Микки Спиллейн: Primal Spillane: Early Stories 1941-1942

“STICK ’em up, bud!”

“What, again? I’m getting tired of getting stuck up.”

“Never mind that stuff, just hand over those pictures. Got wind of what we were after and tried to beat us to it, eh? Tough luck, stupid. Give!”

Dopey gave with a wild swing that sent pictures and toughies all over the floor. He yanked off a shoe and let them have it on the noggin. A window curtain provided a rope, and with a whip and a zip, the erstwhile crooks joined the Killer in the kitchen among the clam shells.

Dopey Fooz was puzzled. Why was everybody picking on him? He went back to the pictures that were all over the hallway. What was this? Some of the paint was rubbed off by the gooey clams, and there was another picture underneath! Dopey picked some more of the paint off. Why, these were the paintings stolen from the gallery last year!

He called the police, and gave them the dope, then sat back and waited. But the crowd in the dining room wanted their targets back, and were hollering their heads off. With no targets, they were shooting clams at each other. The place smelled like a fishing pier. Dopey stacked the paintings behind a curtain and took a seat in the big room. Maybe he could get a clue on the stolen spoons. It wasn’t long before Tony came over.

“Hey. Whatssa matter? You’re supposed to find my spoons, but what do you do? Clutter up my kitchen with killers, gunmen and what-not.”

“Look, spoons is spoons. They are pretty hard to find. Killers and gunmen, yes, but spoons, no. It takes time!”

“And what didja do with my pictures?”

“Here come the police, ask them.”

Tony jumped in his tracks. The bulls pushed him into his office to do some explaining, but Dopey knew he wasn’t responsible. Tony had bought the place from Danny Koople a month before, and the pictures were here then. But the scare would make him lose some weight, anyway.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw something strange. The table where Koople and company was sitting moved slowly across the floor toward the exit. By this time, Dopey Fooz was getting to be a man of few words and much action. He grabbed a handful of clams in the shell, and a bowl of hot chowder. To the top of the table he went in a great leap. Underneath, the crooks stuck their heads out to see what was the matter, and got a bath of hot chowder. Like a flash they lit out for the door, but Dopey loosed a barrage of clam shells that knocked them kicking. The cops took care of the rest.

Somehow Stephen Smirch got wind of the goings on and dashed down to Tony’s place. He stood there glaring at Dopey.

“Fooz, you did a fine job, and all that on the crooks, but if you didn’t find out what happened to those spoons — off with the head!”

“Now, you know I would not besmirch the fair name of the S.D.S. by not solving the case! I saw where they went when I picked up the clams from that guy’s table!”

“Well, for goodness’ sake, where did they go? Where?!!!”

“In the coffee! Tony’s coffee is so strong that they just dissolve when you stick them in!”

“There she blows!”

The cry from the crow’s nest sent the men on the deck scurrying to their places. The old square-rigged whaler, “Capital City,” changed course slightly and headed for the whistling spout of foam that meant a whale. Captain Ludlow took the glass from his eye and called to the mate.

“Better send out the longboat with the other two; he looks like a humdinger, from here. You can never tell about the big fellows, they dive deep, and we may need more line!”

The order was relayed swiftly and the longboat went over the side. The other two were already approaching the monstrous bulk that idled in the sea, never suspecting the approaching doom.

Dickie Nelson, in the bow of the longboat, coiling the line in the bucket, was tense with excitement. As the Capital City’s cabin boy, he rarely had any fun, except when the eighteen-foot dory went over, and that wasn’t often. Many times he had pleaded for a chance in the one or two boats, but they could only use men , he was told. No room for a fifteen-year old. He fixed the harpoon in place, adjusted the razor-sharp barb, then crouched to watch the chase.

The number one boat eased alongside slowly. It was up to this crew to make the first play. The monster was the dirty, dark color of a sperm whale at his peak, and beside him the boat looked like a peanut shell against a half-submerged log. “Blackie” Cole stood with the harpoon posed for the strike.

For a moment he was doubtful, for the creature was tremendous, by far the largest he had ever seen. Clearly visible in the wrinkles of the thick hide were the shafts of four other harpoons! This fellow had gotten away from that many boats, and probably killed some of the occupants with his mighty flukes, or dragged the boats under in his mad dive. For a moment, Blackie hesitated, then the barb flashed, and sunk deep into the body of the sperm! The next second the sea was a mass of foam. A pair of flukes threshed the water as the whale shot ahead. Twisting and turning to get rid of the stinger in his back, he rose porpoise-fashion from the deep.

Blackie played the rope out carefully; the dory was dragged swiftly through the waves! Then the monster dove! Straight down into the black abyss of the ocean. The rope was uncoiling swiftly. In a moment it would play to its end, and the boat would go under. Just in time Blackie snatched up an ax and severed the line with a single stroke. Everyone breathed easier after that.

They rowed up to the number two boat and exchanged a few words. The crews knew that the whale would reappear soon to blow, and they tried to determine where. So engrossed were they, they failed to notice a “shadow” on the surface. Suddenly the “shadow” raised, and both boats were tossed in the air. The great whale, angered by the harpoon, had come back to kill!

Dickie let out a shout. Everyone in the longboat turned to see the sea giant crushing the smaller boats to splinters. The water was dotted with men swimming desperately. Their heads were much too small for the whale to spot, so he charged the boats. Time after time his nose rose in air, to come down on the wreckage. His flukes pounded the planking to matchsticks. The gaping maw of a mouth opened and closed on what was left of the boats. Then, with the suddenness of his coming, he slid under.

The longboat was busy picking up the survivors. Dickie fished them out with a boat hook and they headed back to the Capital City. Lines came down the side and the injured were hauled aboard. The uninjured went up the rope ladders to the deck. Dickie was left alone in the longboat to attach the block and tackle to the bow and stern hooks. Then, from the lookout came a warning shout.

“She’s coming this way. Looks like she’s gonna ram us! You, in the longboat-push away, fast’.” Dickie lost no time in getting away. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the great monster hurtling though the waves, intent upon ramming.

Quickly, Dickie jumped to the oars. He pulled with all his strength to get out of the path of the enraged mammal. The men on the deck milled about waiting for the impact.

It came with a thundering crash. The masts quivered, and the planking splintered under the onslaught. The sea churned from the powerful flukes. The whale backed off, and for a minute it seemed that his rage was over, but it had only begun!

ON he came, again! His charge was even more furious than before! He raced through the wave-tops and bore down on the ship. Head on, the whale crashed against the side, this time springing the beams and opening the seams of the vessel. The waves from the monster’s mad rush almost swamped the longboat. The men on the whaler were afraid to take to the life rafts for fear of being attacked, but, if they stayed on board they were in danger of being drowned if the ship sank. For the third time the whale backed off, even further than before. The barb in his back was still infuriating him. Here was an enemy that must be destroyed! He crashed into the stern this time, sending the ship about in a circle, and more seams opened.