Killer Mine

by Mickey Spillane

Ralph didn’t like what I was getting at a bit.

  I said, “You testified I was drinking here for about three hours until the place closed up. But all you actually saw me have was two drinks.”

  “Listen, Mr. Regan, I work drunks. When I see a drunk I know…”

  “How’d I get so drunk, buddy?”

  Suddenly his face got red and tight lines stood out in his neck. His breath came out in a hiss. “If you think I slipped you a mickey, pal, you’re crazy. Real crazy. You…”

  “I went back to a table,” I said softly. “I was sitting with Stan The Pencil. I was asking questions and he was able to answer some. He took me to another table and introduced me to a couple of local characters…”

  “You was with Popeye Lewis and Edna Rells. Artists. I can…”

  “I know who they are, friend.” I paused, then: “Who waited on that table?”

  “Spud. That’s his section. But don’t think he fed you anything, Mr. Regan. That old man has been here ten years and worked this neighborhood all his life. He’s square all the way.”

  I grinned at his loyalty. It seemed out of place in a gin mill. “Just curious, Ralph. Just curious. You remember anything about a redhead who joined the table?”

  He shrugged. “Who looks at redheads? Here they’re a dime a dozen.”

  “One helped me into the cab. She was a stranger here.”

  “If she didn’t drink at the bar, then I don’t remember her.”

  “Call Spud over.”

  He shook his head, annoyed at the whole routine, but walked to the end of the bar, scanned the back room, then waved. A minute later a grey-haired waiter in a tired tux worn thin from too many pressings came in, smiled and waited patiently for a complaint or compliment. On a second studied look he recognized me and glanced to Ralph for an explanation. The bartender shrugged and pointed his thumb at me.

  “You remember me, Spud?”

  He nodded. “Yessir.”

  “You remember the party that night?”

  He made a small gesture with his shoulders. “I remember some. I had a party at every table that night.”

  “But you’ve had reason to remember this party, Spud. With all the publicity and having it start right here I bet you’ve thought back on it plenty of times.”

  When I stopped and waited he shuffled his feet and fidgeted. “I gave it some thought,” he finally admitted.

  “Who was at the party?”

  He stared at me blankly a moment, thinking. “Popeye, Edna, then Miles Henry came in with them two pictures of Popeye’s that the boss bought and then a lot of people came over to look at the paintings.”

  “I remember the art work,” I said. “Seems to me that’s about the last I remember.”

  The old man didn’t believe me at all. His eyes tightened at the corners and his face reflected the cynicism the years had built up.

  I said, “Do you remember me being drunk or sober then?”

  “Mister,” he said, “I wasn’t paying attention to anybody being either way. In this business nobody ever gets more sober with each drink, they only get more drunk. I watched it happen but I didn’t pay attention to it, otherwise when I see pictures of drunks smashing up people with their cars or shooting their kids in bed I’d maybe start drinking myself because it’s partly my fault. So for you, I don’t remember anything. Later on I noticed you all shook up because you were a quiet drunk and at that stage them’s the kind to watch out for because the fuse was lit and with another few you’d be roaring. I’ve had some of ’em go for me when they were like that and now I watch for it. Sure I remember you then, and later too because you were crocked like hell and couldn’t hardly walk and everybody was laughing at you.”

  It was quite a speech. I ran over it in my mind before I asked him, “Who was everybody?”

  Again I got that noncommittal shrug. “There was a crowd at the table then.”

  “You know them?”

  “Nope. Stan The Pencil had gone to make book in the other joints and Popeye and Edna stayed with the boss the rest of the night. You had a bunch of strangers with you. That’s the way it goes here. Parties. Always parties.”

  “Who footed the bill?”

  “You paid by rounds. Everybody had money on the table in front of them. You too.”

  “Remember a redhead at the party? She carried a handbag that was shaped like a binocular case.”

  “Sure,” he said.

  I didn’t interrupt him. I let him reach for it himself. “A big beautiful job and she was all over you. She got you outa here when we closed up.”

  Inside my chest I felt all tight and my mouth had a dry feel. Quietly, I said, “Who was she?”

  Then the tightness turned into an inaudible curse. Because he gave me that shrug again and said, “I don’t know. Just some broad.”

  I fished four bucks out of my pocket and split it between the two of them. “Thanks. If you see her around, give me a call. I’m in the book.”

  Ralph just nodded. Spud looked thoughtful a moment, fingered the two bucks in. his hand, then looked at me purposefully. “Mr. Regan…”

  “What?”

  “I don’t think you could’ve bumped that guy.”

  “Why not?”

  “All my life I worked drunks. I know what they can do. You couldn’t see to bump anybody that night.”

  “That’s what I tried to tell them, Spud.”

  He had something else to say but didn’t quite know how to get it out. Finally he said, “I’ve known plenty of crooked cops, Mr. Regan. I hated their guts.”

  “Go on.”

  “Did you take a payoff from Marcus?”

  “No. That was a framed job.”

  The grin on Spud’s face was a friendly one.

  “What did you expect me to say, anyway?”

  “I could’ve told if you were lying, Mr. Regan, I’ll let you know if I see her again.”

  You find friends in funny places, I thought. I watched him leave, then walked outside and down the subway where I caught a train for my apartment.

  CHAPTER TWO

  GEORGE LUCAS grew up on the same street I did and was all set to break into the mob when he took time out to count the cost and figured it too high. Instead, he worked his way through school and became a criminal-law lawyer. But he still looked like a crook and half the time he acted like one. His record in court was imposing. He could out-shyster the shysters anytime and if he could stick a needle up the DA.’s tail he’d take the case free.

  When I walked into his office he grinned crookedly and said, “I had an idea you’d be around.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, Regan. It was just a feeling. You did okay in court. How could you afford Selkirk and Selkirk? That’s big time.”

  I sat down and tossed my hat on his desk. “They came free, Georgie. Monty Selkirk figured he owed me a favor. I let him pay it back.”

  “You got his kid off the hook one time, didn’t you?”

  I shrugged. “He wasn’t involved. It was a phoney blackmail attempt.”

  “Good to have buddies like that. Always have something working for you that way.” He flipped open a box of cigars, offered me one and when I said no, lit up himself. “So what’s with you today, Patrick?”

  “Something up your alley.”

  “Let’s have it.”

  “You familiar with my case?”

  “Everything, boy. It’s home town news, you know.”

  “Yeah.” I leaned back and stuck out my feet. “Well, just to review you, I was assigned to the Leo Marcus thing. We’d picked up a rumble that he was back in the extortion racket among other things.”

  George nodded and sucked on the cigar. “I heard about it He was getting up there.”

  “He was there, friend. He ran the organizational operation along the Atlantic coast from New York to the toe of Florida. He set up a string of motels with organization money for one thing, used each unit as a local headquarters and clearin
g house and did it so nice and legally he couldn’t be touched.”

  “Smart,” George said. “The new method. Keep it legal.”

  “He didn’t quite make it. I had a tipoff that would have wrapped up the entire deal. It took eight weeks, but I had a dossier on Leo Marcus complete with incriminating evidence that would have blown the operation sky high. Just before the end of the investigation I met with two of the commissioners at a midtown hotel so they could pave the way for us to hit the operation without tipping off the papers. That night they saw what I had and knew what it meant.”

  “That was your mistake, hey, kiddo?”

  I nodded. “That was it. They knew I had it and when I couldn’t produce it again I was cooked. That made the money plant look real.”

  George pointed with the cigar. “About the loot…”

  I laughed at him. He still sounded Brooklyn. “The loot, friend, was five lousy G’s. An anonymous call to HQ said I sold out and Argenio hit my flat where he found a package of fifty one-hundred-dollar bills supposedly hidden in my closet. I was held, I couldn’t come up with my file and couldn’t account for the cash. Open and shut”

  “Just like that?”

  “That’s the size of it.”

  “They didn’t take your departmental record into consideration?”

  “Give them a break. They tried. I have a lot of friends around, George.”

  “You’re not lacking in enemies, either. So go.”

  I went. “I probably could have stood off the charges. The second mistake was in getting mad.”

  “You always were like that, Patrick. Even when you were a little kid I used to tell you to take it easy. Think you’d listen? Hell, no.”

  “So I wanted to know who put the finger on me. It came down through Marcus, but I wanted to know who passed the word. I was working the stoolies when I got tagged.”

  “Like how?”

  “Like I was slipped a mickey and steered out to Marcus’ place.”

  “And there it ends,” he said around his cigar.

  I nodded.

  “You were lucky,” he told me. “One thing, you just can’t always figure a jury. You talked it up enough before Marcus got killed. You know how many guys… cops yet, heard you say you’d put so many holes in him he’d look like a screen door?”

  “That was talk. You know damn well how it goes.”

  “Sure, but it got done. Man, six shots in the kisser that knocked him kicking into a fireplace so that he’s half cremated before they find you both.” He leaned back in his chair, blowing smoke up toward the ceiling. “Until they found the finger that was shot off him they weren’t even sure it was Marcus. Of course, the dentist they ran down made it positive, but for a while they were shook. Hell, you… if it was you… did everybody a big favor. The cops should be happy.”

  “It wasn’t me.”

  “Your gun. Your prints. Paraffin test. You’re there out drunk. You made threats. You had a great motive. It’s pretty strong, Patrick.”

  “Was pretty strong, remember?”

  He grinned and nodded. “Selkirk’s a good lawyer. So what do you want from me?”

  “My five grand. It was impounded. There might be a technicality or two involved, but since I have the name, I want the game. That five G’s Argenio found is mine, right?”

  George’s face got real bright. “An interesting thought, Patrick. You played the ponies, hit a goodie, now spill out the tax and it’s yours. I think it can be arranged.”

  “Then arrange it. Whoever planted that loot is financing his own funeral.”

  He leaned forward, the concern on his face showing in the tight lines around his mouth. “This might louse you up in the department.”

  “The hell with ’em. They can’t do anything but clear me. But I want that cash.”

  “Sure, Patrick, I’ll get it for you. Anything else?”

  “Yeah, one thing. Represent me at the departmental trial.”

  “Sure, but what about meanwhile?”

  “You know me, Georgie boy. I’m nobody’s slob.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. You packing a rod?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Later?”

  “If I have to.”

  “Like I said,” he repeated. “What about meanwhile?”

  “I want my badge back. They’ll probably try to shuffle me off to some obscure division, so make a deal. I’ll keep nice and clean and out of everybody’s way. Otherwise I’ll really raise a stink. They’ll know what I’m talking about.”

  “So do I, kid. The picture’s clear. You’re just asking for a bucketful of trouble and an early death.”

  “Didn’t I always?”

  “You did. That you did. You’re such a damn big target it’s a wonder you ever stayed alive this long.”

  I picked my hat off his desk and slid it on. “Take care of me, Georgie boy.”

  “Just like the old days,” he said.

  I nodded. “So now I got a mouthpiece. Fine comedown for a cop.” I grinned at him. “Just like the old days.”

  Jerry Nolan always ate Saturday lunches at Vinnie’s. The menu was wop clam chowder with all the breadsticks you could eat stacked up like cordwood in the middle of the table. Vinnie automatically dished up a plate for me and had it at the table as soon as I sat down. When I said hello he nodded, the reserve plain on his face. I was something he wasn’t used to. Ordinarily everything would be black or white, but now something was grey and he wasn’t used to it.

  “You’re taking a long time,” I finally said to him.

  He paused, a half a breadstick heavy with butter halfway to his mouth. “What are you getting at?”

  “You. Your damn insistence upon the letter of the law all the way. By now you should figure yourself for a sanctimonious bastard in a departmental sense.”

  His face tightened and he bit into the breadstick, waiting.

  “The law, buddy,” I said. “It proved me innocent. Remember? You’re the one always sounding off about the sanctity of the law. Now the law has acted. I’m clean. Come off it. Like you tell everybody else, don’t figure yourself bigger than the law so that when the law acts you refuse to accept the verdict.”

  His neck reddened and he bent his face toward his plate. His eyes flicked up momentarily and he nodded, trying to conceal a self-conscious smile.

  “Okay.”

  That’s all he said, and I knew everything was all right again. Nolan was a funny one, a hell of a tough cop, but square all the way. His hatred for hoods was a terrible passion but nothing compared to the way he felt about crooked cops. He had had a hard time swallowing the thing that had happened to me, but now it was dead and buried.

  I said, “I picked up something.”

  “New?”

  “To me, anyway. A redhead helped me into a cab that night.”

  “She wasn’t there when you got out. You took that ride alone,” he reminded me. He spooned his chowder up again, then: “You weren’t followed, either. I questioned Rivera about that myself. He was positive.”

  “The redhead set up the address. Damn it, I had been mouthing off about Marcus and she had me driven there.”

  With a patient gesture he put his spoon down and wiped his mouth. “I know, Regan. I heard it all. I’m not stupid. I checked out everything that night personally. I didn’t pass any of it on because there was nothing conclusive. It’s pretty typical of people who have been drinking to help another drunk into a cab. Nobody makes sense. Everybody’s at the ha ha stage. The driver gets paid and goes along with things. Any cabbie will drop a drunk off at an address. He won’t get wrapped up over it.”

  “This didn’t come out at the trial.”

  “I said it was inconclusive. You had enough against you. I didn’t have to make it any worse.”

  “Thanks.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “You overlooked one thing.”

  “Now I know.”

  “All right, tell
it to me,” I said.

  “You were slipped a mickey sometime that night.”

  “Thanks for realizing it. You know why?”

  “Sure. So you could kill off Marcus.”

  I shook my head. “You know damn well that would be a stupid trick. I was too far gone to do anything. I was set up for a conviction and you know it. Anybody that drunk would have the cops asking questions long before a jury would.”

  Nolan leaned back in his seat and reached for his cigarettes. When he had one lit he said, “You know the ingredients in a mickey?”

  I nodded. “Sure. Generally chloral hydrate. For the knockout kind, anyway.”

  “That’s right. But the restriction on its use is that it knocks you out or doesn’t knock you out. If you went under you wouldn’t be able to act of your own volition. However, during the war the Germans came up with a new one. A simple formula change brought the desired results, but when certain initial effects had worn off, the subject had physical action without mental control and no later recollection.”

  A small fire started deep in my belly. “Go on.”

  “It was called Sentol. It allowed a person to come out of a stupor, perform an act, then go back into a stupor again.”

  “This didn’t come out at the trial,” I said coldly.

  “I realize that. Again, it was inconclusive. When you were found you were given the usual balloon test for drunks. The percentage was against you. The kind of a dosage you could possibly… and I said possibly… have been given, would have allowed you to drink enough to genuinely get drunk, at least enough to go past the critical percentage point in your blood. By all known tests, you were chemically drunk.”

  “So why this sudden slant?”

  “Ted Marker, up in the lab, is probably only one of the few familiar with Sentol. Occasionally he tests for it. Unfortunately, too much time had passed for a positive result, but what he found was curious.”

  “Being curious and uncovering facts are pretty far apart.”

  “Sure, but that’s as far as he got. The analysis showed a couple of indications of the presence of Sentol. It was a bare possibility.”

  Then I realized just how far out on a limb they had gone for me. In one way I could have been victimized by that damn drug, but just as surely I could have killed Marcus.