Микки Спиллейн - The Last Cop Out

His hand reached out for the phone to call Helga, but he stopped before his finger touched the dial. With all the heat on they’d be watching everybody like a hawk. Helga would just have to wait a few days until everything relaxed a little. He went back and made the other drink after all and sat down, wishing Little Richard would call. So far there hadn’t been one word on the news about Shatzi being pinned down, or if they had broken him loose or whatever. There was no answer at the warehouse, but that was to be expected at this time anyway. He’d just have to wait, that was all. He didn’t like waiting because he always felt vulnerable when he wasn’t taking the offensive, but right now that was all he could do.

Once the decision had been made, it took Papa Menes a short half hour to complete his arrangements. He rode in the back seat behind Artie and Louise up to a side street in Miami where they exchanged cars, took on a single suitcase of Papa’s personal valuables, then drove on to Jacksonville in the north end of the state. Although his name was mentioned on every news flash, the announcers hinting that he was either missing or dead, no police accosted them, nor were they recognized.

At the airport Artie bought Louise a one-way, first-class ticket to New York, told her where to stay until they arrived and gave her five hundred dollars in cash to keep her happy in the interim. She had wanted to drive up with him, but Papa kept remembering how they yanked old Tommy Hazelton out of action on a Mann Act rap, and he’d be damned if he was going to take a fall for transporting any dame across a state line no matter how old she was.

Back at the car Artie said, “Boss, I don’t like to say nothin’, but you sure about that broad?”

Ordinarily, he might have gotten a fast backhand across the mouth, but this time Papa Menes only smiled. “The day I can’t read a dame right,” he told Artie, “is the day I’ll go back to my wife. That kid is absolutely nuts about me.”

Artie nodded reluctantly. He had seen the looks she had given the old man and the way she was with him and she wasn’t faking a bit of it. He wondered what the hell the old guy had to turn a chick on that way. He even wished a little of it would rub off on him.

He said, “Sure, boss, but if anybody says anything...”

Papa’s voice had a deadly chuckle to it. “Who’s to complain?”

Artie grinned silently and turned the key on. When he was clear he pulled out of the parking lot, got back on the highway and turned north. This was the part of the job he liked best, a long straight drive where he could do nothing but listen to music and think about the broads back there on the Keys and the ones who would be waiting in the city. He would drive at speed limits, stopping only for gas and snacks, letting the old man get his sleep in the back seat. It was a twenty-four-hour run and he was going to enjoy every minute of it, especially those times when he saw some sucker pulled over by the local cops on a traffic violation. Yes, sir, anybody who broke the law on the road ought to get everything they could lay on him. Serves the bastard right. Artie let out a contented grunt and patted his pocket where he kept his wallet. He’d never even had so much as a parking ticket in his whole life.

Behind him, Papa wasn’t sleeping at all. His eyes were closed, but he was looking at a screen of events in his mind, trying to view them as he would a movie. At times his vision would be documentary in effect, then take a fictitious angle and explore its possibilities, then he’d wipe it all out and start from the beginning.

Finding the beginning wasn’t easy. It didn’t start with all the sudden deaths of important syndicate personnel... it had to start long before that. There had to be scheming and planning before the first death right up to the last magnificent holocaust in Miami.

Everybody had been so damn sure that Herman Shanke had been the answer when all that horse’s ass did was take advantage of the situation. He sure had the artillery, though, and he wasn’t good enough to latch on to that kind of equipment unless he had one hell of a connection. The screwy part was that fucking explosion that tore a hole in the city. It could have been an accident, but those kinds of accidents took a lot of preparation and he could smell a shadowy hand moving around to stir things up. And preparation was one thing he, Papa Menes, believed in. If he hadn’t been such a believer, the Big Board would have a contract out on him right now, never knowing how nicely he had been framed into looking like an incompetent old fool who finally needed dusting off.

So... who did that shadowy hand belong to? First, who was left in positions of authority? There sure weren’t many, but when it came to control it was Mark Shelby. Who knew the total workings of the machine beside himself? Why, Mark Shelby... of the living ones, that is.

Papa smiled grimly to himself and leaned his head back against the cushions. It was a game he liked to play with himself. A long ride ahead and he could dwell on all the points, major and minor, separating and analyzing them, bring back to memory all the things that didn’t seem to have importance at the time, but when fitted with the rest suddenly took on genuine significance.

And if it spelled out Mark Shelby, Primus Gladatori, old Primus was going to be a Finis gladatori.

With the repercussions still echoing from the South and Midwest there was enough material to keep the news media satisfied and there was no trouble at all getting them to delay releasing the news of the death of Richard Case and company. As far as anyone was concerned, the dead had simply dropped out of sight temporarily. Case had been separated from his wife for three years so it wasn’t likely that she would make inquiries and his business associates had already been notified via a faked call that he’d be gone for a while.

Robert Lederer and his staff augmented by select personnel from police intelligence units had been going over the reports for the past five hours, trying to make a complete picture out of what had happened, but despite the detailed accounts the final version was more speculation than anything else.

It wasn’t until fifteen minutes ago that anybody had known the whereabouts of Papa Menes. He had voluntarily made an appearance with his lawyer and winesses who verified that they had been on a vacation in a mountain cabin far upstate, completely out of touch with current events.

Both Burke and Bill Long gave Lederer a sour grimace when he made the announcement and the captain asked, “How far are you going to push his alibi, Bob?”

Lederer shrugged and spread his hands. “All the way, but we’re not playing with a kid. Menes’ll have all his tracks covered. I’m not getting enthusiastic about breaking his story down at all. Besides, there’s just the possibility that he’s telling the truth.”

“Balls.” Burke’s tone cut right across the room and heads turned to look at him.

“Okay, Mr. Burke,” the D.A. said, “you’ve been coming up with all the believe-it-or-not kind of details around here, but if you’ve got something to say about this matter, keep it factual.”

“Why should I? It’s more than you can do.”

“Because we’re the ones who are going to draw the conclusions from whatever we get fact or fancy... not you, Burke.”

“All right, we’ll stick with the facts then.” He shook a cigarette into his hand, stuck it between his lips and lit it carefully. “You have what’s left of the syndicate sprinkled around the country with their best men shoulder to shoulder in the morgue. You have public indignation at its peak and no matter what move you make against the fucking mob, you can’t be wrong as long as you’re quick. Everybody’s sitting in a political rose garden where everybody can suddenly look good from the uniformed police to the big-shot politicos.”