Mickey Spillane - [Mike Hammer 13] Read online

  “That’s not what you’re thinking.”

  “You really a killer, Mike?” he asked suddenly and bluntly.

  “Not the kind you have in mind.”

  “What kind are there?”

  “Legal,” I said. “Illegal.”

  “Explain.”

  “Kill your enemy on the street, the chair. The rope.

  The lethal injection. Kill your enemy in war, the medal, the honor, the reward.”

  “Which were you, Mike?”

  I grinned at him. I let him see my teeth in the grin because I had been there and he hadn’t. He never knew the necessity of inflicting death or the pain that it caused. He never knew who it hurt the most or what he would have done in the same circumstances.

  No blinking at all now. I said, “As a doctor, does it really matter to you?” He scowled at me. “Would you keep a patient healthy so he could be executed?”

  “Tough question, kid.”

  “Would you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I took an oath.”

  “Horse manure.” I started to breathe a little hard and let myself fall back on the pillow. He just let me lie there until I had settled down, then wiped my face with a wet towel. There was a hotness under my skin and a tingling sensation was beginning to run up my arms. Suddenly I could feel the sweat starting and there was that short prick in my upper arm from a needle and I relaxed into another sleep.

  I was his project. There was nothing I could do on my own except stay alive and let all the pieces come back together. If it happened, then he would become whole again.

  Years ago he had bought a place on the Florida Keys, a little south of Marathon on the west side, a concrete block building on a peninsula of land fronting on the Gulf with a thirty-foot-deep channel running along one side, a relic from when the state had needed the coquina to lay a roadbed to Key West.

  It was quiet. I was alone. I had the papers, a TV, a radio with AM and FM, and if I wanted to listen to the boat traffic, a VHF because we bordered on the Gulf and it was allowed. There was a base station for CB traffic if I wanted to hear the truckers on Route 1 or the kids making dates for some key-hopping.

  The papers were delivered every morning with the daily groceries and each day I faded from the news until I disappeared altogether. The doctor’s name was Ralph Morgan and I wondered how he was handling all the details of the situation until I realized that death was a complete wipe-out and there was nothing to consider anymore.

  Wednesday he drove up to the door. He was even thinner now, a new seriousness to him. He sat down and had a cold Miller Lite beer before he leaned back in the old chair and stared at me hard. “How do you feel?”

  “I phone you the details every day.”

  “That’s crap. How do you feel?”

  “Physically?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll make it,” I said.

  “Don’t give me that.”

  “You mean how is my psychological makeup?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Lousy.”

  “Why?”

  “Doctor,” I said, “I’m alive, but out of life. It’s something I have to get back into.”

  “Why?”

  “How long can a person stay dead?” I asked him.

  “If you go back, they’ll kill you,” he told me.

  “You’ve been doing research, doctor.”

  “Not only on you, kiddo, but on me, too. I went down just as deep as you did. I’m absolutely scared out of my head. I’m a doctor, I want to be a doctor, and for the first time in years I know I can be a doctor. I pulled off the big surgical plus on you, but nobody will ever hear about it and if they do I’m a real shot-down MD.”

  “So what happens to me, doc?”

  “You read the papers, didn’t you?”

  “Sure. It was one hell of a shootout. Two of the New York families decided to gun it when the big don was coming off the ship from a trip to the old country. It was completely idiotic. Everything was going smooth, no heat was on, the politicians were all in their pockets with the judges and the DA’s, the press was quiet, then everything blew up in their faces.”

  “Why, Mike? You knew. You were there.”

  “My squeal was nothing. He heard the word and knew that I had that run-in with the don two months ago. Somebody was getting ready to knock him off as soon as he got back into this country and I was going to be set up for it.”

  “Then what were you doing there anyway?”

  “It may sound pretty stupid, but I wanted to let the old man know he was going to be hit. I didn’t want any contracts going out on me. That damn mob might be going nice and legitimate, but they have a long memory and longer arms. They got contacts and a communications web almost as good as the feds.”

  “What happened?”

  “Don’t ask me. Something went all out of focus.

  That old cargo ship was four hours late getting into port and the Gaetano bunch was waiting for them. When I drove up I didn’t see any sign of an ambush at all and when it happened it was like they came out of the woodwork. Or the concrete. Very professional. Damn near military style.”

  “It was over in three minutes,” Dr. Morgan blurted. “Both sides started shooting at the same time.”

  “You can bet the don kept himself covered. He would have his own guys on board and some others meeting the ship, too. He probably had them in place even before the others showed up.”

  “Come on, Mike, can you pull off a situation like that in a public place?”

  I shook my head at his naïveté. “Two a.m. at the piers in New York City isn’t exactly a public place these days. The don still has a heavy hand in union affairs around there and handpicking his guys for work duty as a cover would be no trouble at all.”

  “This . . . this squeal of yours say the don was coming out the office door instead of the main exit?”

  “A few would come out first, then the don, and they’d hop into a car that was waiting for them. I had pulled up behind their limo and was getting out when the first shots went off. As far as I could tell, they came from the other area.”

  The doctor took a long pull of the beer and set the empty can down. For a few seconds he squinted, then ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “Did the Ponti kid see you . . . or recognize you before you shot him?”

  “Are you kidding, doc? Sure he saw me, he was looking straight at me then he shot me. Oh, he knew what he was doing, all right. He caught me coming head-on and nailed me with that .357 he always packs. I went down on my back and half rolled over when he came up and pointed that rod right at my face, hating me so much he never saw the .45 I had in my fist and that was the end of Azi Ponti right there. I remembered hearing some of the firefight and being dragged along the street, but that was all.”

  Idly, Dr. Morgan reached over for the beer can and squashed it with his fingertips. “They used to make them stronger,” he said.

  “They were steel then. They didn’t pollute. They’d rust away to nothing.”

  “Why do they use aluminum, then?”

  “Because it’s scarcer, it costs more and pollutes better.”

  “You can recycle aluminum.”

  “Only a fraction goes in the collection bins. Who wants to kill me?”

  “I understand the don made several hard remarks about you. Trouble is, he’d have a hard time proving it.” He saw the puzzled look on my face. “You never dropped your gun, Mike. You held onto it until I forced it out of your grasp while you were unconscious.”

  “Forget it, doc,” I said. “Ballistics have matching slugs from my piece on file.”

  He shook his head slowly. “To match with what? The bullets that hit the Ponti kid penetrated and were never found. The police assume he was shot in the general fighting.”

  “That kind of information wasn’t in the papers, doc.”

  “I know,” he agreed. “I pulled a few medical str
ings that led to the autopsy report and there it is. I may have been a drunk, but that knowledge was only for the few intimate cronies I had in the saloon circle. They figured I was a drunk remittance man being paid to stay away from home. Or on social security. It bought them drinks so they couldn’t care less.”

  “So I can go back then,” I stated.

  “Not yet.” His tone was solemn. I waited a few seconds, knowing he’d start again. “Your prognosis is acceptable. In other words, you will live . . . IF.”

  A little of that cold fear touched my belly again. “Great,” I said.

  “Three months from now I may be able to give you a definite statement.”

  “You haven’t said what the IF was.”

  He got up, walked to the cooler and slid another Miller Lite out of the ice. My mouth went dry and I could almost taste the brew, but any alcoholic beverage was on my forbidden list. He took a good taste, watching me, enjoying my discomfort. “It’s pretty damn hot down here in Florida, kid.”

  “Come on, it’s summertime, man.”

  He tilted the can again for a big swallow, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You stay exactly on the schedule I set for you. The prescribed regimen of diet is not to be changed. The exercise will take place as detailed, the medication as specified. If the routine is followed to its minutest specification, there is a good possibility that you will survive. Mess around with what I’ve laid out and you look smack at the big IF. You buy the farm. It’s dead time.”

  “Your bedside manner gets worse all the time. You talk like me now.”

  “I just don’t want to upset you,” he told me with a sour grin. “Your only big point is your psychological outlook, Mike. Nothing seems to put a dent in that.”

  “How do you know so much about me?”

  “You were big news.”

  “Were?”

  He sat down and inched his chair forward, his arms propped on his knees. “You are presumed dead. Your good friend in the police department, Patrick Chambers, had a memorial service for you. The place was pretty well packed with an odd assortment of mourners.”

  “At least I didn’t leave any clients hanging,” I said. “My work file was pretty well cleaned up.”

  “Well, your secretary . . .”

  “Velda?”

  “Yes. She’s going to keep your office open for now.”

  “She’s got her own PI ticket. She can handle it.”

  Then, suddenly, I wasn’t feeling good at all. I had a weightlessness, empty sensation and an odd faraway buzzing in my ears. I could feel an involuntary relaxation of my muscles, as if I were melting, and the doctor came out of his chair, felt my pulse and muttered something unintelligible and stretched me out on the floor.

  I opened my eyes and he looked at me. “I was wrong, Mike. Something did put a dent in that mental outlook of yours.”

  My eyes closed and I lay there, trying to see what it was like to be dead.

  It was lousy.

  Cold wet towels wiped the sweat away from me and blew the life spark into a small flame, and when it was big enough the doctor asked, “You ready to sit up?”

  One blink. Yes. Talking was a little too much trouble.

  Between the two of us I got back to a seated position and took deliberate breaths until I was normal again. “Was that episode bad, doc?”

  “Not good, but not threatening. You feel okay?”

  “Like a million,” I told him.

  “Sure.”

  I took a sip of ice water from the glass beside my chair. Just one small sip, that’s all I was allowed. “I think we’re both in the same boat, doc.”

  “Which one is that?”

  “The one going up crap creek without a paddle.”

  “Oh?”

  “We’re both supposed to be dead. How do we go back?”

  The first few weeks drifted by like some casual dream. The lethargy was chemically induced to make any physical action too difficult to bother with, and although my mind could register sight and sound and smells, it did it with an attitude of mild complacency, hardly attempting to record it on a memory circuit.

  Some of it made humorous impressions . . . the doctor speaking to someone in banking and arranging for a money transfer. His buddies, the drunks, would really enjoy that one. A little part of me wanted to ask him how he squirreled money away when he left home. Those things could be done, but how? One time there was the gibberish of medical talk I couldn’t understand. A box of pharmaceutical supplies came in the mail.

  I woke up before the sun rose, the salt air of the Gulf blowing in the window smelling warm and lazy, with a slight fishy touch. This wasn’t one of those unreal days at all. This was alive and had a texture to it. Then there was another familiar smell that came with a special appreciation because there was more to it than an aroma.

  Dr. Morgan came in with a pot of steaming coffee and a fat white mug. “How do you like it?”

  “Two Sweet ‘N Lows. No milk.”

  “I had you figured for straight black.”

  “That’s only for tough guys,” I told him.

  He opened his hand and had a few pink packets of the sweetener, dirty and wrinkled lying there. They looked like they had come out of the garbage pail. “Know where I got them?” I didn’t bother to answer him. “They were in your coat pocket.”

  “Why’d you figure me black then?”

  “Bad diagnosis. You want them?”

  “Certainly.”

  The paper might have been messy, but the coffee tasted just right. It was the first cup I had had in a long time and I thought I’d be able to finish the whole pot, but halfway through the mug I put it down and looked dubiously at Dr. Morgan.

  “No sweat,” he said. “Your body’s talking to you. Don’t force yourself to take more than you need. Hungry?”

  “Not really. That half cup of coffee filled me up.”

  “Later I’ll get you into some normal groceries.”

  “How come you’re being so nice to me?” I asked him.

  Once more I got one of his concerned doctor frowns and he said, “You’ve turned a corner. Now you’re entering a new phase.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” I said.

  The frown turned into an embarrassed grin. “Well . . . no sense lying to you.”

  “So?”

  “I need your expertise.” He saw the expression on my face. “Your advice,” he added.

  “On what?”

  “On how not to go to jail. I’m running around in the old jalopy with stolen New York plates and sure as hell I’m going to get stopped because the wreck is smoking, the tires are bad and the muffler is making a racket.”

  It was nice to be needed. I didn’t even have to think hard on that one. “You got any money, doc?”

  “Yeah, I was never that much of a dummy.”

  “Got your old papers?”

  “Whatever was in my wallet. Driver’s license, an old voter registration, medical ID from the hospital, stuff like that.”

  “Great. Then go buy a car, get it legally registered in your right name, then get licensed in the state. You can prove your identity and just tell them that total retirement didn’t suit you and you want back into the action if they ask you any questions.”

  “Mike, I am supposed to be legally dead!”

  “Look, doc,” I told him roughly, “who’s going to remember a stupid action that took place so many years ago? Besides, you don’t look dead at all. Believe me, nobody’s going to bother you. Only first get yourself some decent clothes to make it all believable. Plaid pants, maybe, and a golf shirt with a lizard on it.”

  “I don’t play golf.”

  “So get a fishing shirt.”

  He stood there looking down at me. Then he let out a big smile and said, “Man, I didn’t enjoy being dead at all.”

  The phone rang. The doctor wasn’t here to answer it. Whenever he did there was something of importance to be said, medical or hous
ehold needs to be discussed.

  I picked the receiver off the cradle and in as growling voice as I could put on, said, “Yes?”

  When I heard his first word I felt a chill work its way across my shoulders. He said, “Hi, Mike, feeling better?” His tone was as pleasant as could be, as though there had been no break at all in our relationship, no firefight on the dockside.

  For a second I paused, took a breath, then said normally, “How’d you know where to find me, Pat?”

  “I’m a cop, remember. Captains have a little clout.”

  “Where you calling from?”

  “A safe phone in a closed booth in a department store.”

  “Then how’d you locate me?”

  “It wasn’t easy,” he told me.

  “Since you found me, somebody else can.”

  “Not unless they have the manpower and electronics we have,” Pat said.

  I took another deep, easy breath. “Then tell me this, pal. Why?”

  This time he paused a moment. “Somebody shot Marcos Dooley.”

  Softly, I muttered, “Damn.”

  Pat knew what I was thinking and let me take my time. Old buddy Marcos Dooley had brought Pat and me into the intelligence end of the military before the war ended and steered us to where we were today. Only Pat could still wear the uniform, an NYPD blue. I carried a New York State PI ticket and a permit to keep a concealed weapon on my person. Marcos Dooley had become a wild-ass bum, and now he was dead. But we had backed each other up during the raging times of hot shrapnel and bullets that sang high-pitched songs of destruction, and we had beaten the death game because we’d done it right and covered each other’s tails until our hearts stopped pounding and breathing became easier.

  “What happened, Pat?”

  “Somebody broke into the house and shot him in the guts.”

  “You know who?”

  “Not yet. We may have a suspect.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  “Sure. You shot his brother. Ugo Ponti.”

  I said something unintelligible. “How is he?”

  “Dying. Do you think you can make it up here? He wants to see you.”