Don't Look Behind You

by Mickey Spillane

  “You bet.” She bounded up and sat next to me on the couch, with a leg tucked under her, giving me a new angle on how artistically black silk panties could contrast with white creamy thighs.

  Hammer, a voice said, she’s young enough to be your daughter.

  Another voice said, But she isn’t your daughter.

  “Mr. Blazen knew Martin Foster for a very long time,” Marcy said. “Did PR work for him in the early days, and off-and-on in later years, too… and always respected and admired the man. Mr. Blazen said Martin Foster was a rare class act in an often no-class business.”

  “I knew Foster a little,” I said. “I’d agree.”

  She continued: “So when it became known that Martin Foster was planning to bring this Leif Borensen in as his co-producer, Mr. Blazen went to see his old friend, and warned him that this Hollywood pretender was no one to get involved with. That the man had been in league with mobsters since his unsuccessful stint as an actor.”

  “Borensen was still mobbed up,” I said. “Right to the end. He’s been a major West Coast money laundry for the boys for decades.”

  “Yes, Mr. Blazen knew that, too, or at least had come to that conclusion. And he was appalled to find out that Borensen was dating Foster’s daughter, Gwen.”

  “Worming his way in,” I said.

  She leaned forward, the cute face painfully earnest. “But, Mr. Hammer, isn’t this sorry, sordid affair now at an end? After the suicide of Leif Borensen? Only you say it was not suicide. Which makes it murder.”

  “It’s murder, all right.”

  “You didn’t do it, did you?”

  The casualness of that caught me off guard.

  I said, “Hell, no. Marcy, consider the three attempts on my life. You said it yourself—Borensen tried to have me killed. He didn’t have the balls to try to do it himself.”

  And I told her that the bastard had been dealing with a top-dollar contract killer, with a stable of hitmen, and was now tying off loose ends. Including Leif himself.

  “So this big-league professional assassin,” she said, “is who you’re looking for.”

  “Yes. Would you like to help?”

  “Just tell me how.”

  I put a hand on her shoulder. “What I need from you is a specific piece of information that might well lead me to this killer.”

  “If I have that information, it’s yours. But what exactly do you need to know?”

  I leaned back and a couch spring played stick-’em-up in my spine. “Maybe you’re still too much of an Ohio girl to know, Marcy, but there are five major crime families in New York. I am assuming Leif Borensen was aligned with one of them, going back to his drug-peddling days.”

  “You think he’s been in with the same mob all these years?”

  “Very likely. Those kind of people get their hooks in, and they stay in. Now, I’m known to all of these families, and they’re known to me. If you… or rather the late Richard Blazen… can point me to the right crime family, I may be able to ascertain the name of this contract killer.”

  She nodded slowly. “That does make sense. They’re who Leif Borensen would have gone to, to obtain a professional killer.”

  I grinned at her. “You’re right on the beam, kid.”

  The earnest look returned, with some confusion mixed in. “You’re thinking maybe I know a name, or the name of the Mafia family… but I don’t, really.”

  “It should have come up in research, and in the taped interviews.”

  She shook her head, frustrated. “Well, I’m sure that name is something I saw or heard out of Mr. Blazen. But it wouldn’t mean anything to me. I have a vague memory that some Italian names came up in this context, which is probably no surprise.”

  “No, no surprise. But the name of the crime family, or a member of it, would almost have to be in your notes or those transcripts, right?”

  “Right.” She rose. An air of determination accompanied her. “We have a big job in front of us, Mike. Maybe you’d like some coffee?”

  “I would. Milk and sugar.”

  I thought she was going to go off to a kitchenette and make some, but she went to her door, opened it and crossed to knock at her horny neighbor’s.

  The kid answered, more hangdog than puppy dog, as if maybe she was going to paddle him with a rolled-up paper.

  “Shack, would you be a dear and run down and get us some coffee at the deli? Maybe some sandwiches.” She called across to me. “Sandwich, Mike?”

  “Sure! Corned beef and Swiss, cold, plenty of hot mustard.”

  She told him, “I’ll have the usual.”

  “Bacon, lettuce, tomato, mayo?” he asked.

  “Hold the mayo,” she said, almost testily. “That’s the usual. You need money?”

  “No. You can pay me later.”

  “Get yourself something, too. I’m going to have you join us, if you’re not doing anything.”

  That brightened him. “Yeah? Sure, I’m available. You need help, Marcy?”

  She was still in her doorway, he in his.

  “We’re going to be sorting through some of the interview transcripts,” she said. “We can use your sharp eyes. You up for that, sweetie?”

  “You bet!”

  “Great. But before you go down to the deli, could you come over and carry the manuscript boxes in from my bedroom?”

  “Glad to!”

  From the sound of his voice, I could tell her bedroom was a place he would very much like to visit.

  She came bouncing back to me, her full breasts making the white dots on the dark mini-dress dance. When Good Neighbor Shack was back in his own apartment, that bedroom was somewhere I would very much like to visit myself.

  Don’t do this to Velda, a voice said.

  Velda who? another voice said.

  When Shack came in with three storage-file boxes stacked in his arms, and then plopped them down on the floor near Marcy’s low-lying work station, I said to her, “Brother. You weren’t kidding.”

  “He was a talker,” she said, “my Mr. Blazen.”

  Shack trotted off toward the bedroom again, and I asked her, “There’s more?”

  “There’s more. Maybe you should help him.”

  Nine boxes in all.

  Not all of it was transcripts, but each box had its share. Included were newspaper clippings and photo files, plus Blazen’s early attempts in longhand at writing the book himself, before wising up that he needed a ghost.

  After Shack got back with the deli food, which we ate as we worked, he sat on the couch next to me—well, putting a cushion between us, which became a shared desk. Marcy returned to the floor and her chopped-off table. She continued to sit cross-legged, angled toward us, and at one point Shack and I caught ourselves both looking at the same time. We just rolled our eyes at each other, forming a bond in our mutual lechery.

  The three of us couldn’t read all that stuff, not in detail. Transcript is hard to read anyway, with its lack of paragraphs and occasional misrecorded words and phrases. The idea was to skim and scan and try to catch any mention of Borensen and his mob ties, as well as any Italian name that might turn up.

  Finally, almost three hours in, Marcy blurted in mock-My Fair Lady fashion, “By George, I think I’ve got it!… Do you know a gangster called Joey Pep, Mike?”

  “Joey Pepitone,” I said, frowning. A longtime capo in the Bonetti mob family. “I know him, all right.”

  “Could he be our man?”

  I was nodding. “He could. He sure could. And I can check that out right away. Shack, much appreciated. Marcy, you have a phone?”

  She did, in her bedroom—which was a mattress on the floor surrounded by more walls of books—and I used it and her Manhattan phonebook.

  A maid or anyway somebody on the household staff answered, and I gave my name and asked for Gwen.

  “Mike, it’s nice to hear your voice.”

  But I wasn’t sure it really was. We’d been ships who passed in the night,
and maybe I shouldn’t be pulling back into port.

  “Honey, did you ever see Leif mingling or talking with anybody who struck you as… disreputable? Any associate who struck you as shady? I know that’s vague, but—”

  “Actually, yes,” she said quickly. “I was going to call and say something to you, Mike, because I’ve been thinking, going over so much in my mind, so many things. I don’t know the man’s name, but there was a slick, nasty-looking character who Leif would treat with… well, undue respect.”

  “Did he ever drop by your apartment, this guy?”

  “Not that I know of. But if Leif and I were at 21 or the Stork, this well-dressed creepy character might turn up in a booth with one or two flashy women. Leif would excuse himself, and go talk to him, just briefly. Like he was… paying his respects. Is that anything, Mike?”

  “Are you doing anything tonight?”

  My shift of gears threw her a little. “Not really. I’ve had a tough day. Among other things, I made arrangements to ship Leif’s body back to Hollywood. Let them bury the bum.”

  That made me grin, but of course I have a sick sense of humor. “What would you say if I asked you to go out dancing with me?”

  “Well… what?”

  “Sounds a little inappropriate, or at least it might look that way. But I have a real good reason. I want to give you a chance to identify that ‘creepy character.’”

  I filled her in and said I’d come by in a cab and pick her up in half an hour or so.

  When I returned to the living room, Marcy was walking Shack out, her arm in his as it had been in mine earlier. “Thank you, Shack. You’re such a dear. Such a wonderful friend.”

  His hangdog puss got longer. “Oh, Marcy. No guy wants to hear that. The friend bit.”

  “Now, you know that’s how it has to be.”

  He was stumbling out toward 2B, as if the few steps were a thousand miles, when she shut her door.

  “You’re pretty rough on the kid,” I said, reaching for my hat and raincoat on the chair where she’d tossed them.

  “Oh, Shack should know better. Are you leaving, Mike?”

  “I am. Here’s my card. I’ve written my home phone on it, too. Anything occurs to you, any hour of the day or night, let me know.”

  “Well, you’re welcome here any time, Mike.”

  My God, what an invitation. A stunning little Love Child was ready to corrupt an old rake.

  Just as I was going, I said, “What do you mean, Shack should know better?”

  “Well, Mike,” she said, with a big beautiful smile. “I am a lesbian, after all.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Not so long ago, when you got within a few blocks of the place, a riot might have been going on, judging by the backed-up traffic, night-piercing floodlights and crowd noise spilling down the skyscraper canyon. You’d have to hoof it the rest of the way because even if your car or cab got through, a police barricade would be waiting, and mounted cops would be herding an excited throng of kids who looked like refugees from American Bandstand mixed with swells in gowns and tuxes, swarming the sidewalk all the way to Broadway at least. Only a few limos conveying celebrities to the hottest night spot in town got squeezed through the sawhorses, because a whisper of fame and money could out-yell any crowd.

  But four years later, on a week night, the Peppermint Lounge on West Forty-fifth didn’t even have a doorman when the cab dropped Gwen and me off. A few patrons, couples mostly, were coming in and out, in no hurry, and lackluster rock ’n’ roll bled out, blaring when a door opened, muffling when it closed.

  “My,” Gwen said, on my arm. “What a difference from the last time I was here!”

  Her blonde hair ponytailed back, she wore a white mini-dress, matching go-go boots, and a knee-length camel coat with a white mink collar. I let my porkpie hat and trenchcoat make my fashion statement.

  I said, “When was that?”

  “Oh, ’61, ’62.”

  Now the place was a shadow of its former faddish self. The candy-striped canopy drooped under red letters spelling out the club’s name on a cracked white facade. A window display of photos of yesterday’s celebrities reminded today’s visitors that the joint was “World Famous”—and of course when you have to post reminders, you aren’t world famous any more.

  We checked our coats and moved through the bar into the shabby L-shaped club, met by a short, hawk-faced maître d’, who seemed depressed he wasn’t getting the big tips any more. He showed us to a table up front in the sparsely lighted, low-ceilinged, under-populated showroom, though mirrors surrounding the elevated dance floor were doing their best to make it seem bigger. A four-piece combo on stage was dragging its ass through “The Peppermint Twist.” Only half a dozen dancers were out there, college kids doing the Watusi and adult tourists feeling obligated to do the dance the house helped popularize.

  In their white tops and red ski pants, all the waitresses were cute, since they doubled as on-stage dancers, and our redheaded one was no exception. She had to work at being bubbly, though. She wouldn’t make enough tips tonight to cover carfare.

  Looking around at the half-filled place, Gwen said, “The last time I was here, you know who was on that dance floor? Greta Garbo!”

  “She should have come tonight,” I said, “if she wanted to be alone.”

  “It does seem more a museum exhibit than a nightclub,” she said, with something of a shudder. Then she beamed at me, clutched my hand. “Mike, it was nice to hear from you. As you can imagine, it’s been a real drag since, well, since that son-of-a-bitch fiancé of mine got himself killed.”

  Appeared she was doing well getting over Borensen’s passing. Not all mourners could carry off white like she did.

  “You may not give a damn who killed Leif,” I said. “I mean, after all—somebody did you a kind of favor. But keep in mind—the same somebody killed your father.”

  “Leif killed my father.”

  “Had him killed.” I squeezed her hand. “I asked you out tonight, honey, not to cheer you up but to see if you can identify that creep you saw your late unlamented Leif sucking up to.”

  “The creep’s the one who…?”

  “No. But he can lead me to the assassin. If this place were busier, it wouldn’t be so tricky. But when our drinks come, take a sip and glance around like you’re taking in the whole place… but glom the guy sitting in back at a table in the corner, on your side.”

  “It’s awfully dark, Mike.”

  The ceiling spotlights aimed at the stage were about it for illumination.

  “I know,” I said, “but do your best. Tell me if there’s at least a possibility it’s the creep in question.”

  The waitress brought my Four Roses and ginger, and Gwen’s peppermint schnapps. When I handed the redhead a twenty and said keep the change, I made a friend for life, or at least the rest of the evening. Meanwhile, Gwen sipped the sweet liqueur and glanced casually around.

  She didn’t say anything till the band was between numbers. With a sweet feminine smile that might have accompanied almost anything, she leaned in to say something that it didn’t.

  “Mike, that’s definitely the scumball whose ass Leif used to kiss.”

  I sipped my highball and smiled back at her. “I’m going to go back there and just say hello. Listen, if things should get lively, just sit tight. Like the man said, I will return… unless I get killed or something.”

  Her facial expression stayed casual and even amused, but her hand gripping my sleeve wasn’t. “Mike, you’re scaring me.”

  “Not a bad thing to be, considering.”

  Because this was a no-cover-charge joint, the path to the bar was kept clear. When I was almost there, I veered off the central aisle and wove through the tight-packed but mostly empty tables and chairs, coming to a stop at the table for four where one man sat. Where he always sat.

  Small but compactly muscular, Joey Pepitone wore a dark gray sharkskin suit with white silk shirt and black si
lk tie. Diamonds winked off tie-pin and cufflinks, and gold rings winked back from slender fingers that had never seen a real day’s work. He was a slimily handsome hoodlum whose most distinctive features were his sleepy eyes, constant faint sneer, heavy dark eyebrows and prematurely gray hair. He’d be a living, breathing cliché, if he and his ilk weren’t where the cliché came from.

  “Mike Hammer,” he said looking up at me. His voice was a smooth tenor. “I never took you for a rock ’n’ roll fan.”

  I pulled out a chair and sat across from him, leaning back with my arms folded. “Nah, I’m more a classical guy. Give me the old masters. And I don’t mean Joey Dee and the Starliters.”

  He smiled, just a little. He had an iceless tumbler of dark liquid in front of him and a cigarette going, waiting in an ashtray for his attention.

  “Pretty girl you got with you tonight,” he said off-handedly, nodding toward Gwen at our table up front. He had a decent look at her in profile, since her chair was angled toward the stage.

  “Would you believe it? She’s grieving over her fiancé’s death. Kind of an almost widow.”

  He pretended that didn’t mean anything to him. “Well, I hope she’s wearing black undies. Otherwise, she seems a little disrespectful.”

  I let that pass. “Business always this shitty, Joe? Nothing like being yesterday’s big thing, huh?”

  “We do all right on the weekends,” he said. “And the tourists keep us going in between.”

  The success of the Peppermint Lounge had been a fluke. It had been a gay bar Joey Pep took over from a pal of his who had to lam it out of town. Once he took over the joint, Joey worked out of the back room, where he gave the Bonetti family’s blessing (for a piece of the action) to various illegal activities—loan-sharking, fencing, bookmaking.

  Then the hot band he hired, just for show, started pulling in the kids, and the Twist craze took off, and suddenly a mob front was a legitimate goldmine. But right now, that goldmine seemed tapped out.

  “Did you come here to depress me, Hammer, or do you just like to watch young stuff shake it on a dance floor?”

  I grinned at him. “I can do both at the same time, Joey. I can include chewing bubble gum if you like.”