Микки Спиллейн - So Long, Chief

As if the sky had already done that, Pat came running from somewhere, also in raincoat and hat. When he saw me, he slowed and then we stood there while he lit up a Lucky. He was the kind of gentleman who didn’t like to smoke at a table in a restaurant when a lady was in the party. But this was something else.

“I’m sorry I’m late, Mike,” he said. “All hell’s broken loose at the Plaza.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re not going to believe this, but Milroy went home this afternoon and blew his brains out in his den.”

“No.”

“He used a gun that once belonged to the Chief. They were really tight, you know. It was probably a gift to him.”

“Probably.”

Pat drew in smoke, exhaled it, sending a small blue cloud up to join the big bad black ones. “He left a note. Turns out he had a brain tumor. Been having blinding headaches and just couldn’t take it anymore.”

“Pity. Will there be an autopsy?”

“No. What the hell for?” Then he eyed me sideways with the usual suspicion. “You don’t sniff foul play, do you, Mike? Some suicides really are suicides, you know.”

“No, no. You’re right.”

“Probably the Chief’s murder sent him over the edge. You never really know people, do you?” He sighed and pitched the cigarette sparking toward the street. “Velda inside?”

“Yeah. Go in and join her, will you? Something I need to take care of.”

“Sure.”

Pat went in.

The sky came apart in pieces, thunder like cannon fire, rain sheeting down. I slipped under the Blue Ribbon canopy and still got wet, watching jagged white streaks carve the deep black smoke of it.

I walked through the downpour to the curb, let the key bounce in the palm of my hand a few times, then tossed it into the gutter, where the rush of water carried it to the sewer and gone.

“So long, Chief,” I said, and went inside.