The Big Bang

by Mickey Spillane

  And yet she was still looking for a husband.

  Velda said it was because Helen intimidated men, too rich, too shapely, too pretty—guys usually thought she was out of reach, a dream that couldn't come true. So the big beautiful broad could find herself on a blind date like the one Velda set up with Pat, only without the handsome, gray-eyed lug's knowledge—much less permission.

  Helen was rather delicately eating the shrimp salad that was the only food she'd ordered.

  She was saying in her husky, knowing, yet ever-so-feminine voice, "It must be terribly exciting being a detective. I mean, your friend Mike here is a detective, but to be captain of Homicide! The things you've seen, the pressures you've been under ... and yet you look so young. ..."

  Pat said, "Uh ... th-thanks."

  She gestured with a speared shrimp. "I dated a fireman once, and he seemed so calm all the time, and I just couldn't understand why. He told me it was because when he was with me, he wasn't at the firehouse. Said he saved his nerves for on the job. But, you know, I think he was just naturally brave. He was just one of those men who are innately cut out for dangerous work. Are you one of those men, Captain Chambers?"

  "Puh."

  "Pardon me?"

  "Puh-Pat. Call me puh-Pat."

  He sounded like a tugboat.

  I couldn't figure whether Pat was shook up because Helen was deliberately pouring herself all over him, or because he was one of those guys Velda talked about, afraid he couldn't handle what was on offer.

  When the two girls left to go to the powder room, I just sat there and laughed at the big chump, who was still trying to get down the last of his steak, and said, "There's a slice of cheesecake available, buddy, if you're up for dessert."

  "Mike ... you have no shame, no class, no sympathy...."

  "No shit." I grinned, and looked off into nowhere. I molded the air with a hand. In the background a jazz piano seemed designed to accompany my words. "Try to imagine that work of art making you coffee in the morning, wrapped up in a little shortie terrycloth robe that keeps falling open...."

  "Show respect. She's a nice woman."

  "Very."

  "I find her most intelligent."

  "I'm sure she was impressed with your dinner-table conversation, too, old buddy. All five words."

  He pushed his plate aside. "Is that all you think about?"

  "What?"

  "Sex."

  "Sure. I admit it. What're you saving it up for? Waiting for the sperm bank to raise its rates? Civil-service pay just doesn't cut it, huh?"

  He gave me a disgusted look, then let a smile twist the corner of his mouth. "Boy, you sure can back a guy into a corner."

  I nodded toward Helen's empty chair. "With those babies prodding you, is there a better place to be?"

  "You ought to know, you lecherous bastard," he said.

  "Not lecherous," I said, and raised a teacherly finger. "It's just that I have my own means of interrogating certain suspects of the female persuasion. Too bad the department regulations don't give you boys a little more leeway."

  Pat shook his head at me. "You're lucky you went private. You'd never have made it, over the long haul, as a real cop."

  "Maybe not," I said, and sipped coffee. "But I bet I could have tracked down a mugger who carves up his victims, by now."

  It was his turn to grin. "Don't look so smug, you slob—we did find him."

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah. Those hookers returned to their favorite street corner, finally, and we ran 'em in and turned the screws, and two of 'em made a positive identification."

  "How about that?" I fired up a Lucky with my Zippo. Snapped it shut. "Tell me about your suspect, Uncle Patrick."

  The captain of Homicide waggled his own lecturing finger at me. "He's more than just a suspect. He's a middle-aged drifter who's been in the city the past two years. Wanted in Oklahoma on a burglary charge, and Texas had a warrant out on him for manslaughter. We picked him up dead drunk in a hotel room uptown, along with a whore who had just lifted his roll."

  "How much did he have on him?"

  "A little under three hundred bucks."

  "From the Frazer punk?"

  "So he admits."

  I blew a smoke ring. "Does he also admit stabbing the guy?"

  Pat drank water. Didn't look at me. "No."

  "Did you find the knife?"

  "Hell, no! That would've gone down a gutter. You know that."

  "No, I don't, not if stabbing his marks after robbing 'em is this guy's M.O."

  "Mike, he's the guy."

  "He may be the guy who rolled Frazer. But is he the guy who stuck him?"

  Pat seemed ready to take me on again.

  So I held up a palm. "Okay. All right. Then let's go back to square one—what would Frazer want to mug me for? A guy like that, with sharp clothes and lots of bread coming in?"

  "Maybe he didn't like your ugly face," Pat said, but he had an odd expression, so I knew there was more.

  I just stared at him till he gave it to me.

  He said, "The Chicago police sent through Frazer's rap sheet on request. He had six mugging arrests before he was twenty, one conviction for an eight-month stretch, then he dropped out of sight. Mugging seemed to be his game."

  "Swell, but he wasn't trying to mug me."

  "Mike..."

  "It was a knife attack, Pat, plain and simple. Or maybe not so simple. Anyway, it was going to be a hit-and-run deal, and if he hadn't been a little sloppy about his approach, you'd be renting a tux to bury the corpse about now. One jab through the heart from the rear, and I wouldn't have been able to clear my rod. You stagger a couple of seconds, hit the pavement like a tired drunk, and the killer walks away."

  "You're sticking to that, huh?"

  "This thing smells of orchestration. Frazer is told to shiv me, during what seems to be a mugging, and whoever sent him knew that if his boy got exposed, you smart cops would soon learn that Russell Frazer had mugging in his rap sheet."

  "That's far-fetched even for you," he said.

  A waitress refilled my coffee. Pat was still working on his first cup.

  "Since I'm on the sidelines on this thing," I said, stirring in cream and sugar, "I wonder if you could do me a favor."

  "I'm listening."

  "That kid, Billy Blue—what if Brix and those other punks targeted him for more than just turning them down when they wanted him to supply them with pilfered drugs?"

  He frowned. "Such as what?"

  "Not sure. These players are all bumping into each other at odd angles. I think we're missing something. Maybe the kid witnessed something at the hospital he shouldn't have."

  "Suppose he did."

  "Then he'd still be a target. How about assigning some men to keep an eye on him—stake out where he lives. He's staying with his grandparents, I understand."

  "Yeah, I know. They have an apartment over a cigar store." He thought it over. "You may have a point. I'll put some men on him. You want the boy notified?"

  I held up a hand in a stop motion. "No. Strictly sub rosa."

  He frowned at me some more. "You don't suspect Billy Blue of anything, do you?"

  "No." I let smoke out my nostrils, and grinned. "But we've been surprised before."

  He smirked and nodded. "That we have. That we have."

  "By the way, Pat," I said, as if casually shifting the subject, "the narcos keeping tabs on the Snowbird?"

  He didn't say anything, but the lines deepened around his eyes.

  "How about my old pal Junior?" I asked amiably. "You know ... Junior Evello?"

  Through a clenched mouth, Pat said, "Man, I should have seen it coming. I should have remembered you're nothing but a package of pure trouble, because you can't let things alone that are none of your damn business."

  He had forgotten about the big blonde and the jumps in his hands were long gone. He was nothing but a calm, inscrutable cop now, with eyes of solid gray ice. "You faked me out, Mike. You'
ve really learned to act."

  I shrugged. "We're off-Broadway, aren't we?"

  "Sidelines my ass. You damn near had me believing you were out of this. That the old days were gone."

  "They are," I said. "We're starting fresh. Now ... how about those two solid citizens, Jay Wren and Junior Evello? What's new with them?"

  "Go screw yourself. I don't work narco detail. And, anyway, how do you even know the Snowbird? That's way off your beat."

  "Don't stall me, Pat. Why do I think if you goose the Snowbird, Evello will jump? And vice versa?" I shrugged, sipped coffee, then asked, "Besides, what's the harm? It's only a question. After-dinner conversation..."

  He crumpled his napkin and tossed it on the table. "Jay Wren's in Miami nursing a broken leg. We've kept in touch with the PD down there, but there've been no beefs reported. The Snowbird sits in the sun by a swimming pool, with some dame for a companion, makes no contacts, and doesn't seem to be doing anything more than recuperating." He paused, and added, "Why the interest in somebody you don't even know?"

  "Maybe I want to widen my circle of friends. Maybe some of my old buddies don't appreciate me."

  "Maybe you should tell me what you're getting at...."

  I shrugged. "I gather there's a short supply of junk on the streets in the area the Snowbird services."

  Pat's small grin was pleased and tight—I knew its meaning: he loved it when he knew more than I did.

  "I told you before," he said. "Stuff's short on the street, buddy. Like the man said, things are tough all over."

  I didn't want to push him, so I took a drag on the butt and watched the smoke drift toward the ceiling.

  Somehow, my silence prodded him.

  Softly he said, "You may have a low opinion of real law enforcement, Mike, but that's how the supply got choked—solid police work. The Treasury Department nailed four heavy shipments, the Border Patrol got two, and when they tried an airdrop into Arizona, the state police were there to intercept it. If that kind of heat stays on, there's going to be a lot of hurting junkies between here and L.A."

  "Maybe," I reminded him, "but for every T-man in the field, the Syndicate has a hundred operators on the streets."

  Pat looked at me sideways. "But what are they selling? Dribs and drabs from here and there. To serve their public, the Syndicate needs huge quantities—the stuff has got to come in in bulk."

  "What's with that big load you told me about," I said, "that's stashed in Europe somewhere?"

  His shrug was eloquent, but he elaborated anyway: "Wouldn't tell you if I knew, pal. It could be a big fat lie, designed to keep the cops over there too busy chasing a myth to spot other, smaller, real traffic ... or it could be a fact."

  I frowned at him. "You didn't sound so uncertain when you first mentioned this super shipment."

  "Myth or fact," he said with a shrug, "a couple hundred pounds of pure H has to be taken seriously. Call it a de facto fact."

  "Cute," I said, and took a last drag on the butt and snubbed it out in my saucer. "Then why hasn't anybody come up with anything? You were bragging about solid police work a minute ago."

  "Let's put it this way," Pat said. "Some countries don't consider illegal narcotics traffic in the same light we do—especially those countries where the profit can filter up into political hands. And some have outlets for handling the stuff legally."

  "And our agencies haven't got a lead, and are getting ready to cover their asses with the myth angle."

  Pat batted the air with his palms. "Hey, I don't have access to what's on the mind of the federal boys."

  I studied him. "Myth or fact, chum—what's your opinion?"

  "Don't have one."

  "Sure you do. I can see you thinking, and because you're an idiot, it's not about getting into Helen DiVay's panties."

  Though I doubted she was wearing any.

  "All I'm thinking," Pat said defensively, "is how the hell the Syndicate figures they can get that much stuff in at one time. Security might be less than ideal, but it's tight enough that they couldn't take the chance of that kind of loss ... and the way the demand is, they can't afford to waste the market value, trying to dribble it in. They seem to have got something going for them, some kind of smuggling system ... but even the federal experts can't figure it out."

  My tone was innocent but my expression wasn't: "Maybe I ought to ask Junior Evello. He used to be top man in the dope racket before he retired into an advisory capacity. Make that, supposedly retired."

  He gave me that flat look of his. "You'll live longer, Mike, if you keep your hands on your pecker and out of my business."

  I spotted the girls coming back, giggling and talking, and grinned at Pat. "You've been a bachelor too long, kid—it's showing in your table patter. These days a guy doesn't have to hold his own—there's always somebody else to play with it for you."

  "Play with what?" Helen DiVay smiled broadly.

  Pat got red and started to stammer again.

  Helen laughed and said to Velda, "Isn't that sweet, a great big man like Captain Chambers ... blushing."

  Maybe Pat wasn't going to have the fun evening that was his for the asking, but I was having a blast, watching the "great big man" squirm.

  I was going over the log of incoming calls when Velda came out of her kitchen carrying a coffee tray and, after she caught the way I was gaping at her, she gave me a typical feminine smirk of satisfaction.

  She had nothing on but a cobwebby-thin yellow robe that must have come out of a Times Square fetish shop, and with that beautiful dark hair she was a study in contrasts that could give a dying man the will to live.

  All I could do was drop the book and ease back into the end of the sofa and gawk like a kid at a carnival hootch show.

  "Will you either get naked or get dressed?" I asked her. "I can stand you either way, but not in between."

  She put the tray down on the coffee table, still smirking. "Knowing your penchant for ripping the clothes off women, I deliberately bought something inexpensive."

  "My ass. You got two weeks' salary tied up in that thing."

  Velda leaned over and filled the cups and handed me one, her eyebrow raised in mock disdain, while her breasts under that filmy stuff swayed like tempting fruit. "What a romantic you are ... and you make snide remarks about Pat's bachelorhood."

  "Sure. To him a bed is something you sleep in."

  When she sat down next to me, she leaned over and kissed me on the neck. "Oh, and what is it to you?"

  "A workbench," I said.

  She smiled prettily, then gave me a devious look. "Someday ... if you ever decide to terminate our somewhat nebulous engagement in a legal ceremony, you'll need to undergo a rigorous brainwashing."

  "Long engagements are recommended by the best shrinks to ensure lasting marriages, baby."

  "Ten years long?" The pout was starting now. "Don't you ever get tired of playing permanent houseguest?"

  "Nope. Kind of fun. No wife would be looking like you do right now."

  The pout relaxed into a smile, but her dark eyes were still devious. "Oh, but you're wrong. I would. I guarantee you I would."

  She kissed me again, and I felt that familiar surge of warmth. "Sometimes, Mike, I wish I'd never told you I'd wait for you.... That you could sow your wild oats and I'd still be here, waiting."

  "Who says I'm sowing any wild oats?"

  "Shut up," she said, and kissed me again.

  Then she tensed her expression, a pretend-mad I knew so well. "What I ought to do is cut you off—no more fun and games until you get serious...."

  I put her hand somewhere. "That's serious, isn't it?"

  We necked a while, then she took my chin in her hand and said, "But you bring something home to me, Mike, it better be flowers. I don't take drugs and I include penicillin."

  "I hear you, honey...."

  I sipped and supped on those lush, ripe lips for a while.

  Lazily, her dark eyes hooded, she said, "Sometimes I
think I'll just go ahead and have a baby."

  I drew away, grimace-grinned at her, put the half-empty cup back on the tray, and checked my watch. "Right. Yeah, well, I think I better blow this coop right now. I'm beat."

  Velda seemed half amused, half hurt, then gave me a nudge with her elbow. "Easy, my love. I was only kidding. When you're ready, we'll do this thing. Do it right. Only for now, let's sort of keep the idea in mind, okay? A little Mike or a little Velda?"

  "Deal. As long as it's an idea."

  I didn't say it, but it wasn't a bad idea at that. Sowing wild oats was one thing—coming home to a feast like her every night was another.

  And it must have shown on my face, because she got a little misty-eyed for a second before she turned her attention back to her coffee.

  When we had seconds, Velda said, "I cleared out all the details at the office."

  "Yeah?"

  "The Jordan Agency is going to handle the Redding contract, and Bud Tiller said he'd cover the Murphy-Baine deal for you. No charge. You just owe him one, now."

  What was this about?

  "The rest of the business," she said, "I can handle myself. The bills are paid, and you have about eight thousand in the bank, if you have to do any check writing. So you're free to do this thing, and anyway, I know I can't stop you."

  For one minute I was all set to climb her frame for being so damn presumptuous ... then the years went by in microsecond flashes, and I remembered the bullet scar on her back and the other one across her palm, and the irritation ebbed away into cold relief and I said, "Thanks, kitten."

  "You were going to do it anyway, Mike," she said with a shrug. Her breasts rose and fell under the sheer yellow and keeping my eyes off them was hardly worth the effort. She was saying, "It works better if you don't have to worry about other things."

  "Honey, you're a pisser," I said.

  "Like I said ... ever the romantic..."

  "An even bigger pisser than Pat." I shook my head. "All I do is nudge around the edges of something that may not even be there, just to relieve the monotony ... and you two get ready for a war."

  Velda twisted around on the sofa, drawing her knees up under her. "So go ahead and nudge. Just keep your head down, your tail covered, and send back a signal if you need help at the front."