The Will to Kill

by Mickey Spillane

  Cohen barely seemed to be listening. “I’ve been asking around. It turns out that Linda isn’t the first girl to disappear under mysterious circumstances on your watch. What do you have to say for yourself about that?”

  “I understand how you feel, sir. But we are—”

  “Understand how I feel? You understand how I feel? You understand how it feels to wonder if some lunatic has grabbed your daughter and is maybe, maybe raping her right now? Or maybe she’s dead in a ditch or an accident victim unidentified in some hospital, and you people… you people…”

  He lowered his head and began to weep. His chest had been heaving some, from rushing over to us, but now it was heaving even more with his sobbing. The sound of it was awful: that combination of rage and sorrow unique to a parent with a missing child.

  Sheridan reached out to the man, as if to touch his shoulder supportively, but stopped short. It would have been an intrusion.

  The little man was snorting snot now, and muttering over and over, “Sorry… sorry… I’m sorry… you’re doing… doing the best you can. Please keep trying! Please keep trying!”

  “We will, sir.”

  Cohen seemed to notice me for the first time. He said, “I know you, don’t I?”

  “I don’t believe we’ve met, sir,” I said.

  “I know you! You’re Mike Hammer! You’re the one who… you used to be in the papers all the time!”

  I gave him a small smile. “I used to be a lot of things.”

  “You’re still a private detective?”

  “Still a private detective.”

  Sheridan forgotten now, the tortured little father positioned himself before me and said, “Will you take Linda’s case? Maybe you can clear away the red tape and really dig into this. You have a reputation for—”

  “Mr. Cohen,” I said. “I’m on a case up here already. But if you don’t get satisfaction from the State Police, call me in a few days at my office. I should have this other matter wrapped up by then.”

  He swallowed, nodded, offered me his hand. I shook it. His grasp was firm with desperation.

  “I’ll do that, Mr. Hammer. Thank you. Thank you!” He glanced at Sheridan. “Corporal,” he said dismissively.

  Then he went into the jail for his meeting with the sheriff.

  “You’re pretty sure of yourself,” Sheridan said. “Gonna wrap your case up in a few days, huh?”

  I gave him a nice, nasty grin with plenty of teeth.

  “Watch me,” I said.

  * * *

  Its red neon sign burning bright in the night, Honest Abe’s Log Cabin was doing land-office business. But then this was Friday at nine p.m., and it would be. The parking lot was packed, and I was lucky to find a place to squeeze the Galaxie into. I was alone tonight, or almost alone—my .45 was along for the ride.

  I had spent the afternoon interviewing the Dunbar staff—Dixie the cook, Lena the maid, and the three-woman cleaning staff, in for one of their twice-a-week stints. I conducted all of the interviews in the kitchen at the Formica-topped table, where I also sat Willie Walters down for a talk. What I was after was anything out of the ordinary that any of them might have witnessed, particularly arguments between the Dunbar siblings.

  While the help confirmed that there was no love lost between the two brothers and their half-sister, the three Dunbars mostly expressed their lack of interest by ignoring each other. I already knew that Dixie was damn near a short-order cook, rustling up grub on the fly for each of them morning, noon, and night. As for Chickie, Dixie and the rest found him quiet and odd—not exactly world-shattering observations—but had never witnessed anything untoward between him and his sibs.

  “Miss Dorena really likes the poor child,” Dixie said. “That’s easy enough to see. Mr. Wake pretty much looked right through him, and Mr. Dex just seems to find him an annoyance. Not that they see much of him—the boy comes over from the carriage house for breakfast and supper only, and like I said, the Dunbars don’t often eat together.”

  None of it was very helpful.

  Willie Walters did offer one thing of interest. He confirmed that it was unusual for Wake to go watch television with Chickie, as he had last night.

  “Wake weren’t real big on brotherly love,” the caretaker said.

  That suggested Wake was there to fill that room and Chickie’s lungs with gas. Could it be coincidental that just after he tried to kill his half-brother, he got himself murdered as well? By another sibling?

  I handed my hat to the girl behind the check stand—again, no need for the trenchcoat in the almost spring weather—and entered the bustling, smoky casino. Thugs in tuxes were threading through, keeping an eye on things, as before. I found Dex once again at his favorite blackjack table, where he was giving lessons on how to stink up the joint while cowgirl waitresses brought him one tumbler of bourbon and water after another.

  He looked terrible, the circles under his eyes as dark as his short but untended hair; he hadn’t bothered with a tie or an ascot, either, just a light-blue polo shirt under a perfect-looking navy blazer that only emphasized what a mess he was otherwise.

  Unless she was in the restaurant bar picking up some lucky stranger, Brenda Something was not in attendance tonight. Apparently, like me, Dex was going stag. I stood nearby, but not crowding him, and gave him a nod. He flicked a sour look my way; that was it for a greeting.

  I watched him lose a grand in fifteen minutes, and then he got up abruptly and got almost nose-to-nose with me. He was trembling, as if trying to hold back rage.

  “We need to talk,” he said.

  The times in my life where that sentence was followed by something positive aren’t worth noting. Of course, it was usually a female saying it.

  “Happy to,” I said with a smile.

  In a rush, he led me outside and just to the left of the entry. Busy as the Log Cabin was, out here it was quiet, everybody already inside as if in the middle of a church service. I could smell the bourbon on him, but with these gentleman-drinker types, it’s hard to tell how drunk they really are. In any case, he had an exposed-nerve manner, half-furious, half-frightened, his eyes shifting in a search for words.

  So I took the lead.

  “You have a funny kind of way,” I said, lighting up a Lucky, “of grieving for your brother.”

  “What business is it of yours, Hammer?”

  “Well, when there’s been a murder… or two or three… I like to keep track of the reactions of individuals involved. I know your sister was at a Monticello funeral parlor this afternoon, making the sad arrangements. I offered to go along, in case she wanted her hand held. She declined, graciously, but declined. Were you there with her, Dex? Lending support?”

  His face tightened defensively. “I had business that needed taking care of.”

  “Yeah, I saw how frantic it gets for you at the office. But here I am, going on and on, and you’re the one who wanted to talk. So talk.”

  His upper lip curled and showed me some capped teeth. “You’re an arrogant son of a bitch.”

  “I’ve been called way worse, Dex. You’ll have to try harder than that.”

  His chin went up. “How about this? You’re fired, Hammer. The Dunbar family has no further need, no further use for your services. Send a bill and we’ll settle up. In the meantime, I want you out of our house, tonight.”

  “You didn’t hire me. Your sister did.”

  His eyes flared. “I’m the head of the family, and I say you’re dismissed! Hell, you barge in bragging that you’ll find out who killed my father and our butler, when those deaths have been declared accidental, and then, right under your nose, Wake really is murdered. Not to mention that someone tried to kill Chickie!”

  “That ‘someone’ seems to have been Wake.”

  “If so, I’m prepared to leave it to the police to sort out.”

  “What about your concerns for your own life? Those gunshots outside your office? Your belief that Abe Hazard was behind it?�
��

  Too lightly, he said, “Everything between Abe and me is settled. We’ve drawn up a new agreement and I’ve signed it and so has he.”

  “Gambling debts can’t legally be collected in this state, you know.”

  “Maybe not, but I have a, uh… moral obligation.”

  I exhaled smoke, chuckling as I did. “You’re one hell of a piece of work, Dexter. You think Hazard tried to kill you, or at least had his boys throw a dangerous scare into you, and yet you still come here and gamble. You still do business with him. And let me define ‘moral obligation’ for you—if you don’t pay up, the New York boys will come calling.”

  He showed me what he thought was a smile. “I don’t give a damn what you think, Hammer. I just want you gone.”

  Then he was gone, heading quickly back inside.

  I finished my smoke, enjoying the crisp mountain air, yet somehow longing for Manhattan and all those sweet exhaust fumes.

  Back in the casino, I headed over to the bar at the left. This was mostly a station for giving the little cowgirl waitresses fresh free drinks for gamblers, but half a dozen stools were lined up, only a couple taken. I edged my posterior up onto one that was two away from the nearest patron.

  The bartenderess was a tall, well-built gal with shoulder-length raven hair and a fashion-defying pageboy. She was in the same Hollywood-western attire as the waitresses, right down to the cowgirl hat. She sauntered over to take my drink order and looked right at me with big dark eyes in a face whose features were both well-carved and beautiful.

  I said, “Hi, Velda.”

  “Mike. Four Roses and ginger?”

  “Maybe just beer for now. What’ve you got on tap?”

  “That you’d put up with? Blue Ribbon.”

  “Do it.”

  She filled a pilsner and brought it over. None of the waitresses were hounding her for drinks at the moment, and the other two guys at the bar were nursing their own beers, possibly contemplating what to tell the little woman about their big losses.

  “I’m impressed,” I said. “I expected you to be out there slinging drinks to suckers.”

  “I have mixology skills,” she said, “as you well know. And they needed a bartender. Tips aren’t wonderful, though. Girls on the floor do much better. Where did you and Dex Dunbar go off to?”

  “We just stepped out so he could fire me.”

  An eyebrow arched. “Well, at least I’m gainfully employed.”

  “He didn’t hire me. Dorena did.”

  Her smile was a pretty twitch. “Ah, the lovely Dorena. I don’t see her with you tonight.”

  “She has a dead half-brother to mourn for. And has to mourn twice as hard because Dex’s idea of grieving is to give more money to Abe Hazard.”

  “That’s who hired me. Abe Hazard. Slick character.”

  One of the other patrons at the bar was ready for another beer. She got it for him, then returned.

  “I’m off in half an hour,” she said. “Meet me outside where we can really talk.”

  I nodded and finished the beer, as two cowgirls came up with drink orders to be filled.

  For a while I killed time playing a nickel slot machine. I hit pretty good and one of the cowgirls traded me a roll of quarters for a brimming tray of nickels.

  I was just slipping the ten bucks in coin into my sportscoat pocket when Abe Hazard came waddling over, a big smile blossoming on his Lincoln-bearded face. That weird squat build of his guaranteed the tux was custom.

  He smiled chummily and put a hand on my arm, leaning close. “What’s Mike Hammer doing, playing the nickel slots? That’s just for the blue-hair broads.”

  “I told you before, Abe. I’m not a gambler.”

  “Maybe not, Mike. But a card. A real card.”

  He patted me on the back, and went back to glad-handing his Friday night crowd. Odd-looking duck, that movie-star handsome mug stuck onto a Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade hot-air balloon.

  I was enjoying the cool, pine-scented night, working my way through another Lucky, when Velda came out, looking sexy as hell in the short, fringed cowgirl skirt. She had left the hat behind, however, and her expression was no-nonsense. If I was hoping for “Ride ’em, cowboy,” it would have to be another night.

  She led me around the side of the building. A kitchen exhaust fan down from us was wheezing and rattling.

  “Mike,” she said, “according to the other girls, this place is a gaff joint—I’ve been warned not to gamble here. The roulette wheels are rigged, the dice are weighted, the blackjack dealers are mechanics.”

  “Nobody has to deal bottom cards to Dex Dunbar,” I said. “He’s lousy without any help. Vel, I think your first night at Honest Abe’s is going to be your last—especially since the tips are so lousy.”

  “Do we or don’t we have a client?”

  “Even if Dorena and Dex hand me my walking papers, I still have that buck Pat gave me. He’s my real client here, though without the Dunbar family’s cooperation, it’ll be tricky as hell.”

  She nodded. “Well, Dex was around here all afternoon, mostly in Hazard’s office. The Cabin opens at four, and I came in at two, for the floor manager to give me the routine. Dex came in shortly after that. Hazard was acting real chummy.”

  “God knows what kind of document Abe talked him into signing.”

  They came from both sides, not rushing us or anything, just lumbering toward us, two from around front of the building, two more from around back. I recognized them all—they were floorwalkers, bouncers, from inside… apes in monkey suits. Nobody had a weapon in his hands, though the hands themselves were weapons, poised to grab, fingers curled. I went for the .45 but thick arms looped around me, pinning me. One of them had Velda, too, one arm around her waist, the other grabbing a handful of that raven hair and yanking her back, exposing her throat to the night as if he were a vampire, not a hood.

  Of the two facing us, the out-front one was the big sloped-brow, butch-haircut bastard with the little flecks of white scar on his cheeks and across the bridge of his flat nose. He swung a fist into my belly and I bent over as much as I could with my arms held back as they were.

  “Mr. Hazard says you’re not welcome here,” he said. His voice was a little higher-pitched than you’d expect from that Buick of a body, and he worked a little too hard to sound tough. “We’re gonna give you a reminder so you don’t forget.”

  I ignored him, looking over at Velda and the brute behind her, yanking her back by the hair. He had a small, slightly pointy head despite his huge frame, and his eyes were stupid.

  “Don’t,” I advised him.

  “You’re funny,” the brute said. He had the deep voice that went with his body, if not the pointed head.

  The butch boy slipped his thick hand under my sportscoat and yanked out the .45. Then, gloating, he shoved the rod in his waistband, the tux jacket unbuttoned.

  It never feels good to get smacked in the belly, but I’d been right about the butch boy—he, like all these assholes, was too muscle-bound to really be a problem. What they had on us was size, numbers, and of course surprise.

  I stomped hard on the toes of the guy behind me and his arms popped open, releasing me. I didn’t bother turning to see what he looked like—I knew about where his balls would be, and I sent an elbow looking for them. The scream was high-pitched and feminine, which is ironic if you think about it, and butch boy was frozen for a second, just a second, but that was long enough for me to slip my hand into my pocket and bring back the roll of quarters, which were neatly tucked into my fist when I hit him in the mouth. The quarters went flying and so did four or five of his teeth.

  The cowgirls at Honest Abe’s wore spike-heel leather boots, which was what Velda was in, and her pointed stomp was aimed at the ankle of the guy behind her, not his toes. His arms released her reflexively, and she swung around and threw a hard fist into his Adam’s apple. He was clutching his throat, wobbling, when she kneed him in the balls, and then both of our
come-from-behind assailants were down, writhing in pain. I kicked mine in the head and he stopped writhing.

  Meanwhile, butch boy was on his knees, spitting out shards of tooth through foamy red. I reached down and got my .45 out of his waistband and slapped him with it—should leave the whitest scar of all among the flecks. He took a nap. The goon in the tux behind him was going for a gun and I shot him in the leg, the thigh, toppling him. The sound thundered in the night, but the kitchen exhaust played silencer. I stepped around butch boy, who was choking on his own blood, and plucked the gun from under the arm of the tuxedo goon and tossed it off into the thicket hugging the pines.

  I disarmed the guy who’d grabbed me from behind—he was unconscious from my kicking him in the head—and tossed his gun into the brush, too. The guy who’d grabbed Velda and got his nuts crushed for his trouble was on his side, kind of in a fetal position, his back a target for Velda—who was kicking him there repeatedly—eliciting little cries of pain. He had a .38 Police Special on his hip, which I collected and tossed. She kept kicking him.

  “They’ve had enough fun,” I said, taking her by the arm and walking her away. She was breathing a little hard, but then so was I. I suggested she gather her things and wait for me at her car, and she nodded. She didn’t have to be told I had things to do.

  Nobody was on guard outside Abe Hazard’s office—not surprising, since the first team bouncers had been sent to deal with Velda and me.

  I came in fast and slammed the door behind me so hard Hazard jumped in his desk chair, almost goddamn bounced. He got a desk drawer open and was scrambling for a gun when I slammed it shut on him. His scream was a whiny little embarrassment. Then I dragged him off the chair and dumped him on the floor.

  I looked down on him in every sense. “You recognized Velda, didn’t you, Abe?”

  He didn’t say anything. The handsome, bearded face on the balloon body was clenched in terror.

  I said, “She’s made the papers, too, from time to time. That was my bad judgment. That’s on me, not you. But guess what? You pay anyway.”