Mickey Spillane - Survival... ZERO!

I unclenched the knots my fingers were balled into and took a deep breath. Time, damn it, it was running out!

Before I could leave he added, "However, there was Mrs. Luden for whom I am making this coat for her grandson. She thought they were salesmen, but who would try to sell in this poor neighborhood? Not well dressed young men who arrive in a shiny new car. They knock on doors and are very polite."

I watched him, waiting, trying to stay relaxed.

"Perhaps they did find a customer. Not so long ago they went into Mrs. Stone's building across the street where the steps are broken and haven't come out."

The tension leaked out of my muscles like rain from my hair and I grinned humorously at Mr. Katz.

His eyes peered at me over his glasses. "Tell me, young man, you look like one thing, but you may be another. By one's appearance, you cannot tell. Are you a nice man?"

"I'm not one of them."

"Ah, but are you a nice man?"

"Maybe to some people," I said.

"That is good enough. Then I tell you something else. In Mrs. Stone's building ... there are not just two men. Three went up the first time, then a few minutes ago, another two. Be careful, young man. It is not good."

And now things were beginning to shape up!

I ran back into the rain and the night, cut across the street and found the building with the broken steps, took them two at a time on the side that still held and unsheathed the .45 and thumbed the hammer back. The front door was partially ajar and I slammed it open with the flat of my hand and tried to see into the inkwell of the vestibule. It took seconds for my eyes to adjust, then I spotted the staircase and started toward it.

And time ran out.

From a couple of floors up was a crash of splintering wood, a hoarse yell and the dull blast of heavy caliber guns in rapid fire, punctuated by the flatter pops of lighter ones. Somebody screamed in wild agony and a single curse ripped through the musty air. I didn't bother trying to be quiet. I took the steps two at a time and almost made the top when I saw the melee at the top lit momentarily in the burst of gunfire, then one figure burst through the others and came smashing down on top of me in a welter of arms and legs, gurgling wetly with those strange final sounds of death, and we both went backward down the staircase into an old cast iron radiator with sharp edges that bit into my skull in a blinding welter of pain and light.

CHAPTER 11

Velda was crying through some distant rage. I heard her say, "Damn it, Mike, you're all right! You're all right! Mike ... answer me!"

My head felt like it was split wide open and I felt myself gag and almost threw up. The light from Velda's flash whipped into my eyes, beating at my brain like a club for a second until I pushed it away.

"Mike ...?"

"I'm not shot," I said flatly.

"Damn you, why didn't you wait? Why didn't you call …"

"Ease off." I pushed to my knees and took the flash from her and turned it on the body. There was a bloody froth around the mouth and the eyes were glassy and staring. Sammy had bought his farm too.

Across the street people were shouting and a siren had started to whine. I let Velda help me up, then groped my way up the stairs to the top. The President wouldn't have to have a heart attack after this. The pictures would take care of all the gory news the public was interested in. Carl was sprawled out face down on the kitchen floor of the apartment with half his head blown away, a skinny little guy in a plaid sports coat and dirty jeans was tied to a chair with a hole in his chest big enough to throw a cat through, his toupee flopping over one ear. Like the little whore had told me, one was partially bald. Woody Ballinger was in a curiously lifelike position of being asleep with his head on an overturned garbage sack, one hand over his heart like a patriotic citizen watching the flag go by. Only his hand covered a gaping wound that was all bright red and runny.

That was all.

Beaver wasn't there.

I walked over and looked at the broken chair beside the table with the ropes in loose coils around the remnants.

Somebody else had been tied up too. Behind the chair was a broken window leading to the rear fire escape and on one of the shards of glass was a neat little triangle of red wool. The kind they make vests out of.

The flash picked out an unbroken bulb and I snapped it on. In the dull light it looked even messier and Velda made heaving noises in her throat.

I looked at the table top and knew why Woody wanted Beaver so badly. His policy code sequence identifying the workings of his organization was laid out there on a single sheet of typewritten paper that had been folded so that it would fit a pocket wallet.

And that was why Woody wanted Beaver. But who had wanted Woody?

My head felt like it wanted to burst. In a minute the place would be crawling with cops. And outside, there still was Beaver, and I wanted him.

I shoved the unfired .45 back in the sling and turned to Velda. "You stay here and handle it, kitten. Give them as much as you know, but give me running tune."

"Mike ..."

"This was only one stop on Beaver's route. He's heading someplace else." I went over to the window and put one leg through. "How did you know about this place?"

"One of Anton Virelli's runners saw Woody's car here. He reported in."

"You see anybody leave the building?"

"I'm ... not sure. I was looking for you."

"Okay, sugar. Stall 'em. They're coming up."

Austin Towers had had more than the hour he expected and he hadn't wasted any of it. Caesar and his friend were sitting up, shivering under cold wet sheets, trying to keep their feet off the sodden rug on the floor. The dull luster was still in their eyes, but they were awake enough to mumble complaints at Towers who threatened them with another bucket of ice water if they tried to get up.

When he heard me come in he almost dropped the pail and stood stiff in his tracks, waiting to see if I approved or not. Caesar let his head sag toward me and managed a sick grin. "Hi, Mike. Get... get this bastard ... outa here."

"Shut up, punk." I took the pail from Towers and sat it on the floor. "How good are they?"

"Man, I tried. Honest ..."

"Can they think coherently?"

"Yeah, I'd say so. It ain't exactly like a booze hangover. They . . ."

"Okay then, cut out." He started to move around me and I grabbed his arm. Very slowly I brought the .45 up where he could see it. His face went pasty white and his knees started to sag. "This is the kind of trouble that stuff brings. You're not invulnerable ... and kid, you're sure expendable as hell. Start thinking twice before you peddle that crap again."

His head bobbed in a nod and new life came back into his legs. "Man," he said, "I'm thinking! I'm thinking right now."

I let him go. "Scram."

He didn't wait for me to repeat the invitation. He even left his coat on the back of the chair. Caesar chuckled and tried to unwrap himself from the sheet. "Thanks, old pal Mike. That guy ... he sure was bugging us. Gimme a hand. I'm freezing to death."

"In a minute." I glanced at the other guy, slack-lipped and bony, like a sparrow under the wet cloth. "This the guy you were going to meet about Beaver?"

"Sure, Mike." He let out a belch and moaned, his teeth chattering. "So we meet like I said."

"You were going to meet me too, Caesar."

His face tried to scowl. "Look, if you're going to be like that ..." He saw me pick up the pail. "Okay, okay. I'm sorry. It ain't the end of the world."

I almost felt like telling him right then.

"Hey, Mister." The other one looked like he was coming apart at the seams. "I did like Caesar asked. My friend, he told me where this guy ... the one in the red vest, where he flops."