Survival... ZERO! mh-11

by Mickey Spillane

  She handed the picture back and I stuck it in my pocket.

  The phone still sat there, impassive and unconcerned with it all.

  The muscles were tight across my back and my hands were knotted into balls of rage.

  "Mike ..." she came over to me and unbuttoned my jacket, then slipped it off, her hands kneading the back of my neck. I closed my eyes and felt the tension begin to melt under the gentle pressure of her fingers. She tugged the shoulder harness off then and let the .45 drop to the floor, then it was my tie and my shirt, her hands working their way across my chest and arms. Her palms pushed me back on the couch and her fingers worked at my belt and I just let her go ahead until she was done. I felt her stand up, heard the soft whisper of cloth and let my eyes slit open a bare fraction and watched her standing there warmly nude and smiling. "Don't move," she said.

  I closed my eyes again, wiping out all thought for the minute she was gone, then heard her come in and opened them again. She threw a pillow on the floor beside the couch, knelt down with her arms outstretched and the vibrator she had attached to her hand started to pulsate crazily as she started at my neck and began a slow, deliberate journey into other areas.

  Time went by in slow, lazy circles, then the erotic tingling of the vibrator stopped and a more intense sensation replaced it until time erupted into an explosive spiral that diminished out of sight and left me gasping for breath.

  On the table the phone had come to life.

  I opened my eyes and Renée said, "Good?"

  "Beautiful."

  I reached over and picked up the receiver.

  Henaghan told me I probably could have done better with the taxi ride, but came up with five places conducting blasting operations at the moment. I wrote them all down, thanked him and hung up, looking at the list in my hand.

  Only one place was above Fifty-Second Street, an area off Columbus Avenue at One Hundred-tenth Street. And that wasn't anywhere near Anton Virelli's territory at all. If Velda was holding down a stakeout around Ninety-second and Broadway, she was doing it alone. Somehow Beaver had cut loose earlier and with more manpower to cover the exits, Woody and his boys had caught his move and had him cornered in another location.

  In a way it was a relief to me. She was out of the action now and I wanted to keep it that way. If Velda didn't tumble to the fact that Beaver was gone I could move in alone without sweating about her catching a slug. I looked at the paper again and swore softly. An area, that's all it was. A big flat area with hundreds of holes to crawl into. Those blasting signals were clear, but distant, tonal enough to penetrate phone booth walls or old apartments. There wasn't any chance of tracking down every telephone in the neighborhood at all. What I needed was an address. Beaver was heading for one definite spot, that was sure. One place where he figured he'd be safe. He was enough of an old hand to stay out of the hands of other pros so far and he'd be playing it smart and cagy.

  Caesar Mario Tulley was going to get me that address.

  Renée had slipped back into her robe and was sitting on the end of the couch, watching me with a small, wistful smile. "I hate telephones," she said.

  "Things are beginning to move."

  "I know. You came, now you have to go."

  "Your turn the next time," I said.

  "It's all right, Mike. Some things are more important than others." She saw me frowning, not knowing how to answer her, and nodded. "Really, I understand," she added.

  "Beaver's someplace around Columbus and a Hundred-tenth Street, Woody's boys have him hemmed in. He's probably pinned down temporarily, but not located yet. I want first crack at that bastard."

  "You know where he is?"

  "No, but somebody else might have the answer."

  "Mike ..." Renée's face went soft and worried. "Please be careful. I would like to see you again."

  "You will."

  "This wild business of yours ... well, I guess I've been in a pretty distant world." She licked her lips and shook her head in disbelief. "Dead people ... I've been shot ..." her eyes met mine then, "... and you, Mike."

  "Things aren't all that bad," I said.

  She tried to smile, but it was forced. I suddenly felt pretty silly standing there without any clothes on. She knew what I was feeling, faked a grin, then stood up and frowned. Her hand shot out to the table to support herself.

  "You all right?" I asked her.

  She touched the side of her head, blinked, then nodded, taking a deep breath. "Just my head. I still can't move too quickly. I get dizzy when I do." Her smile came back, this time with natural ease. "Why don't you go inside and get dressed? I'm going to call my maid back. There are times when I just don't like to be left alone."

  I picked up my clothes, somehow feeling guilty, and went into the bedroom. I showered quickly, climbed into my clothes, snugged the .45 down in its sling and went back into the living room.

  For a minute I thought she wasn't there, then I saw a small upturned palm sticking out from behind the chair and half ran to where she was lying. Her eyes were partially slitted open and a trickle of blood was oozing down from under the pad on her scalp.

  I got my hands under her arms and lifted her to the couch, stretching her out with a pillow under her feet. A couple of ice-cold wet towels finally brought a flicker to her eyes and she moaned softly. "What the hell happened, kid?"

  She let her eyelids close, then open. "I was ... calling Maria . .. and I fainted." I looked at the compress on her head. One end had come loose from where it had evidently hit something. She winced and pushed my hand away.

  "You want me to get a doctor?"

  "No ... I'll be all right. Please ... don't leave until Maria gets here."

  "Sure, kid. How do you feel?"

  "Awful ... headache."

  Luckily, Maria's sister only worked three blocks away and she was there in ten minutes. She helped me get Renée into bed, but kept looking at me suspiciously as though she didn't believe what really had happened. She made me leave while she got a nightgown on her, then came bustling back into the living room, frowning. Just in time I kicked the vibrator under the couch before she saw it. "You stay. I'm going to the drugstore for something to make her sleep."

  I got that guilty feeling again and just nodded.

  From the bedroom I heard Renée call my name and I walked in and took her hand. There was a fresh bandage in place and the blood had been wiped from her hair. "Mike .. I'm sorry."

  "Forget it."

  "Go do what you have to do," she said softly.

  I looked at my watch. It was still early. Caesar liked to work the later crowds; he looked a little more pitiful under the night lights. "I got time," I told her.

  It was thirty minutes before Maria got back with a plastic bottle of capsules, and another thirty before the drowsiness came over Renée's eyes. Just before they closed, she said, "It was nice, wasn't it, Mike?"

  "Crazy, but beautiful," I answered.

  Maria gave me another of those stern looks and nodded toward the door. "Now you go."

  And I went.

  I called William Dorn's apartment from the first open bar I came to. A maid answered and said Mr. Dorn was in a business conference and couldn't be disturbed at the moment.

  "Give him a message for me, please."

  "Certainly, sir."

  "Tell him Miss Talmage suffered a slight relapse and has been given a sedative, but there's nothing to worry about."

  "Oh ... then she won't be at the meeting this evening?"

  "I'm afraid not."

  "Yes, thank you, Doctor. Is there anything Mr. Dorn can do?"

  "Nothing at all."

  "Very well, Doctor, and thank you again."

  I hung up and grunted. I didn't think I sounded like a doctor at all.

  The rain was coming down harder and I turned up my collar against it. Somewhere Beaver was hiding and Woody and his boys were waiting.

  It was going to be a trouble night.

  CHAPTER 10r />
  They could only hold the story back just so long. When more than one person knows, there is no secret. The final edition of the evening paper carried the opener that was the crack in the whole faulty scheme of security. An unmentioned source had leaked the information that the dead guy in the subway station had died of a highly contagious disease and upon further investigation nothing could be learned from officialdom about the matter. There were vigorous denials, but no one offered other explanation. The Newark paper went a little further, an editorial demanding an answer over a body-shot of the corpse.

  So far nobody had put the obvious pieces in place . . . the sudden show of harmony between the U.S. and the U.S.S.R., the burst of activity from the armed forces reservists and the presence of the Fort Detrick C.B. warfare teams. But it was coming. No amount of security was going to stop people with imagination from thinking along certain lines, then proving out their theories. Tomorrow a few more questions would be asked, then when no answers were forthcoming the dam would burst and every end of the news media would be jamming down the throat of bureaucracy. Tom-Tom Schneider was dead, his killers were dead. What other pieces of sensationalism could they dig up to bury the biggest news story of them all?

  I walked up Broadway past the offices of WOBY-TV and wondered how Eddie Dandy was doing. On impulse, I turned in out of the wet, found the receptionist just going out for a coffee break and asked her.

  Eddie Dandy had just come in an hour ago. He was in his office and wasn't to be disturbed. I thanked her, let her go for her coffee and took the elevator upstairs. I spotted the two guys by his door before they saw me, turned right instead of toward his office, rounded the corridor until I found an empty desk and picked up the phone and dialed Eddie's number.

  His hello was tired and curt and I said, "Mike Hammer, Ed. How goes it?"

  "Stinking, kid. Where are you?"

  "Right down the hall. Can you break away from the watchdogs long enough to go to the John?"

  "Yeah, sure, but look, buddy ... I'm strictly off limits. Anybody caught talking to me gets the same solitary confinement treatment."

  "Balls."

  "Man, they did it to me."

  "I'm not you. Give me five minutes, then cut out."

  The men's room was across the corridor, out of sight from the pair, and I went in without being seen. Nobody else was there, so I stepped into the end booth and closed the door. Five minutes later I heard the outside door hiss shut and walked out of the cubicle.

  Eddie looked tired, but his eyes were bright and his mouth tight with constrained rage. "You look terrible," I said.

  His eyes went toward the door. "Quiet. They're standing outside."

  "How'd you shake loose? I thought they had you under wraps."

  "A few nosy buddies of mine started poking around when I didn't show. The big wheels figured I'd be better off where I could be seen and answer monitored phone calls that could be chopped off fast if I started to squawk. Brother, when this is over asses are going to burn, and I mean burn."

  "It isn't over yet," I reminded him.

  His face turned gray and he seemed ten years older. "I was in on some high level discussion, Mike. You really know how bad it is?"

  "Maybe I'm better off not knowing."

  Eddie didn't even hear me. "There's no place to hide. Everybody would be running for cover, but there's no place to hide! They've isolated that damned disease and it's the worst thing they ever came up against. Once it gets started there's no stopping it, no vaccines, no natural barriers ... nothing. The damn stuff is so self-perpetuating it can even feed on itself after it's done feeding on everything else. Maybe a few guys will escape it for a while. The men in the Antarctic on Operation Deepfreeze will miss it because intense cold is the only thing that can stop it, but where will they be when the supply planes stop coming in?"

  "Eddie ..."

  "Hell, for years they talked about the atom bomb, the big boom that could wipe out the world. They should have talked about something else. At least that would have been quick. This makes nuclear fission look like a toy."

  "There's still a chance."

  "Not much, friend. Only one guy knew where those containers were planted and now he's dead."

  I shrugged and looked at him. "So what's left to do?"

  He finally broke a grin loose and waved his arms in mock disgust at me. "I wish I could think like you, Mike. No kidding, I really do. I'd go out, find a few broads and start banging away until it was all over. Me, I'm just going to sit and sweat and swear and worry until my time comes to check out, then maybe I'll cry a little, get drunk as hell and not have to fight a hangover."

  "Pessimists are a pain in the butt," I said.

  "You're absolutely nuts, Mike. How can you stand there and ..."

  "I have my own business to take care of."

  Eddie let out a grunt of disbelief. "Still Lippy Sullivan? Just like things weren't ..."

  "It keeps me busy," I interrupted. I brought him up to date and by the time I was done he had almost forgotten about what was happening outside.

  "Woody Ballinger's a rough boy to snag in a trap, Mike. He's been around. If that dip lifted something from his wallet and tried to shake him down for it, he was plain asking to be killed. You ought to let Woody do you a favor and knock him off."

  "Not this guy. As long as we still have murder one punishment, I want him to go through the whole damn torturous process."

  "So what can I do?"

  I looked at my watch again. Time was going by fast. Outside, darkness had blacked out a wet city and the rain was still scratching against the windows. "Do me a favor," I said. "Get a call through to Pat Chambers for me and tell him to drop the area around Ninety-second and get his men over to Columbus and One Hundred-tenth. If they spot Velda, don't tip her to the move. Can you do that?"

  "Sure. Those kind of calls I can make, so long as I stay off the Big Subject."

  "They letting you broadcast?"

  "Nothing live. I have to tape it first. They thought of everything."

  I looked around the room and grinned. "Except this."

  "Yeah. Who makes appointments in men's rooms except sexual deviates?"

  "Don't let it get around. That might make more news."

  Suddenly his eyes clouded. "Wait until tomorrow. They really got a beaut cooked up. The public will flip, Wall Street stocks will tumble and the news outlets will eat it up. There won't be room enough in any paper or broadcast for anything else."

  "Oh? Why?"

  "The President is scheduled to have a serious heart attack," he said.

  Caesar Mario Tulley hadn't shown up and nobody had seen him around since earlier in the day. Little Joe had taken up his usual rainy night station in the back booth of Aspen's Snack Bar, peering out the window, sipping one coffee after another.

  He shrugged when I asked him and said, "Don't worry about him, Mike. He'll show. A night like this, the kid makes out, all wet and sorry-looking. Wish I could make half of his take. The suckers feel worse over a long-haired kid in dirty clothes panhandling nickels than a guy like me with no legs."

  "Quit complaining," I said- "You got it made."

  Little Joe laughed and took another sip of his coffee. "If I didn't I wouldn't be inside. Man, I had my times out there on nights like this. It was good hustling, but hell on the health. You look for him over at Leo's?"

  "They didn't see him."

  "How about Tessie ... you know, Theresa Miller, that cute little whore from the Village. She never stops. If there's a live one on the street she'll tap him."

  "She saw him this afternoon, not since," I said. "Look, he told me he was going to see a friend. You know who he hangs out with?"

  "Come on, Mike. Them hippies all look alike to me. Sure, I seen him with a few creeps before, but nobody I could finger. Hell, I don't even want to get close to 'em. He works his side of the street, I work mine. Look, why don't you try Austin Towers? Tall, lanky guy with a scraggly goatee. Always han
gs out by the paper kiosk the next block down. He sells them kids pot and if anybody would know, he would."

  I told Little Joe thanks and flipped him a five-spot.

  He grabbed it and grinned. "I never refuse money," he said.

  Austin Towers didn't want to talk, but he thought it was a bust and didn't have time to dump the two paper bags he had in his raincoat pocket and gave me a resigned look and followed me into the semilit entrance of the closed shoe store.

  "I want to talk to a lawyer," he said.

  All I did was look at him.

  For a second he stared back, then dropped his eyes nervously and a tic pulled at the corner of his mouth.

  I still didn't say anything.

  "Listen, Mister ..."

  I let him see the .45 under my coat and his eyes widened and he tried to swallow the lump in his throat. His voice was a hoarse whisper when he said, "Man, look, look ... I'm just pushing grass. I ain't crowding nobody. I don't hold no hard stuff, not me. Man, it's all grass and who puts heat on grass? You guys want me out, I go pick another spot and ..."

  "Where can I find Caesar?"

  The relief that flooded his face swept over him like a wave. "Oh, man, he ain't nothin', that guy. He just ..."

  "You see him today?"

  "Sure, about four. He bought some stuff so he and a friend . . ."

  He was talking fast and furiously, happy to know it wasn't him I was leaning on. I cut him short. "Where is he?"

  "His pal got a pad on Forty-ninth. First floor over the grocery in the front."

  "Show me."

  "Mister . . ."

  I didn't want him making any phone calls that would scare off my birds. "Show me," I said again.

  And he showed me. A stinking, miserable two-room flop that reeked of garbage and marijuana smoke where Caesar Mario Tulley and a scruffy-looking jerk in shoulder-length hair were wrapped in Mexican scrapes, stretched out on the floor completely out of their skulls from the pot party.

  I said, "Damn!" and the word seemed to drop in the room like soft thunder.

  Austin Towers started edging toward the door. "Like I showed you, man, so now I gotta cut, y'know?"