Mickey Spillane - Lady, go die

“Johnny!” I said.

He flashed his gaze back at me with a frown, as if he’d forgotten I was still there-or still alive. As if I were already dead with the mayoral murder gun pressed in my palm. “What is it, Hammer?”

“Did you take Velda? Do you have her?”

He frowned. “Who in the bloody hell is Velda?”

“My secretary. She’s missing.”

“Well, isn’t that a shame.”

He turned toward Tony, apparently about to pass him the murder weapon.

I called out: “And Poochie-what about him?”

Now the dapper gangster seemed truly exasperated. Why was he having to answer these questions from an about-to-be corpse?

“Who the hell is Poochie?” he asked irritably.

I smiled. “Sorry, Giovanni. Didn’t mean to be a nuisance. Don’t you want your money?” I was beside the open safe, and knelt there. “Two hundred-fifty grand down in here, easy. Come on, be fair about it. I found it for you, didn’t I? Isn’t that worth something?”

Johnny C looked truly annoyed with my still being conversant, let alone alive, and handed the murder gun toward Tony to take care of that, and I reached into the safe, found the. 38 and thumbed the safety and brought it up over the open safe door to fire three times in succession, three whip cracks in the night that did nothing at all to silence the surging tide.

But it did a fine job on Johnny C and his boys.

The funny thing was how all three just stood there for a moment, tottering, as if they were wondering why they were still standing, only they weren’t wondering anything at all because they were dead, with holes in their foreheads that had exited in a fine spray that left behind little clouds of scarlet to get caught by the ocean breeze and drift away.

I gave the four dead men no further thought. I didn’t even bother with the money-that could wait. I just retrieved my. 45 and ran into the night, following the only lead, the only hunch I had, and if I was wrong, I knew Velda didn’t have a prayer. That she would wash up on this beach some day like Sharron Wesley, if the fish didn’t get her first.

The waves growled as I moved down the beach, the ocean flicking my face, as if trying to cool me off, as if the chill breeze weren’t enough, and maybe it wasn’t, because my brain was burning. I moved quickly under a moon displayed by the night sky like a pearl in its navel, winking, then disappearing as the belly dancer’s veils of traveling clouds briefly blotted it out. Even the sand didn’t slow me, and my vision was keen, I could see every goddamn grain on the ivory-washed beach. But my mind was a blur of rage, hate and frustration.

I had the puzzle pieces, all of them, and the part of the puzzle that concerned Johnny C and Dekkert was complete, off to one side, forming half the picture, finished as far as it went.

But Sharron Wesley remained part of the rest of the puzzle, and the only way I could make those pieces fit was to cut a jigsaw shape to make it fit, to force it into a picture-revealing slot even while knowing that another gaping hole would show up all too soon.

As I walked along, lost in thought, I almost stumbled over the thing-the puffy, ravaged body of a dog there on the shore, the waves lapping at it like an eager puppy. A boxer, a big one. Kneeling, holding my breath to avoid the smell of putrefaction, I could see that the animal’s neck had been broken.

Sharron Wesley’s dog?

I walked on. Had another puzzle piece washed to shore, or just the remains of a red herring?

Something in me knew that the answer lay in a dilapidated shack just down the beach from the Wesley mansion. A hovel put together with washed-up wood, chunks of dead boats, and rusted-out tin advertising. A place where Dekkert had shot at me through a window and a brave little guy had taken a bullet meant for me, almost certainly saving my life.

No lights were on in the shanty, but in the moonlight you could see everything, the barrel of fish heads, the fishing poles leaning there like Huck and Tom just abandoned them, the ancient wheelbarrow-all forming a picturesque ivory-washed still life perfect for an artist inclined toward the rustic.

But something was missing.

What?

I circled the shack and on the other side saw a rumpled oil-stained tarp covering something. An awful chill went up my spine as my fingers grabbed the stiff fabric, and pulled it back, not knowing what the hell might be under there, expecting maybe little Poochie or, God help me, Velda.

A rowboat.

An old wooden wreck that had been salvaged but patched enough to most likely float, with a couple of ragged but usable oars.

I covered it up again.

The. 45 was in my hand when I went through the unlocked makeshift door into the darkness of the shack. Enough moonlight came in to guide me around the homemade table and crates for chairs and over to the wall-mounted oil lamp, which I set a match to and flooded the room in an eerie orange glow.

No one here.

What had I expected to find? What answer did I think was waiting in this goddamn hovel? What nagging half-formed thought had sent me on this desperate, hopeless wild goose chase?

I prowled the little space, checking the single bunk and finding only the threadbare quilt and a couple skimpy, dirty blankets and a mattress with the thickness and consistency of a slice of burnt toast. The iron pipes of the stove were cold, though if someone had been here, it was cold enough tonight to have lit it. I went over everything, from the fireplace bin to the basin of scavenged utensils, and finally toured the collection of beautifully carved shells on the two-by-four shelving slung midway around three of the four leaning walls.

I sat on a crate at the little table and cursed myself. This was my fault, sending Velda out on her own, knowing a maniac was out there targeting beautiful women. I’d been in the city playing footsie with that minx Marion Ruston while Velda had been out there in the sticks in harm’s way, and I would never forgive myself if anything happened to her, and if she died, if somebody killed her…

My eyes filled with tears and I wiped them away with my suit coat sleeve and as I blinked into focus, my vision fixed itself on the battered old cabinets beneath the shelving.

What was it Poochie had said about those fancy carved shells of his?

I got lots more. Down here is my private collection.

I went over and bent down. The cabinets were unlocked. Anybody could have strolled into that shack and cracked open those cabinets and seen what I saw. But no one ever had. Not that anyone would have believed it.

There on little pedestals carved out of driftwood was an array of intricately carved shells, the craftsmanship remarkable, the artistry incredible, like nothing I’d ever seen. And the subject matter, too, was like nothing I’d ever seen…

…two beautiful girls hanging by their heels from rafters with their bodies slashed, delicate paint-brush red touching each wound…

…a lovely girl spread-eagled in pornographic detail as she lay with wide eyes and bulging tongue and a nylon knotted around her throat…

…a lovely blonde similarly arrayed but on the edge of the beach, with the carving catching the curl of the waves half covering her body as she too stared upward with wide dead eyes…

…and that same blonde, Sharron Wesley again, the only subject who had rated two miniature masterpieces, slung over that statue of a horse with hair hanging like Lady Godiva and her once lush bottom in the air with pin pricks of the carver’s artistry to indicate the decay.

And there were seven more scenes, seven other tableaus of murder, victims from somewhere, from who knew where, but all lovely young naked women, dead by murder, strangulation or the knife, in assorted grisly artistic variations.