Mickey Spillane - [Mike Hammer 13]

Table of Contents

 

and twisted the wheel so that I went right into the group of killers and saw one of them fly off the hood. The one with the shotgun let a blast off into the night sky that was almost as loud as his shriek, and after my wheels went over something that cursed and yelled, I cranked the wheel back, picked up the ruts in the driveway and headed out.

 

It was a new scene now. There wouldn’t be any more peaceful days, or empty time to plan the next move. As far as these guys were concerned, I wasn’t somebody to follow, but a mad dog to be hunted and shot dead, any way, any how, and the sooner the better. . . .

 

eISBN : 978-1-101-17656-6

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Published by Signet, an imprint of Dutton Signet,
a division of Penguin Books USA Inc.
Previously published in a Dutton edition.
First Signet Printing, September, 1997

Copyright © Mickey Spillane, 1996
All rights reserved

 

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

 

 

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

 

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

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This is for Max Allan Collins,
who prowled the BLACK ALLEYS
with Dick Tracy. Now he
has to do it by himself.

THE PHONE RANG.

It was a thing that had been sitting here, black and quiet like a holstered gun, unlisted, unknown to anybody, used only for local outgoing calls, and when it was triggered it had the soft, muted sound of a silenced automatic. The first ring was a warning round. The second time would be death calling.

Eight months ago I had come to Florida to die. The two bullets I had caught in the firefight under the West Side Drive had churned into bodily areas that weren’t made to be violated like that and the blood that had spilled out of me was just too much, so the others, the walking wounded and the repairable, were taken care of first by the few medics who got to the battleground early. The dead and dying were pushed aside or isolated in the section of no return.

The temperature was six below zero and it kept me from dying on the spot because the blood coagulated and clotted in ugly smears of cloth and skin and the pain hadn’t started yet, so when the little fat guy who saw my eyes open and still bright pulled me away from the carnage he was almost in the shock I was going into. Nobody would listen to him. He was a drunk. I was nearly dead.

Sometimes the body responds to a stimulus that can’t be explained. He got me upright. I walked woodenly, dyingly. I was sat in an old car. The fat man rolled down the windows. The blood stayed frozen. My hands were numb and I couldn’t feel my feet. Idly, I wondered what frostbite was like. Breathing was a thing that was happening, but at a pace that said it could slow, then stop at any time. A dull, squeezing sensation of pain was beginning to gnaw on my insides and I knew that eventually, and very soon, it would grow into a terrible, devastating animal with an awful hunger and I would be eaten alive by it.

I wanted to scream, but nothing would come out.

Every minute it got worse.

Then there was nothing, but I didn’t know that.

When the light came back it was soft and the things in it were a little blurry, fuzzy and shadowy, so I closed my eyes and opened them again after a few moments and the things began to take recognizable shape. There were hands and arms, then a face I didn’t know, an old face with white hair whose countenance was frowning and concerned, whose hands were busy doing things to my body and by the feel and the smell I knew were changing the bandages.

He saw me looking at him and said, “Don’t talk.”

I had been around too long to be overly curious about this
BIG NOW
that had happened to me. I knew it was bad. I didn’t talk. He read my answer in my eyes and nodded.

When he finished with the bandage he pulled the sheet up over my chest and fingered his glasses down on his nose so that our eyes met directly. “I’ll ask you questions,” he said. “Don’t try to answer them. Just blink once for yes and twice for no. Can you do that?”

For a moment I let it sink in, then I blinked once.

“Do you know what happened to you?”

I blinked again.

He pinched his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “You should be dead, you know.” There was no answer to that.

The eerie swirling in my eyesight cleared up, and I saw the little fat man, only he wasn’t the same little fat man that had dragged me from dull red-smeared concrete where sirens and screams blended into a death opera beyond imagination.

“For the past fifteen days you’ve been here.”

I just looked at him. He was in white now, jacket, pants, and he had a stethoscope hung from his neck. He knew what I was thinking.

“I used to be a doctor.” He frowned again and pinched his nose tighter. “Wrong word,” he said. “I still
am
a doctor. I was never kicked out of the profession. I just left. I got drunk and left. Period. I couldn’t stand the crap.”

There were no blinks to tell him what I wanted to know.
Yes
and
No
just wouldn’t do it so all I could do was stare and hope he could read what was back there.

He did.

“Where I was, nobody cared. The ideals of youth went down the drain during internship. Man, did they go down the drain.” He took a deep breath and grimaced. “For thirty years I went into the system. Man, I got rich.” He leaned forward, closer to my face. “Do I look rich to you?”

Somehow, the circuitry of my mind began functioning and I was hoping that I wasn’t being smothered by some kind of a nutcase who wanted to play a game of
you die
on his own fiddle. I tried to move my arms and they moved. My fingers wiggled, my shoulders were free. There were no restraints. But the bonds were still there. Total weakness still had me; restraints or not, there was little I could do.

Very professionally, he reached down, wrapped his fingers around my wrist and took my pulse. He didn’t look at his watch. He didn’t have any. “Before you get too choked up, kiddo, I can do this by heart. I hocked the Rolex years ago,” he told me.

“You hurt?” he asked.

I tried a shrug with my face.

“At least you don’t feel anything too bad, right?”

“Good. So I’ll talk and you listen. Maybe I can make a story out of this. It’s got a great beginning. I wish I knew the ending. You ready?”

For a long second I wondered, then knew it was a must. I was alive. Why?
Once more I blinked.

He ran his hands across his face, gathering his thoughts. They weren’t just idle bits and pieces he was trying to put into place. It was like the closing of a bridge across a great river; he was putting the roadway back in line and was about to drive his car across it. What he was about to say was scaring him, but it had to be said or he’d never cross the bridge.

“I walked out of a hospital here in New York and right into a saloon. In less than a month a fine surgeon disintegrated into a total alcoholic with no regrets, no remorse, no aches and pains. My money-hungry family just let me go, took all the assets and never even bothered to report me to the Missing Persons Bureau. After seven years I was declared legally dead, my wife got a young stud to take her to bed, my kids went to pot, to coke and to poverty and all this I found out in the newspapers. Great system, isn’t it?”

“You feel tired, blink three times and I’ll shut up,” he said.

I blinked
yes
.

“The night of the shooting,” he told me, “I was in Casey’s saloon. A dive. I had been there plenty of times. It was all I could afford. I had one buck and a dime left and was half drunk. That’s when the shooting began. You know, I don’t even remember running outside. All of a sudden I was there. Hell, I didn’t know what was going on, all those cars and the sirens. Everybody was yelling and every place people were making the dead sounds and I started to get sick to my stomach. When I saw that guy drag you off that wooden case and just drop you there . . . well, whatever I had been came back to me and I pulled you over to my car.”

My eyes squinted at him and he nodded. “That buggy was twelve years old. It was all I had left. I stole license plates to keep it current. I took you back here.”

This time I let my eyes pass around the room. I was able to see more clearly now.

Understanding, he said: “Tools of my trade. Some things you can never get rid of.” He grinned and looked around the room himself. “Man, this is right out of
Gunsmoke
. You and old doc, no modern goodies, no big antibiotics, just a booze tranquilizer, a few instruments and a lot of hope.” Once more, he got that furrow between his brows. “You should be dead, you know that?”