Mickey Spillane - Survival... ZERO!

before the elderly couple frantically waving at the cabbie from the corner could make the run, I hopped in and closed the door. The driver saw my face in the rearview mirror and didn't try for the Sweetest Cabbie of the Year award. I gave him Renée's address and sat back while he pulled out into the traffic and U-turned at the corner to head north.

The ends. Why the hell don't they meet? It wasn't all that complicated, just a simple rundown of a lousy pickpocket who lost his haul to an honest guy who tried to keep him straight and killed to get it back. A lousy pickpocket who had hit the wrong pockets and now there were others looking for him too, but why? What did Woody Ballinger have to lose? Heidi Anders had a compact with her life wrapped up in white powder in a false bottom. She would have done anything for a single pop of the junk and damn near did until I creamed her out. Now it was Woody trying to beat me to Beaver.

The driver's radio blared out another of those special bulletins the networks loved to issue. In Buffalo, New York the police had shot and killed Tom-Tom Schneider's killers. The hostages were unharmed. Tomorrow the papers and TV would carry the full account and Pat Chambers could count on another day free of panic. But where the hell was Velda? Where was that lousy dip Beaver in the red vest and where were Woody Ballinger and his boys? The rain splattered against the windows and the radio went back to Dow-Jones averages and the cab pulled into the curb. I peeled off a five from my roll and handed it through the window to the driver.

The little patch on her head around the shaved area of her scalp was nearly unnoticeable, her hair covering it with the usual feminine vanity. I grinned at her, lying there under the covers and she smiled back, her eyes twinkling, "I know," she said, "under the covers, the nightgown . . . I'm stark naked."

"Lovely," I said.

"X-ray eyes?"

"Absolutely. I walk down Fifth Avenue and all those broads in their fancy clothes think they're hiding something? Hell, I look right through them and all I see is skin and hair and toenails that need cutting. Everybody's naked, sugar."

"Am I naked?"

"My X-ray eyes are out of order."

Renée looked at me and smiled, then pushed the covers down to her midriff, then all the way to her feet with a quick flip of her hand. Without taking her eyes off mine, she tugged at the nightgown, then slipped it over her head and tossed it to the floor.

"Now you'e naked," I said.

"You don't sound excited."

"I'm an old dog, kid. I had this happen before lunch." I lit up a butt and took a deep drag, then let the smoke blow across the bed.

"I could kill you."

"You are."

"How can you resist me?"

"It isn't easy. Luckily, you're a sick woman."

"Horse manure," Renée said. "Tell me how pretty I am."

I looked at her lying there. "You look like a perfect biological specimen. Everything's in the right place, the titties are pointing in the right direction, but a little saggy because you're flat out like that. The snatch is cute, very decorous, but for a connoisseur like me, maybe a little bushy. A touch with a pair of scissors might sharpen up the angles and trim it down to size...."

"Oh, you duty ..."

"Ah-ah ... you're a sick woman, remember?" I held up my hand to stop her. "But you look kissable and parts of you are wet and inviting and if I didn't have all the moral turpitude I was born with, do you know what I'd do?"

"I wish you'd just screw me and shut up."

"You got no class, Renée."

"You got no dick, Mike Hammer."

"Want references?" I asked her. "How's the head?"

She touched her scalp with her fingertips and winced. "Sore, but not that sore. I've been deliberately taking advantage of my ... condition, and staying bedridden."

"I know. And your boss is up in the air over your disappearance. It seems that he can't get along without you. I'm here on a rescue mission to get you back to work."

Her mouth formed a fake pout. "I thought you just wanted to see me."

"Right now I'm seeing all of you there is to see."

"You've missed the other side."

"Leave something to the imagination, will you? Besides, suppose that maid of your walks in here?"

"Oh, she'll understand."

I shook my head and laughed. Dames. "Get up and get

dressed. If you hustle I'll have a coffee with you while I use your phone."

Renée grimaced and tossed a pillow at me. "Your casual treatment is making me feel married, you big slob. How can you resist me like this?"

"It isn't easy at all, sugar. If I had the time I'd tear you apart."

"Nothing but promises."

I threw the pillow back at her and went back to the living room. The chubby little maid with the odd accent had her coat on and asked me to tell Miss Talmage she was leaving for the afternoon, but would be back around five to prepare supper. If she was needed, she could be reached at her sister's. Miss Tahnage had the number.

When she left I picked up the phone and called Henaghan at the New York City Department of Public Works. His second secretary found him and put him through.

"Hey, Mike," he yelled. "What's new?"

"Need some information, Henny."

"Well, this is a public department."

"See if you can check and find out what construction units have been issued permits for blasting inside the city limits. Can do?"

There was a small silence and Henaghan said, "Aw, Mike, have you taken a look around lately? This town is like a beehive. They're putting up stuff all over the place."

"Yeah, but they only blast during the ground operation. It shouldn't be all that difficult."

"Look, I'll give you a number ..."

"No dice. I'll get handed from file clerks to petty officials who'll want explanations and authorizations and still come up with year-old information. I could do better touring the city in a taxi taking notes and I haven't got that much time. You do it for me."

"Mike ..." Henny sounded harried.

"Or do you forget me having to run up to Albany to get you out of the can last summer? Or that time in Miami when ..."

"Okay, okay. Don't remind me. The memories are too painful. Where are you?"

I gave him the phone number.

"Stay there. It may take a little while, but I'll expedite things."

From the bedroom I heard the shower cut off and clothes hangers rattling in a closet. I stared absently at the rain slashing against the window and picked up the phone

again, dialed my office number and activated the tape recorder.

And Velda had finally called in. Her voice was crisp and hurried, no words wasted at all. She said, "Suspect located at Anton Virelli's area and running fast. Ballinger’s right behind him with his men but haven't pinpointed his location. If you haven't hit it yet, suspect goes by name of Beaver and knows he's being tracked. He's been working his way uptown and has something on his mind, probably a safe place to hide out. He should be making a move soon if he sticks to his timetable. My guess is he'll come out of the west end of the block so I'm going to take a chance and cover the Broadway side. Ill call back as soon as he shows."

That was the end of the message and I was about to hang up when another click signaled a further message and a voice said, "Uh, Mike? Like this is you or a machine. Mike?" There was a pause, then, "So you're automated. Everything's gone automated." I felt like telling that silly Caesar Mario Tulley to hurry up and get with it, but you don't rush the new generation. "You know how you was asking about that guy in the red vest? So I split a joint with an old friend and we get to talking and I asked and sure enough, he knows a guy who knows him. I'm going to see him later, so if you get down this way I'll be working around the Winter Garden. Maybe I'll have something for you. Uh ... how the hell do you say so long to a machine anyway?" He mumbled something else and the connection was ended.