Mickey Spillane - [Mike Hammer 13] Page 13

  His head bobbed against my arm and I loosened the hold enough so he could speak. Down at his feet Howie Drago’s head was leaking blood that had pooled in the dirt of the floor and it was hard to tell if he were dead or alive.

  Ugo waited for me to ask him what I wanted to know, hoping he’d be able to satisfy me with an answer of sorts. I said, “Who set up the hit on your old man at the piers last February?”

  The consternation made him twitch again. It was a question he never expected at all and he fumbled for words. “It . . . was Azi.”

  “Azi’s dead, kiddo. Who was helping him?”

  “Reevo . . . Andy Reevo. He’s from the family in Jersey.”

  “He’s dead too, Ugo.”

  Ugo was running scared now, his words starting to choke him. “I . . . can’t help it. The two of them . . . they planned it . . .”

  “How did you know about it?”

  “I . . . I heard them talking.”

  “You could have told the don, kiddo.” I let him feel a nudge from the .357 and he tensed again.

  “The old man . . . never would’ve believed me.”

  And he was right there. Azi was his pet, but the old don had sensed a loosening of the bonds and prepared for the eventuality of being set up. He could have even figured it out in advance. That lost money could do all sorts of things to family relationships.

  I eased the gun away from Ugo’s skin and let it run down his back, pressing against his spine. His mind was wondering if he’d feel the shot, cursing himself for not wearing body armor, not knowing whether or not to hope he’d die fast, but realizing that, if anything took out his spinal cord he was going to be strapped in a wheelchair for a long time. No parties, no broads, no booze, and just maybe somebody he kicked around might come up and plant a slug right in his face where he could see it coming.

  Before he could faint on me I belted him in the head with his own gun and let him drop right on top of Howie. The blood from the gash above his temple mingled with the puddle on the floor and they were going to be a couple of real soreheads in the morning. I picked up the automatic and stuck it in my belt with Ugo’s .357.

  Pat could do a ballistics check on them both and maybe get some brownie points if they had been used in a crime scene earlier.

  Downstairs Ugo’s car was at the curb and I looked at the license plate. The first three numbers were 411.

  8

  NO GUNS HAD GONE OFF, but the nervous excitement of having Ugo and Howie Drago almost nail me had started a reaction inside my guts and I felt the little needles of pain begin to stab in sensitive places and knew that those needles would turn into great spikes of red-hot iron, and if I didn’t stop it they would become killers. I took two of the pills Dr. Morgan had given me, eased myself onto the couch and stretched out. For ten minutes, the pain got bigger and broader, then gradually began to subside until it was localized at the wound in my side. I pulled up my shirt and stared at the bandage. It had turned a watery red.

  Very gently, I pulled the phone over to me and dialed the number of Morgan’s hotel. He was in and I told him what happened. His bedside manner had gotten a little better. He didn’t get on my case at all. I called down to Bill Raabe and told him to come up and let the doctor in. I was okay, but didn’t want to get up. There was no telling what he might give me that would make me sleep, so I called Pat and told him about the guns I had confiscated. He said he’d pick them up later. I told him to get them from Bill at the security desk because I was feeling lousy.

  It took thirty minutes for the doctor to get to my apartment. Morgan took a look at me, shook his head and got my shirt off. He had Bill get some hot water and towels, then stuck a needle in my arm. Whatever it was, it eased any pain from stripping the bandage off. He washed and medicated the area and let Bill dispose of the discard. When I saw his face I knew he was beginning to realize what kind of a business I was in. He wiped the sweat from his upper lip, took the guns I had rolled up in a newspaper and went back downstairs.

  Dr. Morgan said, “You’re not going to be able to take much more of this, you know?”

  I blinked once and he grinned at me.

  “How long will it take, Mike?”

  This time I didn’t blink. I simply shrugged.

  “Is the end in sight?”

  I blinked twice. No.

  “Will it be . . . dangerous?”

  I nodded.

  He nodded back. “You can call me anytime. I won’t be going anyplace.” He paused and pulled my shirt down over the fresh bandage. “You know how a cat is supposed to have nine lives, Mike?”

  I blinked again. Yes.

  “Well, if you were a cat, I’d say that you had already used up seven of them.” His eyes bored into mine. “Get the picture?”

  I blinked once, and this time my eyelids stayed closed. Whatever he had injected me with had really taken hold. I heard him get up and the door click behind him when he left.

  Something cool was on my forehead and there was an odd warmth next to me. I let my eyes open slowly, squinting at the muted light coming in the window. The small throb in my side made me remember times of sharper pains and a feeling of relief stirred me into a new wakefulness.

  I raised my hand and felt my forehead, picking the damp washcloth off. Then the warmth next to me stirred and said, “It’s about time you woke up.”

  Velda had a blanket over her, but she was fully dressed. Her makeup was smeared and her hair was messed up, yet she was totally beautiful. “You’ll do anything to get in bed with me,” I said.

  “Even marry you if I have to.”

  “Now you have to. Did I snore?”

  “No, but you talked up a storm. Nothing made much sense except going upstate. You’ve had that on your mind since Friday.”

  “Friday? What day is this?”

  “Sunday morning. The doctor and I have been pampering you like a baby for a day and a half. If your face is sore it’s because I shaved you.”

  I flexed my cheeks, but nothing hurt. She had done a good job. “What about my . . . other necessities?”

  “Sorry. I left the room and the doctor went through all that with you. I would have been glad to help but didn’t think it was my place.” Then she added, “Yet.”

  “Did Morgan leave any instructions?”

  “Nothing you’d like to hear. He said he’s told you about all he can. You’re the one who has to be choosy now.” She leaned over and nipped my ear with her teeth. “I’m going to bring you some coffee, your pills, then I’m going to take a shower and get dressed.”

  “You have your clothes here too?”

  “I picked them up while the doctor was here.”

  For half an hour I came back to normal with some rye bread toast and coffee, letting it settle down easy. After the second cup I swung my feet over the side of the bed and pushed myself upright. My body felt as though I had been through a barroom brawl when it hadn’t been like that at all. Hell, I had been shot before. It had hurt and put me in the sack for a couple of days until the healing got underway, but there were no aftereffects. I touched the scars that were like dimpled marks, suddenly remembering that those wounds were made in muscle tissue and not in the vital soft working parts of the anatomy.

  The last time I had been back on the streets in five days and was jogging two weeks later. Two punks thought I was a drunk and tried to mug me. I put them on their backs right after the first one tried to sucker punch me and belted them silly before I let them lie down. No aftereffects then.

  Now I had to get up slowly and not walk too fast. Now I was getting in my own way. Velda came out of the bathroom and seemed to read my mind. “It’s only temporary, Mike. The doctor said that in another month you’ll be completely mobile.”

  I said something under my breath.

  “You ready for a shower?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “Dr. Morgan left a plastic covering to tape over your bandage while you get wet. Want me to do it for y
ou?”

  She was quick and efficient and, when she was done, pointed me toward the shower. “I think you can take care of the rest alone.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I told her.

  “We’ll save the good parts for later,” she said.

  Sitting at the kitchen table nice and clean, pants pressed and shirt crisp and ironed, I felt like a new person. Good to look at, but not ready for action. Velda had a fresh pot of coffee made and after she filled the cups she sat opposite me and opened a spiral-bound notebook filled with notations.

  “Those researchers did a pretty cool job. You want me to read off the figures?”

  “No, just estimate. Give me the round picture.”

  “Okay. These are from the years you selected. Drugs: the total confiscated by American agents were worth two hundred million. They estimate that fifty times that much went on the streets. It could have been more. These figures never changed for nine years. In fact, it was supposed that the importers were getting ahead of the narcotics agencies. The final figures are in the billions.”

  “How many?”

  “From ten to thirty. There’s no way of telling.”

  “Money laundering adds another ten billion. Get into the union business and the costs that get laid on commercial industries from mob activities and you got a few more. Want me to go on?”

  “What’s your opinion, kitten?”

  “That eighty-nine-billion-dollar figure you gave was light. You know what the big catch is, Mike?”

  “Yeah, where to put it if you take it out of circulation.”

  “And that leaves your friend Dooley.”

  “He used those trucks and those cartons for something,” I said.

  “Pat checked that one out while you were sleeping.”

  “Oh?”

  “Those trucks were seen working in and around Ponti’s estate, all right. He moved up a whole houseful of things for his boss. Then he brought in sod and lumber. It sure looks legitimate.”

  “What’s that saying? Looks can be deceiving. All that work could have been a good cover for other work.”

  She knew what I was thinking. “You up to it?” she asked me.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” I told her.

  Nobody had been near my car since I parked it. All the telltales I had placed were still intact and the light dusting of carbon under the car showed no signs of being disturbed. I put our bags in the trunk, backed out of my area and pulled out onto the street.

  I didn’t bother to look for a tail. If Homer Watson was as good as they said he was, he’d have planned a nice box for me. There would be no single car chase. His badge carried enough authority to enlist any police forces he needed so he could let them do the hard work while he covered the rear, staying in touch on the radio.

  But the rabbit always has a hole to get into ahead of the fox.

  Bill Raabe waited in the garage entrance and when he saw the green Milos truck coming up the street he waved me out at the right moment and I got in front of it, so that when it stalled and stopped traffic I got to the corner, turned north, went one block west and turned left again for a single block, made another left, and I was back on my own block again when I got back in my own garage. “How’d it go?” I yelled out.

  “Mike, it was real funny. Some pudgy guy in a blue suit hit the roof. No kidding. I thought he was gonna pass out. He was screaming into a walkie-talkie unit, then the truck got started up and pulled away. That guy hopped in his car and damned if he didn’t get stopped again by another car pulling out of the garage down the street.”

  Velda glanced at me, her expression grim. “Think we made it, Mike?”

  I said, “The first pickup car was probably two blocks down, but we only went one block. I didn’t spot a tail after our first turn. Right now they’re trying to figure out what happened.”

  “How’ve you got it planned?” Bill asked me.

  “I’m going straight across town and pick up the highway to the bridge.”

  “Okay, pal. Good luck.”

  I eased out into traffic, got behind some taxies and did just that. Velda and I kept a tight watch on what was behind us and when we hit the highway we both breathed a sigh of relief.

  On the other side of the George Washington Bridge I headed for Route 9W and took the scenic trip up along the Hudson River, and when we passed through Newburgh I looked at the map and pin-pointed the spot where Marcos Dooley kept his boat in the old days. It was still there, dilapidated and overgrown with weeds, but it had a pier and docking facilities for a half dozen boats and two well-used sail-boats were still in the slips.

  There was a sign outside the small house that read “James Bledsoe, Prop.” The porch was apparently the office and living quarters were behind it. I knocked and heard somebody say he’d be right there, so we waited patiently until an old guy came hobbling out munching on an apple, his knobby knees sticking out of stained khaki shorts. “You don’t look like boat people,” the old guy said.

  “We’re not.”

  It didn’t surprise him at all. He sat down on a box behind an old table and laced his fingers together behind his head. “You don’t want to rent a boat, do you?”

  “Not today.”

  “Didn’t think so.”

  “Mr. Bledsoe . . . did you know Marcos Dooley?”

  His eye brightened and he took his hands down, leaning on his knees. “Sure did. We had a lot of good times together, us two. Haven’t seen him for a few years.”

  “He’s dead, Mr. Bledsoe.”

  “Damn.” He frowned. “What happened?”

  “He was murdered, but that’s kind of an old story now. I understand he had a boat here. A Woolsey,” I described.

  “You mean a Wheeler. Woolsey and Wheeler were an old comedy team. Anyway, it’s still here,” he said. “It’s all dried out and needs a lot of work on her, but if you got a few months and some money it can be done.”

  “I’d just like to see it.”

  “Pretty dirty out there.”

  “That’s okay.”

  And he was right. The old barn held three antique boats with open seams, glass falling out of their frames and rust stains leaking from all exposed metal parts. Chocks held Dooley’s boat upright, streamers of cobwebs and layers of dust making it look like the Flying Dutchman. The hatch cover was off and candy wrappers were scattered around.

  “Kids,” Bledsoe explained. “They come in here and play. I can’t keep them out. At least they don’t smoke or mess around with girls.”

  I pointed to a ladder that ran up the side. “Mind if I look around?”

  “Be my guest.”

  The ladder was handmade, but sturdy enough. I went up slowly and threw a leg over the rail and got on the deck, brushing the cobwebs out of my face. Apparently the old man hadn’t been up here in a long time. The kids must have had a ball seeing how much damage they could do. They had broken into the small cabin and pulled out anything that came loose. Light fixtures were smashed and dried turds made a mess in the ceramic head. The wheel in the cabin was intact, being a good plaything, but behind it were only holes where instruments had been screwed into the mahogany. The metal body of an early fish finder was smashed and twisted and next to it a loran unit had been gouged apart. Old Dooley would really have turned green if he could see his boat now.

  I shook my head in absolute disgust and looked over the mahogany dashboard where the kids had scratched their names and almost turned away when I saw something else that was written there. Not a scrawl or a scratch, but six numbers carefully inscribed with an awl so they couldn’t be rubbed out.

  They were the same six numbers Dooley had given to be put on his urn, his supposed military serial number! Damn, those were not ID digits, they were latitude and longitude markers to a spot Dooley had wanted to be found in case he was put out of action.

  I climbed down, brushed myself off and told Bledsoe there wasn’t much we could do with the boat, but we’d let him know.

>   “What should I do with it?” he wanted to know.

  “Dooley had a son. . . .”

  “Yeah, I remember that little kid.”

  “He’ll probably want to see it, so it’s up to him now.”

  The old man made sucking sounds around his false teeth and bobbed his head. “It’s okay by me. Sure was sorry to hear that Dooley is gone. Think they’ll get who killed him?”

  I grinned. I wasn’t looking at him, but what he saw was enough. I knew my teeth were showing and I could feel the tight lines in my face. When I moved my eyes and stared at him he seemed to recoil. “They’ll get him,” I said.

  Velda hooked her arm in mine and tugged me away. We walked through the grass and up the driveway to where we had left the car. We walked slowly and she didn’t say anything at all. She didn’t like what she had seen on my face either. Before I got behind the wheel I took off my jacket and laid it in the back seat. I unbuttoned my shirt and pulled the collar apart and Velda said, “What kind of underwear do you call that?”

  I opened another button so she could see what it was. “Bulletproof, kitten. It goes all the way down to my hips and covers the hole in my side. I don’t even want to get bumped hard in a grocery store.”

  “Just stay away from its primary use,” she warned me.

  “Gotcha, doll.”

  When we got to Albany I stopped at two places specializing in marine supplies. They both sold loran equipment, but had no way of determining where the lat-lon numbers I gave them were located. Off shore they would have no trouble, but up here in mountain country they were at a loss. In the last place one of the salesmen said, “Why don’t you try a survey outfit? They lay out land parcels like that.”

  “Good idea. You know any outfit I can call?”

  He gave me McClain and Leeds, dialed the number and handed over the phone.