Black Alley

by Mickey Spillane

  “Clean,” I said.

  “Why don’t you check under the hood anyway?”

  I got the flashlight out, popped open the hood and inspected around the motor. “See, clean,” I said. We got in, I inserted the key and turned the engine on. There was no explosion and we both let our breaths out at the same time.

  “Damn it, Mike, you were expecting something!” Velda charged.

  This time my laugh was real. And relieved.

  The traffic flow on the Jersey Turnpike was loose and fast, so we got back to the city early enough for me to drop Velda off at her apartment and let me change shirts at mine. I didn’t want her where I had to go and before I put on my jacket I went back on what I had told Pat.

  I was going to see Don Lorenzo Ponti and all the odds were going to be on his side. But in these games of going face-to-face, I didn’t want to start looking like a pathetic slob hoping for a handout. Ponti was getting old, but the game stayed the same. I got out my old shoulder holster, slipped into it, put a clip of fresh ammo in the .45 and tucked it in the leather. It rode in a bad spot and hurt like mad, but after a few adjustments it felt better even if it sat where a quick draw wasn’t likely.

  All I hoped was that the boneheads Ponti kept around him had good memories and better imaginations.

  The local club was straight out of an old television movie. No class had been deliberately set in 1920’s brick and concrete, with building blocks of translucent glass to let in light on the main floor while keeping anybody from seeing in. The nondescript stores flanking the club were owned by Ponti, but kept unoccupied to protect the club itself. The only thing different was that no graffiti artists had touched a spray can of paint to the concrete.

  I got out of the cab a half block away and let them see me walk up to the club. There were two hoods outside the door who came out of the same TV show as the building and for a few seconds it looked like they were going to move right in on me, then one hood whispered something, the other seemed puzzled, then his face went blank.

  I walked too fast for them to try to flank me, one on either side, and grinned at their consternation at suddenly being vulnerable if any shooting started. To make sure they stayed that way I ran my fingers under the brim of my pork pie and knew they both had a good look at the butt end of the gun on my side.

  You don’t try to be nice to guys like this. I said, “Go tell your boss I want to talk to him.”

  “He ain’t here,” the fat one said.

  “Want me to shoot the lock off?” I didn’t make it sound like a question.

  Thinking wasn’t something either one of these two was good at. They sure knew who I was but couldn’t get the picture at all. The fat one tried to snarl and said to his partner, “Why don’t you go get Lenny, Teddy.”

  “If that’s Leonard Patterson, tell him I still have a present he didn’t pick up.”

  The guy called Teddy said, “You got a big mouth, mister.”

  “I got a big name too, Teddy boy. It’s Mike Hammer and you remember it. Now shake your tail and do what your buddy told you to do.” And the look I got was what I wanted. That Teddy character was going to be another snake to look out for. He sure didn’t buy being put down in front of a punk like the fat boy.

  Leonard Patterson didn’t come out alone. Howie Drago was right beside him and a big nickel-plated revolver dangled from his right hand. The game was still going strong because the other players still didn’t know the rules. Hell, they didn’t even know what game it was. What was on their faces wasn’t puzzlement. They’d look like that if they were halfway across the Atlantic Ocean in a canoe and a storm was brewing.

  You don’t let them talk first either. “You going to take me to see the don or do I go up alone?”

  Howie reacted first. “He’s carrying, Patti.”

  “And I got a license for it, kiddo. You got one of those?”

  “You’re not coming in here wearing a rod, Hammer.”

  I didn’t get to answer him. The dark figure leaning over the banister upstairs yelled down in his softly accented voice, “What’s going on down there?”

  Once again I beat the pair to the punch. “It’s Mike Hammer,” I called back. “If you don’t want to talk to me, I’ll beat it. If you want trouble I’ll shoot the hell out of your guys here and the cops can mop up the mess.”

  I think the dialogue came out of that TV movie too.

  “He’s got a gun on him, Mr. Ponti,” Patterson yelled.

  “In his hand?”

  “No. It’s under his coat.”

  Ponti was like a cat. His curiosity was as tight as a stretched rubber band. He didn’t even wait a second before he said, “He’s always got that gun. Let him come on up, unless you want to shoot it out down there.”

  Ponti was a player, all right. Two old school kids were meeting on the dirty playground to duke it out and the rest of the gang could go kiss their tails. When I got to the top of the stairs Ponti just nodded for me to follow him and he walked in front of me as if it were all one big tea party. He could have been showing off or he could have men hidden waiting for me to jump him, but there was no fear in his movements at all. He pushed through a door to an office, but I didn’t go through. I made sure the door flattened against the wall so nobody was behind it, visually scanned the area, then stepped in and edged along the wall to a chair in front of Ponti’s desk.

  His expression seemed to appreciate my cautiousness. “Are you nervous, Mr. Hammer?”

  “Just careful.”

  “You take big chances.”

  “Not really.”

  “Oh?”

  “I could have blown those goons you have downstairs right out of their socks if they tried to play guns.”

  “You could lose. There were a lot of them.”

  “I’ve been there before,” I reminded him.

  A hardness flushed his face. “Yes. I know.”

  For thirty seconds I just stood there staring at him, then moved around the chair and sat down. “Go ahead and ask it,” I said.

  The don played his role magnificently. He pulled his leather padded desk chair back on its rollers, sat down easily and folded his hands in his lap. It was taking an effort, but he was keeping his face in repose. When he was ready his eyes met mine and he said, “Did you kill my son, Mr. Hammer?”

  There was no waiting this time either. “I shot him right in the head, Don Ponti. He had put two into me and was about to give me one right in the face when I squeezed a .45 into his head. You’re damn right I shot him and if you have any more like him who want to try that action on me I’ll do the same thing again.”

  I didn’t know what to expect, certainly not the look of calm acceptance he wore. He seemed to be mentally reviewing the details of that night and when all the pieces fit into the puzzle he seemed oddly satisfied. “I do not blame you, Mr. Hammer,” he told me quietly. “Of course, the public does not know what really happened, do they?”

  “I wasn’t around for any discussion.”

  “No, to them it was a gang war. The police were quite willing to let it go at that.”

  “What was it, Mr. Ponti?” I asked.

  “A gang war,” he told me amicably. “They happen, you know.”

  “Not like that. Not when the businesses are going along smoothly and the boss of bosses can take a vacation. Not when some of them who were shot up during the battle didn’t belong there to start with. There was no street talk about a rumble about to happen and if you hadn’t taken the normal precautions you would have been a total casualty when it was over.”

  “Taking precautions has kept me alive,” he said, “but tell me, why were you there at all?”

  “Because I had been tipped off that it was going down. The tip wasn’t from any organization. It came from a drunk who overheard a couple of guys talking. I got it very casually, but it didn’t take long to figure out it was damn real and if you didn’t get hit, you could put a finger right on me for setting something up.�
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  “That’s not your style, is it?”

  “No, but I don’t know how you think.”

  “Would you like to know how I think?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  Ponti told me, “I think ya got some kind of a con going here. So you told me about shooting Azi, but he asked for that himself. He’s dead now and that’s that. You want something from me then say it. What’re you looking for?”

  “I want whoever killed Marcos Dooley.”

  A sudden frown struck his forehead. “Dooley was a-nice-a man,” he said, the accent coming back. “I don’t know why anybody would want to kill him. He was a man of the soil, a gardener. For a long time he worked on my estates.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Then why did he die, Mr. Hammer?”

  “Somebody thought he knew more than he should.”

  “What could he know?”

  “He mentioned trouble in your organization, Don Ponti.”

  “There is no trouble. Everything has been legal for years.”

  “Screw the legalities. It’s the distribution of wealth that causes a ruckus.”

  “Do I look like a rich man, Mr. Hammer?”

  “Cut the crap, don. You’re one of the last real actors. I know you got all the land and the big houses when the prices were right in the old days, and your stable of cars is old, but expensively foreign. You still eat pasta and your clothes are tailored by an old man in your own neighborhood. So you don’t look right. It fools a lot of people.”

  “Not the IRS.”

  “Like they say, creative bookkeeping takes care of that.”

  He just looked at me with a half smile starting to form. “Don’t you think they would try to get me the way they got Capone?”

  “I imagine your financial lawyers are as good as theirs.”

  “Yes, they have to be.” He was baiting me now, trying to see if I would lead him into anything new.

  I pushed out of the chair. “Well, Don Ponti, I don’t give a rat’s tail what the IRS does to you. All I want is the guy who killed Dooley. This time it isn’t just me. Captain Chambers is part of this package and he’s got the NYPD behind him, and that’s one big load of professionalism to buck up against.”

  “Somehow I think you have a person in mind,” Ponti said.

  I started toward the door, then turned and said, “I’d keep a close watch on your boy Ugo. He hasn’t got the expertise we old-timers have.”

  Ponti nodded again, but the frown had creased his forehead, too, and I knew his brain was doing mental gymnastics trying to put different meaning to my words.

  Nobody was at the door when I went down. I stood there a minute, then went to the curb and waited. Two blocks down headlights flashed on and the cabby I had instructed to wait drove up, let me in and took off for my apartment. When I got out I tipped him again, got a big grin from him and went inside.

  There was a message on my answering machine and I touched the button. It was Velda and she wanted me to call her. The short meet with Ponti had wiped me out and I hoped she wasn’t going to get heavy on me. For a brief second I wondered if I would miss the single life at all. I had gotten pretty good at doing everything solo and taking on a partner might entail things I didn’t expect. I was hoping she could make biscuits.

  But Velda was a smart doll. She laughed when I said, “I’m alive.”

  “So what else is new?”

  “What’s the message?”

  “I can answer the office phone from my apartment here,” she said. “It helped while you were doing R and R in Florida.”

  “Who called?”

  “An old movie star named Ralph Morgan.”

  “That Ralph Morgan is deceased, kitten.”

  “This one wasn’t. He said he’d see you tomorrow. Be at the Waldorf at eleven.”

  “Good,” I told her. “We’ll both go. I’ll pick you up for breakfast at eight.”

  “I could come over there and make it for you,” she suggested. Her tone was very silky.

  “No,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because if I have to hurt, you have to ache a little too. Just keep your knickers on.”

  She laughed again as she hung up.

  6

  IT DIDN’T SEEM POSSIBLE, but the man in the light gray suit was the doctor, all right. It was his face, nicely tanned and cleanly shaved with a styled haircut that gave him a professional touch only old doctors could wear properly. The suit was new and expensive and evidently tailor made.

  “You clean up real good,” I said.

  “There was more money in my account than I expected.”

  “How’s the car?”

  “A real dreamboat, like we used to say.”

  “No trouble?”

  He shook his head. “You were right about everything. All the paperwork is in order and nobody said a word about the past. I think Florida is a good place for doctors.”

  “Well, they have a lot of prospective patients in the retiree group.”

  “How have you been feeling?”

  “It’s been exciting, but I’m not hustling any. Nobody’s punched me in the ribs or tried to kill me.”

  “You know,” he said with a clinical touch in his voice, “you shouldn’t even be getting stressed out, Mike.”

  “Now you tell me.”

  “Coming back here may kill you, my friend. That wouldn’t make me very happy at all.”

  From the corner of the room Velda said, “Me either.”

  “I’m referring to you as well as some of the other company he keeps, young lady,” Dr. Morgan said to her. “There are times when tender loving care can get out of hand.”

  “It beats getting blown up,” she snapped back.

  “What?”

  “Someone doped up the engine of his car. One turn of the key and we would have been history,” she added.

  He glanced at me for confirmation and I nodded. “The key didn’t get turned, doc—we’re still here.”

  His eyes narrowed somewhat. “Did it have to do with this . . . Ponti affair?”

  “I don’t think it was the old man.”

  “Ugo, then?”

  “How’d you know about him?”

  “I researched everything I could on the incident. I even went into some of the events of the past. As a matter of fact, I have even met some of the don’s associates in the Metro Health Club I belong to.”

  “What kind of club was that?”

  “Mainly doctors and lawyers who got light exercise and a lot of talk when they got fed up with business. The lawyers had some of their clients along on occasions and we were introduced.”

  “Remember any of them?”

  “It wouldn’t matter,” he said. “They’re all dead now. They were powerhouses in their businesses, but every one was pretty old. Harris was probably the youngest and he was crowding eighty when he got killed.”

  It was Velda who asked it. “Harris who?”

  “Oh, they called him something like bad back.”

  “Could it have been Slipped Disk?”

  Morgan’s eyebrows rose in a gesture of approval. “Right you are, young lady. That is what they called him. He never seemed to mind, though.”

  “What did you know about him?” Velda persisted.

  “He had money, that was for sure. A little rough around the edges, but I guess you’d have to be when you’re selling liquor in New York.” He looked over at me. “You know this man?”

  “I only know about him, doc. What can you tell me?”

  “He had mighty good booze, all Canadian, that’s for sure. He was able to sell it at incredibly low prices to select places in the city. Everybody figured he had a hijacking operation going, but there was no report of anything being stolen.”

  “How long did he operate?”

  “That I don’t know, but he called it quits about six months before he died.”

  “You know, for a doctor you kept some strange company t
oo,” I said.

  “Doctors never meet normal people. Everybody’s always sick.”

  “Harris too?”

  “No, not him. He had a rugged look, tanned up, broken nose, that sort of thing. He even dressed like a country boy. When I met him he had on a plaid woolen shirt and corduroy pants. It didn’t seem to matter, though. He had as much money as anybody else.”

  “He pretty friendly with Ponti?”

  “Beats me, Mike. I kind of got the idea that it was Ponti who introduced him around. Just something I heard.” He squinted at me and added, “Why?”

  “Because Slipped Disk Harris buddied up with my old friend who got himself killed.”

  “What was wrong with that?”

  “It was an unlikely combination. Marcos Dooley didn’t have hoods for pals.”

  “Mike . . . there was a time when a real bootlegger wasn’t a hood. He could be nothing more than a friendly neighborhood distributor of an item the federal government took away from you.”

  I grinned at him. Coming from an old rummy, it was nicely put.

  Velda was leaning forward on her seat now. There was a set to her face that meant that something was clicking in her mind. All I had to do was stare at her and she said, “Suppose I probe around a little, Mike.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Look who’s talking. Will you be at the office?”

  “Probably. If I’m not, leave a message.”

  She told us both so long and left.

  When the door shut, Morgan said, “Take off your shirt, Mike.”

  “Come on, doc, I’m okay. All I need are the pills.”

  “You know better than that. Let me take a look at you.”

  I didn’t argue. I did as I was told, stripped down and let him poke all around the ugly sore spot that was still inflamed and grisly looking. He did what he had to do and bandaged the wound. From the sounds he was making I knew things weren’t as good as they could have been.

  “You should have stayed in Florida, Mike.”

  “No choice, doc.”

  “You can choose to die too. I told you . . . absolute rest is vital. You’re right back in the kind of mess that can do you in for good.”

  “Pal,” I said, “your bedside manner is still lousy.”