Микки Спиллейн - The Delta Factor

“Now we’re back to that again,” she laughed. “How about this?”

In her hand she held a tiny black automatic and the snout was pointed right at my belly. But she didn’t see my hand move and suddenly the big hole in the end of the.45 in my fist was staring at a spot between her eyes. “How about that?” I asked her.

“What a wonderful way to begin a marriage. I get your message, Morgan; now can we get to business?”

“My pleasure, sweetheart.”

For twenty minutes she was on the phone to her people, her guarded conversation giving the details of the wedding and our location. Evidently she was told to go ahead on her own; then for a full five minutes she did nothing but listen. When she hung up she swung around with an impatient gesture and said, “We’re to proceed as planned. There’s only one change.”

I felt the hairs on the back of my neck bristle. “What change?”

“The agency feels that we’ll have to move faster. They’re sending in word of our arrival.”

“Those stupid…”

She waved a hand to shut me up. “Not through our people. It will come from their own sources. More a rumor than anything else. At least we’ll be expected and you won’t have to do all the groundwork.”

“That’s the key to the success of this thing. Don’t they know that?”

“I’m sure they know what they’re doing.”

“Damn it, they’d better.”

“Do you mind tell me what arrangements you’ve made?”

“When the time comes,” I told her.

I picked up the telephone and gave a New York number to the switchboard. After the third ring it was picked up and a voice said, “Joey Jolley here.”

“Morgan, Joey.”

“Ah, you’ve reconsidered—”

I cut him off. “No dice yet, Joey. Let things jell first.”

“If that’s the way it has to be. What can I do for you?”

“Gorman Yard is dead.”

“Yes, I know,” he told me without any emotion. “I took the trouble to make inquiries. My source tells me the accident he sustained wasn’t of his own doing. Naturally, nobody’s talking, but you know the grapevine. Somebody inside there got orders to cool Mr. Yard and did an excellent job of it.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” I said.

“Incidentally, he isn’t the only one from that neighborhood who took the big trip.

Something tightened in the pit of my stomach. “Go on.”

“I just heard the TV report that the body of a girl found strangled to death an hour ago has been identified as Bernice Case. They suggested she was a lady of the evening and probably was killed in the pursuit of her occupation. Or is that simply a cover job, Morgan?”

My hand felt as though it would break the receiver into bits. Damn, they had gotten to her. One lovely, lonely girl who only wanted to be liked. One poor little hooker who gave more than she took. They had to go and slam her. I kept my voice as normal as possible and said, “I can’t see the connection, Joey. You know the racket she was in.”

He let a few seconds pass. “Possibly. The mob doesn’t appreciate individual operators. If they hit her because she didn’t pay off they could be in real trouble. I understand she was a well-liked kid.”

But she didn’t know that, I thought.

“Any action on it?”

“Rough talk around the neighborhood. Somebody’s going to get their ass wiped with a cob if they find out who was behind it. Old Gussie is leading the parade and you know her.”

“Tough. Wish I could do something.”

“Sure there’s no connection?”

“Not on my end,” I lied. “What I wanted to know was the inside on Whitey Tass.”

“You kidding?” Joey said. His voice said I should know better than to ask. “If it’s big it’s got his name on it, but he still commands a political power in his section that keeps the heat off better than fiberglass. He’s growing, Morgan. Keep clear of him.”

“I intend to. That’s why I’m calling you. See what you can get.”

“Facts or rumors?”

“Either one. Both are probably true.”

“One’s easier to get.” He coughed, then added, “The things I’ll do for a slice of that forty mil amaze me, Morgan.”

“Just remember that it’s all on speculation.”

“I’ll trust your reputation. How do I reach you?”

“You can’t, I said. “I’ll call you.”

I hung up and turned around. The muscles in my back and shoulders were bunched into knots and I could feel the tightness drawing my mouth into a flat line. Kim watched me a moment, saying nothing, knowing I had to get it out of me anyway.

When I felt like bursting I said softly, “Bernice Case. She was my friend. They killed her for nothing.”

I didn’t have to say anything more. She’d remember the name and call it in and all those big agencies could go to work on it and if they were smart they’d put things together and work it out with the ones in the neighborhood who could be just as efficient in their own way. And if they didn’t do it, I’d be back and do it for them.

A promise, Bernice, for that wonderful night of just lying there on the sofa with you in my arms, warm and soapy smelling from a hot shower, with the perfume in your hair and that crazy Hawaiian mu-mu that seemed to glow in the darkness and all that silly talk about when we were kids. You were well liked, little kitty cat.

I flopped on the bed and closed my eyes. In a few minutes I heard the bedsprings next to me creak. Outside, the tree frogs peeped an endless tune and far off I could hear the traffic on the highway going by.

Kim’s voice was very quiet when she asked, “Was she your girl, Morgan?”

“I only saw her once,” I said.

For the second time that night she said, “I’m sorry.” For that one moment she was a woman, and not a trained pro playing watchdog to a fugitive.

By sunup we were on the road, picked up the Florida Turnpike and headed toward Miami. Traffic was light, but every twenty miles we’d have to bust our way through a thunderstorm and with the windows up the car was like the inside of a Bessemer Converter. I made a quick stop at the bank where Gavin Woolart had established an account for me, got a checkbook and with the first one drew out twenty thousand in handy denomination bills and folded them into my pocket. No one seemed concerned about the transaction, though there were several curious glances thrown my way. I figured Woolart had set up the deal so that I’d look like one of his own people and no questions were to be asked. Kim was mopping her face when I got back in the car and it felt like it was still getting hotter. I picked up the Palmetto Highway, swept around the Miami area and headed down into the Keys. Both of us were soaked in our own sweat by the time we reached the Grove Motel.

While Kim headed for the shower, I went down the road, brought a six-pack of Pabst and put in a call for Art Keefer from a pay station. He said he’d be by in an hour, so I went back to the motel, parked in the slot beside our room and went inside.

Kim wasn’t there, but her clothes were hung up near the air conditioner and her suitcase was open on the bed. From the back I could hear a couple of kids yelling around the pool, looked out and saw the back of her head in one of the lounge chairs, then showered, climbed into my trunks and went out with a can of beer in each hand.

And almost dropped them.

In a black-and-white bikini that would have been invisible had it not contrasted so sharply with the gold of her skin, she was stretched out languidly, her lovely body lying in a provocative S curve. It was a dizzy, instant experience to see the heady swell of her breasts that dipped into the hollow of her stomach, then flowed into the rise of her hips and melted into the warm, sweeping fullness of her thighs and calves.