Me, Hood!

by Mickey Spillane

  When she stopped it was too soon and she said, “I never kissed a hood before, either.” She touched my mouth with a finger. “Satisfied now?”

  “No,” I said, and I grinned.

  “You’re cool, big boy, real big and ugly and cool, man.”

  “That’s not VP talk, sugar.”

  “I thought maybe you’d understand it better,” she mocked.

  “Talk punk language then,” I said.

  For a moment she was serious. “You’re no punk. I’ve known punks before.”

  “Oh?”

  “I could get to like you, big man. But never a punk.”

  The cab had stopped. I said, “We’re here.”

  “Will I see you again?” Her eyes wanted me to say yes.

  “If you say please.”

  She smiled and touched my mouth with her finger again. “Please.”

  “I’ll call you.”

  “I’ll be waiting. Will you be long?”

  “When I find a guy named Lodo.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Sure.”

  She got out and walked away. Her legs were long and her hips wide and with each stride her thighs would play against the fabric of her dress and it was almost as if she had nothing on at all.

  I had the cab take me back to DiNuccio’s. Art wasn’t there, but Joe told me he had called my place a couple times without any luck, then went out.

  I grabbed a quick beer, waved to Joe and went out to the corner hoping to catch a crosstown cab.

  That was when I knew I had picked up a tail.

  He was a small guy in a plastic raincoat with a folded paper sticking up out of the pocket. He hadn’t been on the ball and when he first spotted me, his involuntary start tagged him. To make sure, I hesitated on the corner, then turned and walked west. He stayed with me, checking over his shoulder for a cab.

  When one came, he caught it, rode to the corner and stopped. I knew he was waiting for me to get the next one and when I passed him he’d hang on. It would’ve been fun if I had more time. Instead, I turned, went back to the corner and picked up a hack just letting out a passenger. The Brooks Brothers Boys were determined to get their progress report the hard way.

  The drizzle turned into a hard rain before I got to the apartment. The street was empty and even Pete-the-Dog was gone to hawk his papers around the bars. I paid off the driver, got my key out and ran for the entrance. I went inside, flipped the light on and knew I had it.

  The two sitting there had their rods out smashing slugs over my head and swearing at the dive I had made to one side which put one guy in the way of the other. I rolled once behind a chair, kicked it at them and saw the top rip off it from a slug, then I had my own gun out and cocked and the chubby little guy in front caught a fat .45 dead in the chest. The other one ran for the door and I got him through both knees and he lay there screaming his lungs out until I cracked him across the mouth with the muzzle of the automatic.

  He kept saying over and over again. “Marone, marone!”

  Behind me the other one coughed once, then was still.

  I said, “It doesn’t really hurt yet. Give it a couple hours.”

  He pulled his hands away from his knees, looked at the blood and tried to reach for the rod he had dropped. I kicked it out of the way. His eyes were terrible things trying to kill me all by themselves.

  I raised the .45 and pointed it at his gut. “Who sent you, bud?”

  “Go…”

  “Watch it. I’m no sweet law-abiding citizen. Knocking you off wouldn’t be a bit hard. I even got a license for my rod. Figure it out quick, buddy, because you haven’t got much time left at all.”

  He looked at his hands again and gagged, then fell over on his side. “I need a doctor…”

  “You’ll need an undertaker more.”

  “Look…”

  “Talk.” My hand started to go white around the butt.

  “Ryan… it was orders… it was…” Somehow he knew it was coming. He threw one wild look around before the blast from the doorway caught him. I got out of the line before it could happen to me, then the lights went out and the door slammed shut.

  I might have made it at that, but the dead guy in the doorway tripped me and I went down. When I threw the main fuse lever back in place and got outside, there was nobody on the street at all.

  The shadows across the street moved a little bit and I went over. Razztazz, the crippled guy, was hunkered back in his basement doorway his shoulders twitching. I said, “You see him, Razz?”

  “Went to the corner, Ryan. Soon’s you went in a car was standing by. Picked him up.”

  “You make any of them?”

  “One I knew.”

  “Who?”

  “Lardbucket Pearson, the fat guy.”

  “How’d you know him? You can’t see faces from across here now.”

  “Not by that. It was his big butt and the way he walked. Cop shot him in the behind once. He ain’t never walked right since.”

  “I don’t know him, Razz.”

  “Part of the Jersey crowd where I come from. Always was in the rackets around the docks.” He wiped his hand across his face. “They… still there?”

  “Yeah. Dead.”

  “Couldn’t hear anything from here at all. The fuzz coming along?”

  “Let me work it out. Keep it quiet.”

  “You know me, Ryan.”

  I stuck a folded bill into his pocket and slapped his shoulder. He grinned and nodded and I went back into the rain.

  Neither one of the punks had anything on them at all. No wallets, no labels, no papers of any kind. In their own way they were farsighted pros—but they’d finally walked into the inevitable occupational hazard.

  I reloaded the .45, threw a handful of shells in my pocket and looked at them. Things were beginning to look up. It takes a while, but the pattern gets set and starts to look like something. When I had the idea rounded out, I flicked off the light and went out to the vestibule. The rain had made an effective muffler for the sound. There were no curious faces in the windows… no movement anywhere, and no sounds of sirens hanging in the air.

  At the corner I hung back in the folds of darkness that draped the building there. Traffic was light, nothing more than a few occupied cabs moving with the lights. Nobody was on the sidewalks.

  For five minutes I stayed there, watching, then across the street somebody hacked and vomited then painfully unfolded from being a doorway bundle to one of the bums you see around occasionally. He edged toward Second Ave., leaning against the building, then got on his own and wobbled off the curb and started across the street.

  Down the block a car pulled away from the curb, flicked on its lights so the beams spotlighted the guy. Just as quickly it cut back to the curb and doused them.

  They were waiting for me. Behind me on First would be others.

  I was on a kill list now. Someplace along the line I had gotten big enough and important enough to be in somebody’s way. Someplace I did something, or I saw something, or I thought something. Someplace I had reached a conclusion that made me ready for the big bed.

  Mamie Huggins never bothered to lock her basement entrance. I took a chance on not being seen and went back and down through her basement. There was one low fence to cross and I came out the alley between Benny’s grocery and the building they were tearing down.

  When the block was empty, I crossed again and used the alley where Jamie Tohey kept his laundry pushcarts. I went all the way through, turned west when I reached the street and went back to Second again. Up near my own corner the car still waited. I grinned at it and walked south to Hymie’s drug store.

  After five tries I reached Art through his office and told him what had happened. Tension was evident in his voice when he asked me what I wanted.

  I said, “Get me what you can on a character named Lard-bucket Pearson. He’ll probably have Jersey connections.”

  “Sure. What about the stiffs in you
r apartment? You can’t let ’em lie there and it’s damn sure nobody’s going to just stumble over them.”

  “Why don’t you do it, Art?”

  “Do what?”

  “Make a call at my place and find them. Any one of the sheets would buy a news beat with photos for the bit.”

  “You crazy? Listen…”

  “You listen. Do it. Otherwise I’ll call a guy with the wire services. Give me twenty-four hours to think, then do it.”

  He breathed hard into the receiver before he answered me. “Okay, friend, but it’s blood money. You’ll have the cops screaming for your hair.”

  “That’ll make it unanimous.”

  “Where can I get in touch with you?”

  “Use the Naples Cafe on Second Street. They’ll take any messages.”

  I hung up, reached for the phone book and flipped through it until I found the only Carmen Smith and dialed the number. I let it ring a good while before I hung up feeling a little sour.

  The other number was Jake McGaffney. He wasn’t doing anything and said to come on up. It took me 20 minutes and my feet got soaking wet.

  He looked at my face and said, “Wha’ hoppen, boy?”

  I told him. He made himself a drink and opened me a beer.

  “This hitting my business, Ryan?”

  “I don’t think so. If that tap on Gonzales didn’t do it, then you’re clear enough.”

  “You’re trying to make a point someplace.”

  “Where was Gonzales collecting for you?”

  “Oh, light spots, mostly. He had a string of bars… let’s say about twenty, and a few other places in his own neighborhood.”

  “Did he work around the docks?”

  “Gonzales? Hell, no. I’m not doing any field work in that area. That’s uptown stuff.”

  “That’s what I thought. How much did he usually have on hand?”

  Jake shrugged and made a face. “He’d pay off two-three hundred every day, bring back five. Small time, but with plenty small guys working, we stay in business, y’know?”

  “Was he square?”

  “A dream to have working. Never clipped a dime, and that I know.” He sipped at his drink. “What’s all this traffic with Gonzales, Ryan?”

  “He had a dream too… of him and his broad taking a trip around the world, really living it up.”

  “Him? On what? He never had anything.”

  “He had ten grand.”

  “Hell, you can’t even do Miami right on ten…” He stopped, put his drink down and stared at me. “Where’d he get ten grand?”

  “I think from a guy named Billings.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Neither do I. One other thing. Does the name Lodo mean anything to you?”

  Jake’s memory for names was too good for him to think long. He shook his head and there was nothing more to say.

  The cabs were slower now. I saw one stopped for the light, ran across the street and climbed in. The address I gave was Lucinda Gonzales’ and when I got out the street was quiet, like a sick dog.

  There was a light on under Lucinda’s door and when I knocked a chair scraped back.

  She smiled vacantly and I could smell the whiskey on her. I pushed the door shut behind me and said, “Lucinda? You still have your money?”

  She sat down heavily and brushed her hair back. “Si… but it is no good now without Juan.”

  “Lucinda… who has been here to see you?”

  “To see me? Oh… the neighbors. They come. From uptown my cousin, he comes.”

  “Any of Juan’s friends?”

  “They are peegs, señor.”

  “Do you know who they are?”

  “Sure.” She swayed and tried to get up. “They are off the boat.” She leaned hard against the table, balancing herself. “One is ’Fredo. Other is Spanish Tom. They are peegs, señor. They theenk I am listening to them and they hit me. Juan, he does not even care.”

  I circled the table and held on to her. “What boat, Lucinda?”

  She shrugged and reached for the bottle. Her unsteady hand knocked it over and she started to cry. I eased her back into the chair and let her pass out with her head pressed into her forearms.

  When I reached Times Square, I stopped, deciding which hotel to use. I settled on the Chessy on 49th and took off that way. Before I reached the end of the first block, I knew I had somebody behind me.

  He came up fast, passed me and said, “Ryan,” without turning his head. He crossed against the lights, hesitated, then jaywalked all the way to the east side of the street.

  When nobody could have made any connection I crossed over myself, went down to 47th and turned the corner leisurely. Then I stopped and flattened against the wall.

  Nothing. I gave it another two minutes before I went to where Diego Flores was waiting for me in the shadows.

  He was more scared than nervous and his beady little eyes kept poking into the night on either side of him. Diego ran numbers for Sid Solomon on the Madison Avenue run and usually he was a pretty calm guy.

  I said, “Hi, Dago. What’s the fuss?”

  He tapped my chest with a forefinger. “Baby… you got rocks in your head. Big fat rocks. What you doin’ in town?”

  “Why leave, kid?”

  “Ain’t you heard it yet? Ryan baby, what happened to all those big ears you had?”

  “I’m listening now.”

  “Baby… whoever throws you down makes five grand. The world’s out on you.”

  “Who says, Dago?”

  “None of our bunch, Baby. This one’s comin’ in the hard way. It’s all over town. First thing, the nose candy kids’ll be tryin’ for the tap. You got marked poison somehow and unless you blow out you’re dead.”

  “Where’s it come from?”

  “Picked it up at Bimmy’s. You know Stan Etching?” I nodded and he went on. “Him and that nutty brother of his was talkin’ about it. Since they knocked off Fletcher over in Canarsie they’re big stuff. Anyway, they’re working now and you’re their job. Everybody’s gonna be trying for you, baby.”

  “Why not you, Dago?”

  “Ah, baby, come off it. You favored me up plenty times when I had troubles.”

  “How hot is it?”

  “You better not go anyplace you’re known. They even got the hotels spotted. You’re a big one.”

  “Okay, kid, thanks. Shove off before you get tied in to me.”

  He glanced around again and licked his lips. “Baby… be careful, will ya? I can smell this stink. It’s from way up, ya know? Ya can tell, somethin’s burning in this town.”

  “Yeah.”

  When he walked off, I gave him five minutes and cruised past the Chessy. I spotted Manny Golden in the foyer and his partner Willis Holmes across the street talking to a cab driver outside the Ployden House. Both were ex-cops busted out in the graft scandal in ’49. Now they were hoods. Not cheap ones, either. They still held a few things over important precinct heads and could move around pretty good when they wanted to.

  Just to be sure I made a few of the other pads off Broadway and when I saw Mario Sen, I knew just how hot I was. Mario’s specialty was big kills and he didn’t operate for under 10 grand per. That is, outside his regular job.

  Mario was a tap man for the Mafia.

  Mario didn’t seem to have any place to go specially so I helped him out. I stuck my gun in his back and steered him to the men’s room in the back of the lobby.

  He was real embarrassed.

  I let him turn around and have a good look at me and said, “You got yourself a big one this time, buddy.” Then I smashed him across the face with the rod and when he went down choking noisily, I whipped the gun across his skull until he stopped.

  He was going to be a sick hood. Sicker when his boss found out.

  The envelope held an even grand in fifties. It fitted my pocket nicely. There was nothing new about the rest of the contents. They were photos
of me. Police photos. Something Golden or Holmes dug up, probably. I flushed them down the toilet, frisked Mario and lifted another $400 from his poke and added it to my pile.

  It was turning out to be a good evening.

  I grabbed a cab outside, went to 23rd St., walked crosstown two blocks and took another one back. The third one let me out on the corner of Carmen Smith’s block.

  I told the officious little man at the desk I wished to see Miss Smith and that it was important enough that he should call and waken her. He didn’t believe me at first, then I smiled and he believed me.

  Carmen answered the house phone, asked to speak to me and when I said hello, told me to come right up. The little man was still nervous so I put her on and let her tell him it was okay. He clacked his teeth and escorted me to the elevator and showed me which button to push. I said thanks and pushed it.

  She was waiting in the tiny foyer that separated her apartment from the elevator. She said, “Well, hello! And if you don’t mind the obvious, what brings you here?”

  I grinned at her. “I need a place to sleep.”

  “Oh,” she said, and opened the door wide. “Come on in.”

  She had on a tailored, double-breasted housecoat that fitted without a fold or a crease and when she walked, the static of her body against the cloth made it cling so that you knew she slept cool and naked and inviting.

  Like beautiful girls should be, she was unruffled from sleep, still bearing the flush of lipstick. She walked ahead of me into the living room and she was tall even without shoes. When she turned on the light on the end table, there was a momentary silhouette that made me stop and look around quickly, merely sensing the expensive appointments of the place rather than appreciating them.

  Carmen looked at me quizzically a moment. Then she knew. She smiled gently and waved me to a chair. She brought a drink without a word, handed it to me and sat down.

  Then, very deliberately, she grinned and crossed her legs.

  I could have smacked her in the mouth.

  She said, “Okay, hood, what do you want from me?” Then her grin turned into a small laugh that made the mood easier.

  “Kid, you can get in real trouble doing that.”