Mickey Spillane: The Girl Hunters

Mickey Spillane

THE GIRL HUNTERS

First Published in 1962

This one is for Elliott Graham who sweated more waiting for Mike than he did as a dogface waiting for us brown-shoes fly-boys to give him aerial cover. So here we go again, E.G., with more to come. But this one is for you.

Chapter 1

They found me in the gutter. The night was the only thing I had left and not much of it at that. I heard the car stop, the doors open and shut and the two voices talking. A pair of arms jerked me to my feet and held me there.

"Drunk," the cop said.

The other one turned me around into the light. "He don't smell bad. That cut on his head didn't come from a fall either."

"Mugged?"

"Maybe."

I didn't give a damn which way they called it. They were both wrong anyhow. Two hours ago I was drunk. Not now. Two hours ago I was a roaring lion. Then the bottle sailed across the room. No lion left now.

Now was a time when I wasn't anything. Nothing was left inside except the feeling a ship must have when it's torpedoed, sinks and hits bottom.

A hand twisted into my chin and lifted my face up. "Ah, the guy's a bum. Somebody messed him up a little bit."

"You'll never make sergeant, son. That's a hundred-buck suit and it fits too good to be anything but his own. The dirt is fresh, not worn on."

"Okay, Daddy, let's check his wallet, see who he is and run him in."

The cop with the deep voice chuckled, patted me down and came up with my wallet. "Empty," he said.

Hell, there had been two bills in it when I started out. It must have been a pretty good night. Two hundred bucks' worth of night.

I heard the cop whistle between his teeth. "We got ourselves a real fish."

"Society boy? He don't look so good for a society boy. Not with his face. He's been splashed."

"Uh-uh. Michael Hammer, it says here on the card. He's a private jingle who gets around."

"So he gets tossed in the can and he won't get around so much."

The arm under mine hoisted me a little straighter and steered me toward the car. My feet moved; lumps on the end of a string that swung like pendulums.

"You're only joking," the cop said. "There are certain people who wouldn't like you to make such noises with your mouth."

"Like who?"

"Captain Chambers."

It was the other cop's turn to whistle.

"I told you this jingle was a fish," my pal said. "Go buzz the station. Ask what we should do with him. And use a phone--we don't want this on the air."

The cop grunted something and left. I felt hands easing me into the squad car, then shoving me upright against the seat. The hands went down and dragged my feet in, propping them against the floorboard. The door shut and the one on the other side opened. A heavy body climbed in under the wheel and a tendril of smoke drifted across my face. It made me feel a little sick.

The other cop came back and got in beside me. "The captain wants us to take him up to his house," he said, "He told me thanks."

"Good enough. A favor to a captain is like money in the bank, I always say."

"Then how come you ain't wearing plainclothes then?"

"Maybe I'm not the type, son. I'll leave it to you young guys."

The car started up. I tried to open my eyes but it took too much effort and I let them stay closed.

You can stay dead only so long. Where first there was nothing, the pieces all come drifting back together like a movie of an exploding shell run in reverse. The fragments come back slowly, grating together as they seek a matching part and painfully jar into place. You're whole again, finally, but the scars and the worn places are all there to remind you that once you were dead. There's life once more and, with it, a dull pain that pulsates at regular intervals, a light that's too bright to look into and sound that's more than you can stand. The flesh is weak and crawly, slack from the disuse that is the death, sensitive with the agonizing fire that is life. There's memory that makes you want to crawl back into the void but the life is too vital to let you go.

The terrible shattered feeling was inside me, the pieces having a hard time trying to come together. My throat was still raw and cottony; constricted, somehow, from the tensed-up muscles at the back of my neck.

"When I looked up Pat was holding out his cigarettes to me. "Smoke?"

I shook my head.

His voice had a callous edge to it when he said, "You quit?"

"Yeah."

I felt his shrug. "When?"

"When I ran out of loot. Now knock it off."

"You had loot enough to drink with." His voice had a real dirty tone now.

There are times when you can't take anything at all, no jokes, no rubs--nothing. Like the man said, you want nothing from nobody never. I propped my hands on the arms of the chair and pushed myself to my feet. The inside of my thighs quivered with the effort.

"Pat--I don't know what the hell you're pulling. I don't give a damn either. Whatever it is, I don't appreciate it. Just keep off my back, old buddy."

A flat expression drifted across his face before the hardness came back. "We stopped being buddies a long time ago, Mike."

"Good. Let's keep it like that. Now where the hell's my clothes?"

He spit a stream of smoke at my face and if I didn't have to hold the back of the chair to stand up I would have belted him one. "In the garbage," he said. "It's where you belong too but this time you're lucky."

"You son of a bitch."

I got another faceful of smoke and choked on it.

"You used to look a lot bigger to me, Mike. Once I couldn't have taken you. But now you call me things like that and I'll belt you silly."

"You son of a bitch," I said.

I saw it coming but couldn't move, a blurred white open-handed smash that took me right off my feet into the chair that turned over and left me in a sprawled lump against the wall. There was no pain to it, just a taut sickness in the belly that turned into a wrenching dry heave that tasted of blood from the cut inside my mouth. I could feel myself twitching spasmodically with every contraction of my stomach and when it was over I lay there with relief so great I thought I was dead.

He let me get up by myself and half fall into the chair. When I could focus again, I said, "Thanks, buddy. I'll keep it in mind."

Pat shrugged noncommittally and held out a glass. "Water. It'll settle your stomach."

"Drop dead."

He put the glass down on an end table as the bell rang.

When he came back he threw a box down on the sofa and pointed to it. "New clothes. Get dressed."

"I don't have any new clothes."

"You have now. You can pay me later."

"I'll pay you up the guzukus later."

He walked over, seemingly balancing on the balls of his feet. Very quietly he said, "You can get yourself another belt in the kisser without trying hard, mister."

I couldn't let it go. I tried to swing coming up out of the chair and like the last time I could see it coming but couldn't get out of the way. All I heard was a meaty smash that had a familiar sound to it and my stomach tried to heave again but it was too late. The beautiful black had come again.

My jaws hurt. My neck hurt. My whole side felt like it was coming out. But most of all my jaws hurt. Each tooth was an independent source of silent agony while the pain in my head seemed to center just behind each ear. My tongue was too thick to talk and when I got my eyes open I had to squint them shut again to make out the checkerboard pattern of the ceiling.

When the fuzziness went away I sat up, trying to remember what happened. I was on the couch this time, dressed in a navy blue suit. The shirt was clean and white, the top button open and the black knitted tie hanging down loose. Even the shoes were new and in the open part of my mind it was like the simple wonder of a child discovering the new and strange world of the ants when he turns over a rock.