Authors: Mickey Spillane
This went way beyond helping a budding politico chase some druggies out of his neighborhood,
"Jesus, Pat, how did that old coot get into that?"
"Well, you know Doolan. He kept his sources close to the vest, but he always did have his informants. And he was out there doing routine work for his P.I. pal Cummings, and he saw things. He had an eye. A nose. Like you."
"Then even at this late date, Doolan was still making enemies."
"All cops got enemies," he reminded me.
"And enemies like revenge," I reminded him.
"Who the hell would want revenge on an old dog like Doolan?"
"Maybe some other old dog."
"Like Alberto Bonetti?"
I nodded.
"Mike, you are a man obsessed with that goddamn family." He sat down, folded his hands behind his head, and leaned back in his chair. "Bonetti has enough trouble keeping the ambitious young turks in his outfit from tearing up his own ass. Right now, he still has the bull on them, but keeping it that way is something else." He paused, took a breath, and his expression turned grave. "Mike—you've been goofing off for a year. Do you know what the hell's been happening around here?"
"Not really," I said. "Then again, the Miami area has its own Wild West show going."
"Multiply Miami by a hundred and you have New York. But it's not like the old days—the organizations have tightened up. They have legal covers and the kind of money laundries you could never conceive of. Imagine controlling an entire segment of the
banking
industry—that's what they have now."
I nodded toward the window. "This is
the
stock market town, buddy. If what you're saying is true—"
"It's true. And this city you love to hate, it's also
the
port of entry. Man, I remember when knocking off a dozen kilos of H got us on the front pages. Now you'd better unload tons of the stuff to rate a mention. And damnit, I mean
tons.
Now it's coke that's in the pipeline. Translate that into street value, and you'll see the kind of money power we're up against."
I asked, "So where does Bonetti stand?"
"Maybe not a major player anymore, but still in the game. And he's got a damn good cover, running his own supply line somehow to keep his bunch happy ... but mainly we figure him for a contact man. He arranges deals. At least we
think
so."
I said, "That's pretty thin."
"Organized Crime Unit does its best. This is more than they have on Don Giraldi."
"Costello's old buddy?"
"Yeah."
"Hell, I thought he was dead."
"That's what people think about you," Pat said. "You know how those old Cosa Nostra guys hibernate—he's still in his place on Long Island, but now his protection comes as much out of lawyers' briefcases as his bodyguards' guns. You remember Pierluigi?"
"Sure." Umberto Pierluigi was a top headhunter for Genovese back in the old days.
"Well," Pat said, "he's got his own cut of the pie now."
"His own
family?
"
"They don't dress it up like that anymore. It's a business organization called Sonata Imports, Inc." Before I could ask, he added, "And it's clean, as far as that goes. They even pay their goddamn taxes."
"So what's the story on Little Tony? Anthony-who-doesn't-like-to-be-called-Tony, I mean."
Pat shrugged. "Kid's out of the loop. He's gone straight. Even
you
have to know about Club 52."
"Yeah, I know about it. It's where the movie stars and recording artists and Broadway cats go to boogie under flashing lights and do cocaine in the backroom."
His face fell. "Knock it off, Mike."
"You're saying that doesn't happen?"
"Of course it happens."
"And you look the other way?"
He didn't say anything.
"Pat? You hear the question?"
"I heard the question. Everybody looks the other way, Mike. A little recreational use by celebrities is something I'm required to tolerate."
"Well, I'm not." I sat forward. "And you're telling me a disco where they got hot and cold running coke doesn't have mob ties? Are you fucking kidding?"
"Beyond what you're talking about, Mike—this social activity that certain parties see to it that we ignore? Anthony Tretriano is a straight shooter."
"Of what? Heroin?"
"Mike ... he's a businessman. He runs a very successful, famous, well-connected nightclub."
"I'll bet it's well connected. Listen, Pat, Doolan was murdered, and so were those two girls, and I think all three
kills
were 'well connected.'"
"Oh, Mike. Give it a break. What are
you
on?"
"Nothing. Not a damn thing. Not even fucking aspirin. Will you help me?"
"Help you what?"
"You have the men it takes to look into things that I just don't have the time or resources to run down. Things like, did Ginnie Mathes and Dulcie Thorpe know each other? Were they connected in any way?"
His mouth was smiling but his eyes weren't. "Should I take notes, now that I'm your unofficial legman?"
"If you want. For example, have you checked that dance studio where Ginnie was taking lessons? Who else belonged? Was it near where she was mugged?"
"I can tell you that one—it's a little off-Broadway studio. A lot of theater kids train there. And we already checked."
"For a tie between the two dead girls?"
"Well, no..."
"Get started, then, if you don't have too much packing to do for your move into that hideous new Holiday Inn they built you guys over by Chinatown."
He scowled. "You got other leads you want me to run down for you, Mike? Anything
else
I can do?"
"Yeah, there's a couple of things. Maybe you should get out your pad and pencil."
"And in the meantime, what will
you
be running down?"
"Hunches, Pat. That's where I excel, remember?"
"As I recall, killing people and banging dames is where you excel, and sometimes there's some blurring between the lines."
I shook my head sadly. "'Dames' is such an old term. You date yourself, kiddo." I looked at my watch. It was later than I thought. "Okay, here's a couple other leads you can run down..."
"Gee," Pat said. "Thanks."
But he had his pad and pencil ready.
N
IGHTTIME
. New York. A charcoal sky rumbles and mutes the neon. The taxis have thinned out and those remaining are cruising slower now. More women drivers than I remember. A lot of small, foreign-looking guys behind the wheel. A year ago a lot of hippies hanging out, not so many now. The bar action is slow, almost quiet. Sometimes it gets like that in the city, as if everyone was waiting for a funeral procession to roll by.
An older, heavy-set uniformed cop on the corner looks at me a few seconds, nods sagely, and winks. I wink back. It has been a year since I've seen him. He's still on the same beat.
Up ahead, Forty-second Street is bathing itself in garish advertising, even the gray overhead can't diminish the commercial glow. The night people are in constant motion. Nobody seems to look at anybody else. If they do, they turn quickly away as if somebody might steal their anonymity.
It starts to rain. Not hard. Just a steady New York rain that doesn't seem to give a damn whether it happens or not. It's no downpour to bother rushing out of, only the kind of insistent drizzle that will make you uncomfortable if you stay in it too long.
You could think, though, on a night like this. You could wander and wonder and reason and begin to get a feel for things, like knowing that the aroma of good cooking will lead to restaurant windows where even on a slow night the tables will be filled with those taking refuge from the rain.
But Doolan's death doesn't provide a nice smell at all. There isn't a logical reason in the world to doubt he knocked himself off. While he was still reasonably functional, he'd kept doing the things he knew best, making productive use of his knowledge and his contacts. He chased a skirt or two. Maybe he even bedded down a couple. Then, before the Big Pain could claw his guts out, he sat down, put his favorite music on, and blew his heart apart. It seemed logical enough, it followed a pattern others had laid down, and I could almost believe it myself.
Almost.
I go back to the Commodore, consider digging out enough medication to address aches and pains the rain has stirred up, and to beat back thoughts that might keep sleep from coming. I decide against it and go to bed, where the thoughts I pursue like uncooperative suspects seem worth the chase, and when sleep finally comes, it's deep but not dreamless, a surreal mix of faces old and new and distinct and vague on streets where the neon is even more vivid, the rain slashing, the odors pungent, and I am at home again in Manhattan, awake or asleep.
Goddamnit.
I am home.
***
At five-thirty
A.M.,
I was down on the street in sweats, setting out in an easy jog. I had decided to take a pass on Bing's today, and instead take advantage of the cool, sunny morning.
I didn't have to estimate the distance. Twenty blocks to the mile, and I went forty north, crossed the avenue, and did forty back. There were enough other runners out that I didn't feel alone, and I got back as the early workers were starting to show.
Cooling down slowly was a must, then a hot shower took the ache out of that spot that still bore the bullet track. I don't buy that macho crap about a final cold shower, so I dried off. I shaved and, for better or worse, I could recognize the guy in the mirror again.
"Shit," I told him.
Then I got into shirt and tie and shoulder sling and slacks and sport jacket and put the hat on.
God got melodramatic and let some thunder rip just as I was snugging the porkpie in place. I went to the nearest window. That early-morning sun I'd enjoyed was gone—it was raining again. A little harder than last night. Good thing I'd thought to pack the trench coat.
I had sicced Pat on tracking down various notions I had about the two dead girls—he and his little elves could be useful at times. But Pat didn't buy that Doolan had been murdered, so that angle of the investigation was all mine. And so far I had precious little.
I took a cab to Doolan's address. I still had the key, and there was something up there I wanted to pick up. I did so, but mostly I was here not for his pad, but for his neighborhood, to ask around.
Turned out old Doolan had been a nice guy and he had nice friends who said nice things about him, only "nice" was the kind of well-meaning sweet talk you hear right before and after the funeral, and not the sharp, pointed facts I needed.
And the only facts I was getting were basic—Doolan shopped locally, paid his bills, had a good credit rating, and was a pretty visible guy in the neighborhood, having helped run the druggies out. By the time I had covered all the local businesses, I'd come to a standstill.
It was almost noon and I was damn sick of all the
nice
things I had been hearing. I looked up and down the street, knowing something was missing. Then it came to me: there was no drugstore in sight. Somewhere a guy Doolan's age, with his medical problems, could get his prescriptions filled. And he would likely go to the nearest place at hand.
The Yellow Pages gave up three walking-distance possibilities just outside the neighborhood, and I checked the closest one first, hitting immediate pay dirt.
The store was small, in the middle of the block, had only a handful of customers, one shopping, two at the soda fountain, and none at all at the back prescription counter. Just inside, I shook the rain off my hat and coat, and headed back there.
"I don't talk about my patients," the druggist said, with the strong implication that he recognized the name William Doolan.
He was a small, sour, flat-faced type who didn't seem to want to talk about anything, except maybe what you owed him at the register.
I considered slapping him. His
patients?
He was a fucking pharmacist, not a damn doctor.
But that kind of thing didn't go over so good anymore, and I just got out the card Pat had given me and handed it across to him.
"Why don't you call that number," I said, "and see if I'm square."
Finally his curiosity overcame his suspicions, and he dialed it. He spoke briefly, then handed me the phone. "Captain Chambers wants to hear your voice."
I stuck the phone to my ear. "Pat, could you okay me to this guy?"
"What's it about, Mike?"
"Just checking up on Doolan."
"Come on, man, that's a dead end."
"Maybe, but at least I'm not asking
you
to handle it."
"Good point. Put him back on."
When I handed the phone back, there was another brief exchange and the druggist cradled the receiver on its hook on his counter. "I guess it's permissible to talk."
"Good," I said. "Anyway, I'm not interested in Mr. Doolan's medical history—what I'm trying to pick up are any stray details about his personal life."
"I was just his pharmacist...."
I managed not to say,
Oh, not his
doctor?
Instead I said, "I know, but he had lots of meds to fill, and regularly, and maybe you two talked a little."
"I'm not that talkative."
"Well, anything you can share would be appreciated."
"Like what?"
"Any little thing. You ever pass the time with him?"
He bobbed his head. "Now and then. We'd sit over there and have coffee."
That was a nice surprise. "So what did you fellas talk about?"
"Bill was an old cop. I guess you must know that." The druggist shrugged. "He'd tell me his old war stories—close scrapes and busting bad guys and that. What
else
has an old cop got to talk about?"
"Nothing about what he was up to lately?"
"Well—he went uptown a lot. He sat in Central Park, he said, and people watched. Sometimes he would dress funny."
"Funny how?"
"One time I told him he looked like a Bowery bum and he said I was making a good guess."