Mickey Spillane - Lady, go die

I grunted. “Oh, hell. You got those names for me?”

He did, written on a small sheet in a cramped hand, half a dozen names, numbers and addresses of high-rolling gamblers in the city who were likely frequenters of Sharron Wesley’s casino on the Island. I recognized four of them. Some damn good leads to track down.

But I said, “Look, there’s supposed to be a big high-stakes poker game going on somewhere in town. Probably at some hotel. I’m looking for Bill Evans and Miami Bull, and they’re supposed to be in it.”

His eyes opened wide and he nodded. “I hear about that game. Two guys in here late last night, after you was here? They were early drop-outs in that game. Too much action, they say. Thousands on every hand, Mike. Crazy how much.”

“You’re just jealous, Louie. So where’s the game?”

“They don’t mention that.”

“Can you find out?”

He cocked his head and gave me a look. “Can you drive a my Marion home? I don’t want her round here like this, Mike. Beautiful girl like that, with a snootful? Not so beautiful.”

I tapped him on the chest with a forefinger. “I’ll drive her home. You find that hotel for me.”

A grin blossomed under the skinny mustache in the fat face. “It’s a deal, Mike. I’ll call a you at Marion’s apartment.”

“No, I won’t be there that long. I’ll stop back.”

We left the bar and went through the archway where in Louie’s private den sat Marion, curled up in one of the tufted leather chairs with her skirt hiked up and showing a lot of leg. Not that the tight-fitting blue-silk jersey hid much more of her than, say, a coat of paint would.

I gave her shoulder a gentle shove.

She looked up at me with half-lidded dark-blue eyes. Her slack mouth became a smile and white teeth flashed, but the eyes stayed at half-mast and I could smell the Scotch on her without even leaning in.

“Mike! You came back. Louie said… said you came back…”

“Yeah, I came back. Let’s get you home.”

“Why?” she slurred. And that word was not easily slurred. “Is it late already?”

“Late enough. Can you put on your shoes?”

“No.” She gave me a bleary-eyed smile and nodded toward the heels on the floor near the chair. “Make me Cinderella. I wanna be Cinderella.”

I knelt like a damn prince and eased her little feet into the little dark-blue shoes, and holding onto a slender ankle and maybe a shapely calf wasn’t the worst thing that ever happened to me. I am human. And male.

But she was soused, and even in a great-looking dame, that’s about as appealing as a Bowery bum’s breath.

So I got her to her feet and hauled her out of there. She was wobbly on those heels, and she made little squeals of protest now and then, but she came along for the ride. Making it up that gangplank of Louie’s was no picnic, but we got to the dry land of the sidewalk without either of us becoming a casualty.

The heap was parked right out front, and I loaded her in. She got settled into the passenger seat, curling up like a baby waiting to be born. She did not say a word on the ride to that renovated apartment house she lived in. She even snored a little.

Dusk had fallen and traffic lights and neons made soothing glows in the coming night, but I was too irritated to appreciate it. I had things to do. Escorting home a drunken little frill was not on my dance card.

But what the hell, Louie needed time to track down Bill Evans and Miami Bull, so I could stand to play chivalrous knight for a half hour or so. But when I walked her up the brownstone steps, an arm around her waist, those curves of hers, drunken or not, were brushing up against me in distracting ways. If chivalry wasn’t dead, neither was my libido.

I got her into her flower-chintz-strewn living room and asked her, “Can you stand, honey?”

“Sure I can stand. What am I, a cripple?”

I let go of her and she collapsed in a pile on the carpet.

“What you need,” I said, “is a nice cold shower.”

I got her around the waist again and practically dragged her into the bathroom. She did not protest. I wasn’t sure she was even conscious. There was no shower, though, just a tub. I sat her on the john and backed away cautiously, making sure she was perched there properly.

When she didn’t fall off on her keister, I turned on the water and made sure it got running nice and cold. Then I played prince again, taking off her shoes.

“Stand up,” I said, tossing the heels aside.

“Huh?” The half-lidded eyes didn’t seem to recognize me.

“Stand up, Marion. Gotta get that dress off you.”

She got to her feet, unsteady but she did it.

“Put your hands up,” I told her.

“Why? Is this a stick up?” It sounded like “schtick up,” which would have made me laugh if I was in a better mood. She pointed a finger at me and made shooting sounds like a kid playing cowboys and Indians.

“Marion,” I said scoldingly.

She pouted and put her hands up.

I tugged the dress up over her head. Beneath she wore only flimsy step-ins and an equally flimsy bra that gave her full, pert breasts no help. Not that they needed any.

She almost fell down, getting out of the step-ins. My face was in just the right position to collect evidence proving she was a real blonde. With a put-upon sigh, I got back up and reached around her to undo the bra. She stood there, a tipsy Venus, then the sound of rushing water turned me quickly to catch the bath just before it overflowed.

That was when she shoved me in.

I went in face first and was flopping around like a flounder on deck, but I had what the flounder wanted-all the water in the world, and when I got myself turned around, I was sitting in the tub with legs hanging over the side, my socks sopped in my soaked shoes, and the naked wench was leaning over with her hands on her knees and her breasts hanging like ripe fruit waiting to be plucked while she laughed and laughed and laughed.

“Now we’re even, sucker!” she said.

She wasn’t drunk at all!

I came clambering out of that tub after her and she yiped and then screeched a laugh, and then went running bare-ass back into the living room laughing and screaming and laughing, and I tackled her and we landed on the couch in a damp tangle.

“You little vixen,” I growled.

She was laughing her head off, laughing till she was crying. “You better get out of those wet clothes, mister! You’ll catch your death of cold.”

I got out of those clothes all right.

The lights stayed on and I was just this big damp cold creature getting warmed by the flame of her, her mouth hungry on mine, her tongue searching, flesh quivering under my hands, full and ripe and demanding. She was no virgin nor was she terribly experienced, though she did just fine, undulating, surging, our breathing building into a shout from me and a scream from her.

“Oh Mike,” she breathed. Her eyes were rolled back. “Mike… I’m drunk now… I’m drunk now, all right…”

We were under the covers in her bedroom. We were both naked. We had finished round one in the living room in a hurry. Round two had taken its own sweet time, and we were both tired and, speaking for myself anyway, very satisfied. Even if two hours had gone by with no detecting whatsoever, other than me finding out she was a natural blonde.

“Honey,” I said, “when you were out at that casino near Sidon-”

“Not that again,” she said, stealing the smoke, taking a drag on it, handing it back.

“Yes that. That’s the case I’m on. She’s dead, remember? Murdered. You mentioned that local deputy, Dekkert, getting fresh with you out there. You gave him the brush by way of a knee.”

“Sure. What of it?”