Микки Спиллейн - The Erection Set

The Fruits of Labor set was a self-contained community that looked like a hill of ants. Everything was in motion, but the seeming confusion was, in reality, controlled movement, totally organized, well planned and producing results.

I found Lee beside the wardrobe truck talking to a pair of reporters, let him finish, then said, “How’s it going?”

He jumped when I spoke, faked a smile and ran his fingers through his hair. “Good. Fine. At least they got plenty to write about.” His eyes crawled into mine when he made the last statement. I looked at him, knowing he had to ask it. “Dog... that business last night...” he let his words dwindle off.

I simply nodded.

“Why the hell did I bother asking you?”

“You kill or be killed, buddy. You should remember that from the old days.”

“These aren’t the old days. Shit.”

“Forget it. They’re checking me out now.”

“Then what the hell are you doing here!”

“I’ll come up smelling like roses.”

“Dog...”

“Who’s that bunch over there?” A crowd of about forty were standing in a knot sipping coffee from cardboard cups, watching the action with studied indifference.

“Extras. All locals. They’re going to pick up some exterior shots in about an hour.”

“Any trouble?”

Lee jerked a cigarette from a pack and lit it with a match that shook visibly. “Like from where?”

“Management.”

He blew the smoke into the wind and shook his head. “That McMillan character rode herd on everybody about not interfering with production in the plant. Hell, he just likes to toss his weight around, that guy. Those cousins of yours are doing their little dance for the photographers, but that’s all bullshit too. You know, I wish we’d never come to this damn place.”

“Baloney. You’re enjoying yourself. You’re in solid.”

“I was until you showed up. Now I keep waiting to hear the Klaxon go off and I’ll start heading for the bomb shelter.” He took a deep drag on the butt and flipped it off into the dirt next to the truck. “You see Sharon yet?”

“No.”

“Damn it, Dog, she’s worried sick about you.”

“No reason to be.”

“Quit giving me that crap. She knows more about you than you think she does.”

“Nobody knows anything about me at all, old buddy.” This time his eyes had a funny glint in them. “You’ll wake up one day. She’s over in the production office if you want to see her. Your cousin Dennison turned over a room inside for us to use.”

“Casting couch?”

“These days they do it anywhere.” I turned my head and looked at him a moment. He smiled and this time it wasn’t faked. “You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”

“Not until I tell her so myself,” I said.

“You will, Dog. Then you’ll run home to your kennel for your bone. I just hope the cupboard’s not bare by that time.”

“Go fuck yourself, fly-boy.”

“Sure, Mother Hubbard. Buy me a dildo.”

I walked away and didn’t go in to see Sharon. I got back in the cab and told him where to go. Nobody followed us and we cruised for twenty minutes before we came to the house. It was almost done. We cruised some more, stopped and had a couple of beers and small talk before I had him drive me to see Lucy Longstreet again. Old Beth had found somebody who was willing to talk for a price and offer a piece of evidence for an even higher price. I gave her the amount plus something extra for her trouble and was about to call the deal off with Rose until I remembered that the bought stuff didn’t always work out and decided to let it go ahead anyway.

I paid the driver off outside the police building because my car was still in the driveway and when I went inside Bennie Sachs gave me a courteous hello and invited me to sit down. The first thing he did was hand me my car keys.

“You sure you’re done?”

“The lab’s still checking dust samples. That drive around the hotel was laid down with a composite from Maine and if there are any traces at all the lab’ll find it. Impossible not to. Microscopic examinations are pretty thorough.”

“All the better, Mr. Sachs. When I’m clear, I’m clear.”

“I figure you will be.”

Poker isn’t my game, but I know how to keep the face. “Why?”

“We checked the rental company. They keep a record of their tire numbers. They weren’t switched and the treads didn’t match up either. Yours had a lot more wear on them. Same brand, though.”

“Satisfied?”

“Almost.”

“How about ballistics?”

“Not your gun, although I recognize the possibilities of a barrel switch. Not everybody carries a .45, and those barrels are easy to replace.”

“Wouldn’t that be going pretty far?”

“Not when somebody’s a clever thinker, Mr. Kelly.”

“Left-handed,” I said, “but I’ll take it for a compliment.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

I got up and tossed the keys in my hand. “Well, good luck.”

“Mr. Kelly...”

“Yeah?”

“Would you surmise... that any more trouble would be forthcoming?”

“There’s always trouble, Mr. Sachs.”

I waved “so long” and went out to the car. I got in and tried to stick the key in the lock. It didn’t work until I turned it upside down.

Chet Linden wasn’t taking any chances. Somehow he had switched the whole car. Now when he had me killed all his tracks were covered. It was a real rabbit drive now. All the hunters were out and armed. It didn’t make a damn bit of difference who got the bunny as long as the bunny was got. The old jack had the rabies and could kill off the whole town if he wasn’t destroyed.

So run, rabbit, run!

SHEILA McMILLAN... REFLECTIONS

He knows. He knows more than he’s supposed to know and I can’t stop myself from thinking about him. He knew when he touched me what would happen, made sure of it, then let me do to him what I did and I came away feeling nice and good because there wasn’t any fear left or memory of pain with the horrible tightness inside my head that made my entire body tighten up into knots with the desire to scream and kick out in terrible vengeance from having been violated. The word was even distasteful now. Violated. When did I first hear it? I think it was when memory started without being remembered. No, that’s a contradiction. It had to be earlier where it’s dark and frightening with shadows that don’t want to come to life and only appear in the occasional dream or when I feel their hands.

Even knowing that he knows is a quiet, comforting feeling. Others knew, but their awareness was always deceptive and instinctive responses were ugly enemies, the little creepy-crawlies that became sheer tortures.

Why couldn’t they talk?

Why couldn’t they be passive?

Why did they have to demand the male prerogative of penetration?

The shadows were far worse than the realities. They LURKED. Awful word because they really did LURK . They beat at you with huge clubs and forced and forced until the unbelievable pain turned a scream into a tiny whimper and why you lived at all was a mystery of life. You writhe, you drown, you run away into the black and hope they never turn the light on you at all, but somehow you know the clubs are there, upraised and ready to beat. Big, soft, sturdy clubs that take away everything you know you’re going to want one day and all that is left is an inborn feeling of having been deprived and never knowing what you have been deprived of.

Sheila McMillan, wife of the greatest cocksman who ever lived. He told me so. Other women have told me so. Other men have confirmed the story. Sheila McMillan in love with a brawny, hairy-bellied cocksman who’s in love with her and she can’t give him any of that lovely stuff he wants unless she takes two of the never-remembers out of Dr. Elliot’s small plastic bottle and it all happens when she’s in never-never land.