Mickey Spillane - Lady, go die

It was past eight-thirty and I still had to see Poochie-a guy like him could be in the rack already. Living as close to the Wesley mansion as he did, it was highly probable that he had witnessed plenty of the goings-on out here that the townspeople didn’t know about… and I wanted to see him before the cops tried to question him again, in the wake of Sharron Wesley’s Godiva act.

Now that they had something besides a disappearance to go on, the Sidon PD had a legitimate reason to drag Poochie in to answer a few questions, and knowing their interrogation techniques, I wanted the little guy left strictly alone.

I went out a side door. The same flagstone path that I had seen from the shore took me past the gazebo to the beach and I hit the sand for the walk to the shack.

In the moonlight, the little structure was just a dark blot on the beach. No light was on. The water lapped softly on the sand, and at regular intervals the hooting of some night bird broke the oppressive stillness. Overhead the moon skidded behind a cloud, but a few stars winked off and on like a street sign.

When I was still fifty feet away, an ominous snarling came from Poochie’s hut, then a higher-pitched growl, almost trying for harmony. His cats. They lived outside the shack, huddled like feline watchdogs. They spit repeatedly at the night, then a lantern flared up within the hovel and there was a banging as the occupant shut his door. Then the metal clank of a bolt shot into place.

“It’s me, Poochie,” I called out as I approached. “It’s Mike!”

No answer. I went up to the door and knocked.

“Who… who is it?” His voice was high and frightened. He lacked the confidence of his cats.

I was about to respond when a furry body flung itself at my legs and nails ripped through my pant leg into the flesh. I let out a curse and detached the cat from my leg and yelled, “ Ow! ”

The bolt went back and the handmade door opened. “Mike! Gee, I thought it was you, but I wasn’t sure. Here, let me take the naughty kitty cats off your hands.”

“They’re not on my hands, pal, they’re on my legs!”

Poochie bent down and took one animal from around my feet and called for the other. When he spoke to the creatures, telling them I was a guest and to be nice, their tails went down and they treated me like an old friend, rubbing against my legs and purring. That was well and good, but my trousers were still ripped.

Poochie had the remnants of a bathrobe flung over his shoulders and one hand held his pants up. The table was still littered with shell carvings and the remains of a fish supper. He brought the lamp over and set it on the table.

He bit his lower lip, and looked at me like a scared child. “The cops, Mike? Will they come back?”

“They might.”

“Oh, Mike. Why do they wanna hit me all the time for? Don’t let ’em drag me down that alley again, please…”

“They won’t. Don’t worry.” I tried to be reassuring, even if I knew he really did still have those bastards to contend with. I would do my best to protect him, and intimidate them into leaving him alone, but he remained at risk.

“Gee, Mike, that’s swell to hear. You’re good to me. You’re the only guy around here that is. Just one other guy that ever does nice things for me, you know who?”

“No, who?”

“Big Steve. He gives me meat for my cats. Plenty of meat.”

“Big Steve is all right.”

“Oh, you know Big Steve!” Poochie grinned. “He says they’re leftovers, but they ain’t, and he gives me so much food, the cats won’t eat it all and I end up eating most of it. I like Big Steve, too… but not as much as I like you, Mike.”

The over-age kid was so damn frank he made me sweat.

“How long you lived around here, Poochie?”

“Gosh, Mike, a long time.”

“Yeah, but how long?”

He looked pained and squirmed in his seat. Twice he squinted at me, but said nothing.

“Can’t you remember?” I asked him.

He shook his head sadly. “I can’t hardly remember nothing sometimes. Only when my head hurts do I remember things. Mike, what’s the matter with my head? I heard a man say once I was crazy. Am I crazy? The guy that sells bait on the barge is crazy, but I ain’t like him. He spits on himself and don’t even know where he lives sometimes, but I ain’t that bad. I just can’t remember things hardly. Only when my head hurts.”

“When your head hurts, what do you remember?”

He shrugged and gave me a tight grin as though he thought the idea of it was pretty funny himself. “I dunno. I just remember stuff… when my head hurts.”

“You remember your name? Not ‘Poochie,’ but your real name?”

“Uh-huh. Stanley Cootz. Stanley Cootz. Stanley Cootz. I say it over and over, ’cause I can’t always remember it. You asked me fast-like, and I told you. I ain’t crazy, am I, Mike?”

“Naw, any guy that tells you that is nuts himself. Lots of people can’t remember things. Hell, sometimes I have nights where the next day I can’t remember a goddamn thing.”

“You shouldn’t say bad words, Mike.”

“I know I shouldn’t, Pooch. I’m sorry. Tell me something. You don’t need your head to hurt to remember that lady with the yellow hair, do you?”

“Oh, no! I remember her all right. That wasn’t long enough ago not to remember. I didn’t like her. She was not a nice lady and-”

“She’s dead, Poochie,” I cut in.

He stopped short and his head jerked around. “Dead?” It was like the word had no meaning to him.

I nodded. “Somebody killed her. Murdered her.”

“Murder…”

“Choked her, then threw her in the ocean.”

Poochie frowned and his chin crinkled, his eyes growing damp. “Ooooh. That’s too bad. She wasn’t a nice lady, but nobody should have done that to her. Who done it, Mike?”

“I don’t know, Poochie. But maybe you can tell me.”

His eyes widened, terror replacing sorrow. “But I didn’t do it, Mike! I don’t kill people.” Tears flowed down his stubbly cheeks and his mouth quivered.

“I know you didn’t. Now stop that.”

He nodded, swallowed, rubbing his eyes with the tattered sleeve of his robe and sniffling.

“It’s just that you may have seen something important. Something that could lead me to the yellow-haired lady’s killer. Now think back, Poochie. Think back about a week ago. Did you see the lady then?”

“A week ago?”

“A week ago.”

“I… I think I saw her.”

“Think you saw her?”

“I saw her… but I didn’t do nothing!”

“Who was she with?”

“Her dog.”

“Nobody else?”

“Nope. Just her dog. It’s a big boxer dog. Bothers my cats sometimes.”

“Okay. What was she doing?”

“Just walking with the dog. Then she saw me and said some bad words. Worse words than you said, Mike. Then she was throwing clam shells and sticks at me, so I ran away and ran inside my house and shut the door so she couldn’t come in. I took my cats in so that mean dog wouldn’t bother them, either. She was right outside there.” He pointed past me to his door. “She said some more bad words, and went away.”

“And that was the last time you saw her?”

His head bobbed on his skinny neck, assenting.

“Poochie, did you ever see the parties at the house?”

“Oh, sure. They threw away lots of good stuff that I found. Look.” He pulled a cardboard box of chipped crockery from under the table. “I’m saving them for when I have company. Ain’t they nice, Mike?”

“Swell. Tell me about the parties. Can you remember those pretty well?”

He was nodding, smiling. This was a memory he liked. “Yeah, I remember them because I got so much to eat. Lots of cars come in there, and when you stand up close to the house, you can hear the music. Sometimes when the door opens, the music gets real loud.”