Mickey Spillane - The Killing Man

"Can you prove otherwise?"

I thought a second. "No."

"The day he was killed he had come in to arrange something with you. Before you got there somebody else showed up and did the job, expecting to walk away with the information. He didn't have it on him, but he sure would have talked when he was getting his fingers whacked off."

This thing was really coming back at me. "Okay, what's my part?"

"He is your client, Mr. Hammer. He has told you all in return for an escape route you are to furnish."

"That's a lot of bullshit, you know."

A gesture of his hands meant it didn't make any difference. "You see, as far as certain people are concerned, you are in until they say you're out. The information Tony had can be worth a lot of money and can cause a lot of killing. One way or another, they expect to get it back."

"What happens if the cops get it first?"

"Nobody really expects that to happen," he said. He pulled his cuff back and looked at his watch. "If the killer didn't get the info from Tony he'll be thinking the same way the others are . . . that you have it or know where it is."

I took one more sip of my drink and stood up. "I guess everybody wants me dead."

"At least certain people are giving you a few days of grace to make a decision."

I could feel my lips pulling back in controlled anger and knew it wasn't a nice grin at all. I pulled the .45 out, watched his eyes go blank until I flipped out the clip and fingered a shell loose. I handed it to him. "Give them that," I said.

"What's this supposed to mean?"

"They'll know," I told him.

4

I've often wondered how Petey Benson got his information. The phone was his friend and the taxis were his ally. He seemed to know nobody, yet knew everybody. Twice in recent years his inside stories blew two administrations out of office and his penetration into a Wall Street operation almost wrecked a bank. Crime wasn't his bag, but devious causes were. Breaking down the intricate machinations of the power jockeys brought a glow to his face.

We met in front of the Plaza Hotel, then ducked inside to the bar. At this time there were only two others at the far end, immersed in their own business. Petey slid an envelope to me and I pulled out two sheets of handwritten notes and a photostat.

Petey asked me, "Want a drink?"

I wanted to read the notes, but said, "CC and ginger."

What he had scribbled were highlights of Candace Amory's background. Her family was one of those deadly kind that dropped a smoldering genius into the political arena every other generation, spewing out minor luminaries along the way. None of the Amorys ever really made the big time because they were smart enough to stay where the power base could be manipulated. Within her own family Candace Amory was a wild hair up everybody's ass, but seemingly controllable.

It was the photostat that laid it all out. Petey had finished his drink, so I pushed mine over to him. "Where did you get this?" I asked him.

"Trade secret."

What I had was an essay the Ice Lady had written. It was a statement of fact so direct, so concisely put together that I knew this was an exact timetable that Miss Amory was going to adhere to and fulfill. The young Candace was promising that she would be the district attorney of New York City, thence to the governorship of the state and from there to the presidency of the United States.

If she hadn't already made it into the DA's office and already insinuated herself into a first-class, spectacular news story, I would have said it was just the drivel the young and inexperienced enjoy fantasizing about.

But this was real.

"Clue me, Petey. Things like this just don't lay around. Where did you dig it up?"

"Buy me another drink."

I bought him another drink.

"You haven't figured it out yet?"

"No. I'm a dumb detective."

"Go to college, Mike?"

"Sure I did, why?"

"They make you do an essay on yourself as part of your admittance application?"

"Damn," I said. "That was pretty sharp, buddy. And they just handed this over to you?"

Across his fresh drink he said, "No, I stole it. You see, those are things I know how to do. Help any?"

"It gives me an edge," I told him.

"You'll need more than that if you tangle assholes with that lady."

"Well, no guts, no glory," I said. I reached in my pocket and dug out some change. "I suppose you know her phone number?"

He said sure and gave it to me, reminding me that it was unlisted. So much for privacy. "What're you calling her for?"

"I'm going to ask her out to supper."

"Hell, man, it's already supper time. Women don't buy that kind of action."

"This one might," I said.

I went out to a pay phone and called the Ice Lady. She said she had nothing better to do and would meet me at the Four Seasons. I told her she would meet me at the Pub on Fifty-seventh Street since I was buying. She knew better than to argue. I had a date.

Petey said, "Well?"

I glanced at my watch. "I'll see her in half an hour."

His mouth dropped open. "How did you manage that?"

"To paraphrase you, old buddy," I told him, "that is one of the things I know how to do."

What I didn't tell him was that I knew she'd been sitting there waiting for me to call ever since she put on that show with her titties.

The Irishman who ran the Pub gave me a big hello, reserved a table for me in back and set up a Miller Lite on the bar while I waited. I was early because I knew she'd be early. Anyone who wanted the presidency had to be early.

She smiled coming in the door and I said, "Good evening, Miss Amory."

"Hello, Mr. Hammer. Am I in time?"

"Right on the button. Want a drink at the bar or shall we go back to the table?"

"Oh, let's go to the table. It's been a long day. I'd rather sit down."

I waved toward the rear and let her follow the waiter. The Pub had good Irish class, great corned beef and typical New York customers. It wasn't upper crust and the elite choose other places to see or be seen, and from her surreptitious motions I knew Candace Amory was putting it in a niche of its own, adding another check mark on my character sheet.

When we sat down I said, "It's a good address."

Puzzled, she looked at me, a cigarette halfway to her lips. "What?"

"Nothing." I pointed to the butt between her fingers. "Why do you smoke?"

"Habit I suppose." Again she seemed puzzled.

"A mouth like yours doesn't need a cigarette in it."

Her tongue flicked out and wet her lips. "Oh? What does it need, Mr. Hammer?"

I gave her a little smile and her face got red. I got her off the hook nice and easy. "How about a hot corned beef sandwich?"

For a minute there some of the frost had melted on the Ice Lady, but the confusion only lasted a few moments. At least the first points were mine. She put the cigarette down.

A lot of things can get said across a dinner table. The mere fact of eating gives you time to think, to plan, to probe. We each had our own reasons for being there and all the weapons were out in the open.

The lady was coolly conscious of the way her dress accentuated the curve of her bosom, showing you just so much, yet letting you know there was so much more to be seen. When she'd walked to the table, shrugging the coat off her shoulders, she knew that eyes were watching her, drinking up her catlike grace, taking in sharp breaths at the sensuous rhythm of her walk. Now I had all her weaponry concentrated on me and I was glad I had enough years on me to tell me not to get blindsided like an amateur.

"Tell me, Mr. Hammer . . ."

"Mike."

"Then you may call me Candace."

"Never Candy?"

"No, never. And I am Candace only socially."