Mickey Spillane - The Deep

I finished the drink, put it down and looked at the bim. The cords in her neck were standing out tightly. “What’s your last name, Tally?”

Her voice was a whisper. “Lee.”

“Live close by?”

“On... hundred-third.”

I waited.

“Over Brogan’s market. Look... about what I said...”

“That’s okay, Tally.”

Now her whole lower jaw was quivering. “I... I run off at the mouth sometimes, you know?”

“Sure, I know.”

“What I said...” she swallowed hard and bit into her lip.

“About being a delinquent? A creep? Better off bumped? You telling me you didn’t mean those things, Tally?”

Then suddenly the fear was gone. The hardness and defiance came back and she said, “I said it. I meant it.”

At the end of the bar Jocko-boy glanced back, startled.

I grinned at her real big. “That’s the way, kid. If you say it, then mean it.”

Her eyes went all funny looking. She studied my face for three deep breaths, then having decided, she reached for her glass and drained off what was left in the bottom. When she put it back on the bar she turned and stared up at me with tight, cold eyes and whispered hoarsely, “You’re not Deep. You’re too damn polite to be Deep. He would have splashed me by now. Deep never liked to be called names and he hated dames who talked too much like I just did.” She took another breath, her eyes widening. “I can make up for having a big mouth, feller. I can pass the word that a phony’s loose looking for trouble.”

I nodded. “You do that. That would make everything real interesting then.”

“Be glad to, big guy.” Her mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Hell, man, if you were Deep you’d be packing a rod under your hand day and night just looking for somebody to shoot up. Old Deep the cannon-boy they used to call him. Too stinking tough to even bother hiding it. Carried the old rod where everybody could see it.” Her eyes ran over me disgustedly. “You’re Deep? Nuts.”

I reached in my pocket for a half buck and spun it out on the bar. When I looked back at Tally her eyes were gone all wide and jumpy with fear and she couldn’t take them off the spot at my side where she had seen the .38 in the speed rig.

I said, “Don’t forget to tell ’em, Tally,” and walked outside.

Wilson Batten had his office in the new building that had replaced the old Greenwood Hotel. The modern façade was a white smear in the darkness, the rain glistening coldly on the marbleized surface, an incongruous structure like a false tail on a dog.

A band of lighted windows girdled the second floor so I crossed over and pushed in through the full-length glass doors. On the wall beside the self-service elevator was a building directory listing all the occupants. Only the second floor was in all caps. It read, “WILSON BATTEN, ATTORNEY.”

Very simple. But this was a world where simplicity was a necessity. It was an asset in other worlds, too, where simplicity was really concealed arrogance.

I grinned, skipped the elevator and went up the stairs. In the foyer two girls were belting themselves into raincoats before a strip of mirror. One had a mouthful of bobby pins, so she nudged the other to take care of me.

“We’re just closing,” she said.

“Oh?”

“You waiting for one of the girls?”

I took my hat off and shook the rain out. “I hadn’t thought of it. Should I?”

The impudent smile looked me up and down. “You wouldn’t wait long, I don’t think.”

“I never have.”

“No,” she said, “I don’t suppose so.” The smile drifted away when I didn’t move and she added, “You wanted something?”

“Wilse.”

“Who?”

“Wilse. The Boss. Batten.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Not now. You can’t...”

“Now,” I said.

“Listen... mister...”

“Now,” I repeated.

Behind me the voice was soft, but had a bigness to it that was a quiet threat.

“Some difficulty, Thelma?”

“He wants to see Mr. Wilson.”

“I see. I’m afraid it’s much too late at the moment...”

I turned around slowly and looked at him. He hadn’t changed much. Always the terribly efficient laddie who could make himself indispensable, but never enough genius to quite reach the top. One thing about Augie, though. He always was on the side of a winner. He could always tell them.

His eyes frowned, not his face. Something worked in his mind, like a mental yeast, but he couldn’t finger it. For a second his shoulders tightened, then relaxed because that wasn’t the answer, either. He was still the same Augie. He could still tell. He said, “You’ll see Mr. Batten then.”

When I agreed with a nod the two girls watched with amazement.

“Your name, please.”

“Don’t you remember, Augie?” My grin stretched a little. “Deep. Tell Wilse it’s Deep.”

Under his chin the cords of his neck strained against the collar. He remembered all at once, his brain settling into a new pattern of now and later, then he shrugged his huge shoulders under the tailored jacket and smiled. His voice had a pleasant rumble, an intonation of efficiency waiting to be utilized.

“I should have,” he said. “But you’ve changed, Deep.”

“We all change.”

He stared at me hard. “You’re bigger, somehow.”

“Bigger,” I repeated. “Good word.”

The office I walked into was all mahogany and Gauguin. They hit you both at once and made you minimize the man behind the desk. He looked up, starched and creased, his hair thin across his head, but still dark. It’s funny how few balding guys ever turned gray.

I said, “Hello, Wilse,” and he pretended to recognize my voice.

“Deep.” He stood up and extended his hand. “Good to see you, boy. Good to see you.”

My grin ignored his hand. “I bet. I bet you’re just overjoyed, Wilse.”

His face was a professional mask but I knew what was happening to him. I pulled a chair up with my foot and sat down, dropping my hat on the floor. Augie reached for it and I said, “Leave it there.” He stopped, threw a fast glance at Batten and stepped back.

“Old Wilse,” I said, “the thief of Harlem...”

“See here, Deep!”

“Shut up when I’m talking, Wilse.” I smiled and his eyes searched it for meaning. “You came a long way from the walk-up off Broadway. From old Batty Batten to Mr. Wilson Batten, Attorney. Pretty good for a thief, but not much different from a lot of success stories I know.”

I shoved out of the chair and walked the perimeter of the room, studying each Gauguin in turn. Half were originals. The other half pretty expensive copies. “You did okay, feller.”

“Deep...”

When I turned around and grinned Batten stopped with his mouth open. I said, “Batten, you’re a thief. You’re a scheming shyster who made good. You fenced stolen property once, you bought anything I could steal, you covered the boys pushing the happy stuff and were a good contact between certain parties and certain crooked cops.”

“Several times I took you off the hook, Deep.”

“You sure did, and you sure got your pound of flesh.” I walked over closer and looked down at him. “I was a lot younger then.”

“You were a punk,” he challenged softly.

“But a good one. A tough one.” I sat on the edge of the desk. “Remember Lenny Sobel? Remember the night the king and his court came to take you apart for a double cross and Bennett and I paid you off for all the favors? We put the big guys under a couple of guns and spit on them when they wilted. Sobel sent them back for us the next night and we sent him three shot-up hoods. Then I shot Sobel just for fun. Right in the behind. Remember that, Wilse?”