The Erection Set

by Mickey Spillane

  How many years ago was that? Hell, now he would be an old man. Shit, the Ferris Wheel was still turning, but where and why and how? Especially why?

  Then I knew why and I damn well had to make Ferris come out into the open. If he was cagy then, he’d be cagier now and with what was happening he was about to throw everything away. He’d figure it was still the old days and the old ways, but if things soured out the river would get it all and he’d kiss everything good-bye and go back to some little place some little somewhere, remembering all that went past and maybe smile because there was still enough left in him to almost carry out the last mission.

  So think, baby, where would Ferris be? Where would the old wheel be hiding?

  I thought, and I knew.

  There wouldn’t be a chance in hell of finding him because I knew where he was, and unless he tapped me on the shoulder or the long arm of improbable coincidence reached out, Ferris was buried in his natural cover.

  Ferris, you bastard, I thought. You’re going to make me smoke you out. Okay, old snake. I can do it. You’re waiting to see if I can.

  The sky laughed and spit down on me again.

  Rain. And Teddy Guido was dead. Somebody had thrown a hand grenade through the window of his study and he was a little bag of garbage in a closed copper coffin on a shelf in Mario Danado’s New Jersey mortuary. The services were slated for the day after tomorrow. The grenade would have gotten the entire family if they hadn’t left the room a minute earlier. His brother was in South America shivering his insides out knowing his turn was coming next. I was on Chet’s wipeout list as fast as he could get the men inside the perimeter and I told him to send the best and if they didn’t make the hit I’d be on his back, like personally and with the old blade, so watch it, boy. All contacts were cut and it was time to flush the toilet. I was the bowel block that had to go down the drain. I told him I’d have to be surgically removed and he said he’d do that too, if necessary. I said to bring a big, long-handled spoon because he was going to need it.

  I looked up at the house where my father fucked my mother and got me in the bargain and I said into the night, “Damn, Pop, I’m glad you fucked and didn’t have intercourse. There’s a difference, isn’t there?”

  Maybe the wind had a voice, but something answered me. “You’re damn well told, son,” it said.

  I nodded and started on the last lap.

  Down at the flag line a leering skeletal head with a black cloak was standing. It held all the armament.

  Except the big one.

  I had that.

  They had the stockholders’ meeting and I lost. I was holding a boxful of paper and elected to the board along with my cousins, but Cross McMillan was chairman and his boy was president with all the power going to the head of the table and only a few swing votes put it that way and it was enough. All I had was the dubious satisfaction of knowing Dennie and Alfred realized I was the one who had bought up all the crappy stock and the money I had spent was already down the drain. Sure, I owned Mondo Beach, but they had Grand Sita which stood smack square in the middle of all the action and it was theirs. Like theirs. The counselor could even prove it for them.

  Time was running out and they damn well knew it.

  Only I didn’t know it.

  We had dropped off the idiots and I sat across from Leyland Hunter, watching him play with his drink and he finally said, “You’re gone, boy. I tried to tell you.”

  “Trying isn’t good enough.”

  “You know McMillan can even stop the picture if he wants to?”

  “Yup.”

  “What else do you know?”

  “He won’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Cross wants me to fall, that’s why.”

  “And you won’t?”

  “Hell, Counselor, I can’t.”

  “Refuse to quit?”

  “Why die before your time, old buddy?”

  He put his glass down and looked at me across the table. “You’re even worse than your old man.”

  “Inherited factors, Lawyer,” I said.

  “You have something on your mind.”

  I finished my drink. “Nothing I’ll tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  “You wouldn’t believe it anyway.”

  “Why not?” he repeated.

  “Once before you told me. I think I have the situation conned now.”

  “So con me.”

  “Shit,” I said, “you’re an old legal hound. How could I?”

  “I think you can,” he said. “What do you know?”

  “As my erstwhile buddy put it, I have extrapolated.”

  “I see.”

  “The pig’s ass you do,” I said.

  “So, as your lawyer, is there anything else you need of me?”

  “To be sure, Counselor,” I said. Damn, I was getting drunk and I couldn’t afford to get slopped up. I reached in my pocket and dragged out an old envelope. I filled half of it with my own miserable penmanship, made Hunter sign it, then tossed him my two big bank books. “Is that adequate?” I asked him.

  “You should have been a lawyer,” he said. “If this were a dying man’s statement it would stand up in any court. Holographs ...”

  “Consider me a dying man, mighty Hunter. What difference does a few days make?”

  “Your choice, Dog.”

  “Of course. By the way,” I added, “you screw that broad again?”

  His smile was ·simple and sweet. “I took them both as mistresses until they can find somebody better. In fact I have even endowed them with a dowery.”

  “You’re a dirty old man.”

  “I’m a sexy senior citizen, remember?”

  “Will they?”

  “A man of my age is thankful for all he can get and they Seem to be grateful for all I can give them that they could not get otherwise. Funny enough, my clientele seems to think more of me now than before. Do you remember my receptionist ...”

  “Don’t tell me you banged her!”

  “No, but she caught me screwing the Polack and dropped her glasses and stepped on them.” He got up grinning. “As a matter of fact, when I leer at her, certain physical, ah ...er...”

  “She comes.”

  “Precisely,” he said.

  “Sexy senior citizen hell,” I told him. “You’re a dirty old man.”

  “Isn’t it nice?” Leyland said.

  “I hope you miss me,” I said.

  “That I will, Dog, that I will. Just do me a favor”

  “Anything, Counselor.”

  “You’re not dead yet.”

  I repeated his words. “Isn’t that nice. Barely a consolation, but a pretty thought nevertheless.” I lit up a butt and sucked the smoke out of it. “When does Cross deplete Barrin?”

  “The raid?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  For the first time I saw him take out a silver cigar holder, select a long, thin cigar and snip the end off it. It was very studied and very new, like something a Polack broad might teach him. “Quickly,” he said. “Maybe when all the publicity dies down. It’s bound to come, you know.”

  “No, I don’t know.”

  “What do you think you can do?”

  The teeth in my grin were big and fat and I don’t have any unfilled cavities. “Suppose I give him a little more publicity,” I said.

  “I don’t like your tone of voice.”

  “Nobody does, Counselor. It’s one of those things I keep in reserve.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Absolutely. Or maybe not. Depends on circumstances.”

  “Which ones?”

  “Everybody fucks, mighty Hunter.”

  “You’re scaring me again.”

  “I intend to,” I said. “Incidentally, the house is beautiful. Thanks.”

  My lawyer shrugged. “Your money.”

  “My Polacks too,” I said. “Have fun.”

  They had rewritten the script to take advantage of the rain
. The prognosis called for three solid days of downpour before the front moved out into the Atlantic, and a small army of slicker-clad figures were hustling between canvascanopied areas protecting the cameras and sound booth to get ready for the next setup. The principals were all snug in a forty-foot trailer laughing over the clink of glasses while bit players, extras and those in the crowd scene were milling around under a carnival-sized tent.

  A snow fence had been set up around the area and even in the rain with nothing special to watch, the curious from town were standing around, some with cameras ready to get shots of the cast when they came out of the trailer. A pair of prowl cars were drawn up to the curb and a half-dozen local cops were in idle conversation with friends outside the barricade.

  It took me a half hour before I spotted Hobis and The Chopper. Somehow they had gotten hold of S. C. Cable Production slickers and were policing the area with nail-pointed sticks. The old army game. Nobody bothered you as long as you were busy working. I told them to meet me beside the honey wagon in five minutes, circled the trailers and wardrobe truck and joined them there.

  Hobis wasn’t a bit happy. He cupped a cigarette, lit it and let the match sizzle out in a puddle at his feet. “Too damn quiet, Dog.

  “That’s good,” I said.

  “It ain’t good at all. It’s got a bad smell to it.”

  “Like how?”

  He looked past me at the people around the fence and nodded. “Somebody’s here. I can feel it.”

  “Do better than that.”

  “Faces. I never saw them before, but they’re a type. They move different and they look different. Know what I mean?”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “So somebody’s here.” He took another drag on the butt, pinched out the light and stuck the stub in his shirt pocket.

  “Maybe you know.”

  “I have an idea, but it’s not part of your assignment. You two stay with Lee and Sharon.”

  The Chopper grunted and wiped the rain off his face with a finger. “Nobody’s after them.”

  “I know. They want me.”

  “Maybe we ought to lay a cover around you then.”

  “Forget it. Let them spot you two and they’ll play it cute. I’d sooner have a direct frontal attack when it comes.”

  “Crazy, man,” The Chopper said. “You ought to know better. They know you too. Who the hell’s gonna move in frontwise?”

  “I think they will.”

  “Your funeral.”

  “Maybe theirs.”

  “At least we’re paid in advance,” Hobis told me. “Trouble is, I enjoy earning my pay. By the way, that your bust the other night? Like with the Guido bunch?”

  I nodded.

  “Neat.” He gave me an approving look and grinned.

  “Couldn’t do much better myself.” “Thanks. Now stay close to my buddies. The storm’s just beginning to build up.”

  “Okay. If we make any of these characters we’ll buzz you.”

  “Do that.”

  I waited until they were gone, then went back into the rain and the wind that was teasing the earth into a muddy slop before it mustered its forces for the full-scale barrage that was waiting just behind the low scudding clouds. It was early afternoon and seemed like late dusk. At least everybody was miserable together.

  Except Dick Lagen who sat in the back of an air-conditioned Cadillac and didn’t seem a bit surprised when I slid beside him. “You’re a hard man to locate, Dog.”

  “Not really.”

  “I’ve been here almost”—he checked his watch—“two hours.”

  “Waiting for me?”

  “I knew you’d be curious.”

  He held out his pack of cigarettes. I took one and held it to the gold lighter he offered. I cranked the window down an inch and let the smoke drift out with the cold air. “You were wrong, buddy. I’m only interested in your methods. Something I can do for you?”

  “In a few moments. I’m waiting for your ... friend.”

  “My friends are few and far between.”

  “This one’s rather special. As a matter of fact, here she comes now.”

  In the oversize slicker Sharon looked like some forlorn waif. She threw the hood back and droplets of water glistened on her hair. She laughed, tugged the door open and jumped in beside Dick before she saw me, then her face went through a small contortion of expressions before she smiled again.

  “Hello, Dog.”

  “Hi, doll.” I grinned at her and flipped the cigarette out the window. “I like you better in a miniskirt.”

  She shrugged out of the slicker, tugging the folders of papers from the folds, tossed them on the seat beside her and sat back with her dress halfway up her thighs. “Better?”

  “Much.”

  Then she stared at the two of us a moment, frowned and brushed the rain away from the strands of hair that stuck to her face. “Am I interrupting a conference? When you sent for me ...”

  Dick Lagen patted her leg paternally and chuckled. “No conference. I expected to speak to both of you separately, but since you’re both here ...”

  “What’s on your mind, Dick?” I asked him.

  “No need to be so abrupt, old boy. After all, I’m simply a reporter doing a job in the public interest, and if you’ve been following the papers, all this activity certainly is in the public interest. We have a reactivated Barrin Industries, a motion picture being made on the premises, a new spirit coming alive in a town supposedly dead, and for those close to the scene, a specter of doom hovering over the new enterprise in the form of Mr. Cross McMillan. The splash, when it comes, will certainly be newsworthy.”

  “Only in the local papers, Dick.”

  “Ah, but we have you, Dog. The great unknown. That is, until now.”

  Sharon twisted in her seat, her face gone tight. “What does he mean, Dog?”

  I shrugged.

  Lagen said, “Shall I tell her, Mr. Kelly?”

  “Why not? Just make sure you can document the answers.” I turned and looked at him and whatever he saw on my face tightened him up like a bowstring. His tongue licked across lips suddenly gone dry, but he had pushed it thus far and he had to go the rest of the way. His eyes flicked toward the burly chauffeur standing under the umbrella fifty feet away talking to one of the local cops and the reassurance came back into his face with subtle relief.

  “You may even be vain enough to document them yourself, Dog.”

  “I’ve been known to do that,” I said.

  “Dog...”

  “At ease, baby, let the man talk.”

  “Thank you,” Lagen said. I caught the tone. He thought he had the heavy bat and was up against a weak pitcher. He was rolling the bones with the odds all on his side and savoring the moment for all it was worth. “I mentioned before I was making inquiries about you, Mr. Kelly.”

  “Don’t be so damn formal, Dick. Keep it Dog.”

  “Very well.” He paused and handed me another cigarette. “Perhaps you wouldn’t like the young lady to hear all this.”

  “If it’s public information, why not?”

  “Sharon?”

  The worry was plain in her eyes, but I shrugged. “Go ahead,” I said.

  “May I refer to my notes?”

  “By all means.”

  Lagen took out a small notebook, flipped open the cover and glanced at it. The whole damn thing was an act, but I couldn’t care less. He said, “In 1946 you took your discharge in England, preferring to stay there rather than return to the States.”

  “True.” I dragged on the butt and it tasted good. Sharon was watching me, her eyes shielded.

  “You had a friend who was a mathematical, and a financial, genius.”

  “Quite true. Rollie had a flair for business.”

  “But no money.”

  “He was destitute at the time, to be precise.”

  “However,” Lagen continued without interruption, “Roland Holland accepted a gratuity fr
om someone”—I let him realize I accepted his accentuation with a smirk, “—and ran it up into a sizable fortune within a short time. Actually, he became an overnight millionaire.”

  “Legitimately,” I said.

  “Indubitably. However, he observed his obligations of unwritten partnership and transferred funds to his benefactor, who, in turn, used this wealth to go into business activities that were ... shall we say, not quite legitimate.”

  “Why don’t we lay it on the line and say it was crooked?” I said.

  “Good. Crooked. His partner engaged in black market operations that gained him a gigantic independent fortune, but at the same time involved him with the most nefarious group of criminals Europe ever produced.” Lagen looked at me, saw me sitting there blowing smoke rings at the cream-colored roof and sat back, satisfied that the play was all in his hands.

  “There’s an evolution to this,” he continued. “Crime begets crime. Black marketing of medicines begets black marketing of cigarettes, then it’s gun running and finally into the ultimate of all criminal activities, trafficking in drugs.”

  “You missed the ultimate,” I said.

  “Murder?”

  “Call it killing and that’s the ultimate,” I told him.

  “Ah.”

  “Don’t be so smug. Off the record, do you deny these things?”

  “On the record. No.”

  “Have you killed?”

  I blew another smoke ring. “Why sure.”

  “You’re awfully complacent.”

  It was too bad he couldn’t read me at all. So I let him go on.

  “The head of the biggest European criminal operation,” he said. “And you came home. Death and destruction have followed in your wake.”

  “Shit, man,” I said, “Stop waxing poetic. You’re writing a column, remember?”

  “No, it is yet to be written. I am simply gathering my facts together. Incidentally, how am I doing?”