Mickey Spillane - The Deep

I studied it a minute, then shook my head. “It doesn’t add yet.”

“Deep... did she die... because of you?”

I covered her hands with my own, feeling my face go tight at the question. “I don’t think so.”

“Don’t lie, Deep.”

“I’d never lie to you, kitten.”

“Did she then?”

“I don’t think so. Not directly, anyway. Somehow I think she would have gotten it whether I was here or not.”

“What will we do, Deep?”

“Like I said, call the cops.”

“What will happen to you then?”

“I’m not scared of any cops, kid. You should know that.”

“Then call them.”

“Sure, kitten,” I said. Her eyes were hard again, patiently waiting to see what would happen. I helped her up, took her out past what had been Tally into the kitchen, holding her so she couldn’t see what was on the bed, then went to the phone.

The desk said a car would be right along and not to touch anything. I said sure and hung up the receiver. I went back to the bedroom and found the check I had pinned to Tally’s pillow on the dresser. I tore it up and flushed the pieces down the toilet. It was something she couldn’t use any more now.

Then I slid the .38 off my belt, shoved it down under a pile of slop in the garbage pail, hauled the dumbwaiter up, stuck the pail on it and sent it down again. Then I went into the living room with Irish and waited.

Sergeant Ken Hurd had been an uptown kid himself. His face had been chopped up long ago by knuckles and clubs and there was no way at all to tell what he was thinking. His eyes were a cold light blue totally devoid of expression, but somehow, behind it all, you could sense the terrible hate he had. There were only two kinds of people to him, those who broke the law and those who enforced it. The good didn’t matter. Usually they were just stumbling blocks to catching the other kind. And those were the ones he hated with a fine, thriving hate.

He had a big rep, this one. You talked soft and walked quiet when he was there. When he asked you answered or he was likely to smile a little bit and that was the worst part because there was something implied in the smile that meant bleeding trouble then or later and he really didn’t care which.

They let Hurd work where he wanted and he picked the hardest end of town. He liked The Street because he ran an operation without complaints because if you complained it would be worse for you the second time around. Ken Hurd was a deadly cop.

And now he was watching me.

He let me talk, took it all down, watched me some more with an air of patience as if he were waiting for something, then let Helen give her story. Just as she finished Mr. Sullivan came in with Augie and Cat and the worms started crawling around inside me.

Sullivan said, “Here they are, Sergeant.”

Cat took one look at the body on the bed and sucked in his breath with a whistle. Hurd said, “Know her?” and Cat nodded.

“Talk up,” Hurd said softly.

For a second Cat went as cold as he was, then shrugged and said, “Tally Lee. Good kid. I knew her all my life. What happened?”

Augie volunteered the same information himself, then stood there waiting.

On the other side of the bed the Medical Examiner finished his examination, snapped his bag shut and flipped the sheet up over the body.

Hurd said, “What does it look like?”

“No more than an hour ago. That soda bottle’s the weapon, all right. Well make it positive later, of course, but there’s no doubt about it as far as I’m concerned.” He nodded toward me then, “If it got him as well, and we’ll know by the hair comparison tests, you’ll have a time hanging it on him.”

“You’re sure he was out?” Hurd asked him.

In a typical manner the doctor fingered the welt on my head as he went by. “He was out, all right. Of course, in a case like this you can always try for a self-inflicted bruise.”

“Thanks,” I told him.

“No trouble,” he smiled.

The plain-clothes man who had been given the bottle came in frowning, the bottle impaled on a wooden dowel rod. He was shaking his head and said, “No prints at all. Everything’s messed up. It’s possible there may be something under the blood stains, but we’ll have to let the lab finish with that first.”

“Okay,” Hurd told him. “Pack it in.” Then he turned to Mr. Sullivan and said, “What about these two?”

“They were in The Pelican bar. Lew Bucks said they had been there for three hours and Grady the waiter backed him up.”

Without changing expression Augie said, “We can go then?”

Hurd’s snaky eyes touched his, moved to Cat, then took in Helen and me. “You’ll go. All of you can go.” We knew what he meant, but to be sure he threw in, “with me.”

“What for?” I asked him.

His smile was all for me now. “For fun, Deep. I got news of a little rumble down the block. Nobody seemed to have been hurt, but there were blood stains in the back room of Bimmy’s Tavern and some slugs stuck in the wall. It seems like you three had been seen going in there just before it all happened.”

“Oh?”

“So I think it’d all be nice if we went over to the Green House where we can make an issue out of it.”

Cat went a little white around the mouth and his eyes narrowed. I knew what he was thinking, shook my head when he glanced at me with a look that said let it ride. Augie caught the exchange and said nothing.

They called the precinct station the “Green House.” The name had come down from a generation ago and still stuck, but it was only this one precinct that had the name. It meant there was something special about this place and there was. To those on the street outside it was like the Bastille was to some and the Tower of London to others. It was a tough house in a tough place and things went on inside there that weren’t pretty to think about and even worse to be a part of. Somebody once said they broke more murder cases out of that building than any six others like it in the city and you knew they weren’t wrong.

At eight-thirty I was in the Green House again after a long time and when I looked around all I could think of was that the fixtures had been changed a little but the smell was still the same. It stank of cigars, wet clothes and man-sweat held fast in an atmosphere gray with cigarette smoke.

Outside in the reception room they left Helen, Cat and Augie to sit and think and wait. Cat was sweating, dragging hard on a smoke. Augie was his impeccable self, seemingly unworried, but nevertheless concerned. It was Helen who had acted strangely. She was one bundle of fury well contained and if the slobs had any sense they would have cut her out of it in a hurry. Any fuzz with time in grade should have been able to spot an innocent bystander without too much trouble and to throw one like Helen in with a rat pack was plain asking for it. So hell, let Hurd get his tail eaten out later. He should know.

But Hurd wasn’t the kind to care. He and the other three stood around watching me and I knew what the pitch was. I’d go out soft and somebody else would break without trouble.

I said, “You going to book me in?”

“In time maybe.” Hurd took off his jacket and folded it, then laid it across the back of a chair. He was a big guy, all right, heavy across the shoulders and in the arms. The meanness stood out in the cords of his neck and danced in his eyes. The others just watched, hoping I’d try to break out. It was a pretty old story.

“You’re being stupid,” I said.

“Okay, clown, tell me how.” He loosened his tie and cuffs and smiled at me.

“I’m not booked in,” I said. “You have no statement going for you. On top, I’m clean.”

“Someplace you’re not so clean. Someplace you got to be on the books, Deep. That’s what I’d like to know. Where? Where did you come from, Deep?”