. When I looked up I said, ÓYou ought to smile more, Miss Dahl.Ô ÓNot for you, Mr. Smith.Ô ÓCall me Kelly.Ô She ignored me completely and waited. I told her what I wanted, and while I waited scanned a newspaper. The headlines were still all about football. Dari Dahl came back, fired my cheeseburgers at me, and put the coffee down so hard it spilled. I said, ÓGo back and get me another cup.Ô ÓWhat?Ô ÓDamn it, you heard me. IÒve had about all the crap from you I can take. You be as sore as you please, but, baby, treat me like a customer or for kicks IÒll throw these dishes through your front window. This town is giving me the business and from now on the business stops. Now shake your butt and get me another coffee and do it right.Ô The next time the coffee came slow and easy. I said, ÓSit down.Ô She paused. ÓMr. Smith . . .Ô When I looked up and she saw my face, she grew chalky and pulled out a chair. Dari Dahl was a magnificent woman, even scared. The tight nylon uniform outlined the daring cut of her under-things. The word bra was disputable for all that it was, and below it, far below, was a bikini-like thing beautifully discernible. ÓI heard about your sister,Ô I said. ÓLetÒs not discuss it.Ô ÓDari baby, it wonÒt be too hard to find out someplace else. I remember the rough details. Any old newspaper account could fill me in. Anybody around town ought to be glad to talk about the bit.Ô The hardness came back again, her mouth pulling tight at the corners. ÓYou should be able to understand it. My sister was a drug addict, when she could no longer supply her need, she killed herself. Eventually, youÒll do the same.Ô ÓI will?Ô ÓYour supposed legitimate source of supply through our druggist wonÒt last very long. My sister used stolen and forged prescriptions, too, for a while. It was when they ran out that she killed herself.Ô She stopped, her eyes glinting. ÓTell me, Mr. Smith, are you here now be-cause there are no other pharmacists who will honor your prescriptions? Is that it?Ô Slowly, I finished my coffee. ÓYou really are bugged, kid. You really are.Ô She walked away, tall, cool, a lovely, curvy animal, as beautiful as any woman ever was, but going completely to waste. I left a buck and a half by my plate, went upstairs where I showered and changed into a city suit. I decided to try the air again. There should be a movie or a decent bar someplace. I reached for the phone, but remembered the clerk downstairs and hung up. In the lobby, I called from a house phone where I could watch the desk, gave a New York number, and waited. When my number answered, I said, ÓArtie?Ô ÓYeah, hi ya, Kelly, howÒs it going?Ô For a full five minutes we made idle conversation about nothing, throwing in enough duty words so any prudish operator bugging in would knock it off in disgust. Then I said, ÓRun a number through for me, kid, then get me all the information on its owner. Next, find out what you can about Benny Quick. HeÒs supposed to be in Miami.Ô I fed him the license number, talked a little more about nothing, and hung up. Outside, the ram had started again, harder this time. I looked each way, saw a couple of recognizable lights, grinned, and walked toward them. Like a whoreÒs is red, police lights have to be green, old-fashioned, and fly-specked. You knew from the sight of them what itÒs going to smell like inside. ThereÒs a man smell of wet wool, cigars, and sweat. ThereÒs a smell of wood, oiled-down dust; of stale coffee, and musty things long stored. On top of that, thereÒs another smell a little more quiet, one of fear and shame that comes from the other people who arenÒt cops and who go down forever in the desk book. I walked in and let Sergeant Vance stare at me like a snake and then said, ÓWhereÒs your captain?Ô ÓWhat do you want him for?Ô The pair of young beat cops who had been standing in the corner moved in on the balls of their feet. They were all set to take me when the office door opened and Cox said, ÓKnock it off, Woody.Ô He ran his eyes up and down me. ÓWhat do you want?Ô I grinned at him, but it wasnÒt friendly at all. ÓYou wanted my prints, remember? You said to stop by.Ô He flushed, then his jaw went hard. He came out of the doorway and faced me from three feet away. ÓYouÒre a rough character, buddy. You think we donÒt know what to do with rough guys?Ô And I gave it to him all the way. I said, ÓNo, I donÒt think you know what to do with rough guys, Captain. I think youÒre all yak and nothing else.Ô Across his forehead, a small pulse beat steadily. But he held it in better than I thought he could. His voice was hard but restrained when he told the beat cop behind me, ÓTake his prints, Woody.Ô I gave him my name and address and stopped right there. If he wanted anything on me he could get it only after he booked me. I grinned at everybody again, left a bunch of stinking mad cops behind me, and went out into the fresh air. It was 9 oÒclock, too late for a show but not for a bar. I found one called JIMMIEÒS with Jimmie himself at the bar and ordered a beer. Jimmie was a nice old guy and gassed with me. When I finally got around to the Simpson place, he made a wry
face and said, ÓNobody ever saw the guy I know of. Not down here in town.Ô ÓHow about the girls?Ô He nodded. ÓYou donÒt get much out of them. Simpson turns out to be either big or little, skinny or fat and you get the point. They donÒt talk it up any.Ô ÓSo they donÒt talk about their boss. They get paid plenty, I hear.Ô ÓHell, yes. Bonnie Ann and Grace Shaefer both sport minks and throw plenty of bucks around. Every once in a while I see Helen Allen in a new car. She comes through about once a month to see her folks. Used to be a nice kid. All of them were.Ô ÓMaking money changed that?Ô Jimmie shook his head, squinting. ÓNo, but used to be they were plain hustlers and not high on anybodyÒs list.Ô I asked, ÓYou mean thatÒs their job up there?Ô His shrug was noncommittal. ÓThey wonÒt say. Some of them do secretarial work, answering phones and all that, because the switchboard operators here have talked to them often enough.Ô ÓIf theyÒre that interested, why doesnÒt somebody just ring SimpsonÒs bell and ask?Ô Jimmie gave a short laugh. ÓBesides the brush-off at the gate, who wants to spoil a good thing? Before that bunch leaves thereÒll be a bunch of money in this town, and off season you donÒt kick out found loot. Then thereÒs another angle. That boyÒs a big taxpayer. HeÒs got connections where they count, as some busybodies found out. A few local do-gooders tried some snooping and wound up holding their behinds. Nobody goes to the cops, though I canÒt see them doing much about it. Cox is like a cat whoÒs afraid of a mouse yet getting hungry enough so he knows he has to eat one or die. I think he figures if he eats one itÒll be poisoned and heÒll die, too.Ô He opened me another bottle and moved on down the bar to take care of a new customer. It was the nervous taxi driver who tried to steer me away from Pinewood in the first place. I was beginning to wish I had let him talk me into it. He ordered a beer, too, said something about the weather, then confidentially told Jimmie, ÓSaw somebody tonight. DidnÒt recognize her at first, but it was Ruth Gleason.Ô I poured my glass full, making like I was concentrating on it. Ruth Gleason was the girl Mort Steiger told me ran off to New York the same time Flori Dahl did. ÓYou sure?Ô Jimmie asked him. ÓOughta know her, I guess. SheÒs changed though. SheÒs got on fancy clothes and all that, but her face is sure old looking. WouldnÒt look at me. She kind of turned away when she saw me.Ô ÓWell whatÒs she doing back here?Ô ÓWho knows? She got in that blue ranchwagon from the hill place and drove off.Ô He waved off another beer and went out. Jimmie came back wiping his hands on his apron. Bluntly, I said, ÓMort told me about the Gleason kid, too.Ô He didnÒt question my tone. ÓNice girl. She was up there a whole month. Hardly ever came down and when she did she wouldnÒt speak to anybody. Flori and she went in at the same time. Flori used to come to town occasionally and the way she changed was hard to believe.Ô ÓHow?Ô He waved his hands expressively. ÓLike you canÒt pin it down. Just changed. They wouldnÒt look at you or hardly speak. It was real queer.Ô ÓDidnÒt any of those kids have parents?Ô ÓFloriÒs old man was dying and they had no mother. I think Flori took the job up there to help get her old man into the Humboldt Hospital. They got him there, but he died soon after. Cancer.Ô ÓThatÒs only one,Ô I pointed out. ÓAh, who can tell kids anyhow? They do what they please anyway. Sure, some of them had folks, but thereÒs big money up there.Ô He popped the top from another bottle and passed it over. ÓOn the house.Ô He took a short one himself and we gave a silent toast and threw them down. Then he said, ÓBetter not do too much talking around town. This is a spooky place.Ô I grinned, paid off my tab, and waved him good night. For a few minutes I stood under the awning watching the rain, then started back toward the center of town. I had crossed the street and almost reached the corner when the big Imperial came from my left, turned left, and stopped half a block up ahead of me. Unconsciously, I stepped into the darker shadows and walked faster. Someone stepped out of the car, turned and pulled at another. They stood there together a moment and then I heard the unmistakable spasm of a sob. I ran then, holding one hand tight against my ribs to muffle the fire that had started there. I was too late. They heard my feet pounding and the one by the car turned sharply, ducked inside, and slammed the door. The car pulled away silently and slowly as if nothing had happened. But they left a beautiful young girl behind them. She was sobbing hysterically and started to collapse as I reached her. She was a lovely brunette wrapped tightly in a white trenchcoat, her hair spilling wetly over her shoulders. She tried to shove me away while she hung on desperately to an oversize handbag and keep saying over and over, ÓNo . . . please, no!Ô I said, ÓEasy, kid,Ô and pulled her to the porch steps of the nearest house. When I got her seated I tried to take her hand. She stopped sobbing then, jerked her hand, and held her pocketbook on the opposite side. For a second the hysteria passed and she said, ÓGet out of here. Let me alone!Ô ÓRelax, IÒm. . .Ô ÓThereÒs nothing the matter with me,Ô she nearly shouted. ÓGet out of here. Let me alone!Ô She clenched her teeth on the last word with a crazy grimace and tried to stand up. But I was sitting on one edge of her coat and when she did the thing yanked open and half-pulled off her shoulder. She was naked from the waist up and I didnÒt need any light to see the welts and stripes across her body and the small bleeding spots where something with a sharp tip had dug in. I stood up, pulled the trench coat closed. When she realized I had seen her, she closed her eyes, let out: a soft mewing sound, and let herself fold up in my arms. I put her down on the steps again and as I did, her pocketbook fell open. There was a sheaf of brand new bills inside, held by a bank wrapper. On it was printed the number 1,000. Suddenly the porch light snapped on, the door opened, and a man stood there clutching his bathrobe at his middle. His wife peered over his shoulder, her face worried. ÓYou,Ô he called out. ÓWhat are you doing there?Ô His voice didnÒt have too much snap to it. I motioned to the girl. ÓThereÒs a sick woman here. Look, call a doctor for me and hurry it, will you?Ô ÓA doctor? WhatÒs . . .Ô ÓNever mind whatÒs the matter. You call. And turn out that light.Ô They were glad to get back inside. The porch light went out and inside one turned on. I propped the kid up, put her bag under her arm, and walked away from the house. I didnÒt get very far. The car hissed up behind me and a voice said, ÓItÒs him again. The one who jumped Lennie and me in the restaurant.Ô There wasnÒt any sense running. A dozen fast steps would tear my side anyway. I just stood there and because I did the action that was all set to explode went sour. Nat Paley and the new guy who hopped out and came at me from different sides slowed, not able to figure me out. NatÒs hand came out of his pocket with a gun. The gun came up and NatÒs face said it was the right time and the right place. Except somebody else thought differently and a strangely cold voice from inside the car said, ÓNo noise.Ô They moved before I could yell. The other guy came in fast from the side, but I ducked in time to get the load in his fist off the top of my head. I kicked out, jabbed at his eyes, and made the touch. He couldnÒt yell with the sudden pain, ducked into my right and his face seemed to come apart under my knuckles. And that was the end of it. Nat got me just right, one stunning blow behind the ear, and, as I sank to my knees, went over me expertly with a clubbed gun and ruthless feet. As one terrible kick exploded into my side, I thought I screamed and knew with absolute certainty that Nat had one more blow to deliver. It would come with bone-crushing force in that deadly spot at the base of the brain. I knew it was coming and I hoped it would, anything that would erase the awful thing that was happening to me inside. It came all right, but a sudden convulsion that wracked my side made it miss and my shoulder took it all. Nat didnÒt realize that, though. A tiny part of my mind that could still discern things heard him laugh and drag the other guy into the car. In the middle of a wild dream of sound and light I coughed, tried to turn my head away from the jarring, acrid fumes of ammonia, and then swam back into a consciousness I didnÒt want. Somebody had carried me to the steps and a face peered anxiously into mine. The old guy watching me said, ÓItÒs all right. IÒm Doctor McKeever.Ô ÓThe girl. . .Ô I started. ÓSheÒs all right. SheÒs inside. WeÒd better get you in there, too.Ô ÓIÒm fine.Ô ÓWhat happened
? Was there an accident?Ô I shook my head, clearing it. ÓNo . . . not actually.Ô When I moved my arm my shoulder muscles screamed. At least nothing was broken. IÒd taken some bad ones before, but this took the cake. Under the bandages I could feel the warmth of blood and knew what was happening. I said, ÓYou saw the girl?Ô ÓYes.Ô ÓYou got an idea of what happened?Ô He chewed his lips a moment and nodded. ÓI know.Ô ÓYouÒve seen it before, havenÒt you?Ô At first he wasnÒt going to say anything, then he looked at me again. His voice had an edge to it. ÓYes.Ô ÓThen you do like you did before, doc. You keep this under your hat, too. Let it get out and that kid is ruined here in town. She can be ruined no matter where she goes and it isnÒt worth a public announcement.Ô ÓSomebody has got to stop it,Ô he said. I said, ÓItÒll be stopped, doc. ItÒll be stopped.Ô A small frown furrowed his forehead. His smile was crooked. ÓToxin-anti-toxin,Ô he said. ÓWhat?Ô ÓPoison against poison.Ô I nodded, spit, and said, ÓYou go take care of that kid, then ride me back to the hotel.Ô When he had left I got sick again. I had to get those capsules I had left in my room. In just a few minutes now it was going to be worse than it ever had been and IÒd be a raving maniac without a big jolt from the small bottle. I couldnÒt tell how long he had been gone, but finally he came out leading the girl. A car pulled around from the side and the doctor bundled her into it, telling the driver to take her to his office and deliver her to his wife. As soon as the car left, he had me on my feet, got me in his Ford, and started up. At the hotel he got out, opened my door, and took the arm on my good side to lead me in. Dari Dahl was behind the desk, in white nylon no longer. She was wearing a black sweater and skirt combination that dramatized every curve of her body and making the yellow of her hair look like a pool of light. The brief flicker of concern that hit her face turned to a peculiar look of satisfaction. She came around the desk, tiny lines playing at the corner of her mouth and said, ÓTrouble?Ô ÓWhat else. Now get my key, please.Ô She smiled, went back, picked the key out, and came over and handed it to me. ÓAre you hurting, Mr. Smith?Ô Both of us shot her funny looks. ÓIs it true that when a narcotic addict tries to lay off he fights it until heÒs almost tortured to death before he takes a dose?Ô McKeever said, ÓWhat are you talking about, Dari?Ô ÓAsk him.Ô She smiled too sweetly. ÓSheÒs bugged, doc, letÒs go.Ô We walked to the stairs, started up them, when Dari called, ÓMr. Smith . . .Ô I stopped, knowing somehow what was coming. ÓQuite accidentally I dropped a bottle of capsules while cleaning your room. They fell down the toilet.Ô She stopped, letting it sink in, then added, ÓAnd so did several prescriptions that were with the bottle. I hope you donÒt mind too much.Ô She could see the sweat that beaded my face and laughed. I could hear it all the way up the steps. I flopped on the bed and it was then, when my coat came open, that McKeever saw the blood. He opened my shirt, saw the red seeping through the bandages, took one look at the color of my face, and rushed out. Lying there, my ribs wouldnÒt flex to my breathing and the air seemed to whistle in my throat. It was like being branded; only the iron never left. The door opened and I thought it was McKeever back, then I smelled the fragrance of her across the room. My eyes slitted open. She wasnÒt wearing that funny smile she had before. ÓWhat the hell do you want?Ô I managed to get out. ÓDoctor McKeever told me . . .Ô she paused and moistened her lips, Óabout Gloria Evans. You tried to help her.Ô ÓSo what?Ô I said nastily. ÓYou tried to help Sonny Holmes the other night, too.Ô ÓSure, IÒm everybodyÒs buddy.Ô I closed my eyes, trying to control my breathing. She said softly, a still determined tone in her voice, ÓAbout the other thing . . . drugs. IÒm not sorry about that at all.Ô McKeever came in then, panting from the run up the stairs. He uncovered me, got his fingers under the bandage and worked it off. He said, ÓA doctor took care of you, didnÒt he?Ô All I could do was nod. I smelled the flower smell of her as she came closer and heard the sharp intake of her breath as she saw me. ÓWhat. . .happened?Ô ÓThis man has been shot. HeÒs recuperating from an operation.Ô I heard Dr. McKeever open the bag and the clink of bottles. ÓDidnÒt you have anything to take periodically to kill the pain?Ô I nodded again, my face a pool of sweat. I felt the needle go in my arm and knew it would be all right soon. I said through teeth held so tight they felt like theyÒd snap off, ÓCapsules. Morphine sulphate.Ô ÓOh, no!Ô Her voice sounded stunned. McKeever said, ÓWhat?Ô ÓI thought he was a drug addict. I destroyed them.Ô The doctor said nothing. Slowly the pain was lifting like a fog. Another second and IÒd sleep. Tonelessly, Dari said, ÓHow he must hate me!Ô Then I was past answering her. It stopped raining on Wednesday. For two days I had lain there listening to my bedside radio. The hourly news broadcasts gave the latest U.N. machinations, then into the Cuban affair. Now the finger was pointing at Cuba as being the new jumping off place for narcotic shipments to the States. Under suspected Soviet sponsorship, the stuff came in easily and cheaply from China×a cleverly different kind of time bomb a country can use to soften an enemy. But two days were enough. I found my clothes, shaved, dressed, and tried to work the stiffness out of my muscles. Even then, the stairs almost got me. I took it easy going down, trying to look more unconcerned than I felt. McKeever wasnÒt glad to see me. He told me I had no business being up yet and told me to sit down while he checked the bandage. When he finished he said, ÓI never asked about that gunshot wound.Ô ÓGo on.Ô ÓI assume it has been reported.Ô ÓYou assume right.Ô ÓHowever, IÒm going to report it again.Ô ÓBe my guest, doc. To save time I suggest you get the doctorÒs name from the prescription I had filled here.Ô ÓI will.Ô He got up and reached for the phone. The druggist gave him the doctorÒs name, then he called New York. When the phone stopped cackling, McKeever nodded, ÓIt was reported, all right. Those prescriptions were good. Then you really are here on ... a vacation.Ô ÓNobody seems to believe it.Ô ÓYouÒve been causing talk since you came.Ô ÓWhat about the girl?Ô I said. ÓGloria Evans.Ô He slumped back in his chair. ÓSheÒs all right. I have her at my wifeÒs sisterÒs place.Ô ÓShe talk?Ô The doctor shook his head. ÓNo, they never talk.Ô He took a deep breath, tapped his fingers against the desk and said, ÓShe was badly beaten, but there was a marked peculiarity about it. She was carefully beaten. Two instruments were used. One appears to be a long, thin belt; the other a fine braided whip-like thing with a small metal tip.Ô I leaned forward. ÓPunishment?Ô McKeever shook his head. ÓNo. The instruments used were too light. The application had too deliberate a pattern to it.Ô ÓThere were others like that?Ô ÓI took care of two of them. It wasnÒt very pretty, but they wouldnÒt talk. What happened to them would never leave permanent scars . . . but there are other ways of scarring people.Ô ÓOne thing more, doc. Were they under any narcotic influence at all?Ô McKeever sighed deeply. ÓYes. The Evans girl had two syringe marks in her forearm. The others had them too, but I didnÒt consider them for what they were then.Ô I stood up. ÓPicture coming through, doc?Ô He looked like he didnÒt want to believe it. ÓIt doesnÒt seem reasonable.Ô ÓIt never does,Ô I told him. I stopped at the hotel and took the .45 from my shaving kit. I checked the load, jacked one in the chamber and let the hammer down easy, then shoved it under my belt on my good side. I dropped a handful of shells in my coat pocket just in case. In the bathroom I washed down two of my capsules, locked my door, and went downstairs. The clerk waved me over. ÓNew York call for you, Mr. Smith. Want me to get the number back? It was paid.Ô I told him to go ahead. It was Artie on the other end and after helloing me he said, ÓI have your items for you, Kelly.Ô ÓGo ahead.Ô ÓOne, the car belongs to Don Casales. HeÒs a moderate-sized hood from the L.A. area and clean. Casales works for Carter Lansing who used to have big mob connections in the old days. Now heÒs going straight and owns most of So-Flo Airways with headquarters in Miami. Two, Benny Quick has left the Miami area for parts unknown. Benny has been showing lots of green lately. Anything else?Ô ÓYeah. Name Simpson in connection with Nat Paley or Lennie Weaver mean anything?Ô ÓSure, remember Red Dog Wally? HeÒs got a bookie stall on Forty-ninth . . . other day he mentioned old Pig-face Weaver. Some
broad was around looking him up with tears in her eyes. A real looker, he said, but nobody knew a thing about Lennie. Red Dog said heÒd ask around, found out that Lenny and Nat had something big going for them with an out of town customer and were playing it cozy. No squeal out on them either. So Red Dog told the broad and she almost broke down.Ô ÓThen their client could be Simpson.Ô ÓWho knows. Hell, theyÒve strong-armed for big guys from politicians to ladiesÒ underwear manufacturers.Ô ÓOkay, Artie, thanks a bunch.Ô I hung up and stood there a minute, trying to think. I went over the picture twice and picked up an angle. I grinned at the thought and turned around. She was waiting for me, tall, beautiful, her hair so shiny you wanted to bathe in it. The gentle rise and fall of her breasts said this was a moment she had thought about and planned. She tried a tiny smile and said, ÓKelly?Ô ÓLetÒs keep it Mr. Smith. I donÒt want to be friendly with the help.Ô She tried to hold her head up and keep the smile on, but I saw her eyes go wet. I tipped her chin up. ÓNow that weÒve exchanged nasties, everybodyÒs even. Think you can smile again?Ô It came back, crookedly at first, but there it was and she was something so damn crazy special I could hardly believe it. ÓMr. Smith. . .Ô I took her hand. ÓKelly. LetÒs make it Kelly, sugar.Ô Before I knew what she was going to do it was over, a kiss, barely touching, but for one fraction of an instant a fierce, restrained moment. We both felt it and under the sheer midnight of her blouse a ripple seemed to touch her shoulder and her breasts went hard. She went with me, out to the truck, waiting while I went into police headquarters. I asked for Captain Cox and when he came said, ÓI want to lodge a complaint against two of Mr. SimpsonÒs employees. One is Nat Paley, the other a stranger.Ô CoxÒs face drew tight. ÓAbout your brawl, I suppose.Ô ÓThatÒs right. They attacked me on the street. I recognized Paley and can identify the other by sight.Ô Nodding, Cox said, ÓWe checked that one through already. The housekeeper whose place you used called us. Another party down the street thought he recognized one of SimpsonÒs cars. However, Mr. Simpson himself said none of his cars was out and all his employees were on the premises. A dozen others can vouch for it.Ô ÓI see.Ô ÓAnybody else to back up your side?Ô I grinned at him. ÓI think it can be arranged.Ô ÓYouÒre causing a lot of trouble, Mister,Ô he told me. My grin got big enough so he could see all the teeth. ÓHell, I havenÒt even started yet.Ô Dari and I drove through town and picked up a macadam road leading into the hills. Below us to the right Lake Rappaho was a huge silver puddle. Two lesser roads intersected and joined the one we were on. At the next bend we came upon the outer defenses of SimpsonÒs place. A sign read Hillside Manor Private. It was set in a fieldstone wall a good 10 feet high and on top were shards of broken glass set in concrete. That wasnÒt all. Five feet out there was a heavy wire fence with a three-strand barbed wire overhang. ÓNice,Ô I said. ÓHeÒs really in there. How long has it been like this?Ô ÓSince the war. About Ñ47.Ô ÓThis guy Simpson . . . heÒs always had the place?Ô ÓNo. There was another. It changed hands about ten years ago. That is, at least the owners changed. But the visitors; theyÒre always the same. You never see them in town at all. They come and go at night or come in by the North Fork Road or by Otter Pass. Sometimes there are a hundred people up there a week or two at a time.Ô ÓIt can accommodate that many?Ô ÓAt least. There are twenty-some rooms in the big house and six outbuildings with full accommodations. ItÒs almost like a huge private club.Ô ÓNobodyÒs ever been nosy enough to look inside?Ô After a moment she said, ÓThey caught Jake Adler in there once and beat him up terribly. Captain Cox has been in a couple of times, but said he saw nothing going on. Several years ago two hunters were reported missing in this area. They were found dead a week later . . . fifty miles away. Their car went over a cliff. The police said they had changed their plans and decided to hunt elsewhere.Ô ÓCould have been.Ô ÓPossibly. Only one of them made a phone call from the hotel the day they were supposed to have disappeared.Ô I looked at her incredulously. ÓYou report that?Ô ÓThey said I wasnÒt positive enough. I only had a photograph to go on and in brush clothes all hunters tend to look alike.Ô ÓNice. Real nice. How can we get a look in there then?Ô ÓYou can see the house from the road a little way up. I donÒt know how you can get inside though. The wall goes all the way around and down to the lake.Ô ÓThereÒs an approach on the water?Ô Her forehead creased in thought. ÓThereÒs a landing there with a path leading through the woods. ItÒs well hidden in a finger cove. Are you . . .Ô ÓLetÒs see the house first.Ô We found the spot. I parked the car and stood there at the lip, looking across a quarter-mile gulf of densely wooded valley at the white house that looked like a vacation hotel. A few figures moved on the lawn and a few more clustered on the porch, their dark clothes marking them against the stark white of the building. Behind me, Dari said, ÓA car is coming.Ô It was a blue sedan, an expensive job, the two in front indiscernible in the shadows. But the New York City plate wasnÒt. I wrote the number down and didnÒt bother putting the pencil back. Another plume of dust was showing around the Otter Pass intersection and I waited it out. We were back to black Caddies again and this one had four men in it and upstate New York plates. Fifteen minutes later a white Buick station wagon rolled past and the guy beside the driver was looking my way. Harry Adrano hadnÒt changed much in the five years he had been up the river. His face was still set in a perpetual scowl, still blue-black with beard, his mouth a hard slash. And Harry was another number in a crazy combination because wherever Harry went one of the poppy derivatives was sure to follow. Very softly I said, ÓLike Apalachin ... I got to get inside there.Ô ÓYou canÒt. The main gate is guarded.Ô ÓThereÒs the lake . . .Ô ÓSomebody will be there, too. Why do you have to go inside?Ô ÓBecause I want to get the numbers on any cars that are up there.Ô ÓYouÒll get killed in there.Ô ÓYou know a better way?Ô The smile she gave me matched her eyes. ÓYes. Grace Shaefer was in town yesterday. SheÒll be making herself available for the ... festivities there.Ô ÓDo you think sheÒll go along with that?Ô DariÒs smile changed. ÓI figure youÒll be able to coax her into it.Ô ÓThanks,Ô I said. I took her arm and headed for the car. Before we reached it I heard tires digging into the road up ahead and tried to duck back into the brush. It wasnÒt any good. The black Cad swept by going back toward town and both the guys in it had plenty of tune to spot the two of us, if they had bothered to look. It didnÒt seem that they had, but Benny Quick was driving and that little punk could see all around him without moving his head. We waited, heard the car fade off downhill, then got in the truck. At the Otter Pass turn-off, fresh tire tracks scarred the dirt and a broken whiskey bottle glinted at the side of the road. Just beyond the North Fork Road, the road turned sharply, and thatÒs where they were waiting. The Cad was broadside to us and Benny was standing beside it. If we were just casual tourists, it would look like a minor accident, but anything else and it was a neat trap. I braked to a stop 20 feet short of the Caddy and stuck my head half out the window so the corner post covered most of my face. Benny Quick tried to adjust a pleasant smile to fit his squirrelly expression, but did a lousy job of it. But Benny wasnÒt the one I was worried about. Someplace nearby the other guy was staked out and there was a good chance he had a rod in his fist. I tugged the .45 out and thumbed the hammer back. Beside me Dari froze. I put on the neighborly act, too. ÓTrouble, friend?Ô Benny started toward me. I opened the door of the cab and swung it out as if I were trying to get a better look. I saw Benny take in the Willie ElkinsÒ Garage, Repairs and Towing Call Pinewood 101 sign printed there, make a snap decision, figure us for locals in the woods, and decide to write us off as coincidence. His smile stretched a little. ÓNo, ... no trouble. Pulled a little hard on the turn and skidded around. Just didnÒt want anybody ramming me while I turned around.Ô He got in the Cad, gunned the engine, and made a big production of jockeying around in the small area. He wound up pointing back toward the mountain and waved as he went by. I waved too and at that moment our eyes met and something seemed to go sour with Benny QuickÒs grin. Either he was turning it off as a bad fit a
little too fast or he recognized me from a time not so long ago. Around the bend ahead I stopped suddenly, cut the engine, and listened. Then I heard a door slam and knew Benny had picked up his passenger. Dari was watching me and I didnÒt have to tell her what had just happened. Silently, her eyes dropped to the .45 on the seat, then came back to mine. She said, ÓYou would have killed him, wouldnÒt you?Ô ÓIt would have been a pleasure,Ô I said. ÓItÒs terrible,Ô she whispered. ÓWell, donÒt let it snow you, kid. I may have to do it yet.Ô It was dark when we reached the hotel. The clerk waved Dari over and said, ÓRight after you left a call came in. Girl said she was Ruth Gleason. She sounded almost hysterical. I couldnÒt make much out of it. She was crying and talking about needing somebody.Ô DariÒs face turned ashen. She turned to me, waiting. ÓYou said you could reach Grace Shaefer,Ô I reminded her. Dari nodded. ÓSee if she can meet us at JimmieÒs bar in an hour.Ô Ten minutes went by before the operator got my call through to Artie. As usual, we made idle talk before I gave him the plate numbers I had picked up on the mountain road. He grunted disgustedly when I told him I wanted it right away. This would take a little tune, so I left the number of the hotel and said IÒd stand by. i looked at my watch and told the clerk to put any calls through to me in DariÒs room. DariÒs room was on the ground floor at the end of the corridor. I knocked and heard her call for me to come in. I stood there a moment in the semidarkness of the small foyer and then, unlike her, turned the key in the lock. Inside I could hear her talking over the phone. She was curled up on the end of a studio couch, wrapped in a black and red mandarin robe that had a huge golden dragon embroidered on it. The fanged mouth was at her throat. She had a Mrs. Finney on the wire. Trying to conceal her annoyance, Dari said, ÓWell, when Grace does call, can you have her meet me at JimmieÒs in an hour? Tell her itÒs very important. All right. Thanks, Mrs. Finney.Ô She hung up and grimaced. ÓShe knows where Grace is, damn it.Ô ÓWhy is it a secret?Ô ÓBecause . . .Ô she gave me an impish grin, ÓMrs. FinneyÒs rooming house is ... a little more than a rooming house. During the summer, that is.Ô ÓOh,Ô I said. ÓAnd sheÒs still loyal to her ... clients?Ô ÓSomething like that.Ô ÓThe national pastime. No place is too big or too little for it. Any town, anyplace, and thereÒs always a Mrs. Finney. Do you think sheÒll speak to Grace?Ô ÓSheÒll be there.Ô She stood up, the satiny folds of the robe whipping around her until the golden dragon seemed almost alive. There is some crazy fascination about a big woman. And when I looked at her I knew that her love was my kind, greedy, wanting to have everything; violent, wanting to give everything. Her eyes seemed to slant up and the front of the robe followed the concavity of her belly as she sucked in her breath. Her breasts were high and firm, their movement making the dragonÒs head move toward her throat hungrily. I held out my hand and without hesitation she took it. When I pulled her toward me she came effortlessly, sliding down beside me, leaning back against the cushions with eyes half-slitted to match those of the guardian golden dragon. My hands slid around her, feeling the heat of her body through the sheen of the satin. There was nothing soft about her. She was hard and vibrant, quivering under my touch and, although she was waiting, she was tensing to spring, too, and I could sense the flexing and rolling of the muscles at her stomach and across her back. Her fingertips were on me, touching with wary gentleness and having the knowledge of possession, but first exploring the fullness of something she now owned. One hand went behind my head, kneaded my neck, and the other guided my face to hers. No word was spoken. There was need for none. This was the now when everything was known and everything that was to be would be. She held me away an instant, searching my face, then, realizing how we both desperately hated the silent restraint, did as a woman might and licked my lips with her tongue until they were as wet as her own and with a startled cry let herself explode into a kiss with me that was a wild maelstrom of a minute that seemed to go on endlessly. My fingers bit into her wrists. ÓNow you know.Ô ÓNow I know,Ô she answered. ÓIt never happened to me before, Kelly.Ô Dari raised my hands to her mouth, kissed the backs of my hands and smiled. ÓWhat do we do now?Ô she asked me. ÓWe donÒt throw this away, kid. ItÒs ours. WeÒll take it right and keep it forever.Ô Slowly she uncoiled, stood in front of me and let all the love in her face tell me I had said what she wanted to hear but didnÒt expect. She let me watch her, then laughed deep in her throat and said, ÓWhat are you thinking?Ô ÓIÒm thinking that youÒre not wearing anything at all under that. . . geisha thing.Ô ÓYouÒre right,Ô she said. She let me look and hunger another moment, then fingered the clasp of the robe. She held each edge in her hand and threw her arms back slowly, unfolding the robe like immense, startlingly crimson wings, and stood outlined against them in sheer sun-tanned beauty highlighted by the mouth so red and hair so blonde. With another smile my Valkyrie turned and moved away slowly into the bedroom opposite, and behind me the phone rang so suddenly I jumped. The desk clerk said, ÓMr. Smith, I have your New York call.Ô My tone stopped ArtieÒs usual kidding around. ÓOkay, buddy,Ô he said, Óbut you got yourself a mixed-up package. Two of those cars, a station wagon and a sedan, belong to businessmen who show clean all the way.Ô ÓMaybe, Art, but Harry Adrano was riding in the wagon and that boyÒs been working with the happy dust.Ô ÓThat one Cadillac is a rented car. The guy who signed out for it is a Walter Cramer nobody knows anything about, but the guy who paid the tab is something. HeÒs Sergei Rudinoff, a Soviet attache whoÒs been in this country three months.Ô I thanked Art, hung up, and stared at the phone. The picture was coming through loud and clear. Dari took me out back to her car and handed me the keys. It was 8:30. Jimmie spotted us when we walked in and came down. ÓGrace ShaeferÒs in the back. Said sheÒs waiting for you.Ô I grinned back and we headed for the back room. Grace Shaefer sat there nursing a highball. She was a wide-eyed brunette with a voluptuously full body in no way disguised by the black, low-cut dress. The white swell of her breasts was deliberately flaunted, the outline of her crossed legs purposely apparent. One time she had been beautiful, but now her beauty had gone down the channels of whoredom. ÓHello, Dari. WhoÒs your big friend?Ô ÓThis is Kelly Smith. How have you been, Grace?Ô Her smile was to me, a plain invitation, though she spoke to Dari. ÓIÒve been fine. LetÒs say, I have everything IÒve ever wanted.Ô ÓGrace ... are you going up on the hill this time?Ô ÓYes, I am,Ô she said, almost defiantly. ÓWhy?Ô Before Dari could answer I said, ÓHow thick are you involved, Grace?Ô ÓSay, look. . .Ô ÓYouÒre hooked, baby. You can get out of it if you want to.Ô There was genuine fear in her eyes. ÓI got the feeling youÒre looking to get yourself killed,Ô she told me. ÓItÒs been tried. Now . . . how about you? If you want, you can do me a favor up there.Ô When she answered I knew she had made up her mind. She said, ÓSmithy boy, like you know my kind, I know yours. LetÒs not turn our backs on ourselves. The day I want to commit suicide IÒll do you a favor, otherwise from now on stay clear of me. That plain?Ô I nodded. But Grace wasnÒt finished yet. With that subtle intuition some people have, she knew what was between us and said to Dari, ÓI could do you a favor though, Dari. Mr. Simpson is having a party tonight. He could do with more girls. One thing a pretty bitch like you can be sure of, youÒll always be welcome up there. Just come willingly. Remember?Ô I grabbed DariÒs arm before she could hit her and with a deliberate smirk Grace tossed her furs over her shoulders and walked out. The outside door slammed open. The kid who came in was scared and out of breath. He gasped and said, ÓMr. Smith. . .Ô Then I recognized him. Sonny Holmes, the one who braced Paley and Weaver in the bar over the Evans girl. ÓMr. Smith . . . theyÒre looking for you. IÒm telling you, theyÒre after you bad.Ô I grabbed his shoulder. ÓWho?Ô ÓThose two you fought with because of me. They were over at your hotel asking for you and the desk clerk said youÒd be here.Ô ÓThose two donÒt bother me.Ô ÓMaybe not them, but they went outside and talked to some others in a car. A Cadillac from the hill.Ô ÓBenny Quick spotted me. That little bastard finally got his memory back. Well, the next time I tag him he wonÒt have any me
mory left.Ô My voice came through my teeth. ÓMr. Smith, you better get out of here.Ô Without knowing it, I had the .45 in my hand. ÓLook, kid, you take Miss Dahl out of here. Get in her car and make sure youÒre not followed. Try to get to the police. You tell Cox his town is about to explode.Ô ÓNo, Kelly. . .Ô ÓDonÒt start bugging me now, Dari. Do what youÒre told. This is my kind of business and IÒll take care of it my way.Ô She glanced at the gun. ÓThatÒs what IÒm afraid of. Kelly . . . donÒt letÒs spoil it so quickly, please, Kelly.Ô She paused, her eyes wet. ÓYouÒve been one of them. I think everybody knew it. You carry a gun . . . youÒve been shot . . . youÒre here in the middle of all this. Run, darling . . . please. I donÒt care what you were, donÒt stay part of this or theyÒll kill you!Ô ÓNot while I have a rod, kitten.Ô Her words sounded flat. ÓThatÒs just as bad, isnÒt it?Ô she asked. ÓYou kill them . . . and the law kills you.Ô I could feel the amazement in the short laugh I let out. I cut it off, grinned, and handed her the .45. ÓOkay, kitten, have it your way.Ô She dropped the gun in her pocket, went to kiss me, and then everything out in the bar went quiet. Before she could move, I shoved her in SonnyÒs arms and whispered harshly, ÓTake her, damn it!Ô When the door closed behind them I turned, ran to the bank of windows at the side of the room, and felt for the catch. Slowly, a drop of sweat trickled down my back. The windows were the steel casement awning type and somebody had removed the crank handles. Another second and theyÒd be back here and there wasnÒt time to break out. At the end of the room were the Johns and on a sudden thought I turned into the one marked WOMEN. If they searched the place theyÒd go to the other one first instinctively. There was no lock on the outside door, but a waste basket fitted under the knob. Another couple of seconds maybe. The window there was the same as the others, steel casement with the handle gone. It was shoulder high and the opaque, wire-impregnated glass was practically unbreakable. Outside, I heard muffled voices. I cursed softly, fighting the stem of the window handle. It wouldnÒt budge. I reached back, grabbed a handful of paper, and wrapped a section around the toothed edges. This time when I twisted, the stem gave a little. With exasperating slowness the window began to swing out. On the other side of the wall a heavy foot kicked the door open and somebody said, ÓCome on out of there!Ô If the menÒs room was the same as this, they could see the shut window and know I didnÒt go out it, but they couldnÒt see into the closed toilet booth and would figure I was holed up there. I grinned, thinking that it was a hell of a place to be trapped. The window was out far enough then. I hauled myself up, squirmed through the opening as a hand tried the door. Under me was a driveway. One end was blocked by a building, the other was open into the lighted street. I ran toward the light and was a second too late because somebody cut the corner sharply and I could see the gun in his fist. But the edge was still mine. He had not yet adjusted to the deep black of the alley, and for me he was a lovely silhouette. He could hear my feet and raised the gun. Before he could pull the trigger I crossed one into his jaw that took bone and teeth with it and he hit the ground as if he were dead and I spilled on my face across him. The other guy was on top of me before I could get up. I dove for the gun the first guy had dropped, fumbled it, and the other one had me. He should have shot me and been done with it. Instead he cut loose with a running kick that seemed to splinter into my bad side like I had lain on a grenade. It was the amazing agony of the kick that saved me. I arched away from the next one with a tremendous burst of energy and my spasmodic kick spilled the guy on top of me. I had the other gun then. Grabbing it was instinctive. Slamming it against his ear was instinctive. Never before had the bulging fire in my side been like this, not even when it happened. I tried to wish myself unconscious . . . anything to get away from it. And instinctively I realized that the only thing that would stop it was up in my room at the hotel. Then itÒs over and you donÒt know how It happened. You donÒt remember the route, the obstacles, the staircase. You can almost forget instinct as you open the door, then itÒs there again, because the door should have been locked and you throw yourself on the floor as a little bright flash of light winks in the darkness. Getting the gun up is instinctive and as something tugs into the flesh of your upper arm you put out the light that has been trying to kill you. A few feet away something crumples to the floor and you get up, flip the switch, and see Benny Quick lying face up with a hole between his eyes. I didnÒt waste time. I shook out six capsules and washed them down. For a minute I stood there, waiting for the relief to come. And gently it came, like a wave of soft warm water, so that once more I could think and act like a person instead of an instinct-led animal. They were looking for me on the street. TheyÒd come here next to check with Benny. TheyÒd find Benny dead and the big hunt would be on. My mind was fuzzy now. I shoved the gun under my belt, stuck BennyÒs in my pocket, and got my hands under his arms. Benny had died quickly. A scatter rug covered the signs of his final exit and I dragged him outside, closing the door after me. I could think of only one place to put him. I got him down the back stairs and around the corner to the door of DariÒs room. I dragged the body in and dumped it on the floor because it was as far as I could go with it. Across the room a girl was trying to scream. She watched me with eyes so black they seemed unreal and when she got done trying to scream she collapsed on the floor. The girl began to sob. I knew who she was. Tentatively, I said, ÓRuth? Ruth Gleason?Ô She seemed to realize that I wouldnÒt hurt her. The glazed look left her eyes and she got her feet under her. ÓY-yes.Ô. ÓDari. . . have you see Dari?Ô ÓNo ... I tried to . . .1 waited . . .Ô Think, I thought, damn it, THINK! The Holmes kid would have taken her somewhere. Dr. McKeever had the Evans girl at his wifeÒs sisterÒs place. The kid would go there. ÓWould you know Dr. McKeeverÒs wife ... or her sister?Ô I asked. For a second Ruth Gleason stopped being scared and bobbed her head, puzzled. ÓHer sister is Emma Cox . . . Captain CoxÒs wife. They . . . donÒt live together anymore.Ô ÓCan you drive?Ô She nodded again. I reached in my pocket and threw her the truck keys. ÓWillie ElkinsÒ truck. ItÒs out back. You call Doctor McKeever and tell him to meet us at his sisterÒs. YouÒll have to drive.Ô I could hear her voice but couldnÒt concentrate on it. I felt her hand on my arm and knew I was in the truck. I could smell the night air and sometimes think and cursed myself mentally for having gone overboard with those damned capsules. Time had no meaning at all. I heard Dr. McKeever and Dari and felt hands in the hole in my side and knew pieces of flesh were being cut away from the hole in my arm. There was Dari crying and the Gleason girl screaming. All she could say was, ÓYouÒre a doctor, give it to me, please. You have to! Oh, please ... IÒll do anything . . .please!Ô Dari said, ÓCan you ... ?Ô There were other voices and McKeever finally said, ÓItÒll help. Not much, but it will quiet her.Ô ÓAnd Kelly?Ô she asked. ÓHeÒll be all right. IÒll have to report this gunshot wound.Ô ÓNo.Ô There was a soft final note in her voice. ÓHe has to get away.Ô Ruth Gleason was crying out for Lennie to please come get her. The pain-killing fog I was wrapped in detached me from the scene then. ÓYouÒve been withdrawing, havenÒt you, Ruth?Ô Dr. McKeever asked. Her voice was resigned. ÓI didnÒt want to. Lennie . . . took it away. He wanted to ... get rid of me.Ô After a moment McKeever continued, ÓWhen did it start, Ruth?Ô Her voice sounded real distant. ÓOn the hill. Flori and I ... went there. Flori needed the money . . . her father. . .Ô ÓYes, I know about that. What about you?Ô ÓA man . . . before Lennie. We met downtown and he . . . invited me. It sounded like fun. He gave me some pot.Ô Dari said, ÓWhat?Ô ÓMarihuana,Ô the doctor told her. ÓThen what, Ruth?Ô ÓLater we popped one. For kicks. Week later.Ô ÓFlori, too?Ô Ruth giggled. ÓSure,Ô she said, Óeverybody. It was fun. He danced. Nude, you know? No clothes. Mr. Simpson came in and watched. He gave me five hundred dollars, can you imagine? Flori too. And that was only the first time. Oh, we did lots of dances. We wore costumes for Mr. Simpson and we made his friends laugh and we . . .Ô You could barely hear her voice. ÓMr. Simpson wanted . . . something special. On different nights . . . heÒd take one
of us. He made us undress . . . and he had whips. He said ... it wouldnÒt hurt.Ô She almost choked, remembering. ÓI screamed and tried to get away, but I couldnÒt!Ô She buried her face in her hands. ÓYou went back, Ruth?Ô ÓI ... had to. The money. It was always there. Then there was Lennie. Then I had to because . . . my supply was gone ... I needed a shot bad. I ... whatÒs going to happen to me?Ô ÓYouÒll be taken care of, Ruth. Tell me something . . . are any girls up there now?Ô ÓYes . . . yes. The ones who are usually there. But there will be more. Mr. Simpson likes . . . new ones. Please . . . youÒll have to let me go back.Ô The voices were miles away now. Sleep was pressing down on me and I couldnÒt fight it off. It was daylight. I cursed and yelled for somebody and the door opened and McKeever was trying to push me back on the cot. Behind him was Sonny Holmes. I managed to sit up against the pressure of McKeeverÒs hand. My mouth was dry and cottony, my head pounding. A tight band of wide tape was wound around my torso and the pain in my side was a dull throbbing, but it was worse than the hole in the fleshy part of my arm. ÓI havenÒt seen anything like you since the war,Ô McKeever said. From the door Cox said, ÓCan he talk?Ô Before McKeever could stop me I said, ÓI can talk, Captain. Come on in.Ô CoxÒs arrogant smile was gone now. Like everybody else in Pinewood, he had a nervous mouth. I said, ÓI made you big trouble, boy, didnÒt I?Ô ÓYou had no right. . .Ô ÓTough. You checked my prints through, didnÒt you?Ô He couldnÒt hide the fear in his eyes. McKeever was watching me too now. ÓIÒm a federal agent, laddie, and you know it. At any time my department has authority to operate anywhere and by now you know with what cooperation, donÒt you?Ô Cox didnÒt answer. He was watching his whole little world come tumbling down around him. ÓYou let a town run dirty, Cox. You let a worm get in a long time ago and eat itself into a monster. The worm got too big, so you tried to ignore it and you played a mutual game of Let Alone. It outgrew you, buddy. I bet youÒve known that for a long, long tune. Me happening along was just an accident, but it would have caught up to you before long anyway.Ô Cox still wouldnÒt put his head down. ÓWhat should I do,Ô he asked. I got up on the edge of the bed, reached for my pants, and pulled them on. Somebody had washed my shut. Luckily, I could slide my feet into my moccasins without bending down. I looked hard at the big cop. ÓYouÒll do nothing,Ô I said. ÓYouÒll go back to your office and wait there until I call and tell you what to do. Now get out of here.Ô We both watched Cox shuffle out. His head was down a little now. McKeever said, ÓCan you tell me?Ô I nodded. ÓI have to. If anything happens to me, youÒll have to pass it on. Now IÒm going to guess, but it wonÒt be wild. That big house on the hill is a front, a meeting. place for the grand brotherhood of the poppy. ÓIt isnÒt the only one they have . . . itÒs probably just a local chapter. ItÒs existed, operated, and been successful for ... is it ten years now? Down here, the people maybe even suspected. But who wants to play with mob boys? It wouldnÒt take much to shut mouths up down here. To make it even better, that bunch spread the loot around. Even the dolls could be hooked into the action and nobody would really beef. Fear and money were a powerful deterrent. Besides, who could they beef to? A cop scared to lose his job? And other cops scared of him? ÓBut one day the situation changed. Overseas imports of narcotics had been belted by our agencies and the brotherhood was hurting. But timed just right was the Cuban deal and those slobs on the hill got taken in by the Reds who saw a way of injecting a poison into this country while they built up their own machine. So Cuba became a collection point for China-grown narcotics. ThereÒs a supposedly clean businessman up there on the hill who owns an airline in Florida. The connection clear?Ô I grinned, my teeth tight. ÓThereÒs an even bigger one there, a Russian attache. HeÒll be the one who knows where and when the big delivery will be made. ThereÒs a rallying of key personnel who have to come out of hiding in order to attend a conclave of big wheels and determine short-range policy. ÓItÒs a chance they have to take. You canÒt be in the business theyÒre in without expecting to take a chance sooner or later. Lack of coincidence can eliminate chance. Coincidence can provide it. I was the coincidence. Only there was another element involved ... a Mr. Simpson and his peculiar pleasures. If he had forgone those, chance never would have occurred.Ô It was a lot of talk. It took too damn much out of me. I said, ÓWhereÒs Dari?Ô The doctor was hesitant until I grabbed his arm. When he looked up his face was drained of color. ÓShe went after Ruth.Ô My fingers tightened and he winced. ÓI put Ruth . . . to bed. What I gave her didnÒt hold. She got up and left. The next morning, Dari left too.Ô ÓWhat are you talking about . . . the next morning?Ô ÓYou took a big dosage, son. That was yesterday. YouÒve been out all this time.Ô It was like being hit in the stomach. I stood up and pulled on my jacket. The doctor said, ÓTheyÒre all over town. TheyÒre waiting for you.Ô ÓGood,Ô I said. ÓWhereÒs Sonny Holmes?Ô ÓIn the kitchen.Ô From SonnyÒs face, I knew he had heard everything we had said. I asked him, ÓYou know how to get to the lake without going through town?Ô Sonny had changed. He seemed older. ÓThereÒs a way. We can take the old icecart trail to the lake.Ô I grinned at the doctor and handed him a card. ÓCall that number and ask for Artie. You tell him the whole thing, but tell him to get his tail up here in a hurry. IÒm going to cut Dari out of this deal, doc.Ô The look on his face stopped me. ÓSheÒs gone,Ô he said. ÓShe went up there as guest. . . . She said something about Ruth Gleason saying they wanted girls. She had a gun in her pocketbook. She said it was yours. Kelly . . . she went up there to kill Simpson! She went alone. She said she knew how she could do it. . .Ô And that was a whole day ago. Sonny was waiting. We used his car. My rented truck was gone. Ruth Gleason had taken it and the silenced gun I had used was in it. Mort Steiger said, ÓI was waiting for you.Ô ÓNo fishing, pop,Ô I told him. ÓI know what youÒre going to do. I knew it all along. Somebody had to. You looked like the only one who could and who wanted to.Ô I turned to Sonny. ÓCall the doc, kid. See if he got through to my friend.Ô Mort held out his hand and stopped him. ÓNo use trying. The phones are all out. The jeep from the hill run into a pole down by the station and itÒll be two days before a repair crew gets here.Ô ÓSonny,Ô I said, Óyou get back to Captain Cox. You tell him IÒm going inside and to get there with all he has. Tell him theyÒre my orders.Ô Mort spit out the stub of a cigar. ÓI figured you right, I did. YouÒre a cop, ainÒt you?Ô I looked at him and grinned. My boat was still there where I had left it. The sun was sinking. The guy on the dock died easily and quietly. He tried to go for his gun when he saw me and I took him with one sudden stroke. The one at the end in the neat gray suit who looked so incongruous holding a shotgun went just as easily. An eighth of a mile ahead, the roof of the house showed above the trees. When I reached the main building I went in through the back. It was dark enough now so that I could take advantage of shadows. Above me the house was brilliantly lit. There was noise and laughter and the sound of music and womenÒs voices and the heavier voices of men. There could only be a single direct line to the target. I nailed a girl in toreador pants trying to get ice out of the freezer. She had been around a long time, maybe not in years, but in time you canÒt measure on a calendar. She knew she was standing an inch from dying and when I said, ÓWhere is Simpson?Ô she didnÒt try to cry out or lie or anything else. She simply said, ÓThe top floor,Ô and waited for what she knew IÒd do to her. I sat her in a chair, her feet tucked under her. For an hour sheÒd be that way, passed out to any who noticed her. It was another 20 minutes before I had the complete layout of the downstairs. What got me was the atmosphere of the place. It was too damn gay. It took a while, but I finally got it. The work had been done, the decisions made, and now it was time to relax. My stomach went cold and I was afraid of what I was going to find. It didnÒt take any time to reach the top floor. Up here you couldnÒt hear the voices nor get the heavy smell of cigar smoke. I stood on the landing looking toward the far end where the corridor opened on to two doors. To the left could be only small rooms because the corridor was so near the side of the building. To the right, I thought, m
ust be almost a duplicate of the big room downstairs. And there I was. What could I do about it? Nothing. The gun in my back said nothing. Lennie Weaver said, ÓHello, jerk.Ô Behind Lennie somebody said, ÓWho is he, Len?Ô ÓA small-time punk whoÒs been trying to get ahead in the business for quite a while now. He didnÒt know what he was bucking.Ô The gun nudged me again. ÓKeep going, punk. Last door on your left. You open it, you go in, you move easy, or thatÒs it.Ô The guy said, ÓWhatÒs he doing here?Ô I heard Lennie laugh. ÓHeÒs nuts. Remember what he pulled on Nat and me? TheyÒll try anything to get big time. HeÒs the fink who ran with Benny Quick and turned him in to the fuzz.Ô We came to the door and went inside and stood there until the tremendously fat man at the desk finished writ-ing. When he looked up, Lennie said, ÓMr. Simpson, hereÒs the guy who was causing all the trouble in town.Ô And there was Mr. Simpson. Mr. Simpson who only went as far as his middle name in this operation. Mr. Simpson by his right name, everybody would know. They would remember the recent election conventions or recall the five percenters and the political scandals a regime ago. Hell, everybody would know Mr. Simpson by his whole name. The fleshy moon face was blank. The eyes blinked and the mouth said, ÓYou know who he is?Ô ÓSure.Ô LennieÒs laugh was grating. ÓAl Braddock. Like Benny Quick said, he picked up something some place and tried to build into it. He wouldnÒt have sounded off, Mr. Simpson. HeÒd want any in with us for himself. Besides, whoÒd play along? They know what happens. ÓWhat shall we do with him, Mr. Simpson?Ô Lennie asked. Simpson almost smiled. ÓWhy just kill him, Lennie,Ô he said and went back to the account book. It was to be a quiet affair, my death. My hands were tied behind me and I was walked to the yard behind the building. ÓWhy does a punk like you want in for?Ô Lennie asked. ÓHow come you treat life the way you do?Ô ÓThe dame, pal,Ô I said. ÓI got a yen for a dame.Ô ÓWho?Ô His voice was unbelieving. ÓDari Dahl. She inside?Ô ÓYou are crazy, buddy,Ô he told me. ÓReal nuts. In ten minutes that beautiful broad of yours goes into her act and when sheÒs done sheÒll never be the same. SheÒll make a cool grand up there, but man, sheÒs had it. I know the kind it makes and the kind it breaks. That mouse of yours wonÒt have enough spunk left to puke when she walks out of there.Ô He laughed again. ÓIf she walks. She may get a ride back to the lights, if she wants to avoid her friends. A guy up there is willing to take second smacks on her anytime.Ô ÓToo bad,Ô I said. ÓIf itÒs over, itÒs over. Like your two friends down at the lake.Ô Lennie said, ÓWhat?Ô ÓI knocked off two guys by the lake.Ô The little guy got the point quickly. ÓHell, he didnÒt come in over the wall, Len. He came by the path. Jeeze, if the boss knows about that, heÒll fry. The whole end is open, if heÒs right.Ô But Lennie wasnÒt going to be taken. ÓKnock it off, Moe. WeÒll find him out. WeÒll go down that way. If heÒs right or wrong, weÒll still fix him. Hell, it could even be fun. WeÒll drown the bastard.Ô ÓYou watch it, Len; this guyÒs smart.Ô ÓNot with two guns in his back and his hands tied, heÒs not.Ô His mouth twisted. ÓWalk, punk.Ô Time, time. Any time, every time. Time was life. Time was Dari. If you had time, you could think and plan and move. Then time was bought for me. From somewhere in the darkness Ruth Gleason came running, saying, ÓLennie, Lennie . . . donÒt do this to me, please!Ô and threw herself at the guy. He mouthed a curse and I heard him hit her, an open-handed smash that knocked her into the grass. ÓDamn these whores, you canÒt get them off your back!Ô Ruth sobbed, tried to get up, her words nearly inaudible. ÓPlease Lennie . . . they wonÒt give me . . . anything. They laughed and . . . threw me out.Ô I just stood there. Any move I made would get me a bullet so I just stood there. I could see Ruth get to her feet and stagger, her body shaking. She held on to a stick he had picked up. I could see the tears on her cheeks. ÓLennie ... IÒll do anything. Anything. Please . . . you said you loved me. Tell them to get me a fix.Ô Lennie said two words. They were his last. With unexpected suddenness she ran at him, that stick in her hands, and I saw her lunge forward with it and the thing sink into LennieÒs middle like a broken sword and heard his horrible rattle. It snapped in her hands with a foot of it inside him and he fell, dying, while she clawed at him with maniacal frenzy. The other guy ran for her, tried to pull her off, and forgot about me. My hands were tied. My feet werenÒt. It took only three kicks to kill him. Ruth still beat at the body, not realizing Lennie was dead. ÓRuth. . . I can get you a fix!Ô I said. The words stopped her. She looked at me, not quite seeing me. ÓYou can?Ô ÓUntie me. Hurry.Ô I turned around and felt her fingers fumble with the knots at my wrists until they feE free. ÓNow. . . youÒll get me a fix? Please?Ô I nodded and hit her. Later she could get her fix. Maybe sheÒd made it so sheÒd never need one again. Later was lots of things, but sheÒd bought my time for me and I wouldnÒt forget her. The little guyÒs gun was a .32 and I didnÒt want it. I liked LennieÒs .45 better, and it fitted my hand like a glove. My forefinger found the familiar notch in the butt and I knew I had my own gun back and knew the full implication of LennieÒs words about Dari. She had tried for her kill and missed. Somebody else got the gun and Dari was to get the payoff. This time I thought it out. I knew how I had to work it. I walked another 100 yards to the body of the gray-suited guard I had left earlier, took his shotgun from the ground and four extra shells from his pocket, and started back to the house. Nothing had changed. Downstairs they were still drinking and laughing, still secure. I found the 1,500-gallon fuel tank above ground as I expected, broke the half-inch copper tubing, and let the oil run into the whiskey bottles I culled from the refuse dump. It didnÒt take too many trips to wet down the bushes around the house. They were already season-dried, the leaves crisp. A huge puddle had run out from the line, following the contour of the hill and running down the drive to the front of the house. It was all I needed. I took two bottles, filled them, and tore off a hunk of my shirt tail for a wick. Those bottles would make a high flash-point Molotov cocktail, if I could keep them lit. The secret lay in a long wick so the fuel oil, spilling out, wouldnÒt douse the flame. Not as good as gasoline, but it would do. Then I was ready. Nothing fast. The normal things are reassuring. I coughed, sniffed, and reached the landing at the first floor. When the man there saw me he tried to call out and died before he could. The other one was just as unsuspecting. He died just as easily. Soft neck. Mr. SimpsonÒs office was empty. I opened his window, lit my wick on the whiskey bottle, and threw it down. Below me there was a small breaking of glass, a tiny flame that grew. I drew back from the window. I had three more quarts of fuel oil under my arm. I let it run out at the two big doors opposite SimpsonÒs office and soak into the carpet. This one caught quickly, a sheet of flame coming off the floor. Nobody was coming out that door. Some place below there was a yell, then a scream. I opened the window and got out on the top of the second floor porch roof. From there the top floor was blanked out completely. Heavy drapes covered the windows and, though several were open for ventilation, not a streak of light shone through. I stepped between the window and the draperies, entirely concealed, then held the folds of the heavy velvet back. It was a small theatre in the round. There was a person shrouded in black tapping drums and that was all the music they had. Two more in black tights with masked faces were circling about a table. They each held long thin whips, and whenever the drummer raised the tempo they snapped them, and sometimes simply brought them against the floor so that the metal tips made a sharp popping sound. She was there in the middle, tied to the table. She was robed in a great swath of silk. From where I stood I could see the town and the long line of lights winding with tantalizing slowness toward the hill. Down below they were yelling now, their voices frantic, but here in this room nobody was listening. They were watching the performance, in each oneÒs hand a slim length of belt that could bring joy to minds who had tried everything else and now needed this. She was conscious. Tied and gagged, but she could know what was happening. She faced the ring of them and saw the curtain move where I was. I took the big chance and moved it enough so she alone could see me standing there and when she jerked her hea
d to keep anyone from seeing the hope in her eyes I knew it was the time. There was only one other door in the room, a single door on the other side. It was against all fire regulations and now theyÒd know why. I lit the wick on the last bottle, let it catch hold all the way, stepped inside, and threw it across the room. Everything seemed to come at once . . . the screams, the yelling from outside. Somebody shouted and opened the big doors at the head of the room and a sheet of flame leaped in on the draft. There was Harry Adrano. I shot him. There was Calvin Bock. I shot him. There was Sergei Rudinoff. I shot him and took the briefcase off his body and knew that what I had done would upset the Soviet world. There was the man who owned the airlines and I shot him. Only Nat Paley saw me and tried to go for his gun. All the rest were screaming and trying to. go through the maze of flame at the door. But it was like Nat to go for his gun so I shot him, too, but not as cleanly as the rest. He could burn the rest of the way. I got Dari out of the straps that held her down, carried her to the one window that offered escape, and shoved her out. In the room the bongo drummer went screaming through the wall of flame. From far off came staccato bursts of gunfire and now no matter what happened, it was won. I shoved her on the roof and, although everything eke was flame, this one place was still empty and cool. And while she waited for me there, I stepped back inside the room, the shrivelling heat beating at my face, and saw the gross Mr. Simpson still alive, trapped by his own obesity, a foul thing on a ridiculous throne, still in his robes, still clutching his belt. . . And I did him a favor. I said, ÓSo long, Senator.Ô I brought the shotgun up and let him look all the way into that great black eye and then blew his head off. It was an easy jump to the ground. I caught her. We walked away. Tomorrow there would be strange events, strange people, and a new national policy. But now Dari was looking at me, her eyes loving, her mouth wanting, her mind a turbulence of fear because she thought I was part of it all and didnÒt know I was a cop, and I had all the time in the world to tell her true.
Mickey Spillane - The Tough Guys Page 1
