The Snake mh-8

by Mickey Spillane

  No fumbling motions. Each move was deliberate, inviting, provoking the thing we both wanted so badly. Very slowly there was a release from the clothes that covered us, each in his own way doing what he wanted to do. I kissed her neck, uncovered her shoulders, and ran my mouth along them. When my hands cradled her breasts and caressed them they quivered at my touch, nuzzling my palms for more like a hungry animal.

  Her stomach swelled gently against my fingers as I explored her, making her breath come in short, hard gasps. But even then there was no passiveness in her. She was as alive as I was, as demanding and as anxious. Her eyes told me of all the love she had for so long and the dreams she had had of its fulfillment.

  The fiery contact of living flesh against living flesh was almost too much to stand and we had gone too far to refuse the demand any longer. She was mine and I was hers and we had to belong to each other.

  But it didn't happen that way.

  The doorbell rang like some damn screaming banshee and the suddenness of it wiped the big now right out of existence. I swore under my breath, then grinned at Velda, who swore back the same words and grinned too.

  "When will it be, Mike?"

  "Someday, kitten."

  Before I could leave she grabbed my hand. "Make it happen."

  "I will. Go get your clothes on."

  The bell rang again, longer this time, and I heard Pat's voice calling out in the hall.

  I yelled, "All right, damn it, hold on a minute."

  He didn't take his finger off the bell until I had opened the door.

  "I was on the phone," I explained. "Come on in."

  There were four others with him, all men I had seen around the precinct. Two I knew from the old days and nodded to them. The others went through a handshake. "Velda here?"

  "Inside, why?"

  "She was down asking questions around the party headquarters. They want an explanation. Charlie Force is pushing everybody around on this."

  "So sit down and I'll explain."

  Velda came out as they were pulling up chairs, met the officers and perched on the arm of the couch next to me. I laid it out for Pat to save him the time of digging himself, supplied him with Velda's notes and the names of the persons she spoke to, and wrapped it up with Art's little speech to me.

  When Pat put his book away he said, "That's one reason why I'm here. We're going to see what we can get on Howie Green. These officers have been working on it already and have come up with something that might get us started."

  "Like what?"

  "The real estate agency Howie Green operated went into the hands of his partner after his death. The guy's name was Quincy Malek. About a year later he contracted T.B. and died in six months. Now from a nephew we gather that Malek was damn near broke when he kicked off. He had sold out everything and his family picked over what was left. The original records left over from his partnership with Green went into storage somewhere, either private or commercial.

  "Right now I have one bunch checking all the warehouses to see what they can dig up. The nephew does remember Malek asking that the records be kept so it's likely that they were. It wouldn't take up much room and a few hundred bucks would cover a storage bill on a small package for a long, long time.

  "Now that's a supposition, the commercial angle. Malek and Green had a few other properties still in existence and we'll go through them too. Until everything is checked out you can't tell what we'll find. Meanwhile, we're taking another angle. We're checking all property transactions carried out by Green within a certain time of his death. If you're right something will show up. We'll check every damn one of them if we have to."

  "You know how long it will take, Pat?"

  "That's what I want to know. You got a better idea in that screwy mind of yours?"

  "I don't know," I told him. "I'll have to think about it.

  "Oh no, not you, boy. If you got anything you have it now. You just aren't the prolonged-thinking type. You got something going this minute and I want to know what it is."

  "Stow it."

  "Like that?"

  "Like that. If it proves out I'll get it to you right away. The only reason I'm slamming it to you like this is because you're in deep enough as it is. Let me try my way. If there's trouble I'll take it alone."

  "Mike... I don't like it. We have a killer running loose."

  "Then let me be the target."

  His eyes drifted to Velda beside me.

  I said, "She'll stay safe. I went through that once before."

  "Watch her," Pat said softly, and I knew he was never going to change about the way he felt for her.

  "How many men you going to put through the files?"

  "As many as I can spare."

  "Suppose you get to it first?" I queried.

  He smiled crookedly. "Well, with your official status I imagine I can pass on a tip to you. Just make sure it works both ways."

  "Deal. How will we make contact?"

  "Keep in touch with my office. If anything looks promising I'll leave word."

  He got up to go and I reached for my coat. I picked the letter out and handed it to him. "It was in Sue's teddy bear. It puts a lock on Sim all the way. I don't advise showing it to the kid though."

  Pat read it through once, shook his head, and put it in his inside coat pocket. "You're a card, man, a real card. What kind of luck have you got?"

  "The best kind."

  "Don't pull that kind of stunt on Grebb, buddy."

  "You know me."

  "Sure I know you."

  I let them out and went back and stretched out on the couch. Velda made me some coffee and had one with me. I drank mine staring at the ceiling while I tried to visualize the picture from front to back. It was all there except the face. Blackie Conley's face. I knew I was going to see it soon. It was a feeling I had.

  "Mike... where are we going?"

  "You're thinking ahead of me, kiddo."

  "Sometimes I have to."

  "You're not going anyway."

  "Don't cut me out, Mike." Her hand touched the side of my jaw, then traced a tingling line down my chin.

  "Okay, doll."

  "Want to tell me what you have in your mind?"

  "A thought. The only thing that's wrong with the picture."

  "Oh? What?"

  "Why Blackie Conley would want to kill Sim."

  "Mike..." She was looking past me, deep in thought.

  "Since it was Torrence who engineered that robbery and not Conley as you first thought, perhaps Conley suspected what was going to come off. Supposing he out guessed Torrence. In that case, he would have had the whole bundle to himself. He would have made his own getaway plans and broken out at the right time. Don't forget, Conley was older than Sonny and he was no patsy. There was no love between the pair either. In fact, Conley might even have guessed who the brain was behind the whole thing and had reasons for revenge."

  "You might have something there, kitten."

  "The first try was for Sue," she went on. "That really was an indirect blow at Sim. The next try was for them both."

  "There's a possible flaw in your picture too, but I can supply an answer."

  She waited. I said, "It's hard to picture a guy in his eighties going up that trellis. He'd have to hire it done... but that's why the hoods are in town."

  "I don't know, Mike. Remember Bernarr Macfadden making his first parachute jump into the river when he was about the same age?"

  "Uh-huh. It could be done."

  "Then the answer is still to find Blackie Conley."

  "That's right."

  "How?"

  "If we can restore another old man's memory we might get the answer."

  "Sonny Motley?"

  Yup.

  "Tonight?"

  "Right now, sugar."

  Chapter Ten

  Finding Sonny Motley's apartment wasn't easy. Nobody in the gin mills knew where he lived; the cop on the beat around his store knew him but not his address
. I checked a the few newsstands that were open and they gave me a negative. It was at the last one that a hackie standing by heard me mention the name and said, "You mean that old con?"

  "Yeah, the one who has the shoe shop."

  "What's the matter?"

  "Nothing. We need some information about a missing person and he might be able to help us."

  "Ha, I'd like to see those old cons talk. They won't give nobody the right time."

  "You know where he lives?"

  "Sure. Took him home plenty of times. Hop in."

  We climbed in the cab, went angling up to a shoddy section that bordered on the edge of Harlem, and the cabbie pointed out the place. "He's downstairs there on this side. Probably in bed by now."

  "I'll get him up." I gave him a buck tip for his trouble and led the way down the sandstone steps to the iron gate at the bottom. I pushed the bell four or five times before a light came on inside.

  A voice said, "Yeah, whatta ya want?"

  "Sonny?"

  "Who're you?"

  "Mike Hammer."

  "Oh, fer..." He came to the door, opened it, and reached for the grilled gate that held us out. He had a faded old robe wrapped around his body and a scowl on his face as black as night. Then he saw Velda and the sky lightened. "Hey... how about that."

  "This is Velda, my secretary. Sonny Motley."

  "Hello, Sonny."

  "Well, don't just stand there. Come on in. Hot damn, I ain't had a broad in my joint since before I went to stir. Hot damn, this is great!" He slammed the gate, locked the door, and led the way down the hall. He pushed his door open and said, "Don't mind the place, huh? So it's a crummy place and who comes here? I'm a crummy old man anyway. Sure feel good to have a broad in the joint. Want a drink?"

  "I'll pass," I said.

  "Not me." He grinned. "A sexy broad comes in like her and I'm gonna have me a drink."

  "I thought you were all over the sex angle, Sonny."

  "Maybe inside I am, but my eyes don't know it. No, sir. You sit down and let me get dressed. Be right back."

  Sit down? We had a choice of box seats. Egg boxes or apple boxes. There was one old sofa that didn't look safe and a chair to match that had no cushion in it. The best bet was the arms of the chair so Velda took one side and I took the other.

  A choice between living here or a nice comfortable prison would be easy to make. But like the man said, at least he was free. Sonny was back in a minute, hitching suspenders over bony shoulders, a bottle of cheap booze in his hand.

  "You sure you don't want nothing?"

  "No, thanks."

  "No need to break out glasses then." He took a long pull from the bottle, ambled over to the couch, and sat down facing us. "Hot damn," he said, "those are the prettiest legs I ever saw."

  Velda shifted uncomfortably, but I said, "That's what I keep telling her."

  "You keep telling her, boy. They love to hear that kind of talk. Right, lady?"

  She laughed at the impish look on his face. "I guess we can stand it."

  "Damn right you can. Used to be a real killer with the ladies myself. All gone now though." He pulled at the bottle again. "'Cept for looking. Guess a man never tires of looking" He set the bottle down on the floor between his feet and leaned back, his eyes glowing. "Now, what can I do for you?"

  "I'm still asking questions, Sonny."

  He waved his hands expansively. "Go ahead. If I can answer 'em it's all free."

  "I can't get rid of the idea your old partner's still alive."

  His shoulders jerked with a silent laugh. "Can't, eh? Well, you better, because that no-good is gone. Dead. I don't know where or how, but he's dead."

  "Let's make like he isn't."

  "I got lots of time."

  "And I got news for you."

  "How's that?"

  "Sim Torrence is dead."

  Briefly, his eyes widened. "True?"

  "True."

  Then he started to cackle again. "Good. Had it coming, the bugger. He put the screws on enough guys. I hope it wasn't easy."

  "He was shot."

  "Good. Bring the guy in and I'll fix his shoes free every time. I mean that. Free shine too."

  "I thought you didn't care any more."

  "Hell, I said I didn't hate him, not that I didn't care. So he's dead. I'm glad. Tomorrow I'll forget he was even alive. So what else is new?"

  "Sim Torrence was the big brain who engineered your last job."

  He was reaching for the bottle and stopped bent over.

  He looked up, not believing me. "Who says?"

  "You'll read about it in the papers."

  He straightened, the bottle entirely forgotten. "You mean..."

  "Not only that, he engineered it right into a deliberate frame-up. That case made him the D.A. After that coup he was a landslide candidate."

  "This is square, what you're telling me?"

  "On the level, Sonny."

  "The dirty son of a bitch. Sorry, lady."

  "Here's an added note I want you to think about. If Blackie Conley got wise in time he could have worked the double-cross to his own advantage, taking the loot and dumping you guys."

  Sonny sounded almost out of breath. "I'll be damned," he said. Some of the old fire was in his voice. "A real switcheroo. How do you like that? Sure, now I get what the score is. Blackie laid out the getaway route. Hell, he never followed through with the plan. He had something else schemed up and got away." Abruptly he dropped his head and laughed at the floor. "Boy, he was smarter than I figured. How do you like that?" he repeated.

  "Sonny..."

  He looked up, a silly grin on his face. Egg. He couldn't get over it. I said, "Blackie rented the property you were supposed to hole up in from Howie Green."

  "That's right."

  "He must have bought another place at the same time for his own purpose using another name."

  "Just like that bastard Green to fall in with him. He'd do anything for a buck. I'm glad Blackie knocked him off!"

  "He did?"

  "Sure he did. Before the heist. You think we wanted somebody knowing where we was headed?"

  I looked at him, puzzled.

  He caught the look and said, "Yeah, I know. There ain't no statute of limitations on murder. So they could still take me for being in it. Hell, you think I really care? Look around here. What do I have? Nothing. That's what. I already served life. What could they do that's worse? Maybe at the best I can live ten years, but what can I do with ten years? Live in a crummy rat hole? Beat on shoes all day? No friends? Man, it was better doin' time. You just don't know."

  I waved him down. "Look, I don't care about Green. He asked for it, so he got it. I want Blackie Conley."

  "How you gonna find him?"

  "Did you know Green?"

  "You kiddin'? Him and me grew up together on the same block. I took more raps for that punk when I was a kid... aw, forget it."

  "Okay, now Green was a stickler for detail. He kept records somewhere. He passed on his business to his partner, Quincy Malek."

  "I knew him too."

  "Now Quincy kept the records. Wherever they are, they'll have a notation of the transactions carried out by the business. It will show the property locations and we can run them down one by one until we get the place Blackie bought from him.

  "You think Blackie'll still be there?"

  "He hasn't showed up any place else, has he?"

  "That just ain't like Blackie." He rubbed his hands', together and stared at them. "Maybe I didn't know Blackie so good after all. Now what?"

  "Did you know Quincy Malek?"

  "Sure. From kids yet. Him too. He was another punk."

  "Where would he put something for safekeeping?"

  "Quincy? Man, who knows?" He chuckled and leaned back against the cushions. "He had places all over. You know he operated a couple of houses without paying off? The boys closed him on that one."

  "The records, Sonny. Right now we're checking up on a
ll of Quincy's former properties and every commercial warehouse in the city, but if you remember anything about what he had you can cut the time right down."

  "Mister, you're dragging me back thirty years."

  "What did you have to think about all the time you were in prison, Sonny? Whatever it was belonged back there too because in prison there was nothing to think about."

  "Broads," he grinned. "Until I was sixty all I thought about was broads. Not the used ones I had before, but ones that didn't even exist. Maybe after sixty I went back, but it took some time."

  "Now you got something to think about."

  Sonny sat there a long moment, then his mouth twisted into a sour grimace. "Tell me, mister. What would it get me? You it would get something. Me? Nothing. Trouble, that's all it would bring. Right now I ain't got nothin' but I ain't got trouble either. Nope. Don't think I can help you. I've had my belly full of trouble and now it's over. I don't want no more."

  "There won't be trouble, Sonny."

  "No? You think with all the papers down my throat I'd get any peace? You think I'd keep the lease on the shoe shop? It's bad enough I'm a con and a few people know it, but let everybody know it and I get booted right out of the neighborhood. No business, nothin'. Sorry, mister."

  "There might be a reward in it."

  "No dice. I'd have everybody in the racket chiseling it outa me. I'd wind up a drunk or dead. Somebody'd try to take me for the poke and I'd be out. Not me, Mister Hammer. I'm too old to even worry about it."

  Damn, he was tying me up tight and he was right. There had to be a way. I said, "If I wanted to I could put the heat on you for the Howie Green kill. The way things stand I wouldn't be a bit surprised if we got some quick and total cooperation from the police."

  Sonny stared a second, then grunted. "What a guest you are. You sure want me to fall bad."

  "Not that bad. If you want to push it I'd probably lay back. I'm just trying you, Sonny."

  Once again his eyes caught Velda's legs. She had swung them out deliberately and the dress had pulled up over her knee. It was enough to make Sonny giggle again. "Oh, hell, why not? So maybe I can feed you something. What's it they call it? Public duty or some kind of crap like that."