Mickey Spillane - Kiss Her Goodbye

"Like I said—a few days. I'll call ahead of time. When Buzz comes in tonight, cancel that fishing trip."

"Sure thing." He let a long moment go by, then asked me with a frown, "Who knew where to get a hold of you down here?"

"I told you before, Marty—I left word with nobody. But the caller was a cop. He's a damn good friend and probably knew where I was all along."

"Really?"

"Really. Probably tracked me right from the beginning, which would've been hard but not impossible. I wasn't in good enough shape to lay a decent cover down."

His eyes widened. "But if your cop pal could find you, so could somebody else ..."

I waved that off, too. "Forget it. Nobody's on my tail. I am very old news."

"Mike ..."

"I told you before, Marty—they went down, I went down. It's all evened out. Nobody wants to start that crap all over again. Like Capone said, 'It ain't good business.'"

"Do I need to take on extra security precautions down here?"

"No. I won't be hiding in New York. If somebody wants to settle a score, that's where they'll do it. Anybody who wants to find me? Can."

But Marty looked worried. His war was a long time ago, and he was used to a life of sun and fun and boats and bikinis.

"They might follow you back, Mike, before settling that score. In Manhattan, you'll have your cop buddies around you. They're all badges and guns, and who the hell wants to take on that combo?"

"Marty, you got one hell of an imagination. It's not like I registered here under my own name."

"Bullshit. Do me one favor—when you're finished burying your friend, and whoever else the fuck you bury—sneak back down here, really make it on the sly, okay? Bullets flying might discourage return visits by guests."

"Pal, I'm an old pro at that sort of stuff. Now get back in the pool and play with your pussycats."

He grinned and waved goodbye and jumped back in the pool. Those two dolls together didn't add up to his age, but he was a bigger kid than they ever were. Still, he'd got me thinking.

So I went back to the cabin, got the .45 and speed rig out of their hiding place, and stuffed the holstered gun in the soft-pac between my underwear and shirts.

When you went to Florida, you took your fishing rod. For Manhattan, a rod of a different kind was called for.

I picked up the Piedmont flight at Key West and watched as the Florida Keys passed by under the wing. This time of year, traffic was light. The winter tourists had packed their gear and made the yearly trek north to escape the clean heat and humidity of summer to broil in their own sweat and the clamminess of those big cities where the graffiti grew.

At Miami I got a direct flight to New York and watched the ocean with its little toy boats until the coastline came into view again with its cities that thickened the farther north we got. At one time I would have felt like I was coming back to something alive, something vital, and would have had a drink in anticipation of hitting the Big Apple.

But it wasn't like that at all. At dusk from fifteen thousand feet, it was all fireflies and Christmas tree bulbs, winking and blinking; wormy lines of a million car lights on endless paths to nowhere, just keeping that big octopus down there in motion.

We landed at LaGuardia and I took my damn time getting down to the baggage claim. I didn't want that hot spot behind my ribs to begin kicking up again. When I had my bag, I walked out to the taxi stand, my fellow passengers long gone, and after a thirty-second wait got into a taxi and told the guy to take me to the Pub on East Fifty-seventh Street.

Now it was the city's turn to pass in review and it did a lousy job. Nothing had changed. No sudden sense of déjà vu—the smells were the same, the noise still grating, the people out there looking and waiting but never seeing anything at all. If they did, they sure as hell didn't let anyone know about it.

Going over the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge, the sounds and smells brought the city up closer and I was almost ready to crawl back into it by the time my cab turned off the East Side Highway. A few drops of rain splattered on the cab's windshield and I put my hat on. Up here it didn't feel out of place.

At the curb in front of the Pub, I passed a twenty and a five over the seat and told the driver to keep the change. For a second I caught his eye in the rearview mirror, a bald black guy with a graying beard that had a big blossoming smile in its midst as he said, "You been away, Mike?"

That's New York. The first native you see puts a finger right on you, as if he were your best buddy, and it almost makes you want to revamp your negative thinking.

I grinned back at him. "Why, you miss me?"

"Never see you at the jazz clubs anymore."

"I had to lay back a while."

"Yeah, yeah—there was something in the papers. You and that Bonetti kid. They clip you bad, Mike?"

I shrugged. "One in the side that went right through, and another that fragged my ass. A piece is still in there."

"Yeah, man." He shook his head. "I got one like that in Korea. Worked itself all the way down my leg and came out the back of my friggin' knee. That stuff travels. You take care, Mike."

"Sure, man," I said, and got out of the cab.

And there was Pat Chambers, a big rangy guy with gray eyes, an off-the-rack suit, and a mouth twisted in that soft cop grin he gets when the suspect drops it all down on tape and the case is closed on his end. He held out his hand and I took it.

"Welcome home, friend," he said.

"It was a fast year," I told him. "How have you been?"

"Still a captain. I think I'm glued in there."

"Too bad. Inspector Chambers has a nice ring."

"Not holding my breath. Hungry?"

"Starving. I skipped eating on the plane—a TV dinner at thirty thousand feet, I don't need. I hope those Irishers still know how to serve up the corned beef."

"Best in New York. Hell, you ought to know, Mike—you discovered the place."

I nodded, dropping back into the past again. All I did was follow the boys from Dublin who served out their apprenticeships at P.J. Gallagher's and opened up their own spot in real Irish-American tradition. And now their corned beef was a tradition all its own.

The supper crowd was three deep at the bar with all the happy noises that come when the Dow Jones is up and a few drinks are down. I waved at the bartenders, got a wink back, and followed Pat to the booth in the restaurant section.

When we were seated, Pat said, "You drinking anything?"

"Yeah. A Miller will go good."

"You mean with the corned beef special?"

"Natch."

He looked up at the waiter. "I'll have the same." He leaned back then, waited a moment, and asked, "How you feeling, Mike?"

"Fine—another few months and I'll be off the medication. I'm not running any footraces, but I managed to stay in shape."

"I don't mean that way."

His eyes were searching me now, friendly, curious, but still searching.

"Why, Pat? You think I might have an attitude problem?"

"Don't you always?"

After a moment, I said, "Not anymore."

"I asked you how you're feeling, Mike."

"And I said fine. Hell, man. I've been shot before."

"Yeah, and you've crawled off to recuperate before. But it never took you this long to show your face again."

"Maybe I'm getting older," I told him. "Why, did you miss me?"

"Yeah. Like an amputated leg that you keep trying to scratch."

The corned beef and beer came then, thick slabs of meat steaming on top of a huge baked potato, the beer foaming down the iced mug. We hoisted our glasses in a silent toast, gulped down half the contents, and got to the main course.

I let Pat take his time getting back to the questions again. They were all the same ones I had asked myself, but this time I had to give an answer.