Mickey Spillane - The Deep

I said, “Councilman... you don’t look convinced.”

Hugh Peddle who held the old Dutch district appraised me with a veiled look, never losing the sneer. His voice was soft, not like the sneer at all. “I’m just curious..., Mr. Deep.”

“Are you?” I watched him carefully to catch any change in expression. “Beside you sits a Mr. Coppola. At the moment I understand he’s a guiding force behind the incumbent party in City Hall. Do you know him well?”

“Quite well, Mr. Deep.”

“You stout men are usually addicted to Turkish baths. Have you ever noticed the scars on his belly?”

“Often.”

“Has he ever told you how he got them?”

“Never.”

When I grinned his sneer twitched at one end and got hard to hold. “Ask him then,” I said.

From three or four spots came grunts of acknowledgment and I knew some of the old crowd were still around.

The party wasn’t quite over yet. There was still something left undone. I leaned on the back of one of the seats and looked out over the bunch. “Whoever killed Bennett better start running,” I said. “I’m going to get him, and that’s the end of his life.”

Benny-from-Brooklyn and Dixie were standing now, their minds not fully accepting what had happened. Their faces went back twenty-five years, remembering the disgusting things that had happened below in the cellar and knowing that they were happening again.

I liked it that way.

Little Cat was watching me with that expression that got him his name. I waved to him. “You, Cat. Let’s go.”

He squirmed out with a happy laugh and waited. Like everybody else. They were all waiting too. I said, “You’ll be hearing from me. Just sit tight.”

The squeal opened the door with a respectful nod aid we went downstairs to where Augie was. The big guy looked at a speaker high on the wall and muttered, “Intercom.”

“Then you know you’re with me?”

“All the way, Mr. Deep. I know exactly what to do.”

Cat opened the door and we stood outside on the street in the clean rain. He coughed into his hand and pounded his chest. When he could speak he said, “What’s with me, Deep?”

“Like always, Cat. Up the walls and over the fences for you. In where no one else can go. The eyes, the ears.”

“I ain’t the same Cat any more, Deep.”

“Trouble?”

“Lungs. T.B. But not so soon to kick it as you.”

“Think so?”

“They’ll get you, Deep. They don’t want nobody as bad as they want you. They got big things doing for the squad. You’ll only louse it. Couldn’t you tell that?”

“I could feel it.” I grinned at him, “Nobody was speaking up.”

“You got the bull on ’em too quick. They ain’t used to the old tactics. They’re going grand these days. Big thinking. They don’t do them cellar jobs no more. Man, you want to freeze them fat slobs... then bring up the old days down behind the furnace. Me, hell... it scares me too. I couldn’t take that crap now.”

“Neither can they, laddie. They like to smear it on, but that’s all. Things have changed.”

Cat laughed back. “Like I said, I’m with you. It won’t be for long, but while it lasts I’m with you.”

“You not scared of dying?”

“Man, man, I’m just scared of living. It’s killing me.” He grinned again and we took off down the street.

The cop on the beat had been old when I first knew him. Below the sweatband of his cap the gray was an insigna that meant more than approaching retirement. It meant a guy tough enough to stay around that long, one who knew all the ropes and all the rules, good or bad. In a way there was a determined finality in his stride, always that singular purpose of going ahead, never back. The hand that had swung a night stick for thirty years had lost none of its rhythm. The baton moved like a live thing on the end of the thong, its purpose immediate and deadly, a symbol no one could mistake.

He stopped in front of me and said, “I heard you came back, Deep.”

“You know the grapevine, Mr. Sullivan. Travels fast.”

“I also heard there’s been trouble already.”

“Not really.”

His finger came up and traced a heart-shaped design a little to the left of center on my chest. “That’s a vulnerable spot. Just a few grams of lead there and you’re done, boy.”

“You’re talking like the old days, Mr. Sullivan.”

“You’re making like the old days, Deep.” The wrinkles around his eyes seemed to freeze up. “Until now it’s been quiet. Nobody’s been shot up.”

“Except Bennett.”

“He wasn’t worth much. Not more shooting. Nothing’s worth that much.”

“You’ve grown pretty philosophical since you whaled the crap out of me with a pair of handcuffs twenty-five years ago.”

He nodded, remembering. “It didn’t do much good, did it?”

“Some, Mr. Sullivan, some. I know the damage a guy can do swinging a set of cuffs. It won’t happen again.”

“Don’t be too sure.” His eyes went tight again. “You’re in a big bind now, kid. Real big. You can start making the most of your days. There won’t be many more.”

I gave him a short laugh and looked at the hand that danced the night stick. His face went red and drawn and he said, “Still the wise guy. How many have you shot up, Deep?”

“Five,” I said. “Five and two probables.”

“Don’t make trouble on my beat.”

I shoved my hands down in my pockets and shrugged, “I’ll try to oblige, old-timer. But if it happens, be careful. I have a sort of peculiar affection for you.”

When I walked away I could feel all the little eyes that had watched follow me and knew the ears that had heard would pass things on. Maybe it had been a long time since trouble had touched the neighborhood, but those days were long gone now.

In twenty-five years the only thing that had changed in Brogan’s market was the merchandise. The sidewalk was piled high with crated vegetables, obscuring the windows, and inside Brogan was still his same busy self in a tomato-stained apron and straw kady.

Beside the store front a narrow door led into a stairwell leading to the upper four floors, an almost opaque ascent where the bannister was a necessary guide. The second floor bell had a metal plaque stamped Lee but I didn’t bother to push it. The way the stairs squealed and grated in those old tenements nobody came or went unannounced.

The second floor landing had two doors, but only the back one had a light behind it. I stepped over the cardboard cartons leading to it, skirted the row of bottles and gave the door a rap. There was movement inside, but no one answered. I hit it again and heard heels tap on the floor. A barrel bolt grated and the door swung open.

Some things you can’t get ready for. You can’t get ready to meet a crazy beautiful dame in a cold-water flat. Not one almost as big as you are who’s made all firm and round so you can feel the warmth that comes from her like perfume. You never can get ready for eyes that seem to taste you rather than see you, or black hair so alive the roll of it is a sensuous thing that makes you aware of buried compulsions.

I said, “Hi, sugar,” and looked back at her.

There was an uptilting to her brows, a professional wariness. “Yes?”

“I’m looking for Tally Lee.”

She shook her head lightly, making her hair swirl. “I’m sorry, but she can’t see anyone. No one at all.”

“Why not?”

“Tally has been sick. Now if you don’t mind...”

I shoved the door open and walked in. “I mind,” I said. When I closed it I walked toward the front into the bedroom where the single night light turned a pale yellow glow on everything and looked at Tally lying there on an old four-poster, her hair a harsh pink around an almost bloodless face. There was a deadness about her, the covers barely moving as she breathed.