Mickey Spillane - The Killing Man

All of the Ice Lady's emotions were exposed in a flash, the crudity of the suggestion, the daring of the act, the shame of exposure, the desire to do the unthinkable. It was one beautiful expression.

But she couldn't lose. She said, "You're on."

I finished the drink and put the glass down. "How many guesses do I get?"

"Just one."

"Fair enough." I leaned back in the chair and looked at her. The music playing was Brahms's Hungarian Dance No. 5. "You plan to be . . . no, you intend to be, without a shadow of doubt you know you have to be and will be . . ." She wasn't breathing. She was sitting there with a strange, stark look on her face. ". . . the president of the United States."

The back of her hand went to her mouth very slowly. Her eyes were wide, shocked, her lovely mouth opened slightly with astonishment tinged with fear because I was completely inside her mind.

"No!" I could hardly hear her. "It's impossible. No one knows. I . . . I've never mentioned it to anyone. Never. You can't possibly know this." She got to her feet slowly, putting her glass down before she dropped it. For a moment she almost lost her composure. "How did . . . you know?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does."

"Experience. I won, didn't I?"

"Yes."

"I'm waiting," I said.

"You will never mention this to anyone, never."

"Why should I?"

Her lower lip went between her teeth and she stared at me. She was wondering how she'd lost all control of the situation. Her initial plan had gotten out of hand and now she had to put her integrity on the line.

The dress was a simple but dramatic arrangement. Her hand went to her chest and found the concealed zipper. She pulled it down quickly, not for effect, but because had she not she wouldn't be able to pay her debt at all.

My Ice Lady was hurting, but determined. She took a deep breath and I knew what she was going to do next.

I said, "Don't."

Her hands held the dress she was about to pull open locked to her breasts. "It's a debt I owe," she forced out.

"Wrong. It was a dirty trick I pulled."

"Mike . . . don't lie. What you said was true and no way outside of reading my mind you could have known."

"Zip up, Candace. If I really wanted you naked, I would have gotten you that way myself."

"Then why did you . . . ?"

"I wanted to see if you'd stick to your word."

Her fingers reached for the zipper and drew it up, slowly this time. A tiny feeling of anger showed in the tightness of her mouth, but there was hurt in her eyes. That was something I didn't expect to see.

"You really don't want me, do you?"

"Don't fool yourself, honey. I thought about it the first time I saw you and have ever since. You don't have to tell me you haven't been in the sack with anybody yet . . . no woman aching for the presidency in these days had better take that chance. That much I know. But now I like what I see better than I did before." I reached for my hat and pushed out of the chair.

"Mike . . . if you had lost . . . would you have told me about Penta?"

I didn't have to lie my way out of that. I said, "The point is moot, kid. I didn't lose." I winked at her and stuck my hat on. "Thanks for the drink."

She smiled when I walked past her toward the door and just as I was reaching for the knob, she said, "Mike . . ."

I looked back and suddenly had one of those feelings that I had been here before in another time.

The Ice Lady had let her dress crumple at her feet in soft folds and she had been wearing nothing beneath it. She was nude rather than naked, not icy at all, but warm and beautiful and so alive I could see the gentle movements of her breathing. Very alive. The nipples of her breasts were proudly erect.

She smiled at me. I smiled back and opened the door.

The desk nurse at the hospital was glad to have somebody to talk to, even at midnight. Velda was still under sedation, but definitely improving.

The doctors had been in twice that day and were pleased with her progress. Yes, a police officer was still at the door and no, they never wandered off. Officers would relieve each other at regular intervals. I thanked her, hung up and dialed Petey Benson at his apartment.

As I expected, he was having a beer in front of the TV and when he recognized my voice, asked, "How'd you make out?"

"Like brother and sister," I told him.

"Yeah, I bet. What's up this time?"

"You have any connections in England?"

"Hey, England's a big place."

"Manchester, England."

"Well, there's a sportswriter on the Manchester Guardian I met in London at a football game. Not like our football, but like soccer . . ."

"I know what you mean," I snapped impatiently. Don't steer him and Petey would go off into every odd angle. "How can I reach him?"

"Got a pencil?"

"Sure."

"Then I'll give you his number." He rustled some pages in his phone book, then read the number off to me. "I think we're five hours behind them over there. Call him a little later and you might get him in."

"Okay. I'm going to use your name."

"Be my guest. I don't suppose you want to tell me what this is all about."

"Later," I said.

Russell Graves was in and "delighted indeed" to speak to someone in the colonies. Actually, in fact, it was the first overseas call he had ever gotten, as he put it. Petey was some sort of a hero figure to him, an American crime reporter who had a fat expense account and was assigned to the really exciting cases. When I told him I was a real American private eye who was working with Petey and needed an overseas connection he got so worked up I thought he'd cream his jeans. He made sure I knew he was only a sports reporter, but I told him that crime was everywhere, even in sports, so that shouldn't stop him.

"Well, then, Mr. Hammer, what is it you wish me to do?"

"Sometime back an American was murdered outside Manchester. I don't know his name and can't describe him, but he was a federal agent working over there."

"That sounds awfully vague, Mr. Hammer."

"Possibly, but murders in your country aren't all that frequent."

"Times have changed somewhat, sir."

"I realize that. But this is an American who was killed. If it happened in the countryside somebody would be aware of it. There's one other thing . . . this kill could have been a vicious one."

"Vicious?"

"Not a clean kill. There might be something pretty nasty about it. You know what I mean?"

"Yes," he said, "I believe I do."

"Now," I went on, "there's a possibility that our government and yours are playing this matter down, but we're looking for a killer who hit over there and here, and likely will try to hit someplace else too. That's why I suggest you look outside the normal channels for anything on the murder over there."

"Is there any way I can get a story out of this? I'm sure my editor would see it in my favor . . ."

"Guaranteed, Russell. You and Petey can have it together if it works out."

That was enough for him. I gave him my home and office numbers, told him to call person-to-person and if he could expedite matters any, I'd get him tickets the next time our pro teams staged a preseason football game in a British stadium.

When I hung up, I got a cold beer out of the refrigerator, drank it down in two long draughts, as the British would say, and went to bed.

5

I parked the car a half block down from Smiley's Automotive, got out and took a look around. Lower Manhattan had a lot of areas like this, old buildings eroding away from lack of maintenance, homes to run-down shops dealing in out-of-date or surplus goods. The smell of Butyl rubber came from a tire-recapping place that had opened early. Outside their doors two guys were unloading casings from a pickup truck. One place had a TOOL-AND-DIE sign in the window, but didn't look as if it did any business at all. There was a plate-glass shop that looked stable and another garage, just opening, that specialized in TUNE UP AND REPAIRS. A few other places looked like they were closed for good.