Микки Спиллейн - The Last Cop Out

Taking no chances on having Papa Menes learn he was the instigator of his demise, Florio Prince informed him of the Board’s inclination, wondering, at the time, how the old man could be so calm when the others wanted his ass and his realm.

Papa Menes was far from calm. He chewed on the end of an unlit cigar, something he hadn’t done for years, his hot eyes roaming over the six capos assembled in the back room of The Red Dolphin Grill, boiling mad because a revolt like this should have been handled at the local level without having to bring in the head of the entire structure.

He didn’t admit it, even to himself, but the main reason for his anger was something else, a haunting fear that Miami wasn’t the answer to it at all, and someplace out there was a gun waiting for him to expose himself so it could go off inside his skull. He kept remembering Victor Petrocinni, Teddy Shu, Slick Kevin, Stanley Holland and all the others and a little trickle of sweat ran down his back and he was glad he wore his seersucker jacket so they couldn’t see the fear stain on his shirt.

They gave him the details of the layout, the number of men involved and certain possibilities of attack. It was going to have to be done completely within the organization because their political connections had all gone sour and there wasn’t a single official contact they could count on for cooperation. The police would hit them as quickly as they would Herman’s men and there was always the probability that the FBI would find a reason to enter the scene and reinforce the local department.

But Miami wasn’t new to Papa Menes. It had been his second home for half his life and he knew every street and business in it. Those things never changed. They expanded, or were renovated, but they never really changed. The only thing that changed were the people and that’s where the trouble always came from.

The meeting lasted a little over four hours, and when it was done, the assembled group murmured with pleasure at the sheer genius of Papa Menes and realized why he was the Boss, completely understanding how he got to that position, and already felt sorry for anyone who tried to challenge his authority.

Because of his age and position, Papa was not expected to have a direct hand in the operation, but it would proceed according to his detailed plans and he would remain in the background if any alteration of the scheme seemed necessary.

When they adjourned, Papa got in the car with Artie Meeker and started on the circuitous route back to the cottage in the Keys. His part of the job was over and he felt good. Those bastards in Chicago would see how it was when the real expert came in and he’d sure as hell lay them out at the next meeting. A few heads were going to roll just to set an example for the rest of the pricks who thought he was finished. Shit, there wasn’t a one of them he couldn’t outthink or outthink anyway.

He felt his belly stir at the latter thought and decided he’d have Artie pick up that little blonde that night for a celebration. Artie didn’t mind the driving at all as long as he had his own broad to bang. Poor Artie, he thought. No imagination at all. Just a mechanical piston going up and down exactly so many times before exhausting. A pause for cooling and refueling, then another energizing. He never bothered to notice the bored look on the broad’s face. Now with him, Papa, the dame always had an expression and it sure wasn’t boredom. It could range from pain to pleasure, but it was never boredom. He might be old, but he certainly was imaginative.

Back in New York, Mark Shelby had come out of his controlled rage because Little Richard Case had met him in an out-of-the-way bar on the West Side, and from his expression, the news was good. They had their drinks served at a table in the back and when the shoddy bartender had gone back to his post Mark said, “What did you get?”

Little Richard shifted his bulk in the chair and tasted his drink. It was lousy, but something he needed. “The cops have Shatzi located somewhere in a two block area uptown. They got the whole section cordoned off and are doing a house-to-house search.”

“How’d they find him?”

“The slob brought some dame into his room and you know what? He’s got the Frenchman’s belly button in a damn bottle. She spots it right away and cuts out because she’s terrified of weirdos. The broad’s only a five buck hooker, but she’s been rousted plenty, so she tries to make points and tips the cops.”

“Shit.”

“They don’t want to scare him off, so they moved in the plainclothes bunch. No lights, no sirens... just a lot of manpower.”

“Who we got in that area?”

Case gave him a small smile. “Marty and his cousin Mack. They’re in the next building. They’ve been living there four years.”

Shelby nodded, waiting.

“I told them to take him,” Case said.

“Good.”

“Neither one’s got a record and they both got jobs. The cops won’t shake them any.”

“You tell them to get him over to the place in Brooklyn.”

“Might take a while.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“You know, Mark, that loony isn’t going to stand still and be taken. If the cops knock him off...”

“We don’t take any chances, you know that.”

“Hell, what could Shatzi know?”

Shelby made a sour face and shook his head. “Come off it, Case. They always know something and Verdun was close enough to the top so that things could rub off on even the punks. Supposing he always did have it in for Frank. Supposing he had been planning a shot like that and backed it up by grabbing some of Frank’s papers?”

“The Frenchman didn’t make notes, Mark.”

Over the drinks, Shelby’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the other. He was thinking of himself when he said, “You never can tell.”

“Guess you’re right.”

“Keep me informed. You going back downtown?”

“Yeah. Something else is stewing. That fucking Gill Burke is moving around after something and he’s got Lederer hopping mad. He put on pressure to get some people assigned to him and the D.A.’s office couldn’t stop it.”

“What for?”

“He won’t say, that’s what got Lederer boiling. That guy would do anything to dump Burke even though he brought him in in the first place.”

Shelby felt his fingers tighten around the glass and cursed inaudibly. Bill Burke was the only one he really feared. The bastard wouldn’t let go of anything. They gave him something really big to play with and instead he goes right back to the original bit. Not that he was worried. He had covered his tracks completely and the years had completed the job.

“Screw Burke,” he said.

“Don’t play him down.”

Shelby knew Case had more to say and waited for it. “Remember that cop Corrigan?”

“Yeah.”

“Burke’s been talking to him. He’s been back to that pawnshop too.”

“He was there before too, remember? What the hell can he find out after all this time? You think that shylock is going to talk?”

“Burke doesn’t give a shit about squeezing somebody. He’d never make the courtroom.”

“You think Burke would give a damn? Look what he did to Bennie and Colfaco eight years ago. He saved the state plenty of money and they couldn’t prove he tossed them over that rooftop.”

Shelby put his drink down and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You know, you might have a point there. That guy’s the only weak point. Maybe we ought to get him out of the way.”

“Sure... and Burke would figure it out right away.”

“Not necessarily. He’s been robbed enough to make it look kosher. This time he gets hit.”

“Don’t stick your neck out, Mark.”

“When I want to order something done, don’t you tell me not to.”