Don't Look Behind You

by Mickey Spillane

  “No argument, chum.” He held up the little white card with the little black letters again. “Now, what was Marcy Bloom doing with your business card?”

  “I was here yesterday evening.”

  “Kind of young for you.”

  I gave him a look. “I wasn’t her type, Pat. She was Richard Blazen’s co-author on that tell-all memoir he was writing. I spent several hours with her going over reams of transcripts and notes, looking for the name of Borensen’s mob connection.”

  His eyes briefly flared. “And did you find it?”

  I told him I had, and that I’d confronted Joey Pep at the Peppermint Lounge after leaving here last night. I said that Pepitone admitted that Borensen had been in the Bonetti family’s pocket since the then-actor was peddling drugs among the Broadway crowd. I kept the talk about the family’s contract-killer “specialist” to myself. Not ready to show Pat all my cards just yet.

  “The Borensen/Bonetti connection could be useful,” Pat said, “in a tangential way.”

  “You mean, in taking down the Bonettis.”

  “Yeah. And Joey has problems of his own. That famous club of his is on the verge of getting shuttered—losing its liquor license. They had an incident that won’t help last night.”

  “Oh?”

  He nodded. “Somebody driving by called it in. Nasty brouhaha between some guys out in front of the place. Two Peppermint Lounge bouncers got bounced to the hospital. They’re still there, but they aren’t talking.” He gave me a sly smile. “That must have gone down after you left, huh, Mike?”

  “Must have.”

  He pushed his hat back on his head. “The Bonettis catching flak is all well and good, but it doesn’t get us any closer to your middle-of-the-night caller.”

  That gave me an opening to reveal some other cards to Pat. Putting him on a slow but worthwhile track while I was taking a faster one was a solid way to hedge my bets in the hunt for the Specialist. Yeah, capital “S”—I had something to call the son of a bitch now, at least.

  So I told Pat about Dr. Beech and the disease that was taking down our killer in its own good time.

  “Phasger’s Syndrome?” he said, frowning. “Never heard of it… but it sure sounds like hell on earth.”

  “Even that’s too good for this prick. But with a court order, you can get that list out of Dr. Beech, of the others who’ve made twenty-five-grand ‘contributions.’ They’re all pay-offs for contract killings, of course. You can clear a slew of cases out of your unsolved homicides file, and maybe get a line on our psychotic hitman.”

  Head cocked, Pat was giving me a narrow-eyed look I knew too well. “How long have you been sitting on this information, Mike?”

  “Since yesterday is all. I wasn’t holding it back, buddy. Just hadn’t got around to telling you yet.”

  His hands were on his hips. “Well, that’s swell, Mike. ’Cause I would hate to have to haul you in on obstruction of justice charges.”

  “If you think I don’t want this bastard found, Pat, you’re crazier than he is.”

  “Well, one of us is. I’ve seen that look on your face before, Mike. Too many times. You want him for yourself. You want him in front of your .45, primed for one of your fancy self-defense pleas. Not this time. You can help us, and we’ll be glad to have you—I for one appreciate your skills and acumen. But we’re talking about a killer that could potentially lead us to taking down one of this city’s five major crime families. If that happens, the death of this girl can maybe mean something, that something good will come of it. No, Mike, this time it’s got to be by the book.”

  “No problems, old buddy. Strictly by the book.”

  The Old Testament.

  “Listen, Pat,” I said, “I don’t see any of the Bloom girl’s boxes of research materials. You want to build a case against the killer and/or the Bonettis, you’ll want those. They turned out to be Marcy Bloom’s life’s work. Were they in the bedroom?”

  He shook his head; this was all news to him. “No. The only materials are those few scattered things on that makeshift desk of hers.”

  I thumped his chest with a forefinger, just hard enough for some emphasis. “You need to canvass this building and at least the adjacent two, and the ones right across the street. When you have a time of death from the M.E., that’ll help narrow it. But there were nine full boxes of those transcripts, and somebody had to carry them out of here, and down two flights out to the street. Load them in a car or whatever. By now those boxes and their contents will be destroyed, but you may get yourself a description of the killer.”

  “We already have that.”

  I blinked at him. “What?”

  “I will put that canvass in motion, Mike, that makes a lot of sense. But that kid across the way saw the guy.”

  The lab boys and photographer were coming in, and we headed past them, to talk to Shack.

  “This boy found the body,” Pat said, just before we moved onto the landing, “shortly before seven. He often went in early and made coffee and sometimes breakfast for the girl. She’d leave the door unlocked for him.”

  The young man wasn’t crying now, but he looked as dejected as a dog left along a roadside by a family moving on without him. The little landing was getting crowded, so Pat sent the uniformed man inside for now.

  “Stand up, son,” Pat said.

  The kid struggled to his feet, each limb of his bony frame moving a little slower than the last. He was still in the peace symbol T-shirt and ancient jeans, his feet bare.

  “This is Michael Hammer,” Pat said, gesturing my way. “He’s an investigator helping us—”

  I said, “We’ve met. Shack helped Miss Bloom and me go through all those research materials.”

  “Ah,” Pat said.

  A sudden thought gripped me and I leaned near my friend, whispering, “Shack here might be able to testify to what we discovered in those transcripts.”

  Pat gave me a knowing nod, then turned back to the kid.

  “Son, would you tell Mr. Hammer what you saw last night?”

  “Can I trust him?” the kid blurted, flashing me a wary look.

  What was that about?

  “You can,” Pat assured him. “Just go over it again, please.”

  “Sure.” He turned his narrow, angular face toward me; his eyes were bloodshot. “Around one a.m. last night, I heard knocking. Loud knocking. I, uh, cracked the door to see what was going on.”

  I said to Pat, “He does that.” Then to Shack, I said, “Stop for a moment and describe him.”

  He nodded. “Okay. About five ten, eleven. Big but no giant. Kind of a Mr. Businessman type—dark suit, tie, hat. Hardly anybody wears a hat any more.”

  He was saying this to two guys in hats.

  Pat asked, “Can you give me any more of a description than that?”

  “Yes, sir. I got a real good look at him. Oval face, kind of a pug nose, wide-set dark eyes, small mouth. Short dark hair. Glasses, heavy plastic frames. Pale. Definitely not a guy who gets much sun, y’know?”

  “All right,” I said. “Get back to your story.”

  “Right. So, the guy was knocking for the umpteenth time, and I was about to go out there and tell him he’d better leave before he got himself in trouble… but then Marcy was there, in the doorway. She was trusting like that. Very open girl. Of course, that’s the vibe down here. It’s not like anywhere else in the city, the Village, you know?”

  “We know,” Pat said. “Go on.”

  “Well, this guy says to her, ‘I’m sorry to bother you so late, Miss Bloom, but Mr. Hammer asked me to pick up some materials that you and he worked with this evening.’ There was some more talk that I didn’t get, but finally she nodded and let him in. Shut the door, and I shut mine.”

  So that was why the kid didn’t know whether or not to trust me—the killer had posed as my representative.

  I asked, “Did you hear anything else last night? Like the guy leaving? Or maybe going up and down
the stairs? Or most importantly—something that might have been a gunshot?”

  He shook his head through all of that.

  “You hear a lot of noises in the city,” Shack said, shrugging. “Even in the Village. I guess… I guess not all the vibes down here are good.”

  “I guess not,” I said.

  “Son,” Pat said, “would you be willing to come to my office and take a look through some mug books? We can start with individuals who we already suspect may be working as professional killers.”

  The bloodshot eyes grew wide. “Is that who killed Marcy? Some kind of… hitman?”

  “It’s too early for speculation,” Pat said, which was a lie obviously. “We can give you a ride to and from. Could you be ready in half an hour?”

  “Sure. Anything to get the freak that did this.”

  “If need be,” Pat offered, “I can talk to your boss where you work, so you don’t get in trouble.”

  “Oh, I don’t work anywhere. I’m a painter. Like Jackson Pollock. I’ll have a gallery show one of these days. Till then Mom and Dad kind of… underwrite me.”

  “It’s an investment,” I said.

  “I think so,” Shack said, a little defensively.

  Then he disappeared into his apartment.

  “What’s going to become of these hippie kids?” Pat wondered aloud.

  “Well, it’s official.”

  “What is?”

  “You’re an old fart.”

  We grinned at each other. We could use it.

  “Did that boy love her, Mike?”

  “He had a terrible crush on her, even though it was misplaced.”

  “She wouldn’t have anything to do with him?”

  “Oh, no, she was friendly with him. Took advantage a little, knowing he was sweet on her.”

  “Now who sounds like an old fart?”

  I laughed. “Thing is, she was gay. Or did you know that already?”

  His eyes flared momentarily. “No. We should probably ask around and look into her girl friends or girl friend. They might know something.”

  I gave a fatalistic shrug. “I doubt it. Marcy didn’t know her killer. But there’ll be some sad gals in the Village tonight.” I tugged my hat brim down for the coming rain. “You need me any longer, Pat?”

  He shook his head. “No. But I would like to know, Mike—are you going to work with me on this? How about it? Can we do this one together? Or does it have to be a damn race again?”

  I let him have half a grin. “Come on, buddy, you know I’m a solo act.”

  “Yeah? Tell that to Velda.”

  “Okay, so I sometimes work with a beautiful doll. You couldn’t pass the physical. Hey, I gave you the Dr. Beech lead, which you and your army of brilliant scientific types can handle much quicker and faster than an old-time flatfoot like me ever could. You’re welcome, by the way, for all the cases you’ll close.”

  His gaze dripped of suspicion. “What are you going to be doing?”

  “Trying another route. A shorter one.” I put a hand on his shoulder. “But if I don’t make it, buddy—if our killer turns out to be a badder ass than yours truly—promise me you’ll find this bastard. But it’ll take a hell of a lot of digging.”

  “That’s our specialty,” Pat said. His smile wasn’t big, but it had plenty of friendship in it. “But don’t die on me just yet, you big slob.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  I started heading down the stairs.

  He called after me: “What are you going to do, Mike? What have you got in mind, to beat me and the NYPD to this guy?”

  “Nothing much,” I said up to him. “Just giving the bastard some bait.”

  “What kind of bait?”

  “Me.”

  * * *

  At the office, I called Velda from the phone on her own desk.

  I said, “Have you cheated on me with Billy Batson yet?”

  “You’d deserve that, you louse. If you don’t give me the go-ahead to get out of this place, they’ll be locking me up next door in their Laughing Academy.”

  “Now, easy, kitten. This thing is really heating up. I need you to stay put and keep an eye on our little pal.”

  “Damnit, Mike, don’t squeeze me out like this!”

  “You have to give me room on this one, doll.”

  “You mean, like, I have to give you enough rope?”

  I removed anything light from my voice; nothing was left but a deadly edge. “Listen to me, Velda. This guy is on the rampage, and he may be the craziest, smartest son of a bitch we’ve ever taken on.”

  Her voice went hushed. “Why, what’s happened now, Mike?”

  I brought her quickly up to speed on everything that had gone down since she and I last spoke.

  “That poor kid,” she said about Marcy, the sadness in her voice revealing her depth of feeling despite never having met the girl. “Oh, Mike. Somebody’s got to die for that. And die very hard.”

  “I’m on it. But you need to stay right where you are. Both you and Billy could be in danger. The killer is tying off loose ends, so you need to stay on your guard. I would give decent odds that he may try to strike at me through you.”

  “Mike, that’s not going to happen. Not with me here in this damn fortress…”

  “The Alamo was a fortress, too, kid.”

  “Actually it was a church. And I wish you’d let me do more in this, Mike, than just pray for you.”

  But she told me she’d do as I asked, and that she loved me. I echoed the last, then hung up, hoping I’d live through this to see her again.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I figured my next move was to corner Joey Pep again, and tell him his high-priced hitman had knocked off an innocent girl last night. Make him see that his so-called Specialist had gone off the rails and needed stopping, right now. Maybe Pepitone would see the wisdom of that and lead me to the bastard. Or maybe I’d have to give Joey a taste of what his bouncers got.

  So what if the Bonettis got pissed at me over it? I’d had mob trash pissed at me before. Sure, they knew where to find me. But I knew where to find them.

  If memory served, the Peppermint Lounge opened at eleven a.m., typical for a Manhattan bar, but also to accommodate the tourist crowd who hadn’t heard the twist craze was over. Pepitone still had his office in the backroom, so from my desk phone I called over there and asked for him. He wasn’t in yet. Usually showed around one. You wanna leave a message? I said no thanks, and I didn’t leave a name, either.

  I’d barely hung up when the phone rang. I answered and heard Pat’s voice, hushed yet anxious.

  “Mike, can you get over here?”

  There was nothing official in his tone.

  “What is it now?” I asked. “Did that kid find somebody in a mug book?”

  “Just get over here, Mike. Please.”

  Please, yet!

  “Okay,” I said, hung up, grabbed my hat and trenchcoat and headed out into an afternoon where the sky had deepened from gray to black, like God was in a bad mood. Maybe He was hungry, too, because it sure as hell sounded like His stomach was growling.

  Pat’s office door was open. He was in his shirtsleeves and a loosened tie behind his desk, and he looked haggard. He waved me in and said, “Shut it.”

  I did, then went over, tossed my hat on his desk, and slung myself into the chair opposite him. He already had coffee waiting. I sipped mine. Milk and sugar. Perfect.

  “What can I do for you, Captain?”

  “I’d like your help.”

  “Any time, buddy.”

  He sat forward, his voice soft yet with an underlying edge. “I need you to back me up on something. Something that’s a little… dicey. Something more along, you know—your lines.”

  I was interested, but couldn’t resist needling him a little. “What happened to ‘by the book?’”

  His smile was rumpled and maybe a shade embarrassed. “We’ll leave it open on my desk. Face down.”

>   I nodded. “So spill.”

  His eyes narrowed. “We had that kid in here for an hour. Looking at mug books. He came up with nothing. I was grasping at straws, I admit. So I showed him a wire photo the LAPD sent me just two hours ago.”

  “Why did the LAPD do that?”

  He leaned back in his swivel chair, the gray-blue eyes troubled but steady. “You know, Mike, you’re not the only detective in this town.”

  “Well, it’s a big town.” I was lighting up a Lucky. “Bound to be a few. Maybe even some on this department.”

  “Generous of you to admit.”

  I waved out the match. “Let me guess. You’ve been contacting big city police departments, chatting up friends working homicide, guys you met at police conventions maybe. And you ran the profile past them.”

  Something flashed in his eyes. “What profile would that be?”

  I blew a smoke ring, feeling cocky. “Guys who had small, seemingly legit businesses, like one-man insurance agencies or travel agent set-ups or maybe accountants, who got pulled in on suspicion of a killing, but walked. Guys whose businesses were legit but barely making it, and that just might be fronts for contract killers to hide behind between jobs. Guys who, finally, booked it out of town when the cops were getting on to them.”

  He gave me half a smile and a whole laugh. “Okay, so I’m not the only detective in town, either. You’re right, Mike. I wanted to see who else our hitman’s hitman might have brought in to join his stable of hired guns.”

  “And you found a possible. Or rather the LAPD did.”

  He nodded emphatically. “But we may have caught a bigger fish than I figured.”

  The wire photo he handed over to me showed, in typical front and side views, a blank-eyed, square-faced guy with short dark hair and regular features. Name: Dennis Clark, thirty-five, six one, two hundred pounds. He had the bland, clean-cut good looks of a Madison Avenue ad man. Native of Southern California.

  “This goes back five years,” I said.

  Pat nodded again. “The profile is the same, but Dennis Clark has been in Manhattan, running a small insurance agency, for just that long.”

  “Not a recent import.”

  “Not at all. And if he’s hiding, it’s in plain sight. Took me about three minutes to get his home address.”