Mickey Spillane - Lady, go die

“Yeah. I was wondering what Huntz Hall was doing in a Randolph Scott picture.”

We headed across the street to a dingy diner, boxcar-style; but the kitchen behind the counter looked clean and the cutlery didn’t have food caked in the tines of the forks like a lot of such joints. The proprietor was a big jovial Polack who sported a handlebar mustache and a pair of black eyebrows that met in the middle without thinning out in the slightest.

He wiped the counter clean enough for eating, then said, “What’ll it be, folks?”

“I’ll have the veal cutlet,” Velda said. “Home fries and corn.”

I asked, “Got a steak?”

He shook his head and black snakes danced on his scalp. “Naw. Rationing is over, my friend, but there are still shortages.”

“I know. Just asking.”

“Oh, I could have plenty of meat if I wanted to buy black market, but I won’t do it. I lost a son on Iwo and I’ll be damned if I will do business with them sons of…” He hesitated. “…excuse me, miss… dirty bums who made all that filthy dough while our kids were dying over there.”

“Gimme the cutlet then.”

“Okay. You don’t like my speech?”

“Your speech was swell. But it’s not what I came in for. Veal cutlet.”

He looked at me carefully, trying to decide whether we were friends or not. “You in the war, mister?”

“He sure was,” Velda piped up.

I growled, “Velda…”

“With the infantry in the Pacific,” she went on. “He killed more Japs than the Enola Gay.”

A grin bloomed and took the handlebar along for the ride. “No kidding? I was down in Port Moresby, cooking… till they kicked me out.”

I asked, “How come?”

Our plates of food were already in the window behind him.

He went to get them, and said to us over his shoulder, “They found out I was over-age. Ain’t that something? Gee, I worked harder than any two kids in the outfit. Over-age, huh, what a joke. What a bad joke on me.”

“How did they get wise?”

He set the plates in front of us; their steam smelled good. “The pencil pushers did it, but it took a while. See, I was in the first war, only I wasn’t a cook, I was in the tanks. Took ’em a year and a half to catch up, but they did. When I left, the colonel, he shook my hand. Don’tcha think that was nice of him?”

I laughed. The Polack was a good egg. I had met up with his kind before-strictly square shooters. As I dug into the meal, I could see why he did a fairly good business during the day. The cutlets were done to a turn, and there was no skimping on the vegetables. Finally a good guy to know in Sidon.

Between mouthfuls, I asked, “Say, who’s this Wesley woman out on the shore?”

“That whoor…” He looked at Velda again, though she was too busy eating to pay any attention, and not nearly as easily offended as he imagined. “…that trollop,” he continued. “Lots of wild parties, brings her drunken friends to town and they wreck the place. Always a crowd from the city, they are.”

“Can’t the police take care of that?”

“Are you kidding, mister? The cops here, they got the hand out for all they can get and, brother, does Mrs. Wesley play ball with them. One of the guys that was out to her house killed a kid when he was driving his car drunk and he never did a day behind bars. She gave the kid’s folks ten thousand smackers and they had to shut up.”

Velda and I exchanged a troubled glance.

I asked him, “Why don’t the taxpayers object? They appoint the cops around here, don’t they?”

“Sure they do. Like they appoint the mayor. Everyone does just what Rudy Holden wants them to do, or else they find some other town to live in.”

“Rudy who?”

“Holden. Rudolph Holden, Rudy. Hell, mister, he waves the flag around Sidon. The winter people only live here so they can operate during the summer. They own beach houses or have concessions along the street for the visitors. If they don’t play ball with Rudy, they don’t get no license. That’s all there is to it.”

“How about you?”

He grinned again, white teeth flashing through the dark mustache. “Oh, Rudy and his boys, they don’t fool around with me.”

“You’re an exception, huh? How did you pull that off?”

He pounded his chest with a fist. “I come from a big family, mister. I got twelve brothers and four sons left. When the boys in the blue uniforms come around for the summer shakedown, I tell them that maybe I might have a family reunion soon. They know what I mean.” The guy laughed from the bottom of his barrel chest. “And I’m the smallest one in the family. My brothers are pretty big. They raise plenty hell around this place when they get started.”

I grinned at him. “I hear this Dekkert is a pretty tough apple himself.”

“Maybe not no more,” he said, pulling on his mustache, thoughtful and still grinning. “Word around town is, some big guy whopped the devil out of him.”

“You don’t say,” I said.

Velda had a pixie grin going. She caught the Pollack’s eyes and pointed her fork at me.

“Hey!” he blurted. “Are you the guy? Tony said it was some big ugly guy from out of town! Are you him?”

I laughed. “I fit the description.”

“I don’t mean no disrespect.” He stuck out a big hand. “Lemme shake with you.”

We did. His grip didn’t break my fingers, but stopped just short.

“By damn, it’s good to see somebody in this town what ain’t scared of them stinking cops! The meal’s on the house. You and your girl both. Wait’ll I tell little Steve about you! What’s your name, mister?”

“Mike Hammer. I’m a private dick from New York.”

“Good one, too,” Velda said, pointing the fork again. “Pretty famous.”

“Hammer.” His eyes popped. “ Mike Hammer! Well, I’ll be a dirty name. I got it now. I read the Daily News! Ain’t you the one that-”

Velda stopped him again. “Shot down those two hoods in Times Square? That’s him. Showed a couple hundred people in a nightclub what a crook had for dinner, using a steak knife? One and the same. Got in Dutch with the police for making a perfectly good suspect unrecognizable? That’s him.”

“Cut it out, chick.” I nudged her in the ribs. “I’m not so bad.”

“Oh, no,” she said, very sarcastically. “He’s good with the ‘chicks,’ too.”

She just had to tack that on. She always does.

The big man slapped his chest. “Well, me, I’m Steve Kowalski. Just call me Big Steve. Is the pretty lady your wife?”

“Not yet. This is Velda, my secretary and good right arm.”

“She is very beautiful,” he said, “your right arm.”

Velda gave him a warm smile, and then me one-she liked the sound of that “not yet.” I better watch my step or she’d be pinning me down with a proposal and I wasn’t near ready.

Over a piece of pie and a second cup of coffee, Big Steve told us what he knew about the town. The winter population was about fifteen hundred, but it increased to ten thousand during the summer months, most of the crowd attracted from New York. The beach was nice, and there were few limitations on parties, drinking bouts in saloons, or what have you. From his description, Sidon was the Reno of Long Island.

I asked, “There’s illegal gambling here, Steve?”

“There is.” He held up his hands as if in surrender. “But I don’t know where and don’t want to. I keep apart from that.”

But he knew in general what was going on. He knew Sidon was situated far enough away from everything for visitors to enjoy loosely enforced laws, and yet not far enough away to hamper travel. Dotted along the shore line were the mansions of the wealthy. Some lived here all year round, but most boarded up their fancy pads for use during the summertime only.