The Erection Set

by Mickey Spillane

  It nested in the shadows of the building, an old Dodge panel job with crumpled fenders and doors you had to wrench open. A tattered army blanket covered the holes in the seat cushions and there was no window on the driver’s side. The ignition key unlocked the doors in the back and when I swung them open the sealed walnut coffin gave off a dull sheen in the light of my match. Sharon sucked in her breath with an audible gasp, her hands clasped tight around my arm. I pushed her loose, climbed inside and broke the seal on the lid. Her face was a pale white oval with brighter spots where her eyes were, watching me look in the satin-padded box.

  “Dog .. Her voice was barely a whisper.

  “The biggest corpse in the world, baby. There’s enough heroin here to overdose every addict in New York.” I shut the lid and climbed out of the truck.

  “Dog .. she said again. “Heroin?”

  “Big H.”

  “Yours?”

  “All mine. Bundles of millions of dollars and it’s all mine.”

  I didn’t have to see her face to know the disgust was there. The loathing was there too when she asked, “What are you going to do with it?”

  “Sell it, kid,” I told her.

  This time she didn’t touch me. She took a small step away and became part of the shadows. Very calmly, she said, “I think I hate you, Dog.”

  “That’s good, because you wouldn’t understand the purchase price of the stuff.”

  “I understand, all right. I should have listened to you sooner. The world would be a lot better off without people like you.”

  “Then stick around and see it happen.”

  “I intend to, Dog. It’s what you wanted me to do anyway, wasn’t it?”

  My guts knotted up inside me, but I had to get it out. “Yes.” I looked around for Ferris, waiting to hear his sardonic little chuckle.

  But Ferris had disappeared back into the past and had left me alone with his terrible present.

  XXIII

  You don’t maintain a posture of dignity when you’re staring down the ugly muzzle of a .45 automatic. Not when you know the history of the guy behind the blued steel and thought that he had been eliminated hours ago. Not when you’re in a pair of striped shorts and nothing else, with skinny legs that couldn’t hold still and a lovely blonde woman who had brand-new case-hardened eyes watching you out of mild curiosity and total disdain.

  I said, “Just one more time, friend, or Weller-Fabray loses your services permanently. You know the new contact number and you know where he’s at.”

  “Please ... Mr. Kelly, you know what will happen if I tell you where ...”

  I grinned that same old nasty grin and he saw my hand tighten around the gun butt. “I know what will happen if you don’t.”

  It wasn’t much of a choice. If he told me, at least he had an hour’s head start.

  So he told me and I coldcocked him for a long sleep with the Colt.

  I put the gun away and let my expression fade back where it came from and went back to the truck with Sharon. I looked at my watch. We still had another hour before sunrise. It was the time of day when New York City was in its postorgasmic trance, buried in its smog-choked dreams, the hour between those going and those coming. The rain was trying hard, but there would never be enough of it to clean the stains from its steel-and-concrete skin. I turned the truck and cut across town to a gas station where I had one phone call to make, filled the tank, grabbed two coffees from the dispenser and got back in the cab again.

  When Sharon took the steaming cup I handed her she said, “Would you really have killed him, Dog?”

  I shoved the gear lever in low and let the clutch out. “He wouldn’t have been the first.”

  “I didn’t ask you that.”

  “He thought so,” I told her.

  A long time ago Freeport had been a lazy little village on Long Island, a short pleasure jaunt down the Sunrise Highway from the big zoo of Fun City. But that was a long time ago before progress had set in, with miscalculated planning and the population explosion to guide it. Now it was just another choked-up town with bumper-to-bumper parked cars walling it in, demanding to be called a suburb, struggling against the ebb and flow of traffic and charge accounts.

  I found the street and I found the number of the pale yellow house that was the last on the block and coasted into the driveway with the lights off.

  Off in the east the dull glow of a false dawn was backlighting the mist that shrouded the coastline. Inside the yellow house Chet Linden would be sleeping quietly, secure in the knowledge that the order was given, the order had been carried out, and the age of electronic engineering was the big wall no enemy could breech.

  Sharon watched me while I breeched his ramparts with a pair of cute little gimmicks, bypassing the circuits in a way that would make him put knots on the heads of the so-called experts later on. She stood by quietly while I slid in the window, deactivated the secondary alarm on the door and she walked in with those steely eyes enjoying the moment ... eyes of an animal lover waiting to see the bull kill the matador.

  He woke up when he felt the cold end of the rod under his chin and heard me say. “Lights, honey.”

  The overhead fixture snapped on and Chet came awake with an incredible expression of hate at himself because he had failed and didn’t bother to move toward the gun I snaked out from under his pillow and just lay still until I found the sawed-off bayonet beside his leg in arm’s reach.

  “You made a gross mistake, Chet. I told you to lay off. I even told you what would happen if you didn’t.”

  He was watching the gun in my hand. He saw the hammer lying all the way back and the hole in the end looked as big as the tunnel to hell.

  “You’re sharp, Dog. What happened to Blackie and the others?”

  “Guess.”

  “So you finally turned the corner,” he stated.

  “Get up and get dressed.”

  He looked over at Sharon.

  “She’s seen bare-assed guys before.”

  “I have to get dressed to get killed?”

  “You always told me I had class.”

  “There’s always the end of the line for people like us, isn’t there?”

  “Always.”

  “Sorry about that, Dog.”

  “Don’t be sorry.”

  “Oh, not for me. For you. I hate to see you turn that corner.” He kicked his feet out from under the covers and sat on the edge of the bed and looked at Sharon again. “And you’re the one,” he said. “Do you know about him ... all about him?”

  “I do now,” Sharon said.

  “I see.” He let his eyes slide up to mine. “You destroy everybody, don’t you?”

  I shrugged.

  But everybody has to fight for their lives. When you know there’s only that last minute left you have to try whether you erupt into the violent exhaustion of death or try to think it through quietly, you try, and Chet elected to think.

  “Can you stop him?” he asked Sharon.

  “Everybody else has tried. Can you?”

  He didn’t cower and he didn’t beg. He just got dressed and went ahead of us into his own living room and sat in his own chair so he could be comfortable when the boat-man called for him to cross the river and wondered who the hell could be coming around at this time of night when the doorbell rang and I told Sharon to answer it.

  The big guy came in alone like I had told him to do, saw me standing there with the .45 in my hand and never bothered making a play for his own piece that was hanging at the ready on his hip. He was all pro of the big team and didn’t give a shit for anything at all, except he liked those pretty little explanations you could set down and study later and maybe qualify in the light of experience, wondering how the living hell you could make it all go when they turned the heat lamps on and turned the screws.

  I said, “Outside,” and took them to the truck. I let the big guy take a look at all the prospective bodies in the shiny walnut coffin, then made him let Ch
et take a look too.

  The big guy said, “What are you asking, Dog?”

  “Only the keys to your car,” I said.

  The big guy handed me his keys. I looked at Chet and then back to the big guy. “He’ll tell you one hell of a story,” I said.

  His calm, impassive Italian face looked at me with dark, faked-innocuous eyes. “I’d rather hear it from you.”

  “The ending is not yet, pal.” I said. “It’s never any good until you get to the ending.”

  “I know the one Dick Lagen is going to write. That newspaper syndicate had enough money to buy all the facts since the war ended and you began. They cleared everything through channels and there’s no way out of the noose for you at all.”

  “Maybe you’d better talk to him,” I said.

  “He won’t listen to me.”

  “But he’ll sure as hell listen to me.” I eased the hammer down on the .45 but kept my thumb on the hammer. “Or my GI tool here.”

  Until now I had never seen him really smile and I wished I hadn’t. He looked at the blackness inside the truck, his teeth flashing white in the early dawn, “Should I save the coffin, Dog? My mother used to say ‘waste not, want not.’ ”

  “You do that, Vince,” I told him. “Only don’t save it for me.”

  The fucking rain never seemed to stop. It beat against the windshield and the one lazy wiper on my side barely brushed it away. Across the highway the early traffic was already crawling, tied up by a station wagon with a flat a mile back, impatient and angry, building up to a whole day mad.

  Sharon didn’t look at me at all, gazing idly out the window at the rows of cars, her hands limp with hopeless regret in her lap. When I took the cutoff to Linton, she glanced at me thoughtfully for a moment, as if she had made some kind of decision, then sucked in her breath, shook her head and turned away again.

  But she couldn’t keep it bottled up inside her, she had seen too much and the sense of it wasn’t getting through. I knew by the way she was sitting there that she was trying to formulate her own answers, but they were coming out all wrong.

  When it finally got to be too much it was like the words were being wrung out of her. “What is Dick Lagen going to write about you, Dog?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Before ... when you told me about ... those other things, it didn’t at all. Then when I saw the casket ... was it really heroin?”

  “Absolutely pure and totally uncut. Probably the biggest shipment that’s gotten through in a long, long time.” I kept my voice low and nice and even.

  “And all yours. It was shipped to you?”

  “That’s right, but now it’s been reconsigned.”

  “I won’t let it happen, Dog.”

  “Let what happen?”

  “That ... policeman. He and that evil little man. The dirty bastards who push that stuff would never exist if they weren’t protected somehow. I was a witness and I can identify them. I think Dick Lagen will be ready to listen to me.”

  Hell, let her think what she wanted. It was better for her this way.

  “You’d need the evidence, baby. I don’t think anybody’s going to see that casket again. Lagen wouldn’t try making unfounded accusations and nobody else is going to be offering the information.”

  Sharon let it settle in her mind, the gentle smile toying with the corners of her mouth saying it wasn’t going to be like that at all. “What was your price, Dog?”

  “You’d never believe me,” I said.

  “Yes ... I really would.” Her eyes were cold and direct again. “Was it in the millions?”

  “More than that, kitten. Much more. Money couldn’t even buy what I got for that hand-carved body box.”

  “What’s worth more than money?”

  “If you don’t know now, you never will,” I told her.

  She still wouldn’t take her eyes from me. They were like tiny drills augering into my flesh. “To you, Dog. What’s worth more than money to you?”

  “To come home. To be free.” I was going to tell her something else, but caught it in time and just let it end there. I watched the road unwinding through the rain and suddenly felt the needlepoints of her eyes stop stabbing me. I looked at her quickly and her expression had changed, a small frown reflecting some annoying perplexity that tugged at her mind. She wet her mouth, clenching her lower lip between her teeth and I saw the tears rise in the corners of her eyes.

  When I turned down the street where I had left my car in front of the house Ferris had used I saw the jam of cars up ahead, two with their blue lights winking in the morning light and a pair of fire engines standing in the middle of the road. A pall of dark haze was hanging over something by the curb, but the knot of curious people blocked it from view. They didn’t block the shattered windows and crumpled porch on the houses opposite the area though.

  I rolled down the window and called a couple of kids over to see what had happened. One had his school books bunched under his arm and looked kind of sick.

  “Car blew up,” he said. “That nutty little Jansen kid what’s always stealing rides in cars saw the keys in that one and was gonna ride to school. It blew all apart when he started it. Gee, we tried to tell him and everything ...”

  Then I felt a little sick too.

  The other kid said abstractedly, “He just got outa reform school for the same thing.”

  I rolled the window up and sat there a moment.

  “Dog ... ?”

  “It was supposed to have been me,” I said.

  Her sob was a futile cry that caught in her throat.

  “He’s the last one out there. After him there won’t be anymore.”

  “Who?” Sharon whispered.

  “The worst one of all.” I was all tight again. “Damn, there’s so much more to do, too.”

  I dropped Sharon off outside the Barrin plant. She gave me a wistful little smile, pulled the collar up on her coat and walked through the rain toward the building. The S. C. Cable Productions trucks were still lined up on the west side, but all the activity had moved indoors and the canvas canopies were down except for the one over the area where a few of the crew were surrounding the coffee urns. I circled the complex twice before I spotted Hobis sitting in a parked car, stopped opposite him and waved him in beside me.

  “Any action?” I asked.

  “Just a little accident with a car downtown.” He grinned at me, his lips tight over clenched teeth. “I sent The Chopper over to check it out. Either you’re on the ball or your luck’s running strong.”

  “What did he get?”

  “It was that rented heap of yours, all right. Somebody used one of the new plastics with a heat-sensitized detonator wired to the exhaust. Easy to slap on and takes about five seconds to activate. A real pro job. I don’t think the local cops even know how it happened yet. Sure tore that kid all to hell. What was the bit there?”

  “He was trying to steal the car. I had left the keys in it.”

  Hobis shrugged and lit the stub of a cigar he took out of his pocket. “Scratch one potential con. Who did it?”

  “Arnold Bell.”

  He nodded without looking up until he had the butt lit, then took a couple of deep drags on it. “Old Bell’s diversifying. He used to specialize in that little .22 of his. Figure how he ran you down?”

  “The city isn’t all that big,” I said.

  “Uh-huh. But it still makes it a big job. You think he’s working alone?”

  “He didn’t start off that way.”

  “Maybe he rang in some locals.”

  “Not Arnold Bell. The solo speed is the way he likes it. Now the big pot is all his if he makes the hit.”

  “As long as he was paid in advance,” Hobis said.

  I cut around the corner and headed back toward the factory again. Hobis’s tone of voice had sounded a little strange and I looked at him, the question in my eyes.

  Hobis said, “I called New York this morning. The whole European sc
ene blew wide apart.”

  My hands went tight around the steering wheel. “How?”

  “Some of Le Fleur’s boys went after The Turk and threw a couple of slugs in his belly. The Turk thought he was dying and blew the whistle on the big man. The fuzz moved in and nailed all his records and put enough heat on some of the lower echelon so that they started talking too.” He took another drag on the cigar and tossed the butt out the side window. “Would have made quite a package, only while he was being held in custody a twenty-year-old cousin of a guy Le Fleur had eliminated walked in with press credentials and popped his eyes out with a Luger. When the boiler blows, she really blows fast, doesn’t she?”

  “That gets the Guido brothers off the hook then.”

  “Kiddo,” Hobis told me, “you’ve been away much too long. Over there they’d just call it quits and start over again when the storm dies down, but here you pay for mistakes or errors in judgment. It teaches others a lesson about being careful when they’re using mob money to finance an operation.” He let out a grunt that passed for a laugh and added,

  “You got something to say, haven’t you?”

  So I told him about the casket.

  “To each his own,” he said when I finished. “Where do we go from here?”

  “Nothing changes. Just keep the plant covered.”

  “Your dough, buddy. Lousy action, but good pay.”

  I let him out beside the car he was working from, pulled away behind a pair of trucks making sure nobody was behind me and called Leyland Hunter from a gas station on the outskirts of town.

  It was Saturday morning and I was to meet with the family at noon. Two hours later there was a special meeting of the new board of directors in the main office of the building and I was expected to be in attendance.

  They should have had flowers. There should have been a funeral director present ushering in the guests with hushed voice and a small bow. The butler tried his best, but the enigmatic smile on his face belied the true nature of the gathering. Something in his eyes ran a full sweep over me like a radar scanning beacon without ever leaving my face and I knew he had all the answers at his fingertips and was going to enjoy the moment of truth when all the chips were down. He said a pleasant good afternoon to Hunter and me, took our coats and told us the others were waiting in the library.