Микки Спиллейн - The Last Cop Out

“Find out who he was?”

“Too long ago. Nobody could give an accurate description.”

“Who was the dead guy? All I remember were photos of the smash-up. I was out in California for Compat Company when it happened.”

“They still don’t know.” He took another pull on the cigarette, still frowning. “You know anything about Scala at all?”

“Only from the old police fliers. He was a West Coast hood all the way.”

“Coming up fast too... until he got nailed. The mob had big plans for that boy.”

“They can forget that now.”

“Yeah. They got Miami to worry about.”

“Now what?” Gill asked.

“Somebody ran a load of guns and ammo into the city and Herman the German’s bunch are having one hell of a shootout the past two hours.” He looked at the narrow-eyed expression on Gill’s face and added, “You ought to check in the office more often, friend.”

“How many down?”

“Two of the German’s and three soldiers from the Midwest area.”

“Anything on Papa Menes?”

“If he left the area, he didn’t go by our security. He still pays for his hotel suite, except it’s occupied by a couple of hoods named George Spacer and Carl Ames.”

“Menes had a driver... Artie Meeker. Dumb but faithful.”

“He’s gone too.”

“They use a car?”

“Papa’s big limo is still in the garage.”

“He’d have a spare someplace.”

“They haven’t located it.” He snuffed the butt out. “Now I’m really getting worried.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s too damned quiet here in New York. It’s like knowing a fuse is lit and you can’t find the frigging bomb. All you can do is wait until it goes off and hope you’re not sitting on top of it.”

Mark Shelby had the same feeling too. The action had started in Miami and no matter which way it turned out, all hell was going to break loose. Even if Papa Menes came out on top, he was going to be marked lousy with the Big Board and his position was going to go down. Nor would the heat from the public and the police let the old liners there in Chicago off the hook either. They’d be coming at them from every direction possible and the whole organization was going to be shaken to the roots.

He smiled silently, because if they had stayed in all their illegal activities they couldn’t have cared less, but those many years ago they had diverted their hot money into legitimate enterprises that made up a billion dollar structure, and whoever came out with those in his hand owned the organization too.

It could be done. It was just a matter of time.

He looked at his watch and thought about Helga. He needed her badly, but he had to wait for that call about a guy with a star tattoo who had bought those foreign bullets.

Fifty minutes later it came in. The job had been done right there in New York in a bootleg shop on a man about thirty who had wanted a star initialed in the middle with the letters DS above WV. The star looked like an old-fashioned sheriffs badge. When he took his shirt off to get the job done the operator had noticed the bullet hole scars in his left shoulder and lower right side.

He put in a call to Remy and after a brief conversation Remy suggested that the initials stood for Deputy Sheriff, West Virginia and the guy had been recently invalided off the force, but proud enough of his job to want to wear its insignia permanently. It wouldn’t be a hard job at all to check on.

After he told Remy to get busy on it, he called Helga to tell her he was coming over and went out his usual route thinking of all that wonderful skin waiting for him.

Burke had to wait until six o’clock until Myron Berkowitz got home. The lawyer was a tall, scared skinny guy who started sweating the minute Gill popped his badge on him and he wondered just what kind of legal practice he had. Myron tried to pleasant it out and invited him into his apartment and even seemed surprised when Gill accepted the drink he offered.

When he finally squirmed into his chair he tried to look businesslike and said, “Now, sir, what can I do for you?”

“Your aunt told me how you handled all her husband’s effects after he was killed.”

“Yes, yes indeed, I did that. Of course, there wasn’t much of an estate...”

“I saw the papers in the basement.”

“Luckily, my uncle had insurance.”

“Did you get everything down on that inventory list?” Myron didn’t have to think about it. “Everything,” he said.

“If they were making stag movies, how did they sell them?”

The question didn’t seem to fluster the lawyer. Obviously, he knew what his uncle’s business actually was. “Direct. No rental sales if that’s what you mean. They weren’t all that good, and besides, with the new pornography in the theaters in full color and sound his seemed a little old-fashioned. He sold copies of one-reelers cheap so he stayed in business.” He paused and made a wry face. “That’s what I couldn’t understand.”

“What couldn’t you?”

Myron shrugged and sipped his drink. “How he could think about buying a house in the country and a new car. He didn’t have anything saved up like that at all.”

“Maybe it was a pipedream.”

“Now with him,” Myron stated positively. “My uncle didn’t waste time with the impossible. He told me he was going to move to a new house in the country and wanted me to get a price on a new car for him... a big new car.”

“When?”

“Not a week before he was killed.”

“Then where do you think the money was coming from?”

Myron looked a little worried. “Could be he made a decent picture for a change.”

“Friend, that’s not exactly what you’re thinking.”

Myron couldn’t meet his eyes this time. “Well...”

“Say it.”

“He might have shot some film on somebody who would pay a lot to get it back.”

“Would he?”

Very slowly, Myron nodded. “Once before. In Boston, it was. Some people wanted to photograph a party they were having. For their own use, of course. They made him give them the negative.”

“But he kept a copy for another sale later.”

“Something like that. Remember, I’m just guessing.”

“He kept a work diary?” Gill asked.

“Yes, and there was nothing there that I could find. I even checked his film against his work sheets to be sure.”

Gill grinned at him slowly. “Thinking of going into business for yourself?”

“Of course not!”

“But someplace you found a discrepancy in the whole bit, didn’t you?”

The instant consternation in Myron’s eyes made Gill sure he was right. He kept looking at the lawyer and his face wasn’t a pleasant thing to see. Myron gulped at his drink and said, “There was an invoice for a piece of equipment that wasn’t there.”

“What kind?”

“Mr. Burke... I’m a lawyer, not a photographer.”

“Don’t give me any shit, kid. You checked it out and it’s all likely to backfire in your face if you don’t spill it.”

“Well... it was a microfilming device.”

Gill gave him another tight smile and put his glass down. When he stood up, Myron said, “That’s all?”

“That’s all,” Burke told him. “From you, anyway.”

Down on the street again, Burke looked up at the evening sky and felt a drop of rain hit his face. It wasn’t the snow he was thinking of the other night, each flake a bit of the puzzle, but it would do. It was all there, hanging just above his head, and now it was getting ready to come down.

As he walked he separated the puzzle into its separated pieces, putting a label on each one. Berkowitz and Manute, dead photographers. Mark Shelby in the area. Why would Shelby use... or kill... photographers? Yet, Berkowitz had purchased microfilming equipment and expected a big chunk of money. A theory could be put together damn quickly there.