Mickey Spillane - Survival... ZERO!

Damn, it was closing in fast. The ends were beginning to meet, but they were all tied up inside a tape recorder and I had to wait for the spool to roll. But Velda had narrowed it down somewhat. Anton Virelli was a bookie who operated from a storefront on Ninety-second Street just off Broadway. At least now I knew what area to concentrate on. I called Pat and rousted him out of bed at home. He hadn't had much sleep, but he softened the growl in his voice and listened when I gave him the information. He thought he could tap a couple of plain-clothesmen to probe the area for Beaver and he could get a warrant out for Woody and his boys that might slow them down long enough for us to reach our man first. I thanked him and hung up,

A lovely voice behind me said, "Beaver. What an odd name. The people you know."

I turned around and Renée was standing there, fresh from the shower, her hair piled on top of her head,

wrapped in a heavy white terry-cloth robe belted tightly enough to make her a living hourglass. She smelled of summery fragrances and bath oils and she pirouetted gracefully so I could see all of her, then wrinkled her nose at me, brought in a tray with a coffee pot and two cups and sat down.

"Great," she said. "Naked, I get no reaction. Completely covered in an old robe you simper like a kid. What's with you men?"

I took the coffee she handed me. "We like the mystery better."

"Liar. Business is more important to you. What have you been so busy about and who is Beaver? Another one of your friends who shoot at people?"

"I never met the guy."

She gave me a hurt look. "All right, you don't have to tell me anything. But don't blame me for being curious, please. After all, I did get shot and it was a new experience, one that I wouldn't like to repeat, and I thought some kind of explanation might be in order."

Wind from the river rattled the window and the rain tried to claw its way in. I looked at her and grinned. Hell, she was entitled. I fished in my pocket and took out the three photos of Beaver, handing her one. I let her look at it while I started from the beginning and brought her up to date. But it was really me I was talking to, trying to jell the details in my mind, picking out the strange little flaws and attempting to force in things that didn't belong or should have.

She handed the picture back and I stuck it in my pocket.

The phone still sat there, impassive and unconcerned with it all.

The muscles were tight across my back and my hands were knotted into balls of rage.

"Mike ..." she came over to me and unbuttoned my jacket, then slipped it off, her hands kneading the back of my neck. I closed my eyes and felt the tension begin to melt under the gentle pressure of her fingers. She tugged the shoulder harness off then and let the .45 drop to the floor, then it was my tie and my shirt, her hands working their way across my chest and arms. Her palms pushed me back on the couch and her fingers worked at my belt and I just let her go ahead until she was done. I felt her stand up, heard the soft whisper of cloth and let my eyes slit open a bare fraction and watched her standing there warmly nude and smiling. "Don't move," she said.

I closed my eyes again, wiping out all thought for the minute she was gone, then heard her come in and opened them again. She threw a pillow on the floor beside the couch, knelt down with her arms outstretched and the vibrator she had attached to her hand started to pulsate crazily as she started at my neck and began a slow, deliberate journey into other areas.

Time went by in slow, lazy circles, then the erotic tingling of the vibrator stopped and a more intense sensation replaced it until time erupted into an explosive spiral that diminished out of sight and left me gasping for breath.

On the table the phone had come to life.

I opened my eyes and Renée said, "Good?"

"Beautiful."

I reached over and picked up the receiver.

Henaghan told me I probably could have done better with the taxi ride, but came up with five places conducting blasting operations at the moment. I wrote them all down, thanked him and hung up, looking at the list in my hand.

Only one place was above Fifty-Second Street, an area off Columbus Avenue at One Hundred-tenth Street. And that wasn't anywhere near Anton Virelli's territory at all. If Velda was holding down a stakeout around Ninety-second and Broadway, she was doing it alone. Somehow Beaver had cut loose earlier and with more manpower to cover the exits, Woody and his boys had caught his move and had him cornered in another location.

In a way it was a relief to me. She was out of the action now and I wanted to keep it that way. If Velda didn't tumble to the fact that Beaver was gone I could move in alone without sweating about her catching a slug. I looked at the paper again and swore softly. An area, that's all it was. A big flat area with hundreds of holes to crawl into. Those blasting signals were clear, but distant, tonal enough to penetrate phone booth walls or old apartments. There wasn't any chance of tracking down every telephone in the neighborhood at all. What I needed was an address. Beaver was heading for one definite spot, that was sure. One place where he figured he'd be safe. He was enough of an old hand to stay out of the hands of other pros so far and he'd be playing it smart and cagy.

Caesar Mario Tulley was going to get me that address.

Renée had slipped back into her robe and was sitting on the end of the couch, watching me with a small, wistful smile. "I hate telephones," she said.

"Things are beginning to move."

"I know. You came, now you have to go."

"Your turn the next time," I said.

"It's all right, Mike. Some things are more important than others." She saw me frowning, not knowing how to answer her, and nodded. "Really, I understand," she added.

"Beaver's someplace around Columbus and a Hundred-tenth Street, Woody's boys have him hemmed in. He's probably pinned down temporarily, but not located yet. I want first crack at that bastard."

"You know where he is?"

"No, but somebody else might have the answer."

"Mike ..." Renée's face went soft and worried. "Please be careful. I would like to see you again."

"You will."

"This wild business of yours ... well, I guess I've been in a pretty distant world." She licked her lips and shook her head in disbelief. "Dead people ... I've been shot ..." her eyes met mine then, "... and you, Mike."

"Things aren't all that bad," I said.

She tried to smile, but it was forced. I suddenly felt pretty silly standing there without any clothes on. She knew what I was feeling, faked a grin, then stood up and frowned. Her hand shot out to the table to support herself.

"You all right?" I asked her.

She touched the side of her head, blinked, then nodded, taking a deep breath. "Just my head. I still can't move too quickly. I get dizzy when I do." Her smile came back, this time with natural ease. "Why don't you go inside and get dressed? I'm going to call my maid back. There are times when I just don't like to be left alone."

I picked up my clothes, somehow feeling guilty, and went into the bedroom. I showered quickly, climbed into my clothes, snugged the .45 down in its sling and went back into the living room.

For a minute I thought she wasn't there, then I saw a small upturned palm sticking out from behind the chair and half ran to where she was lying. Her eyes were partially slitted open and a trickle of blood was oozing down from under the pad on her scalp.

I got my hands under her arms and lifted her to the couch, stretching her out with a pillow under her feet. A couple of ice-cold wet towels finally brought a flicker to her eyes and she moaned softly. "What the hell happened, kid?"

She let her eyelids close, then open. "I was ... calling Maria . .. and I fainted." I looked at the compress on her head. One end had come loose from where it had evidently hit something. She winced and pushed my hand away.