Mickey Spillane - The Big Kill

Marsha was waiting for me inside trying to hide her red-rimmed eyes with some mascara. We said good-by to the nurse and the kid and picked up the elevator going down. She fell asleep almost immediately and I had a hell of a time trying to wake her up when we got to her place.

I tried shaking her, pinching her and when that didn't work I bent over and kissed her.

That worked.

She wrinkled her nose and fought her eyes open. I said. "We're here. Come on, snap out of it."

"You did this to me," she smiled.

"That mustached bodyguard you got upstairs will wring my neck for it."

Her lips crinkled in a grin. "So that's why you came so readily. You thought you were going to be chaperoned. I'm sorry, Mike, but I'm all alone. The nurse is gone."

I gave her a playful rap on the chin and scooted her out of the car. She took my hand and we went up together. The guy on the elevator gaped at me until I said, "Up," twice, then he swallowed hard and slid the door shut. It was too bad he didn't see me yesterday.

We were so far away from everything up there. The evening filtered through the blinds, the late, slanting rays of the sun forming a crosshatch pattern on the rug. She settled me back in a big chair and disappeared in the kitchen where she made all the pleasant sounds of a woman in her element. I smelled the coffee and heard the bacon and eggs sizzling in the pan. My stomach remembered how long it was since it had been filled, and churned in anticipation.

I was out there before she called me, trying to be helpful by making the toast. She said, "Hungry?"

"Starving."

"Me too, I finished a box of stale crackers in your place and haven't eaten since."

That was all we said. You just don't talk when you don't leave room between bites. The coffee was hot and strong the way I like it and I finished it before I picked up a smoke.

Marsha turned the small radio on to a local station and picked up a supper orchestra and everything was perfect. It stayed that way until the band went off on the hour and a news commentator came on. It was the same boy who got all worked up over affairs in the city and this time he was really running over.

He gushed through his usual routine of introducing himself to the public and said, "Tonight has seen the end of an era. The man known to the police, the press, and the underworld as Lou Grindle has been found dead in a summer cottage near Islip, Long Island. Two men known to have been Grindle's associates were found shot to death, one in the same house and another twenty miles east of the spot. The house was the scene of violent gunplay and according to police ballistics experts, it was a bullet from Grindle's own gun that killed one of his men. An early reporter on the scene claims that the house had been used as some sort of inquisition chamber by Grindle and his men, but when questioned on the point the police refused to comment. Because of the significance of Grindle's death, the District Attorney has issued a No comment statement, but it is hinted that he is in full possession of the facts.

"Lou Grindle was a product of the racketeering of the early Twenties. Since the repeal of Prohibition he has been suspected of being a key figure in..."

I reached out and tuned in another station. I got a rhumba band that was all drums filling in behind a piano and let it beat through the room. But Marsha wasn't listening to it. Her mouth held a fixed position of surprise that matched the startled intensity of her eyes.

"Mike... that was... you?"

So I grinned at her. My mouth twisted up on the side and I said, "They were going to kill me. They worked me over then took me for a ride."

Her hands were flat on the table, pushing her up from her chair. "Good heavens, Mike, no!" She trembled all over.

"They won't do it again, kid."

"But... why, Mike?"

"I don't know. Honest to God, I don't know."

She sat down limply and pushed her hair back from her face. "All this all this started... from that night..."

"That's right. From a loused-up robbery. You got beat to hell, I got beat to hell. A kid's an orphan. A big-shot racketeer and two of his boys are dead. Arnold Basil's dead. Toady Link is dead and so are a pair of phony private investigators who tried to shoot it out with the cops. Mel Hooker's dead. Goddamn, there won't be anybody alive before you know it!"

"Supposing they come back?"

"They won't. I'm not going to give them the chance. If anybody goes after anybody else I'll do the going." I snubbed the butt out in my saucer. "Mind if I use your phone?"

She told me to go ahead and came inside with me. I checked the directory again and dialed Marvin Holmes' number. It buzzed at steady intervals and just as somebody picked it up there was a knock at the door and Marsha grabbed my arm. It rattled me for a second too. Then I picked the .45 out of the holster, thumbed the safety off and handed it to her while I answered the hellos that were making a racket in my ear.

She opened the door with the gun pointed straight ahead, stared a moment then began to shake in a soft hysterical laugh. I said, "Is Mr. Holmes there?"

It was the butler with the accent. "If this is the police again may I say that he has not come in during the last five minutes. You are being very annoying. He is not expected back, but if he comes I will give him your message."

I slammed the phone back the same time he did and walked over to Marsha who was still laughing crazily. The kid with his arm in a sling was trying to comfort her and shake the gun loose at the same time. I picked it out of her fingers, put it back where it belonged and shook her until she snapped out of it.

The laughing left her and she leaned against my shoulder. "I... I'm sorry, Mike. I thought..."

The kid said, "Gee, Marsha..."

"Come on in, Jerry." He stepped inside and shut the door. "This is Mr. Hammer... Jerry O'Neill."

Jerry said "Hi," but didn't make any effort to shake hands. Jerry didn't like me very much. It was easy to see why.

Marsha gave my hand a little squeeze. "Mike, I need a drink. Do you mind?"

"Not a bit, kitten. How about you, Jerry?"

"No. No, thanks. I gotta go right away. I..." he looked at Marsha hoping for some sign of jealousy, "... gotta date tonight."

She disappointed him. The stars in his eyes blinked out when she said, "Why, that's fine, Jerry. Is there something you wanted to see me about?"

"Well," he hesitated and shot me a look that was pure disgust, "we were all kind of worried when you didn't show up today. We called and all that and I kinda thought, well, they didn't want me to, but I came up anyway. To make sure. Nobody was home then."

"Oh, Jerry, I'm sorry. I was with Mr. Hammer all day."

"I see."

"You tell them they can stop worrying."

"I'll do that." He reached for the knob. "By, Marsha."

"Good-by, Jerry."

He didn't say anything to me. I handed Marsha the drink. "You shouldn't have done that. He's crazy mad in love with you."

She sipped and stared at the amber liquid thoughtfully. "That's why I have to do it, Mike. He's got to learn sometime."

I raised my glass and toasted her. "Well, I don't blame the kid much at that."

"I wish you felt the same way," she said.

It was a statement that needed an answer, but she didn't let me give it. She smiled, her face reflecting the fatigue of her body, finished her drink in a long draught and walked away to the bedroom. I sat down on the arm of the chair swirling the ice around in the glass. I was thinking of the kid with the busted wing, knowing how he must have felt. Some guys got everything, I thought. Others have nothing at all. I was one of the lucky ones.

Then I knew how lucky I was because she was standing in the doorway bathed in the last of the light as the sun went down into the river outside. The soft pink tones of her body softened the metallic glitter of the nylon gown that outlined her in bronze, flowing smoothly up the roundness of her thighs, melting into the curve of her stomach, then rising higher into rich contours to meet the dagger point of the neckline that dropped into the softly shaded well between her breasts.