The Last Stand

by Mickey Spillane

  Johnny had been frowning all through that. “Rod, maybe it’s best we leave tonight. Cut this short.”

  “Wouldn’t do any good. They’d just be waiting wherever we go next. It’ll be best to settle it here.”

  The fear on Johnny’s face was unmistakable.

  “If they kill you,” I said, “I won’t charge you a damn thing.”

  His grin took the fear away, and he went to bed.

  * * *

  It was a miserable day, filled with all the lifeless things that make up a big city. No one bothered to speak when you passed them on the street—not even my black-haired friend, who kept a close, obvious tail on me all day, just his way of expressing his contempt. But now it was night and you could bet he’d make his move.

  The night, the damp night that sings of its misery and misfortune in the faces of the people—everyone who’s ever walked the streets after dark has probably felt that same thing. I walked into a drab bar, found a booth, and ordered a beer. When it was thrown in front of me, I tossed the waiter a coin.

  The beer went down fast and I ordered another. By this time the place was filling up and the smoke that had already covered the room was making it impossible to discern faces. The music was loud and noisy, hitting a beat that made the people talk louder and drink more. It had no effect on me.

  The girls were there. The ones that hadn’t found a man for the night were slowly scanning the room in search of one. Maybe they looked my way—I didn’t know or care. I wasn’t in the mood for women tonight.

  I was staring into the mug of beer and brought my head up just in time to see him walk through the front door. He had tailed me here, of course, and just wanted to see where I was sitting. I kept my eyes glued to him until he turned around and disappeared out the door again.

  I took the last swallow from the mug and lit up a cigarette. Just as I blew the match out, I saw her gazing down at me. I looked up into the face of a snow-white blonde, a girl who looked more like a college coed than a bar girl. She was young, not more than twenty, with an innocent face and big blue eyes. Even in the dark room, I could see that.

  Her body was concealed by an oversized gangster type trench coat, but I could still tell that the stick of female dynamite under it was something that didn’t deserve the fate of being hidden. If it was any other girl, I’d have told her where to go. But this one had a look in her eyes, not the dollar-sign kind of look most have, but a look of something I couldn’t describe. Not yet.

  I motioned for her to sit down, offered to buy her a drink, which she refused, and then kept quiet, waiting.

  She bent over, as though she was about to tell me her life’s story, and whispered, “I’m not supposed to be here.” She giggled and continued, “But I don’t care. I’m eighteen and I’m old enough to do as I please.”

  I shook my head. “It’s a big, ugly world with a nasty ending. Don’t expect ice cream and roses all your life.”

  My fatherly advice didn’t seem to take. “My name is Becky. What’s yours?”

  “Rod Dexter.”

  “Oh, nice to meet you, Rod.” She had a funny look in her eyes and I was dying to find out what it meant.

  “Your parents don’t know you’re here?”

  She shook her head and frowned. “If they did, I’d be dead. They never let me go out. Not anywhere. They’re afraid I’d get attacked or something. Funny, huh?”

  “Not really.”

  “No, they always have to be with me. But tonight I showed them. Tonight I’m going to do what I please.” She giggled again.

  This girl was in for trouble. She was starved for excitement, something life had failed to give her.

  “Think twice, kid. Like I said, it’s an ugly world. It’s not meant for pretty things like you.”

  “You think I’m pretty?

  That did it.

  “Where do you live?”

  “About five blocks from here, 1261 Benton Apartments. Why?”

  “I’m going to take you home.” I grabbed her by the arm, jerked her up from the booth, and went out the door.

  I had to get her out of this joint. She was a sex-starved girl who was looking for it tonight. She knew I was serious about taking her home and gave me the directions. Outside the club enough people were around that she should be safe, and her presence might keep me safe a while too.

  We walked the short distance to my car in the lot. When I first dug my hand into my pocket, I heard it. The steps were muffled at first, but they gradually became louder. I stuck the key into the lock, but the shot rang out before I could turn it. I dove to the cement, bringing Becky down with me. Another shot rang out and I drew the .38.

  I looked at Becky and saw the frightened but excited look on her face. I’d been wrong about us being safe together.

  “Rod, I’m scared!”

  “Stay down, kid.” I cursed under my breath as the guy ran for a different position.

  The night was dark and was the only protection besides the parked cars. For a moment it was quiet, then the sound of feet came back and I fired my first shot at its shadow.

  At the sound of my shot, he laughed and ran straight for us, and before I could pull off another shot, he was behind another car.

  It all happened at once. Becky rose up from the street in panic and ran, and I let out a shout for her to stop just as he fired a round that caught her in the gut and reeled her back to the pavement. She was lying close enough that I could see her big blue eyes staring at the sky just before they filmed over.

  The bastard laughed again.

  It burned in my gut like a cancer.

  I could’ve taken him out yesterday. If I had, the girl would still be alive.

  I could tell by his running around from one position to another that he was an impatient son of a bitch, wanting the kill to be fast. That’s why I waited him out. Ten minutes passed before he came out of hiding, running again like a madman. I shot at his back and nipped his hand. The gun flew from it and landed about five feet from where I knelt. The .45.

  He started to run and I caught him in the back. He fell against a car, clawing it as he sank slowly to the street, face down. I kicked him over, stared down at his twisted face and watched his eyes film over, too.

  A distant siren warned me to let the night swallow me up. I took its advice.

  CHAPTER 7

  The next day in Capitol City was quiet. No new tail replaced the dead one, and no one connected me to the kill. We left that afternoon and landed in Gantsville by early evening.

  The trigger man was dead. So was an innocent fool named Becky. The thought of that poor dumb kid catching a bullet made me sick, but I’d told her about the story’s nasty ending, hadn’t I? And what did the whole stinking mess prove?

  I was back in my own place, sitting on the edge of the bed, thinking those thoughts, when the knock came. I went to answer it, with the .38 in hand, hoping it was Ginger, and when I saw who it was, I was close.

  It was her sister.

  Doris Rogers had traded her dressing gown in on a fetching red frock, her dark hair brushing her shoulders, her dark eyes flashing.

  “You’re out and about,” I said, opening the door for her. “That’s good.”

  She swished by. “We have to talk.”

  Not my favorite words from any woman. “Sure.”

  She sat down on the couch, every bit as lovely as her sister but something gave me a crawly feeling. She wore a strange look and this didn’t feel right.

  Proving that, she said softly, and bluntly, “I know who killed Mayes.”

  I was looming over her now. “So do I. And I killed him—an out-of-town trigger man.”

  She shook her head. “No. You won’t like this, Rod…but no. My sister did it. Ginger is the killer.”

  I bent down to her. “Explain yourself or get the hell out.”

  She grabbed my arm and with surprising strength tugged me down onto the couch next to her. Her dark eyes were wild, her nostrils flaring.


  “You must believe me. Do you think it’s easy for me to say this? About my own sister? But she doesn’t love you, Rod. It’s all been an act.”

  My stomach felt all knotted up. “I’m listening.”

  She moved close to me. “I’ve overheard her on the phone. She’s received calls from that district attorney and that man called Shark. They used her to try to get at Mayes, and it worked at first…you’re aware of what a letch he was…but when she tried to get him to play along with that crooked crowd, he bolted.”

  “You know this from phone calls you overheard?”

  “More than overheard!…I listened in. She killed him herself, Rod! She went to him after that party, in the hotel, apologetic, asking for a second chance…and shot him down in cold blood. And you’re next.”

  I couldn’t accept it—I couldn’t, even though it made a terrible kind of sense.

  “I know what it’s like, Rod. I loved Mayes, but he used me, manipulated me.” She touched my face, her eyes soft now, brimming with tears. “I don’t want you to get hurt the way I did.”

  “If this is true, it’s too late.”

  “It’s true. But it’s not too late for you to save yourself. Not too late to live.” She drew near, licked her lips, and they glistened like her tear-filled eyes. “Maybe…when this is over.…”

  She wanted me to kiss her, but that was the last thing I wanted. There was too much of Ginger in her face, and too much turmoil in my belly. I understood the emotions that had to be roiling through this woman, betrayed by her husband and her sister. But love was nowhere in me.

  Hate had pushed all of that away.

  “If your sister is a threat to you,” I said, taking her hand, “you should go into hiding. Find a hotel or motel to camp out in till this is over.”

  She sighed, shook her head. “I haven’t seen Ginger for two days. I don’t know where she’s gone.”

  “Do you think she knows that you know?”

  “Maybe. But I’m not the one who’s in danger, Rod. You are.”

  She rose and walked to the door. From behind, the way she walked, moved, the shape of her, she might have been her sister, if not for the blackness of her hair to say otherwise.

  I went into the bedroom and flopped on my back and let darkness envelop me. Then I cursed that darkness, cursed everything, because there was nothing left for me if what Doris had said was true. Could I believe her?

  Something in me screamed, No! Ginger is in love with you, you fool. She’s been with you from the start, could have killed you any time.

  I did love her. She represented everything good that waited for me after I swept the bad out of my life. And if she was the killer, I still loved her. Could never squeeze the trigger on her.

  Of course, if Doris was lying or wrong or just plain crazy, and Ginger was innocent of all this, I still had Shark and the rest after me. They knew their boy with the .45 had failed in Cap City. And they knew I was tied in with a powerful, honest politician who could expose them all.

  John Graves would start with our crooked D.A. and work his way back to the capitol and Red Duval and his crowd, and the Syndicate’s foothold would be gone. And I’d be at his side, an official investigator for a statehouse committee—a cop again.

  But right now I was back on Shark’s turf and he and his hoods would deal with me, soon.

  Like tonight.

  I forced myself to get ready. I showered, got into one of the suits I’d worn to work all those years, the .38 in its holster clipped onto my belt, a box of ammo in my coat pocket. Knowing they’d be waiting, I went down to my car, got behind the wheel, and drove. I chain-smoked and thought about Ginger and how much sense Doris had made, and my gut tightened with dread and rage.

  How I felt was at odds with the quiet night, late now, traffic light in town. I headed out into the country, the same direction as Bacon and his pockmarked pal when they took me for a ride. It was really dead out here. Nobody around.

  Almost nobody.

  Two headlights were coming. The brights were on and drew closer and closer, and the big black Buick came faster and faster, the roar of its engine like a beast ready to leap. They’d come for me. And I welcomed it. I eased up on the gas and let them get close.

  The nose of the Buick rammed into the tail of my Ford and I bit my lip. As I fought for control of the car with one hand, I fumbled for the .38 with the other, brought it out, and laid it on the rider’s seat.

  They rammed me again.

  I mashed the gas and they did the same, this time slamming me in the side, knocking me off the road. All I saw was a blurry flash and the vehicle shook me like it was trying to put some sense into me. I heard squealing tires and brakes shuddering to a stop and a car door slamming, and another.

  Bullets punched through the front window, leaving spiderwebs behind, and I got low and somehow got out on the rider’s side and crawled into the bushes, found a spot, and waited. The .38 was in my fist but I didn’t remember how it got there.

  Then they were walking toward me, outlined against the clear night—Shark himself, skeletal and tall in his sharkskin suit, and one of his neckless bully boys from Morgan’s. They must have figured riddling that windshield with lead had wounded me bad and I was no threat, because they stalked over making perfect targets. All of a sudden it struck me funny as I opened fire and gave the stooge two in the gut that made him bow to me before he went down in a whimpering, dying pile. At the same time, Shark was running, back to the Buick, to take cover.

  I moved down through the bushes as he fired at where I’d been. He had no idea I was coming up behind him when I put the bullet in his gun arm and the automatic he’d been firing went sailing into the night. I was at the rear of the Buick and he was up by the nose and looked back at me with those dead black eyes finally getting some life in them, the fear of a man about to die.

  He started to run.

  At first he went down the highway, then he cut toward the bushes, where I’d hidden. I had stopped to take good aim and put one in his left calf, laughing as he briefly stood on one leg before going down, pitching forward, skidding through the gravel at the side of the road. Then he was crawling toward the bushes, and somebody was filling the night with crazy laughter. Me, I guess.

  Just another snake, I thought, crawling through the brush.

  He had run out of steam when I got to him. He was on his belly, his good arm out in front of him, between two trees but stopped by a thicket.

  He said, “Spare me…and…I’ll talk. I’ll…I’ll give ’em all to you.”

  “Just give me one name.”

  He rolled over on his back. He was breathing hard. He’d skinned his face bad on the gravel and it was a grotesque torn thing, streaks of blood, hanging flesh, his black eyes wide in the Halloween mask.

  “Ask,” he said.

  “Who killed Mayes Rogers?”

  He swallowed. “Who do you think? That broad.”

  “Which broad?”

  He told me.

  And I wasn’t surprised by the answer, but he sure seemed surprised when I shot him between his eyes, which suddenly got even deader.

  When I walked back to my car, I almost missed a third man who’d been in the Buick. If he was smart, he wouldn’t have been anywhere near this tonight. But there he was, a stocky little guy running down the middle of the road, shoes making receding slaps in the night, little echoey things.

  I got behind the wheel of the Buick and went after him. Running after the bastard didn’t hold much appeal. I pulled up alongside him like I was offering a lift, and he came to a stop and looked at me in wide-eyed horror.

  “Mr. Graham,” I said, “you surprise me. Crooked D.A.’s don’t usually fraternize so openly with the bad guys they’re in bed with. But you wanted to see me die, didn’t you? I get it.”

  He started running again.

  I let him get a nice head start, and when the nose of the Buick knocked him down, and after the undercarriage ripped him u
p as the vehicle made its way bumpily over him, I could still hear him whimpering. So I backed over him, and then through the windshield I could see the squashed mess that had been a man.

  Maybe five minutes had gone by. Even on a quiet night like this, another car was bound to come along. So I made quick work of it, wiping my prints off the Buick, then getting back into my Ford. The motor had died, but it started up again, even if it drove jerkily now after getting bashed a couple times, and seeing through that windshield wasn’t easy with all the bullet holes.

  But I had a hunch a mechanic named Moore would fix me up on the sly. And really I was seeing things more clearly than ever.

  CHAPTER 8

  The real killer would be waiting for me at the big white mansion on the hilltop, but it was the distinguished-looking if hulking butler who answered the door. His eyes barely registered surprise at my appearance—the dirty, rumpled, somewhat torn-up clothing, and the bruises and skinned areas on my face.

  He had too much class to say anything but, “Miss Bass is in, sir. Shall I tell her you’re calling?”

  I didn’t have to answer because Ginger was suddenly there, blonde and fresh, in a white blouse and yellow skirt, looking schoolgirl innocent though her lovely face wore distress.

  “Thank you, Marsh,” she said, and nodded for me to follow her. I did, back to that TV room and the couch where we’d made love. That was where we sat, and she swiveled toward me with concern.

  “You look awful,” she said.

  “You should see the other guys. Well, really, you shouldn’t—they’re dead as hell.”

  Her eyes flared much as her sister’s had. “What…what men are dead? That Shark person?”

  “Him and one of his boys, and Gantsville will be needing a new D.A. It’s almost over, doll.”