Nelson Algren - The New Black Mask Quarterly (№ 1)

Went inside. Ordered a two-scoop dish of coconut, with crushed chocolate-chip topping. The skinny college kid who worked there asked me how come I always ordered the same topping for my frozen yogurt when there were so many others to choose from. I thought that was a dumb question, so I didn’t answer him.

I sat down at one of the little round butcher block tables and began spooning cold yogurt inside my hot stomach. Very soothing. My mood began to improve.

It was late afternoon and the place was nearly deserted. There was one other customer, a blue-eyed blond wearing shorts (with a particularly nice pair of legs inside them) and a splendidly packed T-shirt that said: WHAT YOU SEE IS WHAT YOU GET. She smiled across the room at me. “Are you Nicholas Challis?”

“Never call me Nicholas,” I said. “Makes me sound like a Romanian prince — and that’s not my image. How come you know who I am?”

“I know a lot more than that,” she said, moving over to sit down at my table. Her no-bra act was terrific.

“What else do you know?”

“That you are thirty-two years of age, your father was Irish and your mother is a Mescalero Apache, and you have been a private detective for two years — since you moved here from San Diego after the death of your wife.”

“Go on,” I told her. “So far you’re scoring 100 percent.”

“You have a half-brother on your father’s side who also works as a private investigator in the Los Angeles area. Your father is deceased, and your mother now lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico.”

“Bet you don’t know when I quit biting my nails,” I said.

“Originally, you wanted to be a commercial artist, but you were not talented enough to make it work out financially. Your present office is located in Studio City here in the Valley and you don’t smoke or have any children or pets. Shall I continue?”

“I don’t see any reason to,” I said. “You’ve obviously done a hell of a research job. The question is, why?”

“Let’s go to my place and you’ll find out. How does that sound?” And she gave me another flash of her perfect teeth.

“Sounds like I’m being seduced,” I said. “And I’m always ripe for seduction.” I stood up, leaving my yogurt. “I just hope your T-shirt is telling the truth.”

It wasn’t. What I saw I did not get, nor was I going to from what she told me once we were inside her Malibu pad. All I got was her name: Charlene Vickers. The surf was doing its usual in-and-out number on the beach outside her picture window and Charlene was standing there looking at the afternoon ocean when she informed me that I had not been brought here for a romantic interlude.

“This is strictly business, Mr. Challis,” she said. “I represent someone who urgently requires your services. He asked me to bring you here.”

“I was hoping you were a P.I. groupie eager to partake of my sun-bronzed flesh,” I said. “Instead, you want to put me to work. Doing what?”

“I’ll let my employer tell you that.”

“And who’s your employer?”

“Frank Morrison. He’s due here in exactly—” She checked a tiny gold pearl watch on her left wrist, “seven minutes.”

“Great,” I said. “I love split-second timing.” I joined her at the window. The ocean was dead calm, with a few white sails edging the horizon. Clear day, no fog. “Just what is it that you do for Mr. Morrison? I mean, besides fetching lust-crazed private detectives to Malibu. Or shouldn’t I ask?”

“I’m his live-in secretary,” she said. “And you can make anything you want out of that.” She said it coldly. In fact, she hadn’t smiled since we’d arrived here. Once she’d dropped her yogurt act, she was just what she said, strictly business. Which depressed hell out of me. She looked like the Raintree Shampoo Girl and talked like Walter Mondale.

A car pulled into the gravel drive in front of the beach house. White 1955 T-Bird. In classic condition. Guy got out. Silver-gray crewcut. Not tall, but beefy. Wide chest and shoulders. Wearing a red-checked sport coat and matching slacks. Colorful.

He walked in and shook my hand, giving the bones a real workout. “I’m Frank Morrison,” he said.

“No, you’re not.” I gave him a level stare. “You’re Mickey Spillane.”

He grinned at me. “Okay, so my full name is Frank Morrison Spillane — but I try to keep a low profile.”

“Sure,” I nodded. “By doing coast-to-coast beer commercials and playing your own character, Mike Hammer, in the movies.”

“Guilty on the commercials, but I only played Hammer once, and that was back in the early sixties.”

“I watch a lot of late night TV,” I said.

Spillane walked over to Charlene, gave her a kiss on the cheek. Fatherly. Maybe she was his secretary.

“Get us a couple beers, doll.”

She got two cans out of the fridge, gave me one. Spillane tabbed his open, took a long swig. Charlene poured herself some orange juice and we all sat down.

“I drink too much of this stuff,” he said. “Gives you a big gut when you get older. And I’m no spring chicken.” He belched. “But I work out, sweat it off.”

“I’d like to get to the point,” I said. “Why did you have me brought here?”

“Simple. To nail a creep who’s been doing a number on me. He wants to shut off my juice.”

“You talk like a comic strip,” I told him.

“Hah!” Spillane chuckled. “That’s where I got my start — with the comics. Used to write Captain America and Plastic Man. In the forties. Hammer came right out of that period. I wrote him as ‘Mike Danger, Private Eye.’ Planned to star him in his own comic book. But then I changed my mind and wrote him into I, The Jury as Mike Hammer. Did that first novel in just nine days. I write fast. And I’m not out to win the Pulitzer, I’m in it for the bucks.” He scowled at me. “Anything wrong with that?”

I put up a hand. “Hey, I’m on your side.”

He grinned. “I didn’t mean to sound off — but I’ve taken a lot of hard raps for my stuff. From the critics. I don’t know what the hell they expect! I write books and people buy ’em. It’s just that simple.”

“You say somebody’s been after you? Threatening you?”

“More than just threats,” Spillane said. He got up with his beer, began pacing the room. His heels rang on the polished hardwood floor. “About a month ago I came down here to film a commercial. From Big Sur, where I have a cabin. When I got here this was waiting for me.”

The handwritten letter he handed over was addressed: To a Thief.

You have stolen from me. Through Kathleen, I know that all sins are punished. If not in this lifetime, then in the next. You will suffer bad karma for what you have done. I am here to serve cosmic justice. It is time for you to leave your present body, and I shall hasten your departure. Sum up your affairs. You have little time remaining.

And it was signed: John D. Carroll.

“You know the guy?” I asked Spillane, handing the letter back to him.

“Only John Carroll I ever knew was a film actor,” he told me. “Used to work for the old Republic Studios in those sword-and-tit flicks. Haven’t seen him for years. John’s probably dead by now. But I know one thing. That’s not his handwriting.”

“A good chance the name’s a phony,” I said.

“In my game you get a lot of crazy mail,” declared Spillane. “I ignored the letter, forgot about it. Two days later the phone rings and this wacko is on the line. ‘I’m the man you robbed,’ he says. ‘Retribution is at hand.’ And he hangs up.”

“Is that all he said?”

“Yeah. Didn’t bother to tell me what I’d robbed him of.”