Mickey Spillane - The Big Kill

"There's a law against gambling, too."

Pat's face was dark with anger.

"The law has been enforced," he snapped.

I put the emphasis on the past tense. "It has? That's nice to know. Who's running the racket now?"

"Damn it, Mike, that isn't my department."

"It should be; it caused the death of two men so far. What I want to know is the racket organized or not?"

"I've heard that it was," he replied sullenly. "Fallon used to bank it before he died. When the state cracked down on them somebody took the sharks under their wing. I don't know who."

"Fallon, Fallon, hell, the guy's been dead since 1940 and he's still making news."

"Well, you asked me."

I nodded. "Who's Dixie Cooper, Pat?"

His eyes went half shut. "Where do you get your information from? Goddamn, you have your nose in everywhere."

"Who is he?"

"The guy's a stoolie for the department. He has no known source of income, though he claims to be a promoter."

"Of what?"

"Of everything. He's a guy who knows where something is that somebody else wants and collects a percentage from the buyer and seller both. At least, that's what he says."

"Then he's full of you know what. The guy is a loan shark. He's the one Decker hit up for the money."

"Can you prove it?"

"Uh-huh."

"Show me and we'll take him into custody."

I stood up and slapped on my hat. "I'll show you," I said. "I'll have him screaming to talk to somebody in uniform just to keep from getting his damn arms twisted off."

"Go easy, Mike."

"Yeah, I'll do just that. I'll twist 'em nice and easy like he twisted Decker. I'll go easy, all right."

Pat gave me a long look with a frown behind it. When I said so-long he only nodded, and he was reaching for the phone as I shut the door.

Down the hall another door slammed shut and the stubby brunette came by, smiled at me politely and kept on going to the elevator. After she got in I went back down the corridor to the office, pushed the door open and stuck my head in. Ellen Scobie had one foot on a chair with her dress hiked up as far as it would go, straightening her stocking.

"Pretty leg," I said.

She glanced back quickly without bothering to yank her dress down like most dames would. "I have another just like it," she told me. Her eyes were on full voltage again.

"Let's see."

So she stood up in one of those magazine poses and pulled the dress up slowly without stopping until it couldn't go any further and showed me. And she was right. The other was just as pretty if you wasted a sight like that trying to compare them.

I said, "I love brunettes."

"You love anything." She let the dress fall.

"Brunettes especially. Doing anything tonight?"

"Yes... I was going out with you, wasn't I? Something I should learn about manual labor?"

"Kid," I said, "I don't think you have anything to learn. Not a damn thing."

She laughed deep in her throat and came over and took my arm. "I'm crazy about heels," she said. "Let's go."

We passed by Pat's office again and I could still hear him on the phone. His voice had a low drone with a touch of urgency in it but I couldn't hear what he was saying. When we were downstairs in the car Ellen said, "I hope you realize that if we're seen together my boss will have you investigated from top to bottom."

"Then you do the investigating. I have some fine anatomy."

Her mouth clucked at me. "You know what I mean. He's afraid to trust himself these days."

"You can forget about me, honey. He's investigated me so often he knows how many moles I got. Who the hell's handing out the dope, anyway?"

"If I knew I'd get a promotion. Right now the office observes wartime security right down to burning everything in the wastebaskets in front of a policeman. You know what I think?"

"What?"

"Somebody sits in another building with a telescope and reads lips."

I laughed at her. "Did you tell the D.A. that?"

She grinned devilishly. "Uh-huh. I said it jokingly and damned if he didn't go and pull down the blinds. Everybody hates me now." She stopped and glanced out the windows, then looked back at me curiously. "Where're we going?"

"To see a guy about a guy," I said.

She leaned back against the cushions and closed her eyes. When she opened them again I was pulling into a parking lot in Fifty-second Street. The attendant took my keys and handed me a ticket. The evening was just starting to pick up and the gin mills lining the street were starting to get a play.

Ellen tugged at my hand. "We aren't drinking very fancy tonight, are we?"

"You come down here much?"

"Oh, occasionally. I don't go much for these places. Where are we going?"

"A place called the Glass Bar. It's right down the block."

"That fag joint," she said with disgust. "The last time I was there I had three women trying to paw me and a guy with me who thought it was funny."

"Hell, I'd like to paw you myself, I laughed.

"Oh, you will, you will." She was real matter-of-fact about it, but not casual, not a bit. I started to get that feeling up my back again.

The Glass Bar was a phony name for a phonier place. It was all chrome and plastic, and glass was only the thing you drank out of. The bar was a circular affair up front near the door with the back half of the place given over to tables and a bandstand. A drummer was warming up his traps with a pair of cuties squirming to his jungle rhythm while a handful of queers watched with their eyes oozing lust.

Ellen said, "The bar or back room?"

I tossed my hat at the redhead behind the check booth. "Don't know yet." The redhead handed me a pasteboard with a number on it and I asked her, "Dixie Cooper been in yet?"

She leaned halfway out of the booth and looked across the room. "Don't see him. Guess he must be in back. He came in about a half hour ago."

I said thanks and took Ellen's arm. We had a quick one at the bar, then pushed through the crowd to the back room where the babes were still squirming with the drummer showing no signs of tiring. He was all eyes for the wriggling hips and the table with the queers had been abandoned for one closer to the bandstand.

Only four other tables were occupied and the kind of people sitting there weren't the kind I was looking for. Over against the wall a guy was slouched in a chair reading a late tabloid while he sipped a beer. He had a hairline that came down damn near to his eyebrows and when his mouth moved as he read his top teeth stuck out at an angle. On the other side of the table a patsy was trying to drag him into a conversation and all he was getting was a grunt now and then.

The guy with the bleached hair looked up and smiled when I edged over, then the smile froze into a disgusted grimace when he saw Ellen. I said, "Blow, Josephine," and he arched his eyebrows and minced off.

Buck teeth didn't even bother to look at me.

Ellen didn't wait to be invited. She plunked herself in a chair with a grin and leaned on the table waiting for the fun to start.

Buck teeth interrupted his reading long enough to say, "Whatta you want?"

So I took the .45 out and slid it down between his eyes and the paper and let him stare at it until he went white all the way back of his ears. Then I sat down too. "You Dixie Cooper?"

His head came around like somebody had a string on it. "Yeah." It was almost a whisper and his eyes wouldn't come away from the bulge under my coat.

"There was a man," I said. "His name was William Decker and he hit you up for a loan not long ago and he's dead now."

Cooper licked his lips twice and tried to shake his head. "Look... I..."

"Shut up."

His eyes seemed to get a waxy film over them.

"Who killed him," I said.

"Honest to God, Mac, I... Christ... I didn't kill 'im. I swear..."