Black Alley

by Mickey Spillane

  Three-quarters of the way around we came to the place I had wanted to see. It was the rubble from the roof that had come crashing down many years ago and had been pushed against the back wall out of the way. I ran the light up at the ceiling and saw some scars in the stone, then lowered it to cover the angled pile to my left. Dirt and dust were thick on everything. I crouched down, picked up a handful and let it sift through my fingers.

  Odd, I thought. Dust wasn’t dusty after all. It had an abrasiveness like fine sand.

  Velda’s light hit me right in the eyes.

  When she realized the light was blinding me she pulled it down to the ground and said, “What are you looking for, Mike?”

  I was just about to answer her when another voice said, “Yeah, Mike, tell her what you were looking for.”

  There was the faintest metallic click and I knew the hammer had gone back on a gun.

  Velda sucked her breath in with an audible gasp.

  The voice in the darkness behind us wasn’t coming from Slateman. It was young and hard, the kind that had death right behind it and wouldn’t wait very long at all to spring into a killing frenzy.

  I said, “It’s about time you got here, Ugo.”

  My tone slowed him down an instant. Ugo Ponti wasn’t a fast thinker.

  “Why do you suppose that, Hammer?”

  “You had the numbers, didn’t you?”

  “Sure I did. I’m not so damn dumb. That kid put me right on them.”

  There was one thing I had to know. “Did you kill the slob, Ugo?”

  “I would have, just like I shot his old man, but a hundred bucks bought his story and I didn’t have any cops chasing me.”

  “They’ll be chasing you now, Ugo.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “Because your father is dead, that’s why. You knocked off your own father, didn’t you?”

  There was no remorse in his voice. He seemed to be almost proud of what he had done. “My old man lost his guts. All those Mustache Petes tried to keep everything the way it was and it doesn’t go that way. Those bastards grabbed everything that should have come to us and got what they deserved.”

  My legs were starting to cramp up, but I had to keep him talking. “And now you’re in a big empty cave, Ugo.”

  “Yeah, but I got you and your woman here and you know where the stuff is.”

  “You don’t see it, do you? What makes you think I can get to it?”

  “Don’t give me that crap, Hammer. Your buddy Dooley told you. No big deal. He just told you and you’re here to do it.”

  Velda’s light was still pointing at the floor. The both of us were in the glow of our own flashlights and Ugo was in total darkness. Any movement either one of us made would lay us out. There was no telling by that click I had heard whether he had a small arm or a shotgun, but if it were a shotgun, he could get us both with the first blast.

  Without asking, I uncrouched from the floor very slowly, leaving my flashlight on the ground, my mind racing, trying to line up the best odds.

  Ugo said, “That’s right, Mike. Nice and easy. Now, once more, what were you looking for?”

  Now, if Velda would only get the drift of my thoughts. It had to happen all at once and happen right or we were both dead. There was no way I could flash a sign to her, so she had to work on reflexes alone, and that strange state of mind that can exist between partners who have been together so long they act in total unison.

  I said, “I’m not looking, Ugo. I already found it.”

  And as I kicked off the light on the ground she flipped her switch and we both hit the dirt as Ugo pumped four shotgun rounds in our direction before he knew he hadn’t hit either of us. But by then I had the .45 out, the safety off and the hammer back and I aimed right where I had last seen the muzzle flash and let the deafening roar of the old Colt automatic thunder in the cave. The single bullet smashed into something that clattered, but didn’t kill, and when I flashed the light on it caught Ugo Ponti, the new don, heir to Lorenzo’s throne and domain, scrabbling in the dirt for the mangled shotgun my slug had smashed into useless junk, and when he saw what it was like, let out a wild scream and raised the shotgun like a shield. I triggered the .45 again and the slug smashed into the metal breech of his weapon that crashed into his chin and he went down with his eyes bugging out and his breathing hoarse with pain.

  I walked up to the slob and let the light wash over him. Blood ran down from the cut on his chin and his body made a few involuntary jerks before realization was in his eyes. He didn’t know what was coming next, but the hatred that oozed from his pupils was filled with a violent venom that nothing could diminish. They finally dropped to the gun in my hand, and when I started to raise it his lips drew back with the fierceness of his crazy desire to kill me one way or another but knowing that once I had him looking down that big bore of the .45 it was going to be the last thing he would see.

  Then the big lights came on. One after another as nine of them came pouring into the cave. There were four uniformed police officers and another four in plainclothes. The ninth was covered with grime and seemed mad enough to spit. I said, “Hello, Homer.”

  He didn’t answer me. He said, “What the hell have you done?”

  “Caught you a killer, friend.” I nudged Ugo with my toe. “He’s not dead. He’s all smashed up inside and if you don’t get him to a hospital he sure as heck will kick it. But he’ll remember all this, and he’ll talk. He’s the one who wasted Dooley and killed his own father.”

  “You can prove this, I suppose,” Homer said sarcastically.

  Velda handed him her Sony recorder. “Here’s a tape of him admitting it, Homer. Someplace you’ll locate his .357, then you’ll have him on all charges.”

  Homer took the Sony and touched the button and listened to it, then rolled the tape back and let it play. He caught all the action and I grinned like an ape because Velda had caught on just the way I had hoped. She told him, “He couldn’t see me move my finger. I just flipped the button to RECORD and got the whole thing. I figured that if he killed us there would be something left to show for our efforts.”

  “You’re up the creek on me, though,” I told Homer.

  “You think so?”

  “Absolutely. I’m licensed in New York state, I’ve disabled a killer without killing him, so now what?”

  “Where’s the money, Hammer?”

  “You don’t see any, do you?”

  “If it weren’t here, none of us would be here,” he said.

  “Well, why don’t you call in all your specialists and search this place. If you find anything, it’s all yours or Uncle Sam’s. And while you’re at it, look for the nice little old man who used to live here. I have an idea that Ugo got here in time to erase him, too. There’s plenty of places to hide a body on this mountain, but a few dogs or some locals ought to be enough to find out where Ugo put Slateman.”

  It was happening again. The tension had hit a new high and my body felt all the pressure in one point. It was as if an animal was gnawing a hole into me, a subtle pain like a great spiderweb radiating out from the wound. I walked over to Velda, and when I put my hand on her she knew it wasn’t a gesture, but me holding on to keep from doubling over. I still had the .45 in my hand and she took it away and slipped it into the holster under my coat.

  Homer kept watching me, not knowing just what to say. So I said it. “You want me for anything, Mr. Watson?”

  “Where are you going to be?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll stay in touch,” I said. I kept my arm around Velda and she put hers around me, not touching the hole in my side. The uniformed cops and the ones in suits didn’t know what to make of the whole matter, but since Homer didn’t try to stop us, they let us pass, keeping our path lit as we did.

  Velda said, “Are you all right?”

  I shook my head.

  When we reached the car she opened the passenger door and let me slide in, then she got behind the w
heel. Her eyes asked where we were going and I said, “Get the . . . blood test results. Then go . . . to the courthouse. We can just make it . . . if you kick it hard.”

  She made one other stop. I tried to talk her out of it, but she pulled into a Texaco station, grabbed a packet of crackers and handed them to me in the car. I got my pills down, but not quite in time. The pain grew with a terrible intensity before it finally slackened off just before we reached Albany.

  The clinic was right on the way and we picked up the blood test results. Neither one of us had any dirty diseases. We made it to the clerk at the courthouse too, just minutes before she was about to close her doors. We got the license to marry, paid the fee and went back outside.

  It had been a long time since I had seen her so happy.

  A sour taste had come up in my throat and my breathing became strained. Velda kept looking at me from the corner of her eye, then put her palm on my forehead and said, “Damn, you have a fever.”

  I closed my eyes and knew when the car stopped. It rolled again and my door opened and I knew it was Velda who was half carrying me into an air-conditioned room, laying me on a cushioning mattress. I felt her hands on me without knowing what they were doing because my mind was off in a crazy dream world that was nice because there was no pain in it.

  There were voices. There were always voices. There were familiar voices and some that were harsh and almost threatening. But Velda’s voice was always there and carried the real weight of authority and after a while all the other voices went away.

  I woke up hungry, trying to remember something, but pain as an experience wasn’t easy to bring back to mind. There was a soberness in my side and taking too deep a breath made it hurt again. When I moved my arm Velda was there like a shot, her hand finding mine. Then Ralph Morgan moved her hand away and felt for my pulse. When a half minute passed he nodded in a satisfied manner. I was still alive.

  He asked me, “How do you feel, hero?”

  “Like crap. But hungry. What day is this?”

  “Friday.”

  “What date?”

  He told me. No wonder I was hungry. I had been out of it four days. “What have you been feeding me?” I wanted to know.

  “You wouldn’t like to know, but you got it through tubes. Now stay quiet and we’ll get something solid into you. Not much or you’d vomit it out.”

  “Vomit,” I said disgustedly. “What a word to use before I eat.”

  Morgan let out a grunt and checked my side. The bandage appeared to be fresh and I was glad he didn’t have to mess with it right then. Velda had gone to make me a breakfast as soon as I had come around. Now I looked at the tray she set down beside me. There was a single, soft-boiled egg in a cup next to a bowl of warm milk where a piece of buttered toast, well sugared, floated with simple elegance.

  There are times when complaints don’t do a bit of good. I let Velda spoon most of the egg into me, had half the toast and a few spoonfuls of warm milk, then I turned my head away. It was all I could eat. I let my eyes close and went back to sleep. I didn’t need any pills now. The good doctor had been slipping the painkillers into my arm.

  I didn’t count the times I awoke and was fed. Each time I felt a little stronger and a little hungrier. There were times when voices came through the fog very clearly, but my mind refused to recognize them. I knew when the bandages came off and I was washed and dressed, and I felt Velda’s hands shaving me. She had just finished cutting my hair when my eyes came open all the way and I knew I had gotten out of the black alley again.

  Ralph Morgan was waiting with a big smile. Out of habit he felt my pulse again and asked, “How do you feel?”

  “Not up to running any foot races,” I told him. “What happened to me?”

  “Stress, sheer stress. You keep playing the game like you’re twenty-five, Mike, but those days are long gone. You had one hell of a wound and you wouldn’t listen to me. You didn’t have to take a direct injury to that same spot to go down like a log. Heavy stress could do the same thing.” He shook his head at me like I was a little kid. “And right in the middle of all this trouble you try to get married.”

  “Try?” Velda’s voice sounded lame.

  “The word itself implies failure,” Morgan explained to her. “You try to jump over the obstacle means you didn’t make it. You either do it or you don’t. Just trying doesn’t count.”

  I said, “That’s stressful talk, doctor.” I glanced at Velda and winked.

  She winked back.

  Another day passed before I got out of the bed. I was shaky as a newborn colt for a half hour, but after a shower I got dressed and made it around the room by myself. Nobody had to tell me that this was a waiting period. Velda and Morgan were making sure I was all right before they laid something else on me. So I had another cup of hot coffee, finished it slowly, then said, “Okay, what happens next?”

  The courthouse had a conference room that could hold twenty people and it was filled completely. I had been introduced to all the bureau personnel but forgot their names as fast as I heard them. The only ones who mattered were Homer Watson and the governmental heavyweight who sat beside him at the head of the table.

  No preliminaries were necessary here. Nobody read me my rights, but I didn’t expect them to. It wasn’t that kind of interrogation. The head man’s name was Austin Banger and twice he had been a senator from his home state. The papers called him the watchdog of the American economy and he had enough clout to rip the guts out of some lousy governmental programs and twice flipped industrial giants into prison for fleecing the public. Nobody liked him at all. The good guys despised him; the bad guys hated him.

  Now he aimed right at my head.

  “Mr. Hammer, do you know why you are here?”

  Stress I knew all about. I said, “Tell me, Mr. Banger.”

  He sensed the odd tone in my voice and picked up the challenge. He made a movement in his chair and all his chairman-of-the-board instincts showed. His hands were flat on the table and the glint in his eyes was almost artificial. “Do you know how simple it would be to have us put you in prison for twenty years?”

  I said one word to him and his face grew red.

  This time he leaned forward, and although I was ten feet away it was like having his face right in mine. “Don’t play games with me, Mr. Hammer.”

  “Then say what you have to say. I haven’t got time for conversation.”

  Homer took him off the hook. The money mouse knew the score better than he did. “Mike . . . we had teams of experts in that cave on Harris’ property. It was empty.”

  “I could have told you that.”

  “Ugo Ponti told us about the trail your friend Dooley left.”

  “It was a blind trail, Homer.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Dooley was making suckers of you.”

  “But you were his friend, Mr. Hammer. Were you made a sucker too?”

  “No . . . I was just a tool to make sure you were really suckered. Dooley got you really entangled in one hell of a wild-goose chase. He was a nothing guy who didn’t like the way the world treated him and decided to play a joke on it.”

  “Those billions of dollars were real!” He sounded as if I had them in my pocket.

  “Don’t be an idiot. You think the mobs would let that kind of loot get away from them?”

  “If Lorenzo Ponti hadn’t gotten killed . . .”

  “But he’s dead, Homer,” I reminded him. “All of the families are very much in business. They still have their storefront headquarters around the cities. They still control the rackets and make deals with the narcotics cartels around the world. Their money will keep piling up, and although the tax men may tap into it once in a while, the big bulk will be free and clear in the strange places the families want to put it.”

  “Whose side are you on, Hammer?” Austin Banger broke in.

  “Don’t be a jerk. I’m only one guy. What good would it do to take side
s?”

  They all sat there like puppets. I didn’t scare at all. Hell, I wasn’t even stressed out. They had tried, but it didn’t work. I got up from my chair and just to be a little snotty I opened my coat and hitched up my pants so they could catch a glimpse of the empty .45 holster. The real piece was out in the car but I made a statement. Not that it would have mattered. This was New York state, not Washington. The money mice all looked confused. It probably was the shortest meeting they had ever been to.

  11

  THE DOGS HAD FOUND SLATEMAN. His body had been dumped in an old stone-lined cistern not far from the main house. The weathered wood cover had been dragged back over the hole and loose dirt and rock had been piled on top of it. There was a huge contusion on the side of his head and blood matted his face. His body was hung up on an old oil drum that floated down there too.

  It was a good safe place to hide a body if nobody was going to look for it. Especially dogs. And it would be much better if the body were dead.

  Slateman never reached that point. The club that Ugo Ponti had laid on him had almost but not quite killed him. There was a hairline fracture of his skull but the prognosis was good. He could still live out his years.

  There wouldn’t be much use for a commercial outfit to go in to demolish Harris’ old buildings. The power of big government had gone to work and ripped everything apart looking for any kind of clue to those billions of dollars. Any standing structure had been flattened, every rock pried loose and inspected, the grounds were raked clean and gone over with metal detectors, and for all that work all they got was a trash pile of rusted cans, old chains from Mack trucks and a nice pile of assorted debris.

  A fortune had been spent in looking.

  A fortune they didn’t find.

  But did they ever try, and that was a nice word: try. It meant they failed.

  They let Velda and me visit Slateman in the Albany hospital. He looked pretty small and pitiful, lying there in the bed. His head was bandaged and there was a swelling on one side of his jaw, but his mouth smiled when he saw us and he croaked out a weak hello.