The Last Cop Out

by Mickey Spillane

  For a minute or so, Papa Menes didn’t answer. He sat there thinking until his mind was made up, then turned his head toward Artie. “How many of our boys are down here?”

  “Only four.”

  Papa nodded. “Call them off. The rest are all the ones the Big Board sent out themselves. When it hits the fan we’ll let Chicago catch it. That damn bunch of westerns need to get burned. Maybe the coast families’ll wise up and get back in line then.”

  “Want me to do it now?”

  “No. Tomorrow’s time enough.”

  Artie picked up his beer, took a long pull and made like he was studying the label on the can. Finally he said, “Hey, Papa.”

  “Now what?”

  “Who the hell you think knocked off all our guys?”

  “Somebody who wants to take over, that’s who.”

  “Herman the German ain’t got that much smarts, Papa.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Then it’s gotta be somebody else.”

  “I know that too.”

  “Who do you think then, Papa?”

  “Hit this Miami prick and if it happens some more I’ll sure as hell know.”

  Artie nodded thoughtfully, still looking at the can. “One thing screwy, boss ... Verdun was careful. He wouldn’t let a slob like Shtazi walk in and tear him up. Shit, the Frenchman could tear him apart. He got it right by the shower so whoever came in had a key and he wasn’t about to give no key to Shatzi.” Artie shuddered and his mouth twisted. “The fucker cut his pecker right off and chopped out his belly button.”

  “Knock it off,” Papa barked. He didn’t want to hear about it again either.

  But outside the window Louise Belhander felt a warm glow of satisfaction wash over her and she savored the mental image with pleasure. Verdun was dead then, and that was all right. But here were two others he was associated with and they’d do just as well. She watched Artie Meeker pick up the old man’s beer can, then hugged the wall while he walked outside to toss them in the trash can. When he went back inside she stayed in the shadows, crept to the can and retrieved the two empties, handling them with the tails of her blouse.

  There were things she wanted to know.

  What she found out came from an ex-cop now in private business specializing in divorce cases. He lifted the prints for her, had them identified through a friend in the department and didn’t ask her any questions at all.

  But being a cop he recognized the local brand of beer, photographed the stamped price marking on the lid and noted the distribution numbers on the label.

  Louise Belhander spent all the next day reading old newspapers at the library and was a little stunned at what she discovered. That one time with Verdun in the barn was going to cost an international organization plenty.

  Only a short haul to retirement, Bill Long thought, and all this crap would be out of the way. At that minute retirement still seemed a lifetime off and the concern of the present was etched deeply into his face.

  He looked at Burke and said, “Helen Scanlon didn’t tell them anything they didn’t already know.”

  “She couldn’t, Bill. All she did was work there.”

  “Lederer doesn’t think so. He’ll press her until she busts.”

  “And I’ll bust his ass. If she had anything I would have known about it. Don’t think I didn’t figure her to be tied into the organization in the beginning too.”

  “What made you change your mind?”

  “I didn’t. I just let it play out until I knew for sure.”

  “Just the same, when he’s done harassing her she won’t be finding many job opportunities.”

  “She won’t have to. I’m planning on taking care of that end myself.”

  Bill Long looked at him carefully, then frowned. “I detect a note of reservation in your voice, Gill.”

  “Because my occupation carries a high risk factor.”

  “You’re still a survivor type.”

  “Sure. And if I don’t survive she can inherit my estate. I haven’t anybody to leave it to anyway.”

  “Okay, rich man.”

  “A bachelor with no high spending habits can pick up a lot of bucks over the years, buddy. Now let’s get off my personal life and back to business. Want another coffee?”

  “No. You get one.”

  When Burke sat down again the captain leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. “The Los Angeles cops just came up with some results.”

  “Oh?”

  “On Stanley Holland.”

  Gill stirred the sugar and milk in, nodding.

  “They located the doctor who did the plastic surgery on his face.”

  “So?”

  “He was owned by the mob. Treated bullet wounds without reporting them ... all that kind of stuff. Apparently he handled plenty of abortions for them too, but never got rapped for them.”

  “Great, but where does it fit in?”

  “Well, those L.A. boys know how to put the pressure on his kind and he started to talk. One of the things he mentioned was that the photos he took of Enrico Scala after he turned him into Stanley Holland were lifted from his files along with the negatives.”

  “Who knew he was having the job done?”

  “The same people who always okayed work approved by the syndicate.”

  “So it’s somebody on the inside?”

  “Not necessarily. One of the detectives started taking it from another angle and worked on the death of the guy they thought was Scala, you know ... the faked car wreck and all that. So he finds out there was somebody else poking around the scene everybody took to be an insurance investigator, except the company who held the policy never did anything more than take one look at the wreck and pay the bill. The other guy wanted to see the remains of the body, all the identification and even checked into the funeral arrangements.”

  “Find out who he was?”

  “Too long ago. Nobody could give an accurate description.”

  “Who was the dead guy? All I remember were photos of the smash-up. I was out in California for Compat Company when it happened.”

  “They still don’t know.” He took another pull on the cigarette, still frowning. “You know anything about Scala at all?”

  “Only from the old police fliers. He was a West Coast hood all the way.”

  “Coming up fast too ... until he got nailed. The mob had big plans for that boy.”

  “They can forget that now.”

  “Yeah. They got Miami to worry about.”

  “Now what?” Gill asked.

  “Somebody ran a load of guns and ammo into the city and Herman the German’s bunch are having one hell of a shootout the past two hours.” He looked at the narrow-eyed expression on Gill’s face and added, “You ought to check in the office more often, friend.”

  “How many down?”

  “Two of the German’s and three soldiers from the Midwest area.”

  “Anything on Papa Menes?”

  “If he left the area, he didn’t go by our security. He still pays for his hotel suite, except it’s occupied by a couple of hoods named George Spacer and Carl Ames.”

  “Menes had a driver ... Artie Meeker. Dumb but faithful.”

  “He’s gone too.”

  “They use a car?”

  “Papa’s big limo is still in the garage.”

  “He’d have a spare someplace.”

  “They haven’t located it.” He snuffed the butt out. “Now I’m really getting worried.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s too damned quiet here in New York. It’s like knowing a fuse is lit and you can’t find the frigging bomb. All you can do is wait until it goes off and hope you’re not sitting on top of it.”

  Mark Shelby had the same feeling too. The action had started in Miami and no matter which way it turned out, all hell was going to break loose. Even if Papa Menes came out on top, he was going to be marked lousy with the Big Board and his position was going to go down.
Nor would the heat from the public and the police let the old liners there in Chicago off the hook either. They’d be coming at them from every direction possible and the whole organization was going to be shaken to the roots.

  He smiled silently, because if they had stayed in all their illegal activities they couldn’t have cared less, but those many years ago they had diverted their hot money into legitimate enterprises that made up a billion dollar structure, and whoever came out with those in his hand owned the organization too.

  It could be done. It was just a matter of time.

  He looked at his watch and thought about Helga. He needed her badly, but he had to wait for that call about a guy with a star tattoo who had bought those foreign bullets.

  Fifty minutes later it came in. The job had been done right there in New York in a bootleg shop on a man about thirty who had wanted a star initialed in the middle with the letters DS above WV. The star looked like an old-fashioned sheriffs badge. When he took his shirt off to get the job done the operator had noticed the bullet hole scars in his left shoulder and lower right side.

  He put in a call to Remy and after a brief conversation Remy suggested that the initials stood for Deputy Sheriff, West Virginia and the guy had been recently invalided off the force, but proud enough of his job to want to wear its insignia permanently. It wouldn’t be a hard job at all to check on.

  After he told Remy to get busy on it, he called Helga to tell her he was coming over and went out his usual route thinking of all that wonderful skin waiting for him.

  Burke had to wait until six o’clock until Myron Berkowitz got home. The lawyer was a tall, scared skinny guy who started sweating the minute Gill popped his badge on him and he wondered just what kind of legal practice he had. Myron tried to pleasant it out and invited him into his apartment and even seemed surprised when Gill accepted the drink he offered.

  When he finally squirmed into his chair he tried to look businesslike and said, “Now, sir, what can I do for you?”

  “Your aunt told me how you handled all her husband’s ef fects after he was killed.”

  “Yes, yes indeed, I did that. Of course, there wasn’t much of an estate....”

  “I saw the papers in the basement.”

  “Luckily, my uncle had insurance.”

  “Did you get everything down on that inventory list?” Myron didn’t have to think about it. “Everything,” he said.

  “If they were making stag movies, how did they sell them?”

  The question didn’t seem to fluster the lawyer. Obviously, he knew what his uncle’s business actually was. “Direct. No rental sales if that’s what you mean. They weren’t all that good, and besides, with the new pornography in the theaters in full color and sound his seemed a little old-fashioned. He sold copies of one-reelers cheap so he stayed in business.” He paused and made a wry face. “That’s what I couldn’t understand.”

  “What couldn’t you?”

  Myron shrugged and sipped his drink. “How he could think about buying a house in the country and a new car. He didn’t have anything saved up like that at all.”

  “Maybe it was a pipedream.”

  “Now with him,” Myron stated positively. “My uncle didn’t waste time with the impossible. He told me he was going to move to a new house in the country and wanted me to get a price on a new car for him ... a big new car.”

  “When?”

  “Not a week before he was killed.”

  “Then where do you think the money was coming from?”

  Myron looked a little worried. “Could be he made a decent picture for a change.”

  “Friend, that’s not exactly what you’re thinking.”

  Myron couldn’t meet his eyes this time. “Well...”

  “Say it.”

  “He might have shot some film on somebody who would pay a lot to get it back.”

  “Would he?”

  Very slowly, Myron nodded. “Once before. In Boston, it was. Some people wanted to photograph a party they were having. For their own use, of course. They made him give them the negative.”

  “But he kept a copy for another sale later.”

  “Something like that. Remember, I’m just guessing.”

  “He kept a work diary?” Gill asked.

  “Yes, and there was nothing there that I could find. I even checked his film against his work sheets to be sure.”

  Gill grinned at him slowly. “Thinking of going into business for yourself?”

  “Of course not!”

  “But someplace you found a discrepancy in the whole bit, didn’t you?”

  The instant consternation in Myron’s eyes made Gill sure he was right. He kept looking at the lawyer and his face wasn’t a pleasant thing to see. Myron gulped at his drink and said, “There was an invoice for a piece of equipment that wasn’t there.”

  “What kind?”

  “Mr. Burke ... I’m a lawyer, not a photographer.”

  “Don’t give me any shit, kid. You checked it out and it’s all likely to backfire in your face if you don’t spill it.”

  “Well ... it was a microfilming device.”

  Gill gave him another tight smile and put his glass down. When he stood up, Myron said, “That’s all?”

  “That’s all,” Burke told him. “From you, anyway.”

  Down on the street again, Burke looked up at the evening sky and felt a drop of rain hit his face. It wasn’t the snow he was thinking of the other night, each flake a bit of the puzzle, but it would do. It was all there, hanging just above his head, and now it was getting ready to come down.

  As he walked he separated the puzzle into its separated pieces, putting a label on each one. Berkowitz and Manute, dead photographers. Mark Shelby in the area. Why would Shelby use ... or kill ... photographers? Yet, Berkowitz had purchased microfilming equipment and expected a big chunk of money. A theory could be put together damn quickly there.

  Trouble was, it exploded when Ted Proctor comes in. Gill frowned and went over it again. If Proctor somehow knew about Berkowitz coming into dough and thought he had it, he could have tried a robbery that turned into a murder, and when there was no money, he held up the pawnshop instead. Logical, but somehow it didn’t fit Proctor’s nature at all. He wasn’t the type who could hold together for two jobs ... or kills.

  One thing for certain ... Jimmie Corrigan was as square a cop as lived and there was no denying the accuracy of his report when he walked in on Proctor holding a gun on the pawnbroker. Corrigan’s service record was impeccable, he had had plenty of experience and wouldn’t have acted with undue haste unless he thought his life was threatened.

  Enter the next squirrely point ... Corrigan knew the facts as well as he did, but he felt something was wrong too. Some crazy little thing was all out of focus because it was either too complicated or too oversimplified for anybody to see it.

  But it was sure as hell there.

  Henry Campbell had seen Mark Shelby in the area there even though he’d deny it publicly. Mark Shelby was there and denied it completely. Ergo ... if Shelby wasn’t implicated, why all the fuss?

  More rain splattered against Burke’s face and he shrugged into his raincoat. A taxi slowed for him, but he waved it on. Right now he had to think.

  The landlady of Proctor’s rooming house had never seen any evidence of stolen goods, nor a gun, yet the investigating team had uncovered wallets hidden away, half of which had been reported stolen, apparently by a pickpocket.

  For a second Burke stopped, a sudden thought in his mind. The rain was coming down harder and a slow grin came to his face. A couple passing by saw it and edged to one side, a nervous look in their eyes.

  Burke said something very softly under his breath and went out in the street to whistle , down a cruising cab. He gave the driver the number downtown and settled back into the seat.

  Sergeant Schneider was just getting ready to leave when Gill Burke walked in. He took one look at Gill’s face and said, “Aw no, not
you again.”

  “Won’t take long, buddy.”

  “Look, I’m an hour late for supper already. Can’t it wait?”

  “What’s the matter, don’t you want to be a hero?”

  “Who can be a hero in the records section, you kidding?”

  Burke just stood there until Schneider threw up his hands. “Get the files on the stuff they found in Ted Proctor’s room,” he said. “I want to see the complaint sheets and the names and addresses of the owners of the junk that was hoisted.”

  “For Pete’s sake, Gill!”

  “Come on, it won’t take all that long.”

  With another resigned look, Schneider pushed himself out of his chair and nodded for Gill to follow him. Thirty minutes later he had everything Burke had requested and watched while Gill went through them one by one. Seven persons had reported their pockets picked with a total loss of four hundred and eighty-six dollars. The notation made said that the wallets and remaining contents had been returned to their rightful owners. Gill jotted down their names and addresses in his pad and closed the folders.

  Schneider gave him an annoyed look and asked, “That’s all?”

  There was something bright in Burke’s eyes. “We all missed something there, buddy.”

  “Like what?” The sergeant didn’t get it.

  “Those complaints were all filed within two days.”

  “So what? You get a guy hoisting wallets on a good day and he isn’t about to quit.”

  “Proctor was a two-bit drunk. He didn’t need over four hundred bucks to satisfy his kind of thirst.”

  “Then you’ve forgotten your drunks,” Schneider told him.

  “He’d get rolled himself before he could spend it and with the kind of a need he’d have he’d go try for another score.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe hell. You’ve gone ape over this crap, Gill. I don’t know why you bother.”

  “Because this kind of crap got me booted off the force.” Schneider just looked at him.

  “And it is crap, friend. The whole damn thing is a phony.”

  “You can prove that, I guess?”

  Gill nodded. “Yeah, if I’m right, I think I can.”