Микки Спиллейн - The Last Cop Out

Another pair stepped aside at the first-floor landing and three more were waiting at the fourth. One blocked his way with youthful arrogance and said, “You packing any heat, mister?”

Even in the dim light, the kid could feel his eyes before he actually saw them. “You’re damn right I am,” Gill told him and went on by to the roof. Nobody tried to stop him.

Henry Campbell was an old, old young man who had packed a dozen lifetimes into one and had been worn down by them. He didn’t own enough hair to merit the Afro style he kept it in and for a moment Gill didn’t recognize him. He was thinner and some place he had lost a front tooth and the pinky on his left hand.

“Hello, Henry.”

“Knock it off. You can call me Mr. Campbell.” His voice was strictly New York.

“Fuck yourself. You know my first name,” Gill said.

Light flashed on the teeth with the gap that showed through his smile. “Don’t nothin’ intimidate you frigging cops?”

“Nope.”

“Like my boys downstairs?”

“Didn’t get to meet any of them on a personal basis.”

“One day you will.”

“As long as it’s not on business.”

“Man, you’re somethin’. I didn’t figure you’d show.”

“Like hell you didn’t. This isn’t the best night in the world to be alone on a rooftop.”

Overhead the sky rumbled and the rain was threatening again. Henry Campbell grinned again and held his hand out. “Lay on the bread, officer.”

Gill reached in his pocket, found what he was looking for and dropped a penny in his palm. “That’s what it’s worth.”

He got another laugh and the penny solemnly disappeared into a shirt pocket. “You cool, brother. Maybe we’re getting to know each other.”

“Could be.”

“Then ask your questions. I know my rights already.”

“Remember when Berkowitz and Manute were killed?”

“Yea, verily, man.”

“And you said you saw Mark Shelby in the area.”

“True. Oh yes, true. I said that to you.”

“And later you couldn’t remember and you probably had made a mistake?”

“Just too true, man. You are exact... exact.”

“Which was it?”

“Man... Gill... damn, here I am calling a cop by his name... or would you like it better if I said Mr. Gill?”

“Want me to start that crap too?”

“No.”

“Then which was it?”

“I saw him, man. Big as life. He was right there on the street. You think I’d forget a ten buck tipper?”

“Not in a million years.”

“Tell you something else man... even before you ask.”

“What’s that?”

“You think I’d forget two guys who showed me how they were going to cut my balls off and meant every word they said or the five hundred bucks they laid on me if I knew enough to forget what I saw?”

“That’s pretty convincing talk,” Gill told him.

“And it’s still forgot, Gill man. It’s buried way down deep where nobody can get it out of me because those boys are still big enough to get my balls and without them I am just plain dead, you understan’?”

“Sure.”

“There ain’t no way to make me remember and I’m just telling you this because Big Willie passed the word on I should, so now you’re all told and there ain’t no reason for you to be here no longer.”

“What was Shelby doing there, Henry?”

“Nothing. All I saw was him there.”

“He wasn’t near that office?”

“Not too far, not too near.”

“Going which way?”

“No way. He was just standing there. I never should have said nothin’, but I was young then and didn’t know no better. Them fuckin’ cops made me feel like a big shot until I damn near lost my balls.”

“You working?”

“I got a garage over on Tenth Avenue. Half ownership with a brother. Why?”

Gill pulled out a hundred dollar bill and stuffed it in his shirt pocket on top of the penny. “I’m a big spender. I just got a tire changed,” he said.

Henry pulled out the bill, looked at it and put it back again. “Fuckin’ cops,” he said with a grin.

“Fucking niggers,” Gill laughed.

Henry put out his hand. “Skin, man.” They shook hands and Henry said, “The penny would’ve been enough.”

“I got an expense account now,” Gill told him. “Hang onto your balls. You might need them someday.”

“Hell,” Henry told him, “I need them now. I just got married.”

Artie Meeker liked the hottest Mexican food he could find, so hot that when the waiters watched what he did with the jalapeno chillies, the red pepper and other concoctions he demanded, they made circular motions with their forefingers around their temples to indicate that they had an idiot Norteamericano on their hands who owned an iron stomach and they hoped he’d leave a big tip before he died.

And Pedro Cabella was known to serve the hottest food in all of Cuban Miami because he was from Neuva Laredo where the idiot Americanos loved to wallow in gastronomic volcanic fire and had never seen Havana in his life. Pedro and Artie were made for each other and Artie made the extra miles into Miami whenever the old man let him take his time.

He finished his supper and what was left over Pedro put up for him in a cardboard container to take home and splash over his breakfast eggs in the morning. When Pedro saw him giving the sweet talk to fat Maria he smiled and wished he’d try to kiss her just so Maria would know that it would be like to have her tongue burned off. His devious mind jumped from top to bottom with even better thought and he could picture Artie eating her pussy while fat Maria screamed from the effects of fresh jalapenos in that sensitive area she would never let him explore.

But Artie had a schedule to keep and all he did was pat Maria on her chunky behind and drop a five dollar bill down what open space remained between the two great breasts she carried rather than wore and promised her a real treat the next time he came back. The old man would really flip over that ass, he thought.

He got his package from Pedro, paid his bill and picked up his cigarettes before he left. He didn’t pay any attention at all to the swarthy little guy in the comer booth who went out ahead of him and was still standing there when he got in the car. After the sedan turned onto the boulevard the little guy went across the street to a pay phone, called his number long distance collect and gave the licence number of the sedan, the description of the car and hoped the wheel had landed on his number. Not that it wasn’t a useful occupation. He had free meals, spending money and if he found the right car he’d have a big bonus. He could have made a few more calls and gotten extra cash in the mails, but he was afraid of the eyes that belonged to the man who had given him the assignment in the first place. No, that wasn’t exactly right. He wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t even scared of him. He was downright terrified.

Alone with his books, his coded files, two telephones and the new computer, Leon Bray felt safe and secure. There was four and a half million dollars in the Swiss bank account, a luxury apartment in New York, a residence near Las Vegas where forty acres and eight horses were considered a normal back yard to any home, a vacation spot in Baja California where he could relax with one of the showgirls whenever he felt the need for it and the cottage up in the Catskills nobody knew about at all.

His office was his castle, though. The organization had seen to his every need without question because his was the filter through which every facet of the business flowed, to be catalogued, indexed and ready for immediate referral.

Outside, the elite guards kept his castle impregnable, his immediate premises inviolate. Downstairs the faggot Jan and his lover Lucien guarded the portals. The sight of blood was their stimulant and they were always ready to draw it, eager to enchance their sex life. They were the perfect sentries.