Mickey Spillane - The Snake

"No." She pulled on her raincoat and belted it. "If I don't push you you'll never come."

"I suppose you have a key."

"Naturally."

"Change the damn lock."

She made a face and walked to the door. "So I'll do like you and shoot it off. Adios, doll."

Sonny Motley had closed his shop an hour ago, but the newsboy was still in his kiosk and told me the old guy had a beer or so every night in a joint two blocks down.

It was a sleazy little bar that had sort of just withered within the neighborhood, making enough to keep going, but nothing more. A half-dozen tables lined one wall and the air smelled of beer and greasy hamburgers. Two old broads were yakking it up at the bar, a couple of kids were at the other end watching the fights on TV while they pulled at their drinks, and Sonny Motley sat alone at the last table with a beer in front of him and a late-edition tabloid open in front of him. Beside his feet was a lunchbox and change of a dollar on the table.

I sat down opposite him and said, "Hello, Sonny."

He looked up, closed the paper, and gave me a half-toothless smile. "By damn, didn't expect you. Good you should come. I don't see many people socially."

"This isn't exactly social."

"'Course not. When does a private cop and a con get social? But for me any talk is social. Sometimes I wish I didn't finish my time. At least then I'd get to see a parole officer for a chat once in a while. But who the hell has time for an old guy like me?"

"Ever see any of your old mob, Sonny?"

"Come on... what's your name? Hammer... He ticked off his fingers, "Gleason, Tippy Wells, Harry the Fox, Guido Sunchi... all dead. Vinny Pauncho is in the nuthouse up by Beacon and that crazy Willie Fingers is doing his big stretch yet in Atlanta. I wrote to Willie once and never even heard back. Who's left?"

"Blackie Conley."

"Yeah, he's left dead."

"Sim Torrence thinks he might have made it."

"Baloney."

I told the bartender to bring me a beer and turned back to Sonny. "Suppose he did."

"So let him."

"Suppose he came back with the three million bucks you guys heisted?"

Sonny laughed abruptly and smacked his hands on the table. "That would be the funniest yet. What the hell could he do with it? All that stud wanted was broads and at his age it would be like shoving a wet noodle up a tiger's... no, Hammer, it wouldn't do him no good at all." He sat back and chuckled at the thought and waved for another beer.

"Let's consider it," I insisted.

"Sure, go ahead."

"So he's old. He wants one more crack at the big-time.

"Who the hell would listen to him?"

"You could pull a power play from behind the scenes. Three million bucks can do a lot of talking and if somebody is fronting for you who knows what you look like?"

Sonny stopped smiling then, his face wrapped in thought. Then he dragged on the beer and put half of it down at once. "No," he said, "Blackie ain't coming back, Hammer. He never ain't."

"Why not?"

His grin was tight-lipped, satisfied with what he was thinking. "Because I nailed old Blackie, I did. Man, with a rod I was good. I mean good, Hammer. You know he got me with that damn rifle. It put me down and stopped me, but I had one chance at him when he took off in that taxi and let one go while he still had the rifle poked out the window. I didn't miss with that shot. I think I got old Blackie and he crawled off and died or wound himself and the taxi both up in the drink."

"Maybe."

"Okay, so I'm wrong. Hope I am." He chuckled again and finished the beer. "Like to see old Blackie again. I'd like to find out if I really did get him or not."

"Ever hear of Mr. Dickerson?" I asked him.

"Nope. Should I?"

"Not especially."

"Who is he?"

"I don't know either."

"Like hell you don't."

"Why do you say that?" I asked him.

"Because I've lived with cons too damn long, Hammer. You get so you can tell things without them having to be said. Take now, f'instance. You ain't asked all you came here to ask yet, have you?"

It was my turn to buy and I yelled for another brew. "Okay, old-timer, I'll put it straight. You remember Sally Devon?"

Sonny frowned slightly and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Sure. Used to be my broad."

"I thought she was Conley's."

"That bastard would go after anything in skirts no matter who she belonged to."

"Even yours?"

"Sure. I warned him off a few times. Had to knock him on his kiester once. But hell, what difference does it make? In those days he was a sharp article. Olde than we were and pretty smooth. Sally was always sweet on him. If I didn't bounce her around she woulda left me for him any day."

He stopped suddenly, his eyes going cold. "You're thinking maybe because of her Blackie dumped the heist and tried to take me?"

"Could be."

Then the coldness left his eyes and the age came back. He let out a muted cackle and shook his head at the joke. "Damn," he said, "that guy was always thinking."

"Where were you going with the money, if that job, paid off, Sonny?"

"What's the matter, don't you read?"

"You tell me."

He bobbed his head, relishing the moment. "I even, see it done on some TV shows now, but it woulda worked. We had a truck with a tailgate ramped down. We was to drive the cab right in there and take off. So the cops found the truck and another one we was going to change to. It's all down. Instead that Bastard Blackie crossed us."

"What were you going to do to the driver?"

"Toss him out, bump him. Who knows? We woulda figured somethin'."

"You had a hideout?"

"Yeah, a house in the Catskills we had rented ahead of time. The cops plastered that looking for Blackie. He made all the arrangements on that end and never l got to use 'em. Coulda been the crime of the century."

"Maybe it was," I said.

Sonny was reaching for his glass and stopped short. "What're you thinking, boy?"

"Maybe while Blackie was making plans for you he was making other plans for himself. Suppose, he arranged for an alternate hideout and made it after all. Suppose he bumped the driver, ditched the car, and holed up all these years and finally decided to come back again. Now he's here with three million bucks taking his last fling, buying himself an organization."

He listened, sat silent a moment, then shook his head and picked up his beer. "Not old Blackie. He couldn't live without the broads and now he's too old."

"Ever hear of a voyeur?"

"What's that?"

"They can't do it so they just watch. I know a few old jokers who get their kicks that way. They got millions too."

"I think you're nuts," he said, "but any time you want to talk about it come back and talk. You're the first company I had around in a long time."

"Sure. I wrote down my new address on a matchbook cover and passed it to him. "Reach me here or at the office if you get any ideas. You can earn some cash."

I put a buck on the table and left. Behind me Sonny was still chuckling. I'd like to be there if he ever got to meet Blackie face to face.

Chapter Seven

I called Hy from a drugstore on the avenue and got Pete Ladero's address from him. I reached him at home and asked him if he could get the newspaper clips on the Motley-Conley job thirty years ago and bring them up to the office. He griped about leaving his favorite TV program, but his nose for news was too big and he said it would take an hour, but he'd be there.

At the Automat on Sixth between Forty-fourth and Forty-fifth I picked up a tray, loaded it with goodies, and went upstairs to think for a while. It wasn't accidental. I knew Jersey Toby would be there the same as he had been there at the same time every night the past ten years. I let him finish his meal, picked up my coffee, and joined him at his table. When he saw me he almost choked, gave a quick look around, and tightened up.