The Last Cop Out

by Mickey Spillane

  Except that Papa had misjudged the force that stimulated her.

  It was identical to his. Death. And soon it would happen.

  The thought of it allowed her to work a sensual magic on the old man, banking, but never putting out his fire, and when he proposed that she join him in a trip up north she agreed readily, knowing already exactly how she was going to kill him.

  14

  The events in Miami and Chicago commanded the attention of the entire nation. The regular TV and radio network news programs gave the affair exclusive coverage with special bulletins interrupting the other programs at irregular intervals.

  And Mark Shelby was worried. No, that wasn’t quite the feeling. He was scared, and if he really admitted it to himself, he was scared shitless and didn’t know why.

  He poured himself another drink and paced the length of his living room, staring blankly while he tried to figure it out. Sure, he had expected the big trouble in Miami and knew it would be laid in the old man’s lap if it went sour, but where the hell did the big blast come from? The cops had found evidence that a truck had been turned into a massive bomb and they were tying it right in with the mob rebellion in progress.

  Shelby shook his head impatiently, annoyed at the lack of conclusion. Okay, so it was a blast. It could have been a freak thing. Maybe that crazy Herman Shanke had gotten a load of explosives from someplace else and it went off by accident. That was the most likely explanation, but as far as the public and the police were concerned, it was part and parcel of organized crime and the lid was going to get clamped down tight enough to put a crimp in everything.

  But even that wasn’t the scary thing. It was the way somebody took out the entire brains of a once mighty organization with one lovely, well-planned, perfectly timed and executed hit.

  Just like all the others, Shelby thought, but he didn’t do it singly this time. He went for broke on this one and made it!

  Where the hell did the guy get the information? The Big Board had only used that meeting room for a couple of months, using a series of fronts to rent it. It would have been changed before the next meeting ... yet somebody had set up a gun position opposite it the same time they began using the premises.

  Who?

  Thirty-two men wiped out. Two more critically injured and not expected to survive. Six were unable to attend the meeting due to bad health, one other couldn’t make it in time ... and one was very busy in Miami.

  Shelby stopped his pacing, finished his drink thoughtfully and went to the bar and made another one. For a minute he stared at himself in the ornamented mirror. Could it be possible....

  Papa Menes was getting old and even though he was the titular head of the whole group of families he didn’t have that iron grip of sole control that he once had and like in anything else, the new ones were coming up and crowding, forming their own alliances, pulling their own power plays, anxious to squeeze out the very ones who had begotten them. Oh, it had been rumored around more than once that Menes had to go. He had opposed too many of their moves and they couldn’t tolerate the interference. All they needed was an excuse.

  Well, he, Mark Shelby, had tried to give them that excuse, and just before the blast went off Jerry Dines had given him the coded word, by phone, that Papa Menes had been voted out the hard way.

  The trouble was that old tigers didn’t take easily to dying. They might not be as agile, nor as strong, but they had the years of experience to augment their natural instincts and could beat the challengers to the kill every time.

  Papa Menes was a tiger, all right. Shit, he knew damn well what the pattern was. He had his own pipelines into any area he wanted and he wasn’t the type who would give up anything graciously. He was as tenacious and as mean-tempered as any old jungle tiger and pulling a coup like the Chicago wipe-out if they tried pulling the cork on him would be just his style.

  But . . . was it possible?

  And if it was, that meant Papa was the logical one behind the killing of all the others. He was getting ready to reorganize all over again and this was just the sort of shithead senility the organization was always worried about.

  Shelby was thinking back to the early days. It had happened like that in the early forties, but Papa wasn’t Papa then ... he was the Man and the total tiger who took over everything and had kept it.

  With a grin creasing his mouth, Mark Shelby took a long sip of his drink. So ... the old man was determined to still keep it.

  Like hell.

  All the cops had to see was certain pertinent pieces of information he had collected and verified over the years and Papa Menes would be an automatic candidate for a life sentence in a federal prison if somebody didn’t pick up the contract for his immediate demise, issued by the remaining handful of family heads in the country.

  Poor Papa, Shelby thought. All done and didn’t know it. Hell, they were all finished and he was in the catbird seat now. He alone knew the vital details of the intricate processes of the organization and if there were any complaints there were other details that would take them right out of action into an unmarked grave or a maximum-security cell.

  Shelby finished his drink and winked at his image in the back bar mirror. Damn, he felt good. He had it all figured out and now he felt damn good. He started to make another drink, but shoved the glass back and corked up his bottle. Booze was the last thing he needed to celebrate. What he wanted was one big blonde with big tits and a pussy like a vacuum cleaner and he’d celebrate his head off in high style and maybe when he took over he’d tell her who he really was and move her right into the apartment with him and live it up the way he always dreamed about and if his wife bitched about it a little accident could be arranged or he’d get Pete the Meat to put it to her in front of a photographer and he could dump her on an infidelity charge.

  His hand reached out for the phone to call Helga, but he stopped before his finger touched the dial. With all the heat on they’d be watching everybody like a hawk. Helga would just have to wait a few days until everything relaxed a little. He went back and made the other drink after all and sat down, wishing Little Richard would call. So far there hadn’t been one word on the news about Shatzi being pinned down, or if they had broken him loose or whatever. There was no answer at the warehouse, but that was to be expected at this time anyway. He’d just have to wait, that was all. He didn’t like waiting because he always felt vulnerable when he wasn’t taking the offensive, but right now that was all he could do.

  Once the decision had been made, it took Papa Menes a short half hour to complete his arrangements. He rode in the back seat behind Artie and Louise up to a side street in Miami where they exchanged cars, took on a single suitcase of Papa’s personal valuables, then drove on to Jacksonville in the north end of the state. Although his name was mentioned on every news flash, the announcers hinting that he was either missing or dead, no police accosted them, nor were they recognized.

  At the airport Artie bought Louise a one-way, first-class ticket to New York, told her where to stay until they arrived and gave her five hundred dollars in cash to keep her happy in the interim. She had wanted to drive up with him, but Papa kept remembering how they yanked old Tommy Hazelton out of action on a Mann Act rap, and he’d be damned if he was going to take a fall for transporting any dame across a state line no matter how old she was.

  Back at the car Artie said, “Boss, I don’t like to say nothin’, but you sure about that broad?”

  Ordinarily, he might have gotten a fast backhand across the mouth, but this time Papa Menes only smiled. “The day I can’t read a dame right,” he told Artie, “is the day I’ll go back to my wife. That kid is absolutely nuts about me.”

  Artie nodded reluctantly. He had seen the looks she had given the old man and the way she was with him and she wasn’t faking a bit of it. He wondered what the hell the old guy had to turn a chick on that way. He even wished a little of it would rub off on him.

  He said, “Sure, boss, but if anybody s
ays anything . . .”

  Papa’s voice had a deadly chuckle to it. “Who’s to complain?”

  Artie grinned silently and turned the key on. When he was clear he pulled out of the parking lot, got back on the highway and turned north. This was the part of the job he liked best, a long straight drive where he could do nothing but listen to music and think about the broads back there on the Keys and the ones who would be waiting in the city. He would drive at speed limits, stopping only for gas and snacks, letting the old man get his sleep in the back seat. It was a twenty-four-hour run and he was going to enjoy every minute of it, especially those times when he saw some sucker pulled over by the local cops on a traffic violation. Yes, sir, anybody who broke the law on the road ought to get everything they could lay on him. Serves the bastard right. Artie let out a contented grunt and patted his pocket where he kept his wallet. He’d never even had so much as a parking ticket in his whole life.

  Behind him, Papa wasn’t sleeping at all. His eyes were closed, but he was looking at a screen of events in his mind, trying to view them as he would a movie. At times his vision would be documentary in effect, then take a fictitious angle and explore its possibilities, then he’d wipe it all out and start from the beginning.

  Finding the beginning wasn’t easy. It didn’t start with all the sudden deaths of important syndicate personnel ... it had to start long before that. There had to be scheming and planning before the first death right up to the last magnificent holocaust in Miami.

  Everybody had been so damn sure that Herman Shanke had been the answer when all that horse’s ass did was take advantage of the situation. He sure had the artillery, though, and he wasn’t good enough to latch on to that kind of equipment unless he had one hell of a connection. The screwy part was that fucking explosion that tore a hole in the city. It could have been an accident, but those kinds of accidents took a lot of preparation and he could smell a shadowy hand moving around to stir things up. And preparation was one thing he, Papa Menes, believed in. If he hadn’t been such a believer, the Big Board would have a contract out on him right now, never knowing how nicely he had been framed into looking like an incompetent old fool who finally needed dusting off.

  So ... who did that shadowy hand belong to? First, who was left in positions of authority? There sure weren’t many, but when it came to control it was Mark Shelby. Who knew the total workings of the machine beside himself? Why, Mark Shelby ... of the living ones, that is.

  Papa smiled grimly to himself and leaned his head back against the cushions. It was a game he liked to play with himself. A long ride ahead and he could dwell on all the points, major and minor, separating and analyzing them, bring back to memory all the things that didn’t seem to have importance at the time, but when fitted with the rest suddenly took on genuine significance.

  And if it spelled out Mark Shelby, Primus Gladatori,old Primus was going to be a Finis gladatori.

  With the repercussions still echoing from the South and Midwest there was enough material to keep the news media satisfied and there was no trouble at all getting them to delay releasing the news of the death of Richard Case and company. As far as anyone was concerned, the dead had simply dropped out of sight temporarily. Case had been separated from his wife for three years so it wasn’t likely that she would make inquiries and his business associates had already been notified via a faked call that he’d be gone for a while.

  Robert Lederer and his staff augmented by select personnel from police intelligence units had been going over the reports for the past five hours, trying to make a complete picture out of what had happened, but despite the detailed accounts the final version was more speculation than anything else.

  It wasn’t until fifteen minutes ago that anybody had known the whereabouts of Papa Menes. He had voluntarily made an appearance with his lawyer and winesses who verified that they had been on a vacation in a mountain cabin far upstate, completely out of touch with current events.

  Both Burke and Bill Long gave Lederer a sour grimace when he made the announcement and the captain asked, “How far are you going to push his alibi, Bob?”

  Lederer shrugged and spread his hands. “All the way, but we’re not playing with a kid. Menes’ll have all his tracks covered. I’m not getting enthusiastic about breaking his story down at all. Besides, there’s just the possibility that he’s telling the truth.”

  “Balls.” Burke’s tone cut right across the room and heads turned to look at him.

  “Okay, Mr. Burke,” the D.A. said, “you’ve been coming up with all the believe-it-or-not kind of details around here, but if you’ve got something to say about this matter, keep it factual.”

  “Why should I? It’s more than you can do.”

  “Because we’re the ones who are going to draw the conclusions from whatever we get fact or fancy . . . not you, Burke.”

  “All right, we’ll stick with the facts then.” He shook a cigarette into his hand, stuck it between his lips and lit it carefully. “You have what’s left of the syndicate sprinkled around the country with their best men shoulder to shoulder in the morgue. You have public indignation at its peak and no matter what move you make against the fucking mob, you can’t be wrong as long as you’re quick. Everybody’s sitting in a political rose garden where everybody can suddenly look good from the uniformed police to the big-shot politicos.”

  “That last part is pure speculation, Burke.”

  “In the pig’s ass. You know it’s true. The only thing that’s got everybody bugged is the mob’s chain of command and the disposition of their legitimate enterprises. Their billions in business can take one hell of a chunk out of the economy if it falls and nobody quite wants to get stuck with that label.

  “Which brings us to another fact. The head man is right here in New York. The next in line is right here too. Everything is up for grabs with winner-take-all and there’s going to be one hell of a war when Papa Menes and Mark Shelby get their troops in line ... and you can bet your sweet behind that right now they’re burning up the phones to every torpedo ready to hire out. The old man’s got money stashed and ready for delivery and so has Shelby. They’ll pull the cork, step back and see who comes out on top. They won’t be around and you’ll never get enough evidence to connect them to the hassle, but it will sure be one hell of a hassle. It’s going to make that fracas in Miami seem like a teen age rumble in the park.”

  “Don’t get carried away, Burke.”

  Gill gave him a tight grin. “Hell, buddy, I’m trying to understate the case. If you think I’m blowing wind, ask your advisers here. Not all of them are yes-man types.”

  A quick glance told Lederer that Burke was right. “Of course, you have the solution to this whole thing, I suppose?” His voice was filled with acid sarcasm.

  Burke nodded sagely. “Sure.”

  “Go on.”

  “Kill them,” Burke said.

  Bill Long handed Burke the plastic cup of steaming coffee and sat on the edge of the table staring out at the city on the other side of the window. Tiny lines seamed the comers of his eyes and he didn’t so much as grimace when he sipped the scalding drink. That same thought was trapped in his mind and he couldn’t lose it. In fact, it kept growing and building, but it was like a tree growing in the darkness. The substance was there, but you just couldn’t see it.

  Burke said, “We done for the night?”

  The captain nodded, still looking out at the city.

  “I’m taking off then. I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”

  Bill Long heard his feet cross the room, but before Burke got to the door he said, “Gill . . .”

  “Yeah, Bill?”

  “You meant it, didn’t you?”

  After a moment Burke asked, “Meant what?”

  “Upstairs . . . about killing them.”

  Burke’s laugh was deep-throated and hard. “It’s the only realistic answer, friend. You’re damn right I meant it.”

  Long turned and looked at
him, his face bland, but his eyes cold and hard. “You considering doing it too?”

  For a few seconds, Burke said nothing, his eyes probing those of his friend. But both had their screens up and the walls were too thick to penetrate. Burke said, “Yeah, I’ve been considering ways and means.”

  “Find one?”

  “Maybe. When I’m sure I’ll call you.”

  15

  His careful reconnaissance located only the single stakeout that had been there all day, replaced on schedule every four hours, so Mark Shelby decided that his physical needs justified the risk, and without bothering to call first, he took his usual circuitous route out of the building, picked up a cab two blocks away and gave the driver Helga’s address.

  Mark needed the diversion badly. He had to get his thinking straight, his efforts organized so that there would be no chance of anything going wrong.

  Tangling with the old man always left him edgy, even when he had everything going for him. The trouble was, there wasn’t any Big Board any longer and nobody to back him up in a power play. Papa Menes didn’t give a shit if they had handed him the operation. Right now Papa was the Big Board, the Little Board and everything else. At least he thought he was. Mark glanced at his watch. By this time he ought to be having a few doubts himself. Mark had gotten the best bid in on a dozen of the top guns in the business and Papa could settle for second best. He knew Papa was making his own contacts, and given time, could come up with a bigger and better army, but Mark didn’t plan to give him any extra time at all. Papa Menes could fall gracefully, his pockets well lined, or he could fall hard and empty.