Микки Спиллейн - The Last Cop Out

“You look awfully serious, Gill.”

He turned his head and let a smile flicker across his mouth. “Thinking, that’s all.”

“Big thoughts?”

“Not very.” He stared out through the windshield. “Someday I’m going to get away from all this mess.”

“When?” Helen asked softly.

“After it’s all over.”

“Will it ever be?”

“No. It will slow down, that’s all”

She rested her hand over his on the wheel. “That’s what my father used to say too.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“Why don’t they do it then?”

“Because cops are strange people, kid. Why the hell they get into that line of work I can’t figure, but they do. It’s something you know you’re going to do long before it happens. Some come in after high school, others spend a fortune on a college education and are happy to walk a beat. They were born cops and they die cops. It’s their life, I guess.”

“Yes, I know,” she told him.

“You don’t approve, do you?”

“Somebody has to do it.”

“That didn’t answer my question,” he said.

After a few moments passed by she nodded thoughtfully, feeling the words rise she knew had been buried too long. “Yes, I do approve, Gill. It was a life I hated because I lived through too many worried days and nights until the inevitable happened. When I think back, it was always me who complained, never my mother. She knew and approved all along. She... she helped dad. She did every damn thing possible to make his life easier because she only had the fear to face, not the actual conflict or the pain or the physical experience of death.” Helen paused, let her fingers squeeze his hand again with a comforting gesture and said, “I approve of you no matter what they said you did.”

Something twisted at his stomach again and he stared hard through the windshield. The years of being a loner were screaming at him to stay silent, but there were years still to go and they wanted him to speak. He turned his head briefly for a quick look at her and that one, stolen glance was almost too much. He said, “If I had met you earlier things might have been a lot different.”

“It wouldn’t have changed things any,” she told him.

“Could anything change things?”

Her fingers squeezed again. “No,” she said simply. “I think we both know that.”

“I got a stupid feeling.”

“Like what?”

“Damn it,” Gill grated, “you know like what.”

“Would you believe I have that same stupid feeling?” Helen asked him.

He felt that twisting in his stomach again. “Love is supposed to be for kids.”

Her laugh was low and rich and she laid her head against his shoulder. He could smell the subtle fragrance of perfume and feel her body heat on his arm. “I guess we’re a couple of kids then. We sure picked a silly place to bring it out into the open.”

“I don’t know any better places.”

“You could have tried when we were sharing the same pillow.”

“Then it would have sounded phony.”

“Not coming from you,” she said.

Mark Shelby heard the phone ring, put down his drink and looked at the big clock on the wall. They were getting old in Chicago, he thought. It had taken them over two hours to. double-check the information he had relayed on, convene the board and come to a decision.

When he said hello, there was no exchange of names, but he recognized the voice on the other end of the line. Now that they knew the Frenchman was dead they’d remember he had always been the Primus Gladatori and they’d put the matter where it belonged.

“We just talked over the situation,” the voice said.

“Yes?” Mark’s voice was firm and dominant.

“How far along are you on the other matter?” It was a reference to the information fed the destroyed computer system.

“A few more days will do it.”

“Can you handle something else?”

“Naturally.” His voice was even more certain this time.

The one on the other end gave a satisfied grunt. “Okay, we’re giving it to you.”

“How much?”

“While Pop’s away, you’re in charge. You handle it good, okay?”

“My pleasure,” he said with a smile in his voice before he heard the connection break.

But there was no pleasure in his face at all. Shit , he thought, all they were laying on him was shit. He had the Frenchman’s job to do now while that fucking Papa was kicking around in his supposed hideout. Hell, he knew where he was in Florida. Maybe nobody else did, but he made a point of knowing these things because one day when he sprung the trap he didn’t want the jaws of it to close on empty air. The only trouble was the Big Board would lay on the assignment to mop up that stinking Herman Shanke in Miami and Papa would toss in the soldiers then take all the bows for slamming the opposition.

How the hell an unknown like Shanke could pull off a coup like he did was damn near unbelievable, but when you looked at it closely enough you could grasp the possibilities. He was unknown, killing didn’t bother him and the ambushes he set up weren’t really all that complicated. Some pretty stupid soldiers he knew had minds devious enough to work a setup like that... but then they’d be stupid enough to brag about it to some bitch and be laid out an hour later.

He picked his drink up from the file he had retrieved from the Frenchman’s office before the cops got there, smeared the wet ring the glass had made onto the table top and flipped the folder open again. There was something there he had glanced over casually that bothered him and he shuffled the papers until he found what he wanted.

It was a report on the sale of bullets that matched a murder weapon to a guy with a fresh tattoo on his left forearm. A penciled note indicated Eddie Camp had been put on the job of tracing the inked art work.

Mark looked up Camp’s phone number, dialed it and got a sour-voiced woman who said Eddie was gone and not expected back at any certain time. He told her to have him call the minute he checked in and hung up.

There was something about that tattoo business he didn’t like at all. He couldn’t figure out why not.

Before he put the phone away he made three more calls to keep abreast of the situation. All he found out was that Miami was a sealed-off area with the boys closing in, the word being that any hits were to be quiet and unspectacular, a silent massacre with all the bodies removed and the evidence cleaned up so it looked like Herman the German and company had simply decided to ease themselves out and keep any public outcry down to a minimum. The Big Board and Papa Menes had hand-chosen the best soldiers available, all experienced professionals, and the job shouldn’t be too difficult.

Too bad, he thought again. The more trouble now, the better he could work the rest of his master plan. He came to a decision quickly. The money was there, he knew how the delivery could be made and he picked up the phone again with a self-satisfied smile.

An hour later a packet of money changed hands. Forty-five minutes after that the material was loaded and sent on its way. Herman the German was going to get his arsenal without Moe Piel’s help at all.

He finished his drink and was about to get ready to go to bed when the doorman downstairs buzzed his apartment and told him a Mr. Case was there. He told him to send him up, wondering what the hell Little Richard wanted at this time of night.

When he came in, Case didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “You know who bumped the Frenchman?”

“Suppose you tell me.”

“That fucking Shatzi, that’s who. The cops spotted him coming out of his apartment building but he got away before they could get to him.”