The Deep

by Mickey Spillane

  Then there was the last one and I saw the guy up ahead.

  He wasn’t running now. He was down in a squat, moving crablike but fast. His hand was out ahead of him, the gun like an elongated finger, pointing.

  I came up slow, getting him between me and the yellow light from the street lamp at the end of the alley and in that sick glow I saw what had slowed him up.

  Mr. Sullivan was coming up the alley at a half trot with his service gun out, his hand fumbling under his coat for his flashlight and in one second he was going to be dead.

  I had time to holler, “Down, Sully!” and saw him go flat. The guy spun, snapped another silent shot at me and when I rolled, still another. That was all the time he had. Mr. Sullivan fired once from a prone position and the guy held his crouch a moment longer, then slowly sat down.

  He was like that, leaning back against an empty cardboard carton when I got there, the silenced gun still in his hand as though it were a part of him, a small hole in his forehead.

  Down the alley Cat was silhouetted in the light. He came up to us slowly, sucking air in great gulps, and when he saw who was down, fell on his fanny in the dirt.

  I said, “Nice shooting, Mr. Sullivan.”

  All around us lights were going on in the windows. Voices called back and forth and somebody yelled for somebody else to call the cops. Softly, Mr. Sullivan said, “Yeah, you do that.” Then he looked up at me. “Thanks for the warning.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “I suppose you’ll have a good story going for this one.”

  “Real good, I was attacked. There’s another one in the hallway of the building. How come you made it in the alley?”

  “I saw your friend here yelling and pointing this way. I catch on fast.”

  “Okay, then leave him here with Cat and let’s get back to the building.” I looked at Cat and felt his face. “You feel all right?”

  “I feel ... lousy, but I’ll live. Go on.”

  Sullivan said, “A squad car will be along. Tell them to come to the apartment.”

  “Sure, sure. And Deep ...”

  “What?”

  “Watch it.”

  “Don’t worry. Let’s go, Sully.”

  Sullivan tried hard, but he was a harness cop long on the beat and speed had left him behind years ago. We went on a jog and turned the corner as the sirens whined up the street behind us. There were scurrying shadows that darted out ahead of us, running only because we ran or because they saw the blue and brass. Trouble was something they wanted no part of, neither see it, hear it nor feel it.

  The door was still open, gaping inwards on darkness. Sullivan pushed me aside, went in with his flash in one hand and gun in the other, found the wall switch and threw it up.

  Automatically, I hit for the wall as the light came on, not taking any chances.

  Sullivan looked at me and I looked at him. The spot in the doorway where I had gunned down the other one was empty. There was a big splash of blood on the floor and finger streaks on the wall and more by the outside door and what happened was plain enough.

  Number One had been hit too lightly. He made it out while I went after his partner.

  I said, “Inside, Sullivan,” and went through the doorway. Behind us a uniformed cop and a plain clothes man came in with a rush.

  When I turned the light on we all stood there looking at the body on the floor. He had taken at least three shots in the head and a few more in the chest and any one of them would have been fatal. But pros don’t take chances and go for broke when they hit somebody.

  Sullivan said, “That’s Augie.”

  From in back of him Sergeant Hurd said, “Things are looking up, aren’t they?” His face had a blue bulge on one side of his mouth that gave him a partial sneer.

  “Can it, Hurd,” I told him.

  “Still tough?”

  “Always.”

  A cop came in with his arm through Cat’s and brought him in the room. In the light Cat had a sickly pallor and his cheeks were sunken deep in his face, each ridge of bone sharply outlined. He looked at me, his lips pulled back over his teeth, holding back the pain in his chest, and nodded. I knew what he meant.

  The M.E. didn’t take long to get there. He was resigned, but pleasant about it. The fresh kills he didn’t mind at all and unlike a lot of M.E.’s, wasn’t afraid to give an immediate opinion. He went over Augie quickly, established the time of death definitely enough to satisfy Hurd, put it between an hour and a half and two hours ago and said he’d make it official with a p.m. in the morning.

  I told Hurd to call Helen and Hugh Peddle and check the cabbie who brought us to the building. Hurd was a cop who liked to see things done right away. Before he finished talking to Peddle who he finally ran down in a midtown bistro, he had the cabbie in the foyer and got a statement from him too.

  There wasn’t much I could add. As far as I was concerned they were prowlers who thought maybe Bennett left some stuff around and Augie surprised them going through the place.

  Hurd took it all down solemnly, told us not to leave town and let us clear out while the techs took over. Cat said we’d be at his address and headed for the doorway.

  I started to follow him when Hurd said, “Deep ...”

  “Yeah?” I paused, watching him.

  “I made that call.”

  “Good for you. I got plenty pull, hah?”

  He waited a few seconds before answering, his face tight. Under his coat his shoulders twitched like he was ready to use his hands again.

  “Walk softly, Deep,” he said.

  I nodded, turned and got out before any of the newspaper crowd could make the scene. For Cat’s sake I took it easy, but it was still too fast for him. We had to stop three different times to let him get his breath back before we reached his building. He lived downstairs in the back of a squalid hovel hardly fit for a dog, a single room partitioned off from the rest of the cellar with a single overhead bulb, a couple of rickety chairs and a faded maroon couch.

  “Home,” he said, and half fell on the couch.

  He tried a cigarette, hacked himself into a state of near unconsciousness, recovered and threw the butt down. “Damn things,” he muttered.

  “Cat ...”

  “I gotcha, Deep. The dead guy was Morrie Reeves.”

  “You know what happened, don’t you?”

  Cat nodded, opened his eyes and looked across at me. “They thought they was hitting you. They didn’t expect him to be there. Then they waited for you.” He laughed, the sound rattling deep in his throat. “You shook ’em when you went through that door. Boy, when them pros miss a hit they can’t make it the second time around the same night, can they? Damn, they didn’t like your kind of luck, that’s why the other one ran when you got his partner.”

  “I didn’t get him good enough.”

  Cat turned on his side so he could see me. “I was wondering about that, Deep.”

  “What?”

  “Nobody shook you for your rod. You walked out clean. Then that stuff with Hurd about a call.”

  “So?”

  “Hell, man, I’ve seen the big boys who can make one call and back off the cops. Even shake up a precinct if they want to. Back in the old days when we was kids the upstairs boys even ran city hall. So I know when a guy’s big. Trouble is, them big guys fall sooner or later and I hate to see you take the tumble. Been a long time since I had a friend.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Where you been all these years, Deep?”

  I grinned at him and shook my head. “Some other time, kid.”

  “Okay, Deep.” He sat up and patted the couch so that the dust flew out of it. “Let’s open up and sack out on it.”

  “I’ll take the floor, buddy.”

  “Don’t be so damn snobbish. You put in time on this before.”

  I squinted at him in the dull light.

  Cat let out a laugh. “This is the original of the one in Bennett’s place.
It used to be in the cellar in the old K.O. days ... the first piece of furniture we ever stole. You carried one end of it out the back of old Moe Schwartz’s secondhand store.”

  Then I remembered it and laughed. “Open it up, you sentimental slob,” I said. “You guys just can’t break loose from the old days, can you?”

  Chapter Ten

  I woke up long before dawn ever touched the rooftops outside and lay there in the darkness thinking. I was completely awake, totally aware of where I was and what had happened, yet sometime during the fade-out of sleep a new thought had come to me with such immediate clarity that I woke up.

  And now I couldn’t recall it.

  I closed my eyes and tried to bring the dream back. There were no images in the dream; more like a sudden revelation where the facts are laid out and explained. Something like a blackboard where a problem is laid out and long parabolic curves touched related factors.

  After a little while I gave it up and turned on my side to try for a little more sleep. I thought it would never come and just as it seemed as though it did Cat was shaking me awake and the light overhead was an enemy that ought to be smashed.

  I said, “Okay, okay, I’m up.”

  Cat shoved a folded copy of the paper at me and tapped the two-column spread in the comer. “Roscoe’s laying it on you again. You should of spoken sharp to that boy.”

  I wiped the sleep out of my eyes and scanned his “Uptown Speaking.” It was pure Roscoe Tate, well reported, nicely barbed and effectively aimed. In brief, violence and death hit the former Bennett empire again, this time directed at the new headman and unfortunately tagging a lesser one. Two men were dead, the police investigation seemed to be deliberately hampered and the town was ripe for more murders yet to come. Next on the list would probably be a “former partner of Bennett who inherited his crime empire and intended to run it to his own satisfaction.”

  I tore the column out, stuck it in my pants pocket and got dressed. Cat was all for taking Roscoe Tate down some, but I waved that away. Tate wasn’t doing anything he hadn’t done for twenty-five years. In fact, he was in a good spot to pick up leads and if he wanted to do a smear campaign on me he was welcome to it. In this business publicity like that made the suckers shake more and gave you a status edge when you wanted to deal with another arm of the organization.

  Cat said, “Have it your own way. Don’t muss him. Wait till you got a gun down your throat.”

  “How?”

  “Them uptown guys. They haven’t said much yet. They’re waiting to see how this thing blows. If they think you got too big a bull on ’em they’re going all the way to get you taken out.”

  “Somebody already tried, remember?”

  “So what? They won’t pay off on a contract until the hit is made. That means Lew James goes after you himself or finds another partner.”

  “Lew James won’t be moving fast for a little while yet. He’s the one we want to talk to.”

  That made Cat’s eyes light up. “He shouldn’t be too hard to find. Let me see what I can do. I’ll go pick up Charlie Bizz. He’s one guy with an ear in every joint in town and he ought to know something. From what I know about Lew James it ain’t goin’ to take much to get him to talk. Little of the old cellar treatment will make him yell his damn top off and there ain’t no Fifth to take with us. That sound okay?”

  Scrawny little Cat living on gravy time and going all out again. Friends. I said, “You be careful, Cat.”

  “Ain’t I always?”

  “Not always. You threw in with me.”

  “I know which side is buttered,” he grinned.

  “Okay, give it a try, but if there’s any tough stuff you let Charlie Bizz handle it or get me. Now suppose we get over to the Green House so buddy Hurd can get those statements.”

  He nodded, picked my hat from the nail in the wall and tossed it to me. “Wish I could figure you, Deep.”

  “Don’t try.”

  “Hell, Hurd never gave anybody a break before. He hates your guts and now he really must be churning. You’re making him eat crap and he don’t take to it.”

  “Tough.”

  “He’s waiting, Deep. You can call down all the protection you can get, but someday Hurd’ll have you standing right over a job with that rod in your hand and no protection in the world’ll keep you from catching one.”

  “Maybe.”

  Gently, Cat touched my shoulder. “Like you told me ... suppose you be careful.”

  “Sure,” I said, “Just tell me how.”

  “Start by leaving that rod here for a change. Don’t ask for trouble.”

  I laughed, stripped off the piece, waited while he stashed it and shoved him out the door.

  Roscoe Tate was standing outside the precinct station talking to one of the plain clothes men I had seen the night before. He nodded wordlessly, finished his conversation and walked over to us.

  I said, “Morning, kid.”

  Without any preliminaries he answered, “You had to get Helen wrapped up in this pretty fast, didn’t you?”

  I shrugged it off. “Relax, little man, she’s clean.”

  “Involvement with the police doesn’t get anybody clean.”

  “She did me. She was my alibi.”

  “That’s what I heard. When does she become your accomplice?”

  “Ask her yourself,” I grinned and winked over his shoulder.

  Roscoe said something I didn’t hear, turned and waited for Helen to pay the cabbie off. She came up smiling, made a kiss with that lovely mouth of hers and blew it to me.

  “Ask me what?” she said.

  The change that came over Roscoe when he saw her was a funny thing; you saw it in parents whose kids had gotten out of control and were too big to handle any more, and in older ball players who just couldn’t beat the ball to first when it used to be such an easy thing to do. There was a touch of pathos in his expression first, then bewilderment and just as quickly there was only a subtle trace of deep concern for someone he loved very much.

  “Helen ...”

  “Hello, Roscoe.” She slipped her hand through his arm affectionately and gave him a fond squeeze. “Now what’s all this about?”

  “You know what it’s all about,” he told her. There was no malice in his voice, but he looked up at me meaningfully. “I want to talk to you.”

  “All right,” Helen said pleasantly, “but hadn’t we better go inside first? We told Sergeant Hurd we’d be here at ten and it’s almost that now. Afterwards we can have coffee and talk.”

  Roscoe made a wry motion with his mouth, nodded, then walked toward the building. Helen held out her hand to me, tightened on mine to say hello and we followed Tate inside.

  Hugh Peddle, Benny and the cab driver had already been in, their statements taken, signed and filed. It didn’t take long to get ours on record while Hurd stood by in a seemingly casual manner, nodding as we talked, mentally correlating the facts. A couple of times he touched his mouth as he looked at me, reminding both of us that time was time and a moment of it was reserved for a special kind of meeting between us.

  When the paper work was done I said, “You get a make on the guy Sullivan shot?”

  “This morning. A real killer type from Illinois. The police there figure him for at least a dozen hits in the area and there’s a sneaky rumor out that he’s an enforcer for the pasta boys. He’s the kind somebody pays a lot of loot to for services rendered. You sure have some nice guys looking you up, buddy. A few slugs from his gun were in your pal Augie.”

  “I didn’t see it in the paper.”

  “It just came in an hour ago.”

  “Morrie Reeves,” I said.

  Hurd looked at me coldly.

  Cat bit his lips and made a motion with his head for us to get out of there. Helen said nothing, but caught Cat’s sudden nervousness.

  “You’re getting cuter all the time,” Hurd said. “You know this last night?”

  “Let’s say I wasn’t s
ure last night.”

  “Maybe you know something else. There was another guy on the party who pumped a few into Augie too. The one who got away.”

  “Lew James,” I grinned. “They were registered at the Westhampton as the Wagner brothers.” Before Hurd could reply I said, “I’m trying to be cooperative, Sergeant. A man in my position has some curious sources of information, but if I get anything I’ll be happy to share it with you.”

  He leaned back against the edge of the desk and placed his hands flat on its top. “You really pile up snow ahead of you, Deep. It’s good to watch you operate. I learn a lot just watching. I used to watch Bennett the same way. He was pretty cute too and had big connections all the way up the line. He was smart besides. He never left himself open where he’d take the kind of fall most big guys take. No tax problems or anything like that. No, he stayed clean until he finally got rapped by some punk kid and that was that.”

  Now it was my turn to get curious. “Punk kid?” I repeated.

  “Yeah, your old buddy Bennett was killed by some punk kid. The big shot of the decade who could make mobsters and politicians jump got bumped by a punk kid. That’s no way for a big shot to go, is it?”

  Hurd watched my face with a peculiar kind of fascination, like I was some sort of unusual specimen.

  “It was a zip gun that got your pal, a common zip gun. You ought to remember the kind, you made enough of them, didn’t you?” He stopped, remembering something, then said sarcastically, “I almost forgot ... you didn’t use a zip. You packed a rod you lifted from a cop, didn’t you? Still wear it, Deep?”

  I shrugged, opened my coat back innocently and heard Cat say in a whisper, “Jeez ...”

  “A zip, Deep. A single .22 from a zip gun. Ballistics even could tell how it was made. A section of a car radio aerial, a nail-point firing pin driven in by rubber band action ... pretty damn effective.”