Mickey Spillane - Kiss Her Goodbye

She was blonde and young but the frozen grimace wiped out any prettiness she might have had. There was terror in her half-open eyes and her chin drooped into a silent death laugh. She hadn't been down more than thirty seconds because blood was still puddling from the gaping wound in her chest.

Pat checked her pulse, nodded at me, then both of us moved at the same time, running away from the body to cover both ends of the street. But there was no movement, no sounds of panicky feet or the odd noises of somebody trying to be quiet when things are closing in. It was one of those damned unlivable streets you find here and there in the city, condemned, partially dismantled, dirty, and only good as a walkway from one avenue to another—that is, if you didn't give a flying fuck for your life.

Back at the car, Pat finished calling in the kill and asked, "Nothing?"

I shook my head. "There are a dozen open basements on either side that anybody could have dropped into. You know these buildings. Those tunnels go right through to the other street."

"There are cars coming in from both sides. We may get lucky."

"No way," I told him. "These street people make a science out of disappearing." I shook a finger at the corpse. "Put the light on her hand."

Pat flashed the beam over and saw what I meant. A thin purse strap was still clutched in her fingers, the cut-off loop of it going around her wrist, the bag itself M.I.A.

The captain of Homicide swore under his breath. "Kid like that, dead—over a lousy goddamn mugging."

"Looks like he came up behind her, and she spun around when he made a grab for the purse, and he stuck her when she started to scream."

Pat thought about it a moment. "Usually this kind of mugging would be a face-to-face job."

"If he were waiting for a patsy around here, he'd have a long damn wait. No—this mugger followed her. And if she's a hooker, she doesn't belong around here, not in that spring frock."

She was maybe twenty-five, slender, and you could tell she'd had a nice shape until death twisted it into a kind of question mark that left her very physicality asking Why? The butter-color hair was long and curled and styled, the dress was a pink and white floral with short-sleeve cuffs, worn with nude panty hose and pink pumps.

"Hell, Mike, it's fifty yards to either corner. She would have heard him."

"Not if he were wearing sneakers. These bastards stay in step with the victim, but faster. She only heard her own feet. Dig her shoes—they're heavy leather heels and soles."

Before he could answer, the first squad car turned the corner. Behind it, we could hear the siren of the following one.

But for Pat's taste, they were on the slow side, and he said, "We're going to have to motivate these drivers a little more."

It was less than an hour before they were finished. The area had been covered by a search team that turned up one sodden drunk passed out in an alley, the photos had all been shot, and Pat had given all the details to the only reporter who bothered to show up, a young kid from the News. In New York, only muggings with a death involved got any notice at all.

The odd note was the arrival of a new white Japanese sports car that nosed right in between the police cruisers and, with an impatient blast of the horn, signaled two of the uniforms to make room at the curb. Ordinarily anybody who pulled a stunt like that would be snatched out of the car and laid down for a full inspection; but the officers just edged out of the sporty number's way.

Pat was squatting down beside the body, going over final details with Les Graves, a fifty-ish, heavyset, graying detective from Homicide South.

I knelt next to them and asked, "Anything?"

Graves snapped his miniature flashlight off and clipped it on his pocket. "Unless she's got something tattooed on her, she's clean. Any I.D. would've been in her purse."

Pat got back on his feet. "Well, we'll see how we make out with her prints and the laundry marks."

The door to the white car opened, but until the driver got into the glare of the headlights, I couldn't tell who the guy was.

Some "guy."

Some pussycat—a tallish, black-haired doll in a gray pants suit with black trim housing a body with curves even her sports car would find it a challenge to navigate. Self-confidence was there in her face with its hooded yet sharp dark eyes, daring anybody to doubt her—the new breed of professional woman who wasn't afraid to stay feminine while she broke your very balls.

I asked, "Who the hell's that?"

Graves thought I was kidding until Pat said, "He's been away, Les."

"Oh."

"She's an assistant D.A.," Pat told me, "and a real pisser." He turned and waved to the pair on the morgue wagon. "You can take it now."

But the lady assistant D.A. called out, " Just one moment, " and clicked over on heels to step in front of them.

I could feel myself starting to grin because this little scene was about to be a real beaut. I had known Pat too many years not to realize what was about to happen, and this pretty little broad—well, not so little—was about to get her ass chewed out by an expert.

But the show she just put on spoke of political clout and I wasn't about to let Pat get hung out on a hook to dry.

So I shoved my hat back and got right in her face where she could get a good look at all my teeth. And I have a few.

"Lady," I said, "I don't know what you think you're pulling, but this is a crime scene. I'd advise you to get your attractive tail back in that un-American bucket and beat it the hell out of here."

One of the uniforms choked back a laugh so hard he farted.

Les snapped his head around and growled at his boys, "Who did that?"

This pulled all the heat out of Pat and, despite his frown, his eyes were grinning like hell. A fart in the night had broken the ice—who'd have thunk it?

Pat pushed me out of the way nice and easy, laying all the apologetic charm he could dredge up. "I'm very sorry, Ms. Marshall, but this, uh, detective didn't recognize you. And this is a crime scene."

The cockiness she had rocketed in with had been shot down and she wasn't going to let it get worse. When she thought she had it together, she slowly turned to me to deliver that big stare that withers the weak, but my teeth were still on display and I don't remember the last time I withered.

She took a good look at me and knew not to take me on.

Smart.

Softly, yet loud enough for all to hear, she said, "Captain Chambers, I want this detective in my office at nine tomorrow morning," then hip-swayed back to her car, got in, and drove off, in full control again.

The guy with the body bag at the mouth of the morgue wagon looked at Pat. "Now?"

"Sure. Go ahead."

I had my hands on my hips and was looking in the direction where she'd disappeared. "What was she all about, Pat?"

"Ms. Marshall came in on the last election."

"Any good?"

Pat shrugged. "Started out a civil-rights attorney. They got good ones and they got bad ones, but this one's a pain in the ass."

"In what way?"

"She has a radio in her car and keeps sticking her pretty butt in where it doesn't belong."

"Well, at least she's interested."

"Interested in spotting the important cases."

"Why, is this one of 'em?"

He shrugged. "Doesn't look like it. But she's always out trolling for headlines. That was a good try you gave, cutting her down a notch."

I said, "Whoever farted wins the medal on that one."

Behind Pat they were lifting the body into the rubber bag. Rigidity had set in and an arm flopped down, something flashing near a cuffed short sleeve, the edge of which the attendant grabbed to lift the limb back in place.