CHAPTER FOUR The first thing in the morning I called through to Chicago and got Sam Reed. In a hushed voice that always sounded scared when he was passing out a line he told me he had checked through on Popeye Gage and Carl Matteau and found out they were sent to Culver City ten days ago along with a bagman carrying a hundred grand that was going to set up an operation. The bagman came back, Gage and Matteau stayed to make sure Syndicate dough was spent like it was supposed to be. The only odd note was that although Popeye Gage was one of the Ówatchers,Ô Matteau had come up in the organization the last few years and didnÒt take assignments like this unless he had a going interest in things. The word was that whatever the operation was to be, Matteau would run it. He was overseeing his product personally. The other bit was that Popeye had become a junkie and was pretty damn dangerous. I told Sam thanks, said IÒd return the favor and gave him the name of my motel in case anything else came up. He told me he would and broke the connection. Ordinarily Sam was close mouthed and it hurt him to get squeezed. After breakfast I found out where Hank Feathers lived, got him out of the sack cussing up a storm until he knew it was me, then got invited over for coffee. Hank lived alone in a small house outside of town. The old man and he used to laugh about their escapades with the women, but Hank never seemed to stick to one long enough to make it permanent. The place was small enough for him to take care of and served as a second office when necessary, and offered all the comforts a bachelor type could need. When we got settled I said, ÓYou did the story the night Maloney got killed at the Cherokee, didnÒt you?Ô ÓYeah, two columns. There wasnÒt anything to say.Ô ÓRun through it, will you?Ô He watched me over the coffee cup. ÓDamn if you arenÒt your old man all over again. Get a nut in your head and you canÒt shake it loose.Ô ÓWell?Ô Hank put the cup down and spread his hands. ÓNothing. The guy was lying there dead with a knife hole in his chest. No scuffle, no nothing.Ô ÓMotive?Ô ÓHe had a five hundred buck watch some drunken clown gave him and a hundred eighty some odd bucks in his pocket. It wasnÒt robbery. He must have known the guy and didnÒt expect a shiv.Ô ÓCould have been something else.Ô ÓOh?Ô ÓMaybe he just wasnÒt afraid of him. He didnÒt expect the knife, but he wasnÒt scared.Ô ÓThe cops had that angle too.Ô He sipped his coffee again. ÓNot me though. IÒd say it came as a complete surprise.Ô ÓWhy?Ô ÓHe had a pack of club matches in one hand. There was a single unstruck match lying near the body. IÒd say he was going to light a cigarette for somebody he knew when he got it in under the arms.Ô ÓThe police reach the same conclusion?Ô ÓNope. Where he was were a lot of butts and some loose ones that fell out of his pocket. He always carried them loose. They say he was going to light his own and the guy caught him in that position.Ô I nodded, thought it through and finished my coffee. ÓIÒd like a list of people who were there that night.Ô ÓSure, check out two hundred reputable citizens and see what you can find. I tried it. What are you after anyway?Ô ÓSomething named Bannerman,Ô I said. ÓRudy Bannerman.Ô Hank Feathers grinned and leaned back into the chair. ÓWhy didnÒt you ask it? He was plastered. He had just dropped fifteen GÒs in the casino and got loaded at the bar. When the cops came they found him in the menÒs room locked in a toilet sick as a pig. He had puked his ears off and sobered up pretty fast . . . enough to get himself out of there in a hurry, but he couldnÒt have raised a burp far less than a knife.Ô ÓThe cops ever find the weapon?Ô I asked him. ÓNot likely. The police surgeon said it was made by a stiletto with a six inch blade three quarters of an inch wide at the base. With all the water around here to throw it into thereÒs little chance of finding it. Whoever killed him had plenty of time to dump the knife . . . Maloney was dead twenty minutes before anybody knew about it.Ô ÓNicely set up.Ô ÓWasnÒt it though? Now you got something on your mind, boy. Get with it. IÒll feed you, but letÒs you feed me too.Ô ÓFeel up to stepping on toes?Ô ÓSon, thatÒs my life.Ô ÓOkay, see if Irish Maloney ever had anything to do with Rudy Bannerman.Ô ÓBrother!Ô ÓHe had a picture of her in his room. Care to try it!Ô ÓYou just bought it, son. I hope you donÒt get hurt.Ô ÓIÒve been hurt all IÒll ever be, Hank.Ô The Bannerman name carried a lot of weight. There was only one family of them in Culver City and whoever bore it was set apart as a special person to be considered in a unique fashion. And like all families who occupied that niche, little was unknown about them no matter what it was. From the docks to the country clubs, they knew my old man and liked him, but the rest were another breed entirely. They knew about the bastard Bannerman too, but as long as he was part of old Max he was right and it was the in I needed. It hadnÒt taken long for word to get around once I planted the seed. All they wanted to know was that I was a Bannerman and I had plans. I hit three of the largest realtors, sat through cocktails twice and a lunch and came up with a talker when I found Simon Helm and got the idea across that I was back looking to establish a moderate smokeless industry somewhere in the area. After a few drinks he showed me the maps, pointed out suitable locations, let me digest his thoughts and settled down to the general discussions that precede any deal. Vance ColbyÒs name had to come up. Helm asked me bluntly why I didnÒt go through my prospective cousin-in-law to make a buy and just as bluntly I said I didnÒt like him. ÓWell,Ô Helm said, ÓIÒm afraid a lot of us share your opinion.Ô He let out a short laugh. ÓNot that heÒs greedy or crooked . . . IÒm afraid heÒs a little too shrewd for us country folks. For the little while heÒs been here heÒs made some big deals.Ô ÓIt figures.Ô ÓNow heÒs got the property adjacent to the new city marina. You know what that means?Ô ÓPrime land,Ô I said. ÓEven better. If anyone puts up a club there the expense of a water landing is saved, itÒs cheap filled property in the best spot around with the advantage of having access to all major highways.Ô ÓThatÒs an expensive project.Ô ÓHis commission will be enormous. It would be better still if he did it himself.Ô ÓThatÒs a multi-million dollar project.Ô ÓIt can be financed,Ô he said. ÓIs he that big?Ô ÓNo,Ô Simon Helm said slyly, Óbut with Bannerman money behind him it could be done. Quite a coup.Ô ÓIÒll take it the hard way.Ô He nodded energetically. ÓI donÒt blame you. Now, when would you like to look at the properties?Ô ÓIn a day or two. I have them spotted and IÒll drive out myself. If I make a decision IÒll contact you.Ô ÓA pleasure, Mr. Bannerman. IÒm happy you came to me.Ô ÓSo am I, Mr. Helm.Ô Right after supper I called Petey Salvo and asked him if he could stop by my motel before he went to the club. He said heÒd be there by eight and didnÒt ask any questions. I drove back, had a hot shower, shaved and took out the .45 and went through the ritual of cleaning it, then laid it on the table while I pulled on my clothes. It was just seven forty-five when the knock came on my door and I opened it hanging onto my pants, figuring Petey was early. This time I figured wrong. The two of them came in easy with Popeye Gage levelling a snub nosed BankerÒs Special at my gut and his eyes lit up like a neon sign. Behind him was Carl Matteau and the smile he wore was one of total pleasure because this kind of business was his kind of business and he enjoyed every minute of it. ÓBack,Ô he said. ÓReal quiet, guy.Ô I wasnÒt about to argue with the gun. All I could do was toss the towel I had in my hand on the table to cover up the .45 laying there and hope they didnÒt catch the act. That much I got away with if it could do any good. The only other thing I could do was pull the scared act and button up my pants just to be doing anything and Popeye Gage grinned through his swollen mouth and let me have the side of the gun across the temple. Before he moved I saw it coming and rolled enough to miss most of it, but it slammed me back against the bed and I hit the floor face down. Matteau said, ÓMore, Popeye.Ô He worked me hard then, his feet catching my ribs and my arms, but only once did he land one on my head and then he nearly tore my scalp off. He was laughing and sucking air hard to get the boot into me and every time he did all I could think of was how hard I was going to step on his face when my turn came. He stopped for a few seconds and I made the mistake of turning my head. When I did the butt end of the gun smashed down on the back of my skull like a sledge hammer and I felt my chin
and mouth bite into the floor and the ebb and flow of unconsciousness that never quite came. All I had was that terrible pounding inside my brain and the complete inability to move any part of my body. But Carl knew when I was all there again. He said, ÓTalk up, wise guy.Ô ÓShould I make him?Ô Popeye said. ÓNo, heÒll do it himself.Ô I dragged myself away from the bed, tried to sit up and tasted the salty taste of blood in my mouth. ÓNobody pulls the kind of crap you did and gets away with it,Ô Carl told me slowly. ÓNow letÒs hear it.Ô I shook my head. I couldnÒt get any words out. ÓYou donÒt belong here. Why, punk?Ô ÓI. . .lived here.Ô ÓSure. So whyÒd you come back?Ô ÓVacation. I was . . . going east.Ô ÓLet me . . .Ô ÓShut up, Popeye. This guyÒs a punk. Look at him. Take a look at his face, all beat up. He packs a rod, heÒs got nothing behind him so heÒs a punk. He comes back to put the bite on the family like any punk will do only now he gets no bite. He gets wise with me and he gets nothing except his face all smashed in or a bullet in his belly if he tries to play it smart. See his car? Six years old. You checked his duds ... all junk. Someplace heÒs a small time punk, a cheap hood and these mugs we deal with the same old way, right, Bannerman?Ô ÓLook . . .Ô It was almost time for Petey to show. I hoped heÒd know how to play it. ÓOut,Ô Matteau said. ÓTonight you leave. You stay one more day and you get buried here.Ô I was going to tell him to drop dead when he nodded to Popeye Gage and the gun came down again. This time there was no intermediate darkness. It was all nice and black and peaceful and didnÒt hurt a bit until I woke up. And that was when Petey Salvo was shaking me. He was twenty minutes late. I was half naked and he was slopping off the blood and holding a wet towel to the cut on my head making noises like the second in the corner of a losing fighter. I said, ÓHi, Petey.Ô ÓWhat the hell happened to you? The door was open so I came in thinkinÒ you was sacked out and youÒre all over blood. You have a party going?Ô I sat up, got to my feet and squatted on the edge of the bed. ÓYeah, I had a surprise party from a couple of goons.Ô ÓThen come on, man, weÒll nail Ñem. You know who they were?Ô ÓI know.Ô ÓSo where do we go?Ô ÓNo place, pal.Ô He took the towel away and looked at me, his face puzzled. ÓYou just gonna take it like that?Ô I shook my head and it hurt. ÓNo.Ô ÓSo letÒs go then.Ô I pushed his hand away. ÓLet it be, buddy. IÒve had the treatment before. It proves a point right now and when the time comes IÒll lay those pigs out all the way.Ô ÓHow come you got took?Ô ÓI thought it was you.Ô ÓShit.Ô He seemed embarrassed. ÓIf I didnÒt get inna argument with the old lady I coulda been here.Ô ÓForget it. In a way IÒm glad it happened. The guys who took me should have knocked me off. Only now they hand me walking papers and expect me to move out.Ô I looked up at the huge hulk of the guy and grinned. ÓThey got the wrong Bannerman. IÒm the bastard, remember?Ô ÓHell, I know you ainÒt chicken. I just donÒt like that stuff. Why you take it anyway?Ô ÓBecause it ties in with MaloneyÒs murder, kid. I want the one who did it and why. So stop sweating. This Cat got nine lives.Ô ÓSure. How many did you use up already?Ô ÓAbout seven,Ô I said. It took another scalding hot shower and a bruising rub-down by Petey to get me back in shape, but when it was over all I had was a small headache and a bunch of bruises. Then we got in the two cars and he did what I asked him to do. He took me over to see Irish Maloney to introduce me as an old buddy who heard his friend was dead and came by to pay his respects to the widow. It was a small house with a small garden and a two year old car in the garage halfway down Center Drive. It wasnÒt much, but all the signs were there of a guy who tried to make the best of what he had in every way and I knew what Chuck Maloney really felt about his wife. On the stage she was sensational, but meeting her stretched out on a chaise under a sun lamp was another thing. Oh, she had the lumps in the right places, the hippy curves and the full breasts that modern culture demands, the sensuous look that comes from Max Factor tins, but there were other things that took her down all the way. Clever lighting could take years off her, but up close you could see the years closing in, the tiny wrinkles around the eyes and the beginning of the flesh getting slack and the striations on the upper parts of her thighs where the skin had stretched sometime when she ate her way out of the burlecue circuit. Yet inside her mind she was still twenty years old and all men were at her feet and she was able to prove it nightly at the Cherokee and forget that sheer professionalism and the help of electricians could put her across. Petey said, ÓThis hereÒs my friend, Cat.Ô He looked at me and conveniently forgot my last name. ÓCat Cay. He was ChuckÒs friend too. He just wanted to talk, so IÒll leave you guys alone. I got to get to the club. You got another hour yet, Irish.Ô I got the full treatment when Petey left; the way she sat up, took off the sun glasses and doubled her legs under her to make sure I got the full benefit of everything she had to show. The shorts were tight and showed the voluptuous V of her belly and deliberately low enough to show where she had shaved to fit into her costume. She leaned over to make me a drink from the decanter on the table, curving herself so I would be impressed by the way the halter held her breasts high and firm, pushing out over the top so the nipples were almost exposed. Too many times I had gone the route before and knew the action so I could afford to ignore the invitation and when I took the drink and sat down opposite her I let her see my eyes and read my face until she knew I was what I was, but couldnÒt quite understand it. I said, ÓSorry about Chuck. He was a good friend. We were in the Marines together.Ô She lifted her glass, toasted me with a silent kiss. ÓThatÒs how it goes.Ô ÓNo remorse?Ô ÓHe was a little man.Ô ÓI donÒt know.Ô ÓHe got himself killed, didnÒt he? This guy Sanders . . .Ô She didnÒt let me finish. ÓSanders was a nothing too. He couldnÒt kill a fly. All he was scared of was being put back in the pen.Ô Irish Maloney downed the drink in three fast gulps and set the glass down. ÓHe wasnÒt a Rudy Bannerman?Ô ÓWho?Ô ÓRudy.Ô ÓHim?Ô she said, ÓA nothing. Strictly nothing. A boy in long pants. HeÒs good for a goose when nobodyÒs watching and nothing more.Ô She smiled at me, loose and wanting. ÓWhat kind of man are you, Mr. Cay?Ô ÓBig,Ô I said. ÓNot if you were ChuckÒs friend. He never had big friends.Ô ÓIn the Marines he had.Ô ÓThen come here and show me.Ô She reached her hand down and a zipper made that funny sound and the shorts were suddenly hanging loose down one side. She smiled again, her mouth wet and waiting and she leaned back watching me. I stood up. ÓThanks for the offer, honey, but like I said, Chuck was my friend. There should be a period of mourning.Ô I thought sheÒd get mad. They usually do, but not her. She giggled, blinked her eyes and made a mouth at me. ÓOhoo, you got to be a big man to say no.Ô ÓNot necessarily.Ô The giggle again. Then she hooked her thumbs in the hem of the shorts, stripped them off in one swift motion, held them high overhead and let them fall to the floor. She let herself fall back into the chaise-longue in a classic position, still smiling, knowing damn well what was happening to me. ÓNow say no.Ô Her voice was husky with the beat in it. ÓNo,Ô I said. I walked to the door, opened it and turned around. She hadnÒt changed position or stopped smiling. Before I could find the right words Irish Maloney said, ÓIÒm coming to get you, big man.Ô ÓIÒm not hard to find,Ô I told her. When I was in the Ford and on the way back to town I knew one thing. I had found a good motive for murder. The thing was, how did it tie in with Gage and Matteau being involved with the Bannermans? There was one way to find out.
Mickey Spillane - The Tough Guys Page 5
