Микки Спиллейн - Together We Kill

By mid-morning, Charlie Traub had the Mustang ready. It was crouched in the hangar like the deadly, hungry thing it was, defanged now, but ready to scream back into the blue where it belonged. Charlie came over wiping his hands on a dirty rag, and when he looked at me his eyes narrowed.

He pointed out the hangar doors. “You going up? Wind’s pretty stiff.”

“Not enough to bother this bird.”

“Ingrid is cutting in on Jamaica. Looks like she’s coming this way. We ought to be tying down a lot of kites pretty soon.”

“Good. Look, am I gassed up?”

“Ready to roll.”

“Get her out on the ramp. I might want to take off in a hurry.”

“Sure, Cat. Thought you wanted that jump seat installed, though.”

“I’ll tell you when. You see Trusky and Reed around?”

“Sure. Since six A.M. they’ve been asking everybody questions. What do you think they’ll come up with?”

“What do you think, Charlie. You were closer to him than anyone else.” I paused and studied him. “Was he involved with the Cubans?”

For ten seconds he stared out the door, then came back to me. “Sure he was, Cat. He was the contact man between Miami and the ones in Cuba trying to oust the Commies.”

“How do you know, Charlie?”

“Like a maid who washes your clothes. She knows if you’re clean or dirty. Some things you can’t hide. Bullet holes in wing fabric, for instance. Sand in the fairings from beach landings. Certain fuel loadings and special harness rigs for cute drops and pickups. He had some good cover for what he was doing, but he didn’t fool me none.” He looked down at his hands and stuffed the rag in his back pocket.

“And whose side were you on, Charlie?”

His eyes bored into mine. “I hate that Commie bunch,” he said.

I held out my hand. “I’m with you.”

George Clinton was having lunch when I found him. He waved me over, put down his paper and offered me a cigar. He said, “I had a call from Slim Upgate to make sure you got what you needed. You got some big friends, buddy.”

“I did him a favor once.”

“Pays off. What can I do for you?”

“Any connections in Miami?”

“What kind?”

“Guns and ammo to the bunch in the mountains.”

“You can check that through surplus sales.”

“Not this time. The stuff would go through too many hands. Besides, a lot of arms dealers have held the stuff for years, waiting for something like this. It’ll be strictly black market for these shipments. Our State Department isn’t clearing anything through to Cuba the easy way.”

“I know. They do everything bas-ackwards. Now they got real trouble on their hands.”

“How about it?”

“Where can I reach you?”

“Suppose I call you. How long will it take?”

“Couple of hours.”

“Where can I reach you?”

He jotted down a number on the back of a matchbook and handed it to me. “Keep your fingers crossed.”

“Sure,” I said. “And find out if anyone knows a guy named Marcel.”

Clinton took the cigar out of his mouth slowly. “Andre Marcel?”

“Could be. Tall, thin guy with a mustache and an accent.”

“You’re asking for trouble, Fallon.”

“That’s all I been getting. Who is he?”

“If he were in the rackets, you’d call him an enforcer. He’s a troubleshooter for any country with money to spend. The last I heard of Marcel he was operating in Panama. He was responsible for re-routing the drug traffic that used to come into the States from Algiers up through Italy and Spain. He saw to it that only the stuff out of China got in.”

“So two birds got killed with one stone,” I said.

“Right. The Red organization piled up loot and the moral breakdown was speeded up here with the influx of H.”

I got up to leave.

“Fallon... How far is this going? Are we covered?”

“Nothing will involve you.”

“Good. Let me know if you need a couple of hands. I know some boys who will be glad to do a favor for Slim, too.”

I called Lois Hays from the lobby of the Jackson Hotel and was invited right up. When I knocked, she opened the door and stood there smiling at some secret joke, waiting while I took my time to look at her.

The sheer black negligee was all she had on, carefully arranged so that the neckline plunged in a wide open V that laid bare half her breasts before it swept into a knotted belt.

“Like?” she asked.

“Neat, but not gaudy,” I said.

She chuckled and led me into the room, quite conscious of the fact that the sun streaming through the window in the far wall did more than just silhouette her figure. It illuminated it with cleverly distorted shadows that were uncomfortable to watch. Sitting down was another contrived production designed to jolt the stability of any situation. Almost carelessly, she crossed her legs and let the flesh of her thighs sparkle through the slit in the gown.

I showed my appreciation and looked — like I was supposed to. The only trouble was that there was nothing new about it. But women never seem to take that into consideration.

“You said you’d bring a bottle.”

“And you said why waste time.”

“So?”

“You were right. There’s more to do.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Bananas. You asked me about them. So has everybody else.”

I slid into a chair beside the phone and glanced at my watch. “You brought the bit up, so you must know something about it. You’re in the news business. You’re covering something to do with the Cuban situation. Whatever the bananas are, they’re not quite a secret and since I’m involved I’d like to be let in a little bit more before I stick my neck out.”

“And how far will that be, Mr. Fallon?”

I watched her a few moments, then I said, “All the way, kid. Somehow it revolves around me. I don’t know how, but I intend to find out. I got the strange idea that without me the whole thing can’t work.”

“Possibly,” she told me.

“Or something else.”

She paused in the act of reaching for a cigarette. “And what might that be?”

“Maybe it’s just necessary to be sure I don’t know anything — because if I did I might want to follow through on what Tuck started.”

“What do you intend doing?”

“I’m going to satisfy my curiosity, sugar.”

“That’s what killed the cat.”

“Not this cat. Can I use the phone?” She waved her hand to go ahead. “Long distance?” I asked.

“It’ll go on expenses.” She snubbed the cigarette out and unfolded from the chair. “I’ll get dressed.”

The long-distance operator made a good missing persons tracer. She started with an obsolete number, but finally ran down Joe Conway operating a propeller rebuilding shop in south Jersey. He was another guy from the old 252nd Fighter Squadron whom I had seen on rare occasions since the war. He had put in a lot of pub time in London with us. Like Tuck, Joe had known practically everybody on the base.

For ten minutes, he rehashed the old days in a bubble of enthusiasm before he realized there was something I wanted. He had read of Tuck’s death and didn’t seem surprised at me inheriting his estate. All I told him was that Tuck mentioned two other guys and wanted me to look them up — Verdo and Christy.

After a moment’s silence, Joe said, “Jeez, pal, those names are familiar, but I’ll be damned if I remember who they are. You sure they were with our outfit?”

“They must have been. Think they were late replacements?”

“Could be, but I knew most of those, too. This real important?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell you what. I see Whitey Thompson once in a while, and he has an album full of pictures of the old bunch. Suppose I go over what he has and see what I can do.”