Микки Спиллейн - The Last Cop Out

“Not for public consumption,” the D.A. said softly.

Burke glanced around and scowled. The only two reporters were talking to the coroner’s men with not much success. “You going to keep Case in it or out?”

Lederer sucked his breath in, held it a second, then let it hiss out slowly. “Mr. Case was a very public-spirited man. He happened to have a C.B. radio in his car and probably was alerted to Shatzi’s whereabouts when the call was put out.”

“Not bad,” Burke agreed.

“His car was seen parked not too far from the building, so that when an escape vehicle was needed, his was comandeered.”

Burke let out a little laugh and lit a cigarette. “Who’s going to buy that crock of shit, mister?”

“Gill...”

“Oh, Captain, come on, you aren’t buying that stuff, are you?”

“No, but we’re hoping somebody will.”

“Richard Case was your security leak,” Burke said. “How much will it take to tie him into the mob.”

“Probably not too much, Gill,” Long said, “but it could be better if we left it alone.”

“Bullshit. Their whole structure is coming apart right now and you want to handle this one with kid gloves.”

“Look, Gill, that’s the way we’re going to play it, so stay cool, buddy.”

“Sure. Okay. So now what? You got enough here to go out busting heads on. What do we do?”

“We sit tight. We go home, have a drink and let all the great brains get together and come up with an official attitude and issue orders and all the usual crap and try not to make waves.”

Burke barely turned his head and looked at his friend. The captain felt something cold run down his back. It wasn’t the rain or the wind. It was just something, and in those few silent moments of stark contemplation, Bill Long was remembering about those items in the paper datelined somewhere in South America and his mind began its own analysis of the details of the past months until a hardness slipped into his eyes. “Just do what I told you, Gill,” he said.

When Herman Shanke got the message he sent out two of his least valuable dummies to bring in the truck. He wasn’t that stupid not to figure a plant by the enemy, and after they had alternately driven, towed and pushed the truck into several preselected areas, Herman the German got a look at himself and gave an approving grunt to three of his lieutenants and said, “How do you like the balls of that Moe Piel! Son of a bitch, whatever kind of deal he made he sure cleaned house!”

“Wonder why he didn’t call us?”

“What for? The thing was to get this stuff bought and on the road.”

“Moe shoulda brought it himself. He shoulda been here.”

“Moe’s got more to do than play war, dummy. He’s a hustler.”

But Herman’s lieutenant just wouldn’t leave it alone. Everything had to be black or white without a touch of gray showing, otherwise it left him edgy with the little hairs on the back of his neck and hands standing straight out. “I don’t like it, Herm,” he said.

“You don’t like what?”

“How come we got that other truck first, Herm?”

“Come on, man, this one got a sick engine.”

“You sure that’s Moe’s truck?”

“Look, shithead, I can see the plates from here. I know the rig, get it? Now go check it out and if it’s okay, get it back of the hotel. Once you get in the alley we seal the place off.”

“Sure, Herm. How come Moe didn’t show?”

“Maybe he’s making another deal. Who the hell knows. He’ll be back.”

Twenty minutes later the truck turned into the back alley, pushed by the old four door sedan, eased down the incline after a gentle bumper nudge and was braked to a stop in back of the old hotel that was the new headquarters for the rapidly expanding Shanke organization. The move from the old place had been subtle, clever and expertly carried out. At that moment six of Papa Menes’ torpedoes were raiding the old place. What they didn’t realize was that the guns inside belonged to police officers investigating the emptied building and they had already called for reinforcements on their walkie-talkie radios. Within ten minutes, the cream of the Menes armed forces was about to be eliminated.

And so was a square block of the city. The troops of Herman the German had moved in all but four cases of armament from the truck, gloating over their new acquisitions, revelling in the power of powder and steel, then the critical case was lifted and a wild inferno of flame and smoke erupted with a terrifying roar that dismantled everything within the perimeter of its destruction and threw the wreckage in mad, burning arcs into other city blocks where they could create their own little holocausts and in a single microsecond there was no army led by Herman the German.

But within thirty seconds news of the ravaged section of Miami flashed out on radio and television and five minutes later confirmation was made by a charred, staggering Shanke supporter that everything was lost because the Menes forces had suckered them all.

In Chicago, it was an hour before the Big Board could convene. Every one of them was aware of what had happened in Miami and silently cursed Papa Menes for jeopardizing the entire organization with one stupid move. Right at that moment, every civic organization, every governmental agency was getting ready to mount a massive thrust against the underground empire that was their life’s blood. One spurt of true public indignation and their present and future, families and selves, would be wiped out of existence.

There was a single redeeming factor. Papa Menes was in the Miami area, it was his operation to conduct and his responsibility to assume. Throw Papa Menes to the dogs, the public would be satisfied and they could go back to business as usual.

Since the decision wasn’t all that imaginative, they appeased their lack of originality by a lengthy discussion and parceling out of public relations assignments designed to focus attention on Papa Menes while detracting from their own notoriety.

All in all, it was a very harmonious meeting, with much drinking and shaking of hands.

All in all, it was a very stupid meeting because they underestimated the very person who had put them in their relative seats of power. When Papa Menes heard the news of the Miami destruction he put in an immediate call to Joey Grif, who sat across and down from the meeting room of the Big Board with a fix-mounted, precalibrated bazooka.

Joey answered the third ring, knowing who was on the line because nobody else knew the number, and said, “Yeah, boss.”

“They meeting tonight, Joey?”

“Yeah. Big deal. This time everybody’s there.”

“You ready?”

Joey Grif felt a wave of the most incredible excitement he had ever experienced in his life wash over him. It was like being drenched with boiling oil that didn’t even burn, but just made you feel good, so good it was even better than when you made it with a broad. He didn’t want the boss to call it off because he seemed excited or overanxious, so he kept his voice even and said, “All ready, boss. Tell me when.”

“How well can you see them from where you are?”

“Not too good. They’re all sitting down. Talking, I guess.”

“When they get up, they’ll have drinks. Then do it.”

“Got it, boss.”

“Good luck, Joey. You’re well taken care of.”

“I know that, boss.” He heard the receiver click and he hung up. Downstairs his car was waiting, the house was ready up in the mountains with the money safely stashed. No one would be able to trace him or the equipment, and with a satisfied smile he made an adjustment on the rubber gloves he wore, loaded the bazooka with a rocket projectile especially designed for this single shot and sat down to watch the windows of the room where the Big Board convened for the proper moment.