Mickey Spillane - Lady, go die

But Poochie had already unhooked the device-he really did know his way around the Wesley manse.

This time I didn’t have a flashlight with me. But I remembered the lay-out well enough, and moved through the big kitchen and into the bigger casino room. A row of windows with the curtains back let in the moon reflecting off the choppy sea. You could hear the wind whistling and bitching as it tried to squeeze its way in, and shutters shook and trees rustled and the whole haunted house shebang might have rattled me, if I hadn’t been so grateful for the moonlight. That made child’s play out of maneuvering in and around the maze of craps and roulette tables.

Then I moved through the bar, which lacked windows to guide me, and knocked into a chair, scraping the floor. I froze, waited, watched, listened.

No response.

Nor could I hear any sound from upstairs. That might mean anything, including that Velda was dead already. If that was the case, Poochie would die one bloody inch at a time. I would find a knife and I would make a carving out of his sorry flesh that he could spend eternity envying in Hell.

Finally I found the hallway off of which were the front door, the cloakroom, and the stairway up to whatever madness was occurring up on the second floor. More moonlight came in from somewhere and let me see perhaps half of my way up the stairs, and when I reached the top, I could not see but could feel the thick Chinese rug under me, relishing how it muffled the sound as I moved down the corridor to that ballroom.

Its double doors were closed, but beneath them an edge of scarlet beckoned and pulsated-there was an almost liquid-like shimmer to it, as if a slaughterhouse on the other side had leaked its butchery under.

I opened the door slowly, cautiously, with my left hand on the knob, my right shoulder against the wood, the rod ready in my right fist. The door creaked, but I was in.

She hung upside-down on the stage, all the way down at the other end of the chamber, strung up naked by her ankles like the girls in that barn, swaying, swinging ever so gently, held up high enough that her bound wrists did not touch the flooring but her long locks flowed down behind her head to brush the stage while her beautiful, terrified, topsy-turvy face stared with wide eyes over a dirty rag of a gag. Stage lighting painted her and the entire tableau blood-red, turning the ebony of her hair scarlet, the signature of her sex a crimson pyramid, and as hideous as this humiliation was, Velda remained a beautiful creature, gravity failing to defeat the thrust of her breasts, the upended sweep of her body from the prominent ribcage to its narrow waist, from the jut of hips to the long, fully fleshed legs with their rope-bound ankles, making of her a sleek abstract shape, a flow of femininity that could not be made grotesque however evil the intent.

The rest of the ballroom glowed red as well, though not as intensely. Lights in the ceiling, caught by a mirrored, turning globe, flashed and reflected as if the room itself were blinking, as if this garish nightmare were shorting in and out, like a faulty circuit.

I didn’t see him at first. The room seemed vast and empty. Had he gone? Where was he?

No matter. There was Velda to save.

“Velda!” I cried.

Did those wide eyes register that she had seen me, or was she in shock? Had this monster drugged her, and she didn’t know what she was seeing? I couldn’t tell, even as I ran and drew closer, if I was really getting a reaction.

But my cry did raise Poochie.

From the wings of the stage he emerged, his face a mask of confused interruption, but this was not the ragamuffin beachcomber I’d known, this was a different Poochie entirely.

This was a demon, small and red under the stage lights, an imp as naked as Velda, a hairless, bony, baby-bellied child man, with the under-developed, barely formed genitalia of an infant, his tiny member standing tall and defiant and pathetic.

Bare-ass and barefoot, the little red devil lacking only horns stood there with something other than a pitchfork in his hand- what? Gun? Knife? — glowering in dismayed shock as I barreled toward him.

Yet he had the presence of mind to fly to Velda, to crouch beside her, like an evil gnome, with his tiny sex dangling like unripe fruit with that little stem extended, and he held to her throat his carving knife, that shoemaker’s blade he had used to fashion his intricate shells, and to slash those poor coeds hung by their ankles in that barn.

Like Velda.

And now the blade was dimpling the flesh next to Velda’s throbbing jugular and her brown eyes were beacons of terror blazing into me.

I froze.

Poochie’s smile was boyish. “Mike… Mike… you don’t wanna make me kill the nice lady, do you?”

There was nothing different about his voice. Nothing new and demented to fit this evil dwarf, crouching there as if perched on Satan’s armrest.

I had been wrong thinking Poochie had created a moron persona to hide behind. He was a moron all right, but a moron with a streak of obsession married to evil genius.

I paused at the edge of the stage, looking up at this obscene Halloween pageant. The. 45 was in my hand. A head shot could take him out. That was my best bet-a head shot. His motor skills would shut off like I’d thrown a switch. But I could give him no indication of my intent.

Not with that blade so close to her jugular.

“I’m not a bad person, Mike… but I have desires… I have visions… dark ones. People think I’m stupid, but I have a gift, Mike. A gift to make the girls I choose seem real to me, and me to them… and then? Then I make them live forever! Don’t you think so, Mike? Don’t you think my work will be in a museum someday?”

“Poochie,” I said, “I’ve been your friend. So has Velda. Just let her go.”

His smile was gleeful, his eyes dancing with reflected red. “And you’ll let me go? Or… get me help? But I don’t want help, Mike! I like how I am. Most of the time, I don’t bother people. I just go my way. I feed my cats and catch my fish and find my shells. I don’t bother nobody. But when I get the feeling, the urge, I follow it. What’s wrong with that? It seems right. It seems natural.”

“It isn’t, Poochie. You’re sick. You’re like a mad dog.”

“What do they do to mad dogs, Mike? What do they do?”

In a moment I would cut Velda down. I would hold her and comfort her, and take her out of this chamber of horrors, and we would gather that fortune waiting out there on the beach among the dead men, and she would laugh when I told her we wouldn’t have to worry about me taking on so many cases for free anymore, not for a while anyway, and we would leave Sidon hand-in-hand and know better next time when somebody suggested a weekend away from dangerous New York City.

His upper lip was peeled back over his teeth and his eyes were crazy and dancing red. “I asked you a question, Mike! What do they do to mad dogs?”

I showed him.