Микки Спиллейн - Death of the Too-Cute Prostitute [= Man Alone]

I came out of the cellarway to the street corner and stood there while the rain bit into my face. It was cold and wind-whipped, but it was good. It had a fresh, clean smell, and the rivulets that ran down into my collar had a living feel about them.

Behind me the little guy in the substreet doorway said, “See you,” and threw a friendly wave.

I winked at him. “Thanks, Mutt.”

“Sure, anytime,” he said, and slipped the door shut.

Across the street a cab disgorged a passenger, and when I whistled the driver fingered an okay sign, swept around in a screaming U turn, opened the door for me and took off again in a seemingly single operation.

The crowd was coming out of the Criminal Courts Building now, the photogs in front holding their cameras under their coats while they yelled and waved to the press cars at the curb to look awake. Behind them were the vultures who made the spectator’s seats home, and from their outraged clacking you could sense that they were annoyed at not having something to feed on.

The cabbie looked forward to take it all in, then half turned his head to ask over his shoulder, “You been at the trial, Mac?”

I leaned back against the cushions and stared at the ceiling. “I was there,” I said.

“He gonna sit in it?”

“Not this time.” I cranked the window all the way down to smell the fresh air again. “Take me to Sixth and Forty-ninth.”

Ahead the cabbie seemed to stretch up to meet my eyes in his rear-view mirror and when he spoke his voice was almost out of control.

“What!”

“Sixth and Forty-ninth,” I repeated.

Unbelievingly, the driver shook his head. “No... I mean about the trial. What’d you say?”

“You heard me.”

“Yeah, but what’d he do... cop a plea? Or did they knock it down to second degree?”

“Nothing like that at all, friend.”

The cabbie stretched again, trying to make contact with my eyes, but it was too dark and the mirror too small. He fidgeted, then: “Well, come on, Mac, what gives? All you’ve been hearing this last week is that trial. Papers. Radio. TV. Everybody I pick up hashes it over. So what happens. He escape or something?”

I waited a second before I said quietly, “You might call it that.”

“Brother!” There was a degree of awe in his voice.

I said, “The jury turned in a not guilty verdict.”

This time he whistled between his teeth and said, “Brother,” half under his voice.

“You don’t like it?”

With a typical New Yorker’s contempt for what was already past news, he shrugged and shoved a cigarette in his mouth. “Hell, who cares? Me... I just can’t see how they figger, that’s all.”

“No?” I waited a second, then added, “Why?”

A one-sided shrug almost explained it. “Look,” he said, “the guy’s a cop who’s supposed to run down a big fish, only when he catches him he takes a pay-off instead. Then when he gets tagged with the loot in his pocket he’s suspended from the department and while he sweats out an investigation he makes big noises about getting the fish who fingered him.”

“So.”

“So he makes the noises stick when he shoots up the guy he started out to get legally. He sure picked a big one to burn down.”

“He did?”

“Listen, that Leo Marcus was a real front-marching big wheel. Brother, six slugs in the puss he gets and all head on. No face yet.”

The cab careened around a truck, knifed to a pole position at a red light and waited impatiently. The driver reached up to readjust the mirror so he could see me a little better and sucked on his butt until the cab was blue with smoke.

“Sure can’t figger it out though,” he repeated. “It was open and shut all the way around.”

My voice was real cold now. “It was?”

“Why, sure. They catch him on the spot, his gun, his belly full of booze, witnesses to the beef and no two-bit witnesses either. How’d he get out of it?”

“The jury said not guilty.”

“Man, man! I bet that judge did take the hide off’n them jurors. Would I sure like to have heard that”

“He tore them up.”

Up front the driver began to laugh a little. “Their angle I can see now. The jury, I mean. Sure, I can even understand ’em. And you know, I don’t mind a bit. That Marcus took plenty of my loot when he was running the old cab protection racket. Yep, I can sure see their angle now.” He grinned into the mirror. “You too?”

I leaned into the corner, away from the eyes. “You tell me.”

“They figure he did a public service. So big that they let a fractured killer cop out for an airing. So now let him shoot the rest of ’em up.”

I closed the window up against the rain, leaned forward and handed a bill across the back of the seat. “I’ll get out here.”

“But you wanted...”

“This is fine.”

The cabbie’s fingers felt the bill as he eased over toward the curb, batted the flag and clicked a quarter change out of the box on the dash. He stopped, then turned to pass the change over. It took a second, then something happened to his face that made it tighten around the mouth and he had trouble getting enough breath to say, “You’re... Regan.”

I nodded. “That’s right. The killer cop.”

“Hell, Mac...”

“Forget it. Keep the change.”

I walked three blocks north, leaning into the sharp sting of the rain, and on 49th turned east until I reached Donninger’s. It wasn’t much of a place; a few food specialties and the drinks were good, but what made it tick was its place on the grapevine and the dial phone at every wall table.

It was still too early for the supper crowd, but the day bunch from the tabloids were lined up at the bar swearing at editors and policy makers over the one for the road. It was tomorrow’s news that was important, not today’s. Today’s had been shot down and buried in ink, then folded into neat paper caskets to be handed over to the procession that would follow it avidly. Only the unborn news-child of tomorrow was important.

I walked behind them, flipping the water from my hat brim, squinting until my eyes could adjust to the cool darkness of the place. Jerry Nolan was in the far booth, crouched over a plate of spaghetti, a late paper in his hand. I looked for his partner, Al Argenio, but didn’t see him.

I said, “Hi, Jerry.”

He didn’t even look up. “You’re poison, Regan.”

“Personal or departmental?”

A frown wrinkled the corners of his eyes, then he sat back and glanced up at me, the mark of his trade plain on his face. Sgt. Nolan, detective division. The law. And nothing was really important except the law. He pointed the paper at the chair opposite him. “Sit down, Regan.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m not being friendly. We just have to square some things away.”

“That’s going to take doing.”

“Yeah.” His eyes got narrow. “I don’t see how, but it’ll get done.”

I started to grin at him. It had been a long time coming, but at least I could still find some funny things left

“Don’t clown around about it, Regan. It’s no joke.”

The tight, stiff feeling I had had so long seemed to ooze out of me, a painful, swollen abscess of emotion finally gently bursting, still leaving the toxin, but obtaining relief.

I said, “That’s not right, Jerry. It is a joke. A damn big joke at that. Here the department didn’t bother to press an investigation on the graft charge because the brass figured me for a gone goose. I was a dead man to them.” My grin got bigger. “Now a charge will look ridiculous. They’ll have to say I took money that led to my committing a murder that never happened. The papers will really go for that one.”