Mickey Spillane - My Gun Is Quick

My own rod was in my hand as I ran. I heard the muted curses mingled with Cobbie's screaming as a heavy fist slammed into flesh. I was still fifty yards away when the two separated, one scrambling to his feet immediately. Cobbie had fallen into a crouch and the guy fired, flame lacing towards his head.

The other guy didn't bother to rise. He propped his gun arm on the sidewalk, took deliberate aim and pulled the trigger. The bullet must have gone right through his head because his hat flew off faster than he was running and was still in the air when the man was nothing but a lump of lifeless flesh.

A gun went off farther up the street. Somebody shouted and shot again. I was on top of the guy with the rod and it didn't worry me at all seeing it pointed at my middle. It was a police positive and the guy had big, flat feet.

Just the same, I raised my hands, my .45 up and said, "Mike Hammer, private cop. Ticket's in my pocket, want to see it?"

The cop stood up and shook his head. "I know you, feller."

A prowl car made the corner on two wheels and passed it, the side door already open with a uniformed patrolman leaning out, his gun cocked. The cop and I followed it together, crossing the street diagonally where the commotion was.

Windows were being thrown open, heads shouted down asking what went on and were told to get back in and stay there. A voice yelled, "He's on the roof!" There was another shot, muffled by the walls this time. A woman screamed and ran, slamming a door in her passage.

Almost magically the searchlights opened up, stretching long arms up the building fronts to the parapets, silhouetting half a dozen men racing across the roof in pursuit of someone.

The reflection of the lights created an artificial dawn in the tight group, dancing from the riot guns and blued steel of service revolvers. The street was lousy with cops, and Pat was holding one of the lights.

We saw each other at the same time and Pat handed the light over to a plainclothes man. I said, "Where the hell did you come from? There wasn't a soul on the street a minute ago."

Pat grimaced at me. "We didn't come, Mike... we were there. The hard boys weren't too smart. We had men tailing them all day and they never knew it. Hell, we couldn't lay a trap without having everybody and his brother get wise, so the men stuck close and stayed on their backs. Cobbie was spotted before he got off his block. The punks kept in touch with each other over the phone. When they saw Cobbie turn down here one cut behind the buildings and got in front of him. There was another one up the block to cut him off if he bolted."

"Good deal! How many were there?"

"We have nine so far. Seven of them just folded up their tents and came along quietly. We let them pass the word first so there would be no warning. What came of that guy down the block?"

"He's dead."

From the roof there was a volley of shots that smashed into stone and ricochetted across the sky. Some didn't ricochet. A shrill scream testified to that. One of the cops stepped into the light and called down. "He's dead. Better get a stretcher ready, we have a wounded officer up here."

Pat snapped. "Damn! Get those lights in the hallway so they can see what they're doing!" A portable stretcher came out of a car and was carried upstairs. Pat was directing operations in a clear voice, emphasized by vigorous arm movements.

There wasn't anything I could do right then. I edged back through the crowd and went up the street. There was another gang around the body on the sidewalk, with two kids trying to break away from their parents for a closer look.

Cobbie Bennett was nowhere in sight.

Seeing a job well done can bring a feeling of elation whether you did it yourself or not. There was a sense of pride in me when I climbed behind the wheel of my heap, satisfaction extraordinary because the bastards were being beaten at their own game. I switched on the radio a few minutes later in time to catch the interruption of a program and a news flash of the latest coup. I went from station to station, but it was always the same. The noses for news were right in there following every move. Scattered around town would be other tough boys hearing the same thing. Money wouldn't mean a damn thing now, not if the cops were going to play it their way. It's one thing to jump the law, but when the law is right behind you, ready to jump back even harder, it's enough to make even the most stupid, hopped-up killer think twice.

Ha! They wouldn't be wearing their metallic smiles tonight. The ball was piling up force as it rolled along. The half-ways were jumping on the wagon, eager to be on the winning side. Political injustice and string-pulling were taking one hell of a beating. I knew where I stood and I felt good about it.

My route uptown was taking me within a few blocks of the Sunic House, and late as it was I wanted to stop off and see my client. This the old boy would like. He was paying for it. At least he was getting his money's worth. The name of Berin-Grotin would be remembered in places long after the marble tomb was eaten away by the sands of time, and that's what he wanted... someone to remember him.

There was a driveway beside the old brownstone structure that curved into a parking space in back. I pulled half-way in and handed the keys over to a bellboy old enough to be my father. As I walked to the door I heard him grind it into gear, then jerk out of sight. I waited to hear him hit something else, but apparently he made it.

The Sunic House was a well-kept relic of yesteryear, reserved for gentlemen guests only. The hushed atmosphere wasn't due to the late hour: it probably was that way all day. The lobby was done in plush, gilt and leather. From the ceiling ancient gas fixtures had been converted to electric whose yellow bulbs did little to brighten the mortuary effect of the mahogany-panelled walls. The pictures spotted around the place showed the city of long ago when it was at peace with itself, and the Sunic House was a name to hold honor among the best.

I asked the desk-clerk if Mr. Berin was in.

He nodded slowly and knit his eyebrows. "I'm certain Mr. Berin does not care to be disturbed, sir. He has been coming here these many years and I know his preferences well."

"This is a very unusual circumstance, pop. Give him a call, will you?"

"I'm afraid that... really, now, sir. I don't think it proper to..."

"If I suddenly stuck my fingers between my teeth and whistled like hell, then ran up and down the room yelling at the top of my lungs, what would you do?"

His eyebrows ran up to where his hairline used to be. He craned his head to the wall where an old guy was nodding in a chair. "I'd be forced to call the house detective, sir!"

I gave him a great big grin and stuck my fingers between my teeth. With the other hand I pointed to the phone and waited. The clerk got pale, flushed, went white again as he tried to cope with the situation. Evidently, he figured one upset customer would be better than a dozen and picked up the house phone.

He tugged the call bell while watching me nervously, jiggled it again and again until a voice barked hard enough in his ear to make him squirm. "I beg your pardon, sir, but a man insists he should see you. He... he said it was very urgent."

The phone barked again and the clerk swallowed hard. "Tell him it's Mike Hammer," I said.

It wasn't so easy to get it in over the tirade my client was handing out. At last he said bleakly, "It's a Mr. Hammer, sir... a Mr. Hammer. Yes, sir,. Mike Hammer. Yes, he's right here, sir. Very well, sir. I'll send him right up."

With a handkerchief the clerk wiped his face and gave me his look reserved for the most inferior of persons. "Room 406," he said. I waved my thanks and climbed the stairs, ignoring the elevator that stood in the middle of the room, working through a well in the overhead.