Микки Спиллейн - The Erection Set

“Who’s working our end?”

“The Irishman O’Keefe and Pierre Dumont.”

“Hell, O’Keefe has a record in Berlin and...”

“A simple assault charge. It’s not very likely he’ll be recognized. Besides,”... he chuckled again “you should be the one to worry.”

“Now what’s up?” I asked him.

“The affair had your stamp on it. Your MO, so to speak. It is being rumored that the courier didn’t know a switch had been made and it was a first-class hijacking with the killing only a red herring thrown in to confuse everybody.”

“Nice.”

“Certain parties are very angry. Le Fleur himself has directed a bonus for either the recovery or your demise.”

Le Fleur, the flower. A gentle name for a human fungus. Someplace the bastard sat in royal opulence and pushed the buttons that could trigger the kill of anyone from a dope-head to a diplomat. Narcotics built his empire and the ones he couldn’t squeeze out he eliminated or organized. The only ones he couldn’t control were nibbling holes in his elaborate structure and if it happened often and successfully enough the whole damn thing would fall apart.

I said, “This may bring him out into the open.”

“No, I’m afraid not, although there are many who would like to know his true identity. Once that happened any one of the others in a fairly strong position would take steps to have him removed. These are the days of science and equipment. An aerial bombing raid on a stronghold is not an improbability and financially simple to arrange.”

“But complicated,” I told him.

“Quite. Therefore it is simpler to pick the fly out of the ointment, which, in this case, they think is you. One member of the syndicate has been selected to act as your executioner, especially in view of the fact that his natural animosity and suspicion has led him into instigating a kidnap order on you... followed by your death, of course.”

“The Turk?”

“Exactly. They already know what has happened to his two men. Either they succeed in the near future or The Turk becomes the object of Le Fleur’s attentions. This he certainly doesn’t desire.”

“Hell, he’s working at it. They tried again and I was lucky. They missed me. My friend wasn’t so lucky and they damn near killed him.”

“You shouldn’t expose your friends to yourself, Dog.”

“The Turk should know better.”

“Perhaps he didn’t take your retirement seriously.”

“But he’s going to. Who’s come in the last few days?”

For a second he didn’t speak and I could hear his fingers tapping against the phone. “Nobody we know of through routine channels, but that means very little. I understand they landed a shipment through Mexico and into Nevada a day ago. Someone could have come in with that. And the Coast Guard missed a night interception of a fast cruiser that was heading toward Miami, so who can be sure?”

“Okay, then we’ll take it from there. I want two foreign types about my size with no outstanding characteristics. They speak English with an accent, possibly Belgian. Their clothes are all new and expensive, but they’re wearing brown shoes with dark outfits, so that might give you a lead. Check into foreign-language movie houses, hotels catering to people from that area, restaurants... you know the scoop.”

“I understand.”

“Somebody’s laid the groundwork for them here, so they have a contact. I doubt if they’ve had time to establish any kind of reliable identification, so that might help. They’ll be operating on a cash basis in a credit card economy.”

I could hear his pen scratching as he wrote it all down. “Another thing... one had a .38, the other guy packed a .22 on a nickel-plated heavy frame.”

The writing stopped a moment. Then he said, “Arnold Bell.”

“A Belgian national.”

“Dog, you know what kind of a man this is, don’t you?”

“I’ve heard the stories.”

“No one’s better. He works in close because he likes to do it that way. He has been the hit man on eleven important people. His only failure was an attempted assassination of General De Gaulle. He was almost caught then. Almost. So far he has been apprehended for nothing. Dog... they must want you very badly.”

“Why would he use a backup man?”

“Most likely because he is unfamiliar with the country. Like you say... the brown shoes?”

“Looks like they both need a refresher course,” I said.

“When will you be calling in?” he asked me.

“Tomorrow.”

“That isn’t much time.”

“Do what you can,” I said. “Incidentally, how did you explain the scrambler phone to the T-men?”

I could almost see him shrug. “A business necessity. The competition would most like to have the identity and whereabouts of our very select clientele.”

Leyland Hunter’s friends in the right places had made it easy for me. Both Bridey-the-Greek and Markham were released from the hospital at their own request and against the advice of the doctors. The only thing they forgot was that cops can be curious creatures of habit even in matters that don’t necessarily concern them. One detective had left word to be notified if there was any unorthodox departure. The clerk at the desk, who had a brother on the force, complied.

The cop’s name-was Sergeant Tobano.

He didn’t get in from a special assignment until a quarter past two, booked the two punks he had with him, then turned around when the uniformed desk man pointed to me at the bench in the back of the room. He was tired, unshaven, his clothes rumpled and he looked annoyed at the world.

His eyes had that universal flat look and he shoved his hands in his pockets. “I was wondering when I’d see you again.”

“Why?”

“One of those feelings.”

“Let’s go talk,” I said.

“There’s an office back here.”

I followed him through the gate and into a wood-paneled room that smelled of a century ago, waited until he had closed the door, then sat in the chair on the other side of the cluttered table facing him. “Let’s hear it,” he said.

I reached for a pencil, wrote a number down on a piece of scrap paper and pushed it over to him. “Make a call first.”

“What?” The word had a sharp, nasty tone to it.

“Just call. It’s a local number.”

Tobano didn’t do anything at first. He sat there watching me with those dark hawk eyes, imprinting me in his mind. Finally he reached for the phone. “If you’re another joker, your tail is in a sling.” He dialed the number, and when it answered his eyes went from the paper in front of him to me, narrowing slightly. He identified himself, then started to say he was interrogating a person named Dogeron Kelly. He didn’t get much further. He nodded absently twice, said okay and hung up. Then he called another number, ran a check on the first one and cradled the receiver. “You got some pretty important friends, Kelly.”

“It helps.”

“Right now I’ll let it go. Just keep in mind that I don’t give a shit who anybody is when they get out of line or interfere with my business. All you have coming is ten minutes’ worth of talking.”

“You kept a surveillance on those two guys who got clobbered in the garage toilet.”

“A normal precaution.”

“They ducked out.”

“And you want to know where.” He made it a flat statement.

“Right.”

“Why?”

“I could go to the trouble of running them down myself if you want.”

He ran it through his mind, knew it could be done and nodded. “The Greek’s in a rooming house on the West Side.” He scratched an address on the same paper I had given him and shoved it back. “Markham checked into the Ormin Hotel. They left at different times and each one took two different cabs getting to his pad. It didn’t work.”