Me, Hood!

by Mickey Spillane

  Carmen’s eyes were clear now. While I was talking she had made up her mind. She said, “Will you let me be a crazy tomato, Irish?”

  “Kitten…”

  “You don’t have to love me back at all,” she said.

  I tried hard to keep it inside. I didn’t want to let it out, but it wasn’t the kind of thing you can squash into pieces and forget. “That’s the bad part, kid,” I told her. “You see… I do.”

  She was there in my arms again, softly at first and hungry-mouthed again. Her fingers were velvet cat claws, kneading me gently, searching and finding. When I touched her, things seemed to melt away until there was only the warmth of flesh and a giddy sensation of being overpowered by a runaway emotion. As I lay there, time ceased to exist and as she came down on top of me she murmured little things only the mind heard and it was different. So very different.

  Morning was a soft light that bathed us both, and we got up smiling, yet saying nothing. Words were no good any more. I watched her shower and dress. All the naked, all the clothed beauty of her belonged to me and nobody could take it away.

  Then the luxury of sleep-drugged morning was over and I knew how stupid it was and the vomit sour taste of cold hate for all the things that had happened to me was in my mouth.

  I dressed quickly and followed her into the kitchen. She had coffee ready and handed me a cup, knowing by my face that something was wrong. She didn’t ask. She waited until I was ready. I said, “I had a friend who was killed last night. I know how, I know why and I know who, but I don’t know what the killer’s face is like.”

  “Can I help somehow?”

  “You can but I won’t ask you. The gamble is too big.”

  “You forgot, Irish?”

  “What?”

  “I am a gambler.”

  “That kill is going to be laid at my feet and there isn’t a chance in the world for me to cut out.”

  “The police…”

  “Can be stalled a while. They can be stymied, but only for a while. When they concentrate all the resources of their system, they can do anything.”

  “You think they will?”

  “They have to, baby. Now it’s a newshawk who’s dead and the papers will hammer the brass silly. They have to shake that heat and the only way is to find me.”

  “But first we gamble.”

  I looked at her hard. She wasn’t kidding. I said, “Okay, baby, it’ll be you and me. We’ll give it a try. Maybe we can make the good parts come out.”

  “What will we do?”

  “Tonight’s Saturday night, kid. We’re going dancing.” A puzzled frown creased her forehead. “You’ll need a costume for the act, sugar. Where we’ll be you’ll want the west side trollop look. Think you can make it?”

  She nodded, the frown deepening.

  “A missing link was killed last night,” I continued. “He had a dance ticket in his pocket. Chances are his partner had one too. On top of which, if he knows his buddy’s dead, he’ll want to be with a crowd. It’s easy to die alone.”

  “This one… he can clear you?”

  I grinned at that one. “Not him. But this bird can supply a lot of answers.”

  “Then what can I do?”

  “First you can go out and buy some clothes. Cheap and flashy. Get perfume and accessories to match and if you can get the stuff secondhand, do that. Guys alone at those jumps can’t move around the way a couple can and locating this guy will be easier with two of us asking questions.”

  I took her shoulders and looked into her eyes. “Still want to try it?”

  She grinned impishly, made like she was going to give me a tiny kiss, then stuck her tongue in my mouth. Before my hands could tighten on her she pulled away and went to the door.

  “You’ll stay here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She opened her purse, took out a key and tossed it to me. “If you come in the back way you can by-pass the clerk.” She blew a kiss and was gone.

  I got up, yanked my coat on and shoved the .45 under my belt. I went out the back way and headed for the old brownstone. The sun died before I reached Sixth and the air had a cold, clammy touch to it. I stopped at a candy store and had a Coke, then another, trying to think the pieces together.

  A pattern was there, all right. Crude and irregular, but it had a purpose.

  Outside it began to rain again.

  A beat cop sauntered by and looked in, but I was in the shadows and my face didn’t mean a thing to him. When he was gone, I picked up my change and walked out, my collar up around my neck, the hatbrim screening my face.

  I was almost at Lexington when they had me. It worked real easy, the faint nudge of a gun barrel in a hand with a paper around it and that was all there was to it.

  I looked around and Stan Etching was smiling at me, the scar on his chin pulling his mouth out of shape. He said, “They told me you were a tough guy, Ryan.” He stepped around in front of me, lifted out the gun and dropped it in his raincoat pocket.

  His smile was nervous and I knew what he was thinking. It was almost too easy. I said, “Now what?”

  “You’ll see. My brother Stash saw me grab you, feller. He’ll be here with the car in a minute. Maybe you’d like it better to run or something.”

  I grinned and his eyes got nervous along with his mouth. “I’ll wait,” I said.

  The car was a three-year-old Caddie sedan with Jersey plates. It pulled up noiselessly and Stan opened the back door. I got in and he sat on my right, his gun pointed at my belly.

  When we pulled away from the curb Stash turned the radio up and said, “How’d he take it?”

  “Like pie. How else?” He poked me with the gun and grinned. “You’re a chump, Ryan. You shoulda hid out. Me, I knew you’d come back though. Six of us had your dump staked out, but I even knew which way you’d come.”

  “This is the old Chicago touch you’re giving it,” I said. “One way ride and all that crap.”

  He laughed. “Sure. Glad you don’t feel bad about it. Hey Stash, this guy’s all right.” The gun bumped me again. “You know, Ryan, I’m gonna burn you out quick. No fooling around. You give me no trouble. I give you no trouble.”

  I told him thanks and leaned back in the seat and watched Stash approach the Lincoln Tunnel. Traffic was heavy.

  Stan looked across at me and grinned again, turning a little to point the rod square at me. I took a deep breath of disgust, leaned back further into the cushions and completely relaxed.

  Then I moved my hand before he could pull the trigger, slammed back the slide on the automatic so it couldn’t fire, twisted it so his finger broke and while he was still screaming with surprise and pain, shoved the muzzle against his gut and pulled the trigger.

  Up front Stash let out a crazy startled yell and tried to look back, but there wasn’t a thing he could do, not a damn, stinking thing. I got my .45 back from Stan, cocked it and let Stan feel the big “O” of the mouth of it against his neck. His head jerked like a spastic’s and he kept making funny little noises.

  I said, “When we get out, I’ll tell you where to go. Don’t do anything silly.”

  He didn’t. He stayed calmly hysterical and when we reached the scrap iron works in Secaucus, we stopped and I let him get in the back. The shock was wearing off and Stan’s face was white with pain and fear. He kept asking for a doctor, but I shook my head.

  Stash said, “What’cha gonna do?”

  “It depends on you. I want to know about the word. Who put it out?”

  Stash looked hopelessly at his brother. Stan said, “… doctor.”

  “Not yet. Maybe when you talk a little.”

  It began to dawn on Stan gradually. I wasn’t kidding. He shook his head feebly. “I told ya. Nothin’. You know… how them things are.”

  I raised the gun again and watched his eyes. He couldn’t even speak, but he was telling it straight. I said, “Who else is around my place and where?”

  “Golden… and Holm
es. They’re on the south end. Lou Steckler, he’s… across in… in the gimp’s house.”

  My hand got tight on the gun. “What’d they do to Razztazz?”

  “Geeze… I dunno… I…”

  “Who else? Dammit, talk fast!”

  “Mario… he’s in your dump.”

  “No fuzz?”

  “Nobody. They… they got pulled off. Hymie the Goose, he’s covering trains and all with his bunch. Babcock and… the Greek… they… Jersey. They…”

  He fainted then. I gave him five minutes and let him come around. He started to retch and vomited all down his chest. Stash was still hysterical and shook all over.

  I said, “What else, Stan?”

  He shook his head.

  There wasn’t any more and I knew it. I told Stash to get out of the car and walk around the side. I had him pull his brother out and they stood there like animals watching me. I said, “Whenever and wherever I see you again, you catch one between the antlers, buddies. I don’t think I’ll have to worry about it because somebody else will get to you first like with them Elizabeth hoods. Now beat it.”

  Stan’s eyes went wide. “Jeez… ain’t you even gonna call a doc? Ain’t you…”

  “They were right when they said I was a tough guy.”

  “Ryan… Ryan…”

  I started the car up. “Drop dead,” I told him.

  I took the car back through the tunnel and parked it on a cross street. When I wiped the wheel, door handles and sills off I climbed out and left it there. I found a phone, dialed the number I wanted and said, “Big Man?”

  “Ryan…”

  “Okay, Big Man, just listen for once. Where can we meet?”

  “It’s no good.”

  “Brother, I’m going to blow the whistle if you don’t square off.”

  He paused. He didn’t muffle the phone to talk to anyone or anything. He just sat there a minute, then: “We’ll see you.”

  “Just you, friend.”

  “Where?”

  “The Naples Cafe. It’s on…”

  “I know.”

  “Okay, then. Have a squad standing by a phone, but first you come alone. Quick.”

  He hung up without answering. I hopped a cab to the Naples and stood across the street. In 10 minutes another cab came along and the big man got out. He walked inside and when I was fairly certain nobody else was around, I crossed over and went inside. He was sitting there at a table with a cup of coffee in front of him, waiting.

  I said, “It’s not so snotty like the first time, is it?”

  His face was hard. “Let’s hear it, Ryan.”

  For some reason I wasn’t edgy any more. I put my face in my hands and rubbed hard, then leaned on the table and stared at him. “Art Shay was killed,” I said.

  He nodded again. “We know. The police think you did it.”

  “Who found him?”

  “Young kid upstairs who used his typewriter. Trying to be a free-lance writer. He’s clean.”

  “So am I. No alibi. No proof. I’m just saying.”

  He tried one on me for size. “Spanish Tom showed up.”

  “Yeah, dead.”

  “You get around. We squelched the story.”

  “I was there right after it happened.”

  His eyes slitted a little bit. “What did you know about him?”

  “Nothing, but I’ll damn soon find out.”

  “How?”

  “I’m pretty sure I know where his partner will be tonight.”

  “You want to tell me?”

  “Not me, Big Man. I’m going all the way on this party.”

  “All right, Ryan, what did you want to call this… this meeting for?”

  I sat back and sucked in my breath. “I want some answers. I want them straight and to the point. I have a funny feeling that I’ve touched something someplace and I’m close to what I want. I never did like any part of this business, but I’m in it all the way and if I want to stay alive and you want to get your answers, check me off with the truth.”

  He made a short gesture with his hand. “Go ahead.”

  “Was I suckered into this thing with big talk or because I was suspect?”

  For a moment he looked at my face, then made his decision. “A little of both. You were suspect because you were brought into it by Billings. We had to grasp at straws no matter how small.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why. Whatever Billings had was an international affair. The underworld of two continents was breaking out the war drums. We knew something was developing but we didn’t know why, where or how.”

  “And how far are you now?”

  The smile he gave me was cold. “In our own way we have made progress.” I waited and smiled back, just as cold. If he wanted anything, then he couldn’t afford to stop. He knew it and said, “Coincidence is the killer of men.”

  “It’s late for philosophy.”

  “Yes, it is. We know something about Spanish Tom and Lias. We can guess at what happened.”

  I swung at a wild one. “They overheard something they shouldn’t’ve.”

  The swing connected and big man squinted at me. He nodded, then went on. “A dock watchman remembered them drinking behind some bales of rags. It wasn’t too uncommon and it was easier letting them sleep it off than fight them off so he just forgot it.

  “Later he was pulled away by someone yelling for help in the water and it took about an hour to drag some dame out who apparently didn’t want to go. She stalled as long as she could. Our guess is that it was a feint to get the watchman off so a plant could be made on the Gastry.

  “We figure that sometime during the action, either Escalante or Lias overheard or saw what was going on and figured it for the usual smuggling bit and thought they could step into the play and make a fast buck for themselves.”

  “How could you confirm it?” I asked.

  “At that time Spanish customs, acting with Interpol, cracked down hard on all points. Nothing was getting out by the usual routes and four big outfits were broken up. Still, traffic had to get through and it’s well known that these operations all have emergency plans and in this case one went into effect. Whatever it was couldn’t stay in Lisbon without being uncovered sooner or later so the Gastry became the transporter.”

  “Who was involved on board?”

  “Nobody. These affairs are not of the moment. They’re set up far in advance. Undoubtedly the Gastry was fitted with a hiding place a long time ago to be used when necessary and without anyone on board being the wiser. When in the other port another operative would remove the shipment by preconceived plan. These groups are pretty smart. They’re big business. Even big government. We checked out every man on the Gastry so far and they’re clean. Lias and Escalante were there by coincidence. Some time we’ll strip the ship down and find out how it was done.”

  “That brings us to Billings.”

  The big man looked across the table at me, the question in his eyes a genuine one. “Do you know how, Irish?”

  “I think so.”

  “Are you going to wait to tell me?”

  “No.” I let all the pieces come together slowly and began to fit them in place. I said, “Through a language association the two met a guy named Juan Gonzales. They mentioned what they had and wanted a buyer. Juan got greedy all of a sudden, I think. He knew he could buy for peanuts and sell big. Maybe the two knew what a good going price was and kept it fairly high. Anyway, Juan knew the guy with the loot who was looking for a touch. Billings had ten grand of ready money. He let Juan make the buy, probably on a partnership basis. Later he killed him and had the buy for himself. Juan was a scared lad. Maybe he knew he was set up to be tapped off. Billings was scared too. The original owners wanted possession and were going after it. Billings couldn’t run fast enough. They caught him. He went out letting me hold the bag.”

  “Who was it, Irish? Who is Lodo?”

  “Art died because he was about to find ou
t. Lodo was the code name for the Mafia enforcer on the east coast here.”

  He didn’t say anything. It didn’t seem to register on him.

  “It’s important, isn’t it?” I said.

  “Maybe. The Mafia is a catchall term sometimes. It’s still big, but sometimes is the patsy for other big outfits. We have leads into most of the Mafia sections and haven’t heard of this angle yet.”

  “There’s always something new,” I told him. “Now… how new was what I told you?”

  “New enough. It’s going to change our operation.” He paused, stared at me and rubbed his chin with his fist. “You left out some parts, Irish.”

  “Like what?”

  “Why everybody wants you dead.”

  I let him see my teeth. “I wish I knew. When I do, I’ll have your Lodo, laddie.”

  “Maybe you’ve done enough right now.”

  He saw more teeth. “No no, daddy-o. Remember in the beginning… that big bundle of bills? I want them. I got plans.”

  “Care to talk about them?”

  “No. But I will give you something to look at. Whoever wants me has my place staked out. Some of those boys you’d like to have and you can get them if you try putting a decoy into my pad. It could prove real interesting.”

  “We know where they are. We even had it in mind. We were there when the Etchings picked you up this morning.”

  My mouth must have hung open. “Damn,” I said. “That was a ride. Why didn’t you move in?”

  He shrugged casually. “I didn’t call it because I knew you’d come out of the trap. By the way, where are they now?”

  I played it just as casually. “Someplace in Jersey and Stan Etching has a hole in his gut.”

  “Fine,” he said. “I’ll put it down as a verbal report.”

  He stood up and said, “Be careful tonight. If you need help, you can call.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Sure.”

  It was 3:35 and the day hadn’t changed yet. I waited in the doorway until a cab showed with his toplight on and I flagged him down. I rode up to where the Peter J. Haynes III Co., Inc. was out of sight 16 floors up and gave the business to the elevator boy. He looked at me, shrugged and sent the car up.

  The place was quiet. From some distant room came the soft clack of a typewriter and from another angle there was the muted monotone of someone on the telephone. An unmarked door beside the reception desk opened and the redhead came out, saw me and grinned all over. She was in tight green and knew what it was doing for her. “I could hope you came to see me but I know you didn’t.”