Mickey Spillane - My Gun Is Quick

I pulled her face to mine and kissed her eyes closed. "That isn't easy. It's hard not to do things."

"You have to do this, Mike. I have a long way to go yet."

"No, you don't, kid. You can forget everything that has ever happened. I don't give a damn what went on this year or last. Who the hell am I to talk, anyway? If there's any shame to attach to the way you run your life, then maybe I ought to be ashamed. I've done the same things you've done, but a man gets away with it. It's not what you do but the way you think. Hell, I've met bums in a saloon who would do more for you than half the churchgoers."

"But I want it to be different with me, Mike. I'm trying so hard to be... nice."

"You were always nice, Lola. I haven't known you long, but I bet you were always nice."

She squeezed my hand and smiled. "Thank you, Mr. Hammer. You can make it awfully easy for me. That's why I love you so much." Her finger went to my mouth so I couldn't answer. "But it still works my way. I still have a long way to go. I want to be worth a love that's returned."

I aimed a kiss at her nose, but it was too quick and I winced. Lola didn't need an explanation. Worry lines grew in the corner of her eyes and she pointed to a chair.

After I had let myself into it she said, "Again, Mike?"

"Again."

"Bad?"

"It could have been. A slug that was aimed at my chest ruined my gun. I'll never leave Betsy home after that. The same party must've clubbed me across the neck with a sledgehammer. Like to ripped my damn head off."

"Who... who did it?"

"Beats me. It was dark, I was in a hurry, and I never had a chance to be introduced."

She loosened my tie and shirt, sat on the arm of the chair and rubbed my neck and head. Her fingers were long and cool, probing into the hurt and wiping it away. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, liking the touch of her hand, loving the nearness of her. She hummed a song in a rich, throaty voice, softly, until I was completely relaxed.

I said, "They got Nancy's ring, Lola."

"They did." It wasn't a question; more a statement that meant she was ready to listen when I was ready to talk.

"I found Murray's place and went in there. His two boys were going through his wall library looking for something. He must have told where it was, but didn't have time to give them full details."

"Did they find it?"

"No. I found it."

Her hands were rubbing my shoulders, kneading the muscles. "What was it?"

"A book. A book that was inside another book." Without opening my eyes I reached around and slipped it out of my pocket. She took it from me with one hand and I heard her flip the cover back.

She stared at it for a while, then ruffled through the pages. "It's gibberish."

"That's what I expected." I took her hand away from my neck and kissed it and she handed me the book, her face a puzzled frown.

It was no bigger than a small notepad, bound in black leather, a size that fitted nicely in an inside jacket pocket, easy to conceal almost anywhere. The writing was small and precise, in a bookkeeper's hand, flowing straight across the page as if underruled by invisible lines.

Letters, numbers. Meaningless symbols. Capital letters, small letters. Some letters backward, deliberately so. Yet there was an order about it all that couldn't be mistaken. I went through the pages rapidly, coming to the end about three-quarters of the way. The rest of the pages were blank.

Lola had been watching over my shoulder. "What is it, Mike?"

"Code."

"Can you read it?"

"No, but there are people who can. Maybe you can. See if there's anything familiar to you in here." I held the book out and began at the beginning again.

She scanned the pages with me, holding her lower lip between her teeth, carefully following my finger as I paced the lines with her. She shook her head at the end of each page and I turned to the next.

But it was always the same. She knew no more about it than I did. I would have closed it right there, except that I felt her hand tighten on my arm and I saw her teeth dig into her lip. She started to say something, then stopped.

"What is it?" I prompted.

"No, it can't be." She was frowning again.

"Tell me, kid."

Her finger was shaking as she pointed to a symbol that looked like a complex word in a steno's notebook. "A... long time ago... I was in Murray's office when a man phoned him. Murray talked a while, then put down something on a pad. I think... I think it was that. He saw me watching and covered it up. Later he told me I had an appointment."

"Who was it?"

"Do... I have to?" She was pleading with me not to make her remember.

"Just this once, baby.

"I don't remember his name." She said it fast. "He was from out of town. He was fat and slimy and I hated him, Mike. Oh, please... no more, no more."

"O.K., it's enough." I closed the book and laid it on the endtable. The ball had started to roll. The heads would follow. I reached for the phone.

Pat was in bed, but he wasn't sleeping. His voice was wideawake, tense. "I knew you'd get around to calling about this time," he told me. "What's going on?"

"That's what I'd like to know. Maybe you'd like to tell me.

"Sure, I'll tell you. After all, you're the one who started this mess and, brother, I mean mess."

"Trouble, Pat?"

"Plenty. We picked up Murray for questioning. Naturally, he didn't know a thing. According to his story Ann Minor was moody, brooding constantly, and a general pain in the neck. He considered firing her a while ago and thinks she got wind of it and got worse than ever. He took it calmly when we told him she was a suicide."

"He would."

"That's not all. He knew there was more to it than that, but he had a good lawyer. We couldn't hold him at all. About thirty minutes after we let him go, hell started popping. Something's happening and I'm on the receiving end. Until tonight I didn't think the politics in this town were as dirty as they are. You, started something, kid."

"I'm going to finish it, too. What about the apartment... Ann's. Any prints?"

"None that mattered. The tub was clean as a whistle. On the far side were a few smudges that turned out to be hers, but the rest had been wiped off. We took samples of the water and tested them. It worked. Some traces of the same soap."

"Did you ask around about that suicide note?"

"Hell, I haven't had time. Two of the men on the case started to question some of the employees in the Zero Zero Club, but before they got very far they were called to a phone. A voice told them to lay off if they knew what was good for them."

"What did they do?"

Pat's voice had a snarl in it. "They didn't scare. They tried to have the call traced only to find it came from a subway phone booth--a pay station. They called me for instructions and I gave them to them. I told them to knock some heads together if they have to."

I chuckled at that. "Getting smart, huh?

"I'm getting mad, damn it! The people pay for protection. What the hell do they take the police for, a bunch of private servants."

"Some do," I remarked sourly. "Look, Pat, I have something for you. I know it's late and all that, but it's important. Get over here as fast as you can, will you?"

He didn't ask questions. I heard him slide out of bed and snap a light on. I gave him Lola's address and he said O.K., then hung up.

Lola rose and went into the kitchen, coming back with a tray and some beer. She opened the bottle and poured it out, giving me the big one. When she settled herself in a chair opposite me she said, "What happens now?"

"We're going to scare the blazes out of some people, I think.

"Murray?"

"He's one."

We sipped the beer, finished it, had another. This time Lola curled up on the end of the couch, her legs crossed, one arm stretched out across the back. "Will you come over here, or do I go over there?" she grinned impishly.