Mickey Spillane - Lady, go die

These people had nothing to do with the town. Even the bulk of their provisions came in from the outside, and their recreation was on their own private beaches.

Velda said, “Anything for a young couple like us to do after dark, before the season starts around here?”

I could think of something.

Big Steve said, “There’s a nice beer parlor just down the street-jukebox and everything. But you don’t wanna eat there.”

“Okay,” she said. “What else?”

“There’s a place on the highway where you kids can do some serious drinkin’ and dancin’. Only opened up a few days ago-gettin’ the jump on the season. They got a little band. Not bad.”

“Sounds good,” Velda said. Then to me she said, “Let’s try it, after work.”

Big Steve, who was down from us now using the rag on the counter, said, “Work? You two are working?”

“It’s not my idea,” Velda smirked.

“Zip it,” I told her.

A screaming siren grabbed our attention and we spun on our stools to see a Sidon police car shoot by. Simultaneously a little barefooted kid ran into the diner, his hair flying in excitement.

“ Uncle Steve! They found a dead lady in the park! She’s sitting on the stone horse… and she ain’t got no clothes on!”

That was all I needed to hear.

With Velda inches behind me, I ran out and toward the hotel to get the heap out of the lot. Soon I was behind the wheel and swinging around in the middle of the street and racing through town, following the banshee wail.

The park was a mile and a half outside town, a fifty-acre grove of trees and lawn built on reclaimed land to provide the town’s only public bathing beach. On the shore were the dressing houses, with closed buildings that became soda and hot dog concessions during the summer. In the midst of the tree-rimmed park itself, twin paths curved in from one end of the beach to the other, circling around the granite figure of a horse set directly on the ground, supposedly drinking from an artificial spring, now dry.

I ran the car into the parking lot behind a dozen others. Evidently news traveled fast in this little town and, considering Sidon’s size, there were a lot of curiosity seekers.

Velda and I wasted no time. We took the right-hand path and half-ran toward the horse. Clouds were protecting the sun from the unpleasantness and keeping the park cool and blue. Ahead of us a loud voice through a hand-speaker was ordering people to keep back and keep moving. Seemed the Sidon PD had at least six officers, because they were spread out keeping people away from the grim discovery. The crowd was a mix of ages and were clearly not tourists. Some kids were mixed in, too, getting some Saturday afternoon education.

With Velda tagging after, I broke through the crowd and the skinny cop I’d elbowed in the nuts the night before blocked me, putting out his hand in “stop” fashion. I gave him one look and he dropped his hand reluctantly, and stepped aside.

There on the well-trimmed grass a dozen feet from the base of the statue was Dekkert, crisply uniformed, his face criss-crossed with a fresh set of bandages. With him was Chief Beales. Both were speaking to a nondescript, pot-bellied little guy in a short-sleeve white shirt with a too-short necktie. I caught the name Holden once, and realized I was looking at the town boss. He certainly didn’t look like anything more than the manager of a grocery store.

All three men stopped talking at one point, and shot sideways glances our way as we neared, but that was all. I could see them later.

Right now I wanted a closer look at that horse and the naked rider it bore.

She was there all right. Not sitting as the kid had described, but draped over the back of the statue. She was face down, her bright yellow hair hanging limply between her dangling arms. She was in a curious position, almost as if she had been thrown there. Stuck in the strands of hair was seaweed, not yet dry. The body was bloated, with little holes in the skin, her nice shape distorted in gruesome self-parody. She had been in the water a while before taking this ride.

“Lady Godiva herself,” I said.

“More like lady go die,” Velda said, in hushed horror.

The chief came over. This time he was remarkably civil. “What do you make of it, Mr. Hammer?”

I shrugged. “Mind if I have a better look?”

Chiefie made a gracious “after you” gesture. “We’re fortunate to have a big city investigator like you here to give an opinion.”

There was no sarcasm apparent in that, and you would think our earlier meeting had been filled with back slapping and laughter.

“Glad to,” I said, and approached Godiva.

With a stick I eased her hair aside. The chief was right beside me and I directed his attention to her neck. Imprinted there were the unmistakable marks of fingers, blotches that were bluish with deep ridges in the flesh where the fingernails had bitten into it.

“Choked to death,” I commented. “Sure as hell.”

“Obviously,” the chief said. “Then she was thrown into the water.”

“Right. Where she stayed for a while. Question is-what’s she doing here?”

The chief appeared puzzled. “I don’t know, Mr. Hammer. But we’ll get to the bottom of it, never fear.”

I managed not to laugh. I keep a straight face when I said, “If I can be of help, don’t hesitate.”

“I appreciate that, Mr. Hammer. Perhaps… perhaps we got off on the wrong foot.”

This time I couldn’t stop the laugh. “Yeah, perhaps.”

Somebody called, “Chief Beales! Come here, please.”

Chiefie walked over to Mayor Holden and they conversed in low tones. Holden was damn worried, that much was apparent.

Velda had my arm. “What could the motive be?”

“Show me that,” I said, “and I show you the killer.”

Despite a sad expression, Velda regarded the dead woman in a manner as business-like as mine. “Gone about a week, I’d say.”

“Me, too, but we can’t be sure. If we’re right, though, she’d have been killed just about the time she disappeared. Come on, kitten.”

“Where are we going?”

“To get the jump on these dumb hicks.”

We stopped first at the telegraph office. On a blank form, addressed to Pat at his home, I wrote: CASE HISTORY CLOSED ON SUBJECT OF OUR DISCUSSION. That was in the event the Western Union clerk was another of Holden’s snoopers. I didn’t want His Honor to know I had already contacted the city police about this.

When I finished, I had to wait a while for Velda to come out of a pay booth outside the office. She was making call after call. What was she up to?

I asked her who she’d been phoning, and she said, “The papers.”

“The New York City papers?”

She nodded and said, “Sharron Wesley maintained a New York residence, too, and after that trial of hers, ought to still make good copy. Besides, letting the newsboys in on it right away will only put us in solid with them.”

I gave that the horse laugh. “Me in solid with those jackals? They’d pimp their Aunt Hattie for a headline. You know how they smear me whenever they can, and-”

She touched my sleeve. “Mike, let’s use them for a change.”

I thought about it, then shrugged. “What the hell, let them in on it. If nothing else, it’ll put a bug up the tail of the local PD.”

“And Mayor Holden. When are you going to get around to giving him a little attention?”

“That’ll come.”

I guided Velda out to my heap just as dusk was turning to dark. We got in and headed for the hotel.

“You stake out a stool in the bar and keep an eye out,” I told her. “It won’t take those reporters long to drive out from the city.”