The Killing Man mh-12

by Mickey Spillane

  "Okay. I'm going to use your name."

  "Be my guest. I don't suppose you want to tell me what this is all about."

  "Later," I said.

  Russell Graves was in and "delighted indeed" to speak to someone in the colonies. Actually, in fact, it was the first overseas call he had ever gotten, as he put it. Petey was some sort of a hero figure to him, an American crime reporter who had a fat expense account and was assigned to the really exciting cases. When I told him I was a real American private eye who was working with Petey and needed an overseas connection he got so worked up I thought he'd cream his jeans. He made sure I knew he was only a sports reporter, but I told him that crime was everywhere, even in sports, so that shouldn't stop him.

  "Well, then, Mr. Hammer, what is it you wish me to do?"

  "Sometime back an American was murdered outside Manchester. I don't know his name and can't describe him, but he was a federal agent working over there."

  "That sounds awfully vague, Mr. Hammer."

  "Possibly, but murders in your country aren't all that frequent."

  "Times have changed somewhat, sir."

  "I realize that. But this is an American who was killed. If it happened in the countryside somebody would be aware of it. There's one other thing . . . this kill could have been a vicious one."

  "Vicious?"

  "Not a clean kill. There might be something pretty nasty about it. You know what I mean?"

  "Yes," he said, "I believe I do."

  "Now," I went on, "there's a possibility that our government and yours are playing this matter down, but we're looking for a killer who hit over there and here, and likely will try to hit someplace else too. That's why I suggest you look outside the normal channels for anything on the murder over there."

  "Is there any way I can get a story out of this? I'm sure my editor would see it in my favor . . ."

  "Guaranteed, Russell. You and Petey can have it together if it works out."

  That was enough for him. I gave him my home and office numbers, told him to call person-to-person and if he could expedite matters any, I'd get him tickets the next time our pro teams staged a preseason football game in a British stadium.

  When I hung up, I got a cold beer out of the refrigerator, drank it down in two long draughts, as the British would say, and went to bed.

  5

  I parked the car a half block down from Smiley's Automotive, got out and took a look around. Lower Manhattan had a lot of areas like this, old buildings eroding away from lack of maintenance, homes to run-down shops dealing in out-of-date or surplus goods. The smell of Butyl rubber came from a tire-recapping place that had opened early. Outside their doors two guys were unloading casings from a pickup truck. One place had a TOOL-AND-DIE sign in the window, but didn't look as if it did any business at all. There was a plate-glass shop that looked stable and another garage, just opening, that specialized in TUNE UP AND REPAIRS. A few other places looked like they were closed for good.

  When I passed Smiley's I thought it was closed, but there was a light in the back and somebody was moving around. I gave the door a bang with my fist, waited, then did it again.

  A voice yelled, "Take it easy, I'm coming, I'm coming." A little old guy opened the door and said, "We ain't open."

  I stuck my foot in the door and put my hand against it. "You are now, buddy." I shoved it open, reached in my pocket for my wallet and gave it an empty flash and put it back.

  The gesture was enough. "You doggone cops, why don't you just come down and live here?"

  "No TV," I said. "Where do you live, Pop?"

  "The same place I lived when the other cops were here. I already told 'em."

  "You didn't tell me."

  "Right around the corner. Over the grocery store. What do ya think you're gonna find? There ain't nothing here."

  "It's a followup call, Pop. You know what a followup call is?"

  "I know you're gonna tell me, that's what."

  "It's in case you remembered something you forgot."

  "Well, I didn't forget nothing."

  I reached in my coat pocket for a note pad and let him see the gun in the shoulder holster. There's nothing that impresses people more than seeing a gun. "What's your name?"

  "Jason." I looked at him. "McIntyre," he added.

  "Address?" He gave that to me. "Who do you work for?"

  "I told you guys."

  "Now tell me."

  "When Smiley wants things done, I work."

  "What things?"

  "Clean up. Sometimes run errands. Hell, I'm too old for anything else. Had to come in after the cops shoved everything around. What in hell were they looking for anyway? They said somebody beat up on a guy in here. There was some bloody spots on the floor and you know what?"

  "No, what?"

  "I found a tooth, a whole tooth, by damn. It was right there on the waste pile in a glob of bloody spit. Wires and all still right on it."

  "You show that to the police?"

  "Nah, they'd already went."

  "Let's see it." He gave me a glance as if it were none of my business and I said, "Get it."

  It was a tooth, all right, a single partial plate holding what seemed to be a lower canine. Part of the plastic holding the tooth had been snapped off, but the wire bracings that attached to adjacent teeth were intact.

  I asked him, "What were you holding on to this for?"

  The old guy threw up his hands. "Shoot, mister, them things cost money. If that guy came back looking for it, I could work a fiver out of him."

  I shook my head as if I didn't believe him.

  "You think I'm kidding? Last year I had a pair of glasses that got under the hydraulic rig somehow. Glass was broke, but the rims was real gold. I got six bucks for it."

  "When was that?"

  "I dunno. It was winter. Cold as hell out."

  "Where was Smiley?"

  "He took that week off. I came in before he got back to make sure the heat was up. Smiley don't like to waste no money."

  "When's he coming back this time?"

  "Tomorrow," Jason told me. "He don't like all this crap going on here."

  "Then I'll come back tomorrow."

  "What about my tooth?"

  "Tell you what," I said. "If I can't find who it fits, I'll give it back to you."

  "Cops don't give nothin' back."

  "You're probably right," I told him.

  One block over I found the neighborhood coffee shop. I expected it to be the usual dilapidated slop chute that you come across in these areas, but the little old Italian lady who ran the place had it as neat as her own kitchen. When I walked in I must have had a pleased look on my face because she laughed and said, "Surprise, eh. You are surprise. Everybody new here is surprise."

  I slid onto a stool and ordered an egg sandwich and coffee.

  "Bacon?"

  "Why not? Sounds good."

  She nodded and turned to her stove. "And the big eggs I got. No little mediums. For the men who work hard, I got extra large."

  "Sounds great."

  "You don't work here, no?"

  "Nope. I had something to do at Smiley's, but he's not there."

  "Ah, fancy man Smiley. I used to tell my Tony, Smiley was a fancy man."

  She poured my coffee and I asked her, "What's a fancy man?"

  She shrugged and wagged her head. "Little man, too big pants. Likes to make a big show. He wants change for a twenty for a doughnut. You want your egg over?"

  "Real easy. Don't break the yolk."

  She buttered the bread, laid four slices of bacon on it and deftly put the egg on top. She watched me tap the yolk with my knife, spread it over the bacon and slap the lid on it. When I took my first bite I could feel the yolk roll down my chin. She laughed. "Only the sexy men, they eat like that."

  "Delicious," I told her. Then: "Guy over there said Smiley would be back tomorrow."

  "Sure, he come back," she agreed. "He'll buy coffee, give me a twent
y. Big shot. Him and the ponies. I told my Tony he was a no-good fancy."

  "Doesn't he ever lose?"

  "Smiley the fancy man? Never. He's the big shot who never loses."

  I finished my sandwich, gave her the right change with a dollar tip and said, "Just so you don't figure me for a fancy man."

  For another hour I walked around Smiley's block talking to the guys who worked there. Nobody seemed to care much for Smiley at all. He got some odd jobs in his shop, but nothing that would mean big bucks. It was the track that kept Smiley a step above everybody else.

  One of the guys didn't even believe that. "Shit, man, he goes to the track when there ain't no track running. He likes to make like he takes a plane somewhere, but shit, he's broke before he goes. When he gets back he has a bundle."

  "So he goes to OTB."

  "You kidding? Smiley goin' legal to Off Track Betting? A bookie, maybe, but no OTB."

  "He's got some great luck," I said.

  "Balls. You know what I think? I think he's got an in with somebody. Guys what can move the odds around and tell him who to pick."

  "Where would he get clout like that?" I asked him.

  After he thought about it, he nodded. "Yeah. So he's still a phony. So he's got money sometimes." He spit on the ground and went back to work.

  There was nothing more here to see. When tomorrow came I'd come back to talk to Smiley. Him I wanted to see.

  * * *

  Burke Reedey finished with his patients, washed up and came into the office. He sat down and rubbed his face with his hands. "Feel like a drink?"

  I shook my head. "Not now."

  He opened a bottom drawer, found a mini-bottle of Scotch and poured it into a glass. He toasted me with "Souvenir of the airlines," poured it down and wiped his lips. "Velda's doing fine, you know."

  "They told me when I called. When will she be free to talk?"

  "If you don't overdo it, you can go anytime. Her face is going to be a mess for another week, but she'll get back to normal. That blow she took was so massive we want to make sure that there is no permanent injury."

  "And what would that be?"

  "For one thing, a possible memory loss. So far there's no indication of that. When are you going up?"

  "Tonight."

  "Good. She'll be glad to see you." He grinned and added, "You know, of course, she's in love with you."

  "We've been working together quite a while," I said.

  "Quit working and get married. Man, you can't see the forest for the trees. That's some woman."

  "In my business the longevity factor is pretty lousy, Doctor. It makes business for you and a mess out of marriages." I changed the subject and handed him the broken partial plate from the garage.

  He took it, turned it around and looked at it from all angles. "What am I supposed to say about it?"

  "What are the chances of having this identified?"

  "I assume you mean by the police?"

  "Right."

  "Well, they send dental X rays, photos of partials and full dental plates and patients' charts around the country. I don't know what percentage results in an accurate identification by the technicians who did the work, but I know there have been numerous successes." He reached out and dropped the partial in my hand. "A display this small wouldn't be easy to track. Its very simplicity is the trouble."

  "Damn," I said.

  "The police are pretty resourceful, Mike. Their modern technology is awesome."

  "Sure, when it can be concentrated."

  "Can't you narrow this down any?"

  I gave him a nice grin. "Burkey-boy, you are one hell of a smart medicine man." I flipped the partial in the air, caught it and dropped it in my pocket.

  Burke reached in the drawer and pulled out a small pill-sample envelope. "Let's be neat with that thing."

  He watched me drop it in, seal it shut and put it away again. I told him thanks for his trouble, went down to the street and waved at a passing cab.

  Pat rolled the tooth between his fingers before he laid it on top of the desk. "You come up with the damnedest things, Mike."

  "Your guys didn't do a good sweep on that garage."

  "Maybe if you had come right in that night the guys wouldn't have been so loose about it." I nodded. He was right on that. "What am I supposed to do with this anyway? And don't say try to trace it. We're not dealing with a dead body or a missing person, so what's the priority? There's probably been a million of these partials-"

  "Hold it, Pat," I interrupted. "Just go to a pair of sources on this one. Check it out with the dental charts on FBI and CIA agents."

  "Are you nuts!" Pat exploded. "You think our guys are going to pull a stunt like that?"

  "Why not?"

  He scanned my face. "Give me a reason. And not that bullshit about having a feeling."

  "There was a finesse to the situation," I said. They were after one answer, nothing more. They didn't even try to kick the crap out of me for getting in a couple of good shots where they hurt. They left my rod alone. They had access to sodium pentothal, they swabbed my arm with alcohol before injecting me. This is stuff guys with training will do automatically."

  "Suppose it doesn't pay off?"

  "You won't know until you try, will you?"

  "Inquiries like this can raise a few eyebrows."

  "Pat," I said, "you know and I know that all of us have strange connections in odd places. The New York Police Department is a powerhouse, baby, and when they ask, everybody listens. Just go to your connections, kid."

  The hard look on his face softened into an annoyed frown and he nodded agreement. "Okay, it's a possible, so I'll put it through."

  "Good."

  I started to get up and he said, "Wait." He found a message slip under his desk blotter and handed it to me. "Here is a connection for you to go to, old buddy. Good luck."

  Candace Amory had left a number for me to call.

  "But let's keep our priorities straight first, Mike. You have something going for you, haven't you?"

  "Like you said, a possible. Nothing concrete."

  "Okay, let's hear it, and cut the garbage about it just being an idea."

  "No problem, but tell me . . . how many guys you got working on my abduction?"

  "Guess."

  "One."

  "Right on."

  "And what did he come up with?"

  Pat's expression was a little shrewd. "I think we've been friends too long. You go first."

  "Smiley's a middleman for somebody. That garage of his might make money, but it's a damn front."

  "Can you prove it?"

  This time it was my turn to grin a little. "I might be able to do it better than you can. My rules are different. Now, what do you know?"

  "We're on the same track, I think. Trouble is . . . if he's on some kind of a payoff, he isn't leaving any tracks. He lives in a cheap apartment, has an old car . . ."

  "And says he plays the ponies," I put in.

  "Who's to say he doesn't? This time he did leave town . . . we checked him out . . . and probably did hit the track to keep his cover straight."

  "You've been working, Pat."

  "New York's Finest on the job," he said. "My guy tells me you've been nosing around the area down there."

  "Just trying to help. In this case, I'm my own client if there's any controversy about legitimacy."

  "So far, no squawks. If there were it would have hit the fan by now. The Terrible Trio have been prowling around here all day going through mug shots and burning up the phones."

  "What trio?"

  "Coleman, Bradley and your candy lady," he said.

  "I don't get State's involvement in this thing, Pat. Why would they want a rep on the ground floor? We're dealing with a killer, not international intrigue. So Penta nailed one of their guys overseas . . . and got an ex-mobster here . . ."

  "He was looking for you."

  "Balls. I don't buy it. I'm no damn motive."

  "M
ike . . . somehow you're in this up to your ears."

  "Yeah, great," I said.

  "Cover your ass, pal. You prowl around like you own the city and somebody is sure as hell going to take you out."

  I looked at my watch and stood up. "I won't make it easy for him."

  They knew me at the hospital, but wanted to see my ID anyway. A new cop on the door scanned my PI ticket, driver's license, checking my face against the photo, before letting me into Velda's room.

  "Hey, kid," I said softly.

  In the dim light I saw her head turn slightly and knew she was awake. They had propped her up, the sheet lying lightly across her breasts, her arms outside it. The facial swelling had lessened, but the discoloration still put a dark shadow on her face. One eye still was closed and I knew smiling wasn't easy.

  "Do I look terrible?"

  I let out a small laugh and walked to the bed. "I've seen you when you looked better." I took her hand in mine and let the warmth of her seep into me. Inside, I could feel a madness clawing at my guts, scratching at my mind because somebody did this to her. They took soft beauty and a loving body and tried to smash it into a lifeless hulk because it was there in the way and killing was the simple way of moving it.

  "Mike, don't," she said.

  I sucked my breath in, held it, then eased it out. I was squeezing her hand too hard and relaxed my fingers. "Everything okay, kitten?"

  "Yes. They're taking care of me." She tilted her head up. "I miss you."

  "I know."

  "What's been happening?"

  I filled her in with some general information, but she stopped me. She wanted details, so I gave them to her.

  Finally, after thinking a few minutes, she said, "The one you call the 'walker' . . . it was him all right."

  "It's not much of an identification."

  "Maybe . . . I can add something," she said. "If that caller . . . the one who made the appointment to see you . . . is the walker, or the one you call Penta . . ."

  "What about him?"

  "I taped that incoming call. You could get a voice-print off that and keep it for a match-up."

  "Damn!" It was beautiful, all we needed was a suspect to tie into, but at least it was a plus.

  Generally, incoming calls aren't monitored so the caller wouldn't be wary about leaving his voice recorded.

  "How come you had it on?"