Микки Спиллейн - The Last Cop Out

She squeezed into the clump of bushes outside the open window, oblivious of the insects that welcomed her, watching the small living room, listening to every word they said, feeling the shock waves bounce through her brain at what Artie was telling Papa Menes.

Only once in his life had Papa ever felt a curdling in his stomach and felt the inside of his thighs quiver because he was afraid. Now he was feeling it again and he squeezed the arm of the chair so he could control himself and when the spasm passed he said, “Now, give me that shit once more.”

Artie Meeker stopped his pacing and swung around. “It was like I said, boss. Verdun’s dead. That Shatzi cut his button right outta his belly and even took it with him. Blam, just like that and the Frenchman’s outta it. The Big Board’s got Shelby handlin’ everything up there and they’re raising hell because nothing’s getting done down this way.”

“Shelby ain’t handling nothing,” Papa said nastily.

“I’m just telling you what they told me.”

More to himself than Meeker, Papa said, “The Board’s a pack of nitheads. If they think they can cancel me out with Shelby they’re crazy.”

“Boss...”

“Shut up, Artie.” He stared at his hands, clenched them, then opened his fingers. “Those asses sent Verdun in themselves. They called him over my head without even asking me and now they’re screaming.”

“Boss... you were the one who brought the Frenchman in the first time,” Artie reminded him.

“And once was enough. What else did they tell you?”

“Everybody on the cops in New York is looking for Shatzi. Our guys want him first and the lid’s ready to blow. That damned D.A.... Lederer... is really laying on the heat. They want you to clean up here, then get back to the city.”

“Just like that.”

Meeker shrugged. “They said you got the soldiers down here, now use ’em. They want that Herman punk hit like right now.”

“Didn’t you tell them how I was playing it?”

“Sure, boss. Real cool, I said. No excitement. The Board said to screw the fancy stuff and get in there.”

“Fucking idiots,” Papa said.

“So what do you do, boss?”

For a minute or so, Papa Menes didn’t answer. He sat there thinking until his mind was made up, then turned his head toward Artie. “How many of our boys are down here?”

“Only four.”

Papa nodded. “Call them off. The rest are all the ones the Big Board sent out themselves. When it hits the fan we’ll let Chicago catch it. That damn bunch of westerns need to get burned. Maybe the coast families’ll wise up and get back in line then.”

“Want me to do it now?”

“No. Tomorrow’s time enough.”

Artie picked up his beer, took a long pull and made like he was studying the label on the can. Finally he said, “Hey, Papa.”

“Now what?”

“Who the hell you think knocked off all our guys?”

“Somebody who wants to take over, that’s who.”

“Herman the German ain’t got that much smarts, Papa.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Then it’s gotta be somebody else.”

“I know that too.”

“Who do you think then, Papa?”

“Hit this Miami prick and if it happens some more I’ll sure as hell know.”

Artie nodded thoughtfully, still looking at the can. “One thing screwy, boss... Verdun was careful. He wouldn’t let a slob like Shtazi walk in and tear him up. Shit, the Frenchman could tear him apart. He got it right by the shower so whoever came in had a key and he wasn’t about to give no key to Shatzi.” Artie shuddered and his mouth twisted. “The fucker cut his pecker right off and chopped out his belly button.”

“Knock it off,” Papa barked. He didn’t want to hear about it again either.

But outside the window Louise Belhander felt a warm glow of satisfaction wash over her and she savored the mental image with pleasure. Verdun was dead then, and that was all right. But here were two others he was associated with and they’d do just as well. She watched Artie Meeker pick up the old man’s beer can, then hugged the wall while he walked outside to toss them in the trash can. When he went back inside she stayed in the shadows, crept to the can and retrieved the two empties, handling them with the tails of her blouse.

There were things she wanted to know.

What she found out came from an ex-cop now in private business specializing in divorce cases. He lifted the prints for her, had them identified through a friend in the department and didn’t ask her any questions at all.

But being a cop he recognized the local brand of beer, photographed the stamped price marking on the lid and noted the distribution numbers on the label.

Louise Belhander spent all the next day reading old newspapers at the library and was a little stunned at what she discovered. That one time with Verdun in the barn was going to cost an international organization plenty.

Only a short haul to retirement, Bill Long thought, and all this crap would be out of the way. At that minute retirement still seemed a lifetime off and the concern of the present was etched deeply into his face.

He looked at Burke and said, “Helen Scanlon didn’t tell them anything they didn’t already know.”

“She couldn’t, Bill. All she did was work there.”

“Lederer doesn’t think so. He’ll press her until she busts.”

“And I’ll bust his ass. If she had anything I would have known about it. Don’t think I didn’t figure her to be tied into the organization in the beginning too.”

“What made you change your mind?”

“I didn’t. I just let it play out until I knew for sure.”

“Just the same, when he’s done harassing her she won’t be finding many job opportunities.”

“She won’t have to. I’m planning on taking care of that end myself.”

Bill Long looked at him carefully, then frowned. “I detect a note of reservation in your voice, Gill.”

“Because my occupation carries a high risk factor.”

“You’re still a survivor type.”

“Sure. And if I don’t survive she can inherit my estate. I haven’t anybody to leave it to anyway.”

“Okay, rich man.”

“A bachelor with no high spending habits can pick up a lot of bucks over the years, buddy. Now let’s get off my personal life and back to business. Want another coffee?”

“No. You get one.”

When Burke sat down again the captain leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. “The Los Angeles cops just came up with some results.”

“Oh?”

“On Stanley Holland.”

Gill stirred the sugar and milk in, nodding.

“They located the doctor who did the plastic surgery on his face.”

“So?”

“He was owned by the mob. Treated bullet wounds without reporting them... all that kind of stuff. Apparently he handled plenty of abortions for them too, but never got rapped for them.”

“Great, but where does it fit in?”

“Well, those L.A. boys know how to put the pressure on his kind and he started to talk. One of the things he mentioned was that the photos he took of Enrico Scala after he turned him into Stanley Holland were lifted from his files along with the negatives.”

“Who knew he was having the job done?”

“The same people who always okayed work approved by the syndicate.”

“So it’s somebody on the inside?”

“Not necessarily. One of the detectives started taking it from another angle and worked on the death of the guy they thought was Scala, you know... the faked car wreck and all that. So he finds out there was somebody else poking around the scene everybody took to be an insurance investigator, except the company who held the policy never did anything more than take one look at the wreck and pay the bill. The other guy wanted to see the remains of the body, all the identification and even checked into the funeral arrangements.”