Mickey Spillane - The Big Kill

"Okay, okay, finish reading. I want to hear it."

He went back to the report. "Like I said, his wife died and in all likelihood he started going bad again. He and two others planned a safe robbery with Decker opening the can while the others were lookouts and drove. It's our theory that Decker tried to get away with the entire haul without splitting and his partners overtook and killed him."

"Nice theory. How'd you reach it?"

"Because it was a safe job where Decker would have to handle the thing alone... because he went home long enough after the job to pick up his kid... and because you yourself saw the man you shot frisking him for the loot before you barged in on the scene."

"Now spell it backwards."

"What?"

"Christ, can't you see your own loopholes? They're big enough."

He saw them. He stuck his tongue in the corner of his cheek and squinted at the paper. "Yeah, the only catch is the loot. It wasn't."

"You hit it," I agreed. "And something else... if he was making a break for it he would have taken the dough along. This guy Decker knew he was damn well going to die. He walked right out into it like you'd snap your fingers."

Pat nodded. "I thought of that too, Mike. I think I can answer it. All Decker got in that haul was three hundred seventeen dollars and a string of cultured pearls worth about twenty bucks. I think that when he realized that was all there was to be had, he knew the others wouldn't believe him and took a powder. Tried to at least."

"Then where's the dough?"

Pat tapped his fingernails against his teeth. "I think we'll find it in the same place we'll find the pearls... if anybody's honest enough to turn it in... and that's on top of a garbage pail somewhere."

"Aw, nuts. Even three hundred's dough these days. He wouldn't chuck it."

"Anger and disgust can make a person do a lot of things."

"Then why did he let himself get knocked off?"

Pat waited a moment then said, "I think because he realized that they might try to take out their revenge on the child."

I flipped the butt into the wastebasket. "You sure got it wrapped up nice and tight. Who was the other guy?"

"His name was Arnold Basil. He used to work for Fallon and had a record of three stretches and fourteen arrests without convictions. We weren't able to get much of a line on him so far. We do know that after Fallon died he went to Los Angeles and while he was there got drunk and was picked up for disorderly conduct. Two of our stoolies reported having seen him around town the last month, but hadn't heard about him being mixed up in anything."

"Did they mention him sticking close to Lou Grindle?"

Pat scowled. "Where'd you get that?"

"Never mind. What about it?"

"They mentioned it."

"What're you doing about it?"

"Checking."

"That's nice."

He threw the pencil across the desk. "Don't get so damn sarcastic, Mike." He caught the stare I held on him and started tapping his teeth again. "As much as I'd like to pin something on that cheap crook, I doubt if it can be done. Lou doesn't play for peanuts and you know it. He has his protection racket and he manages to stay out of trouble."

"You could fix that," I said. "Breed 'im some trouble he can't get out of."

"Yeah, try it."

I stood up and slapped on my hat. "I think maybe I will just for the hell of it."

Pat's hands were flat on the desk.. "Damn it, Mike, lay off. You're in a huff because the whole thing works out and you're not satisfied because you can't go gunning for somebody. One of these days you're going to dig up more trouble than you can handle!"

"Pat, I don't like orphan-makers. There's still the driver of that car and don't forget it."

"I haven't. He'll be in the line-up before the week is out."

"He'll be dead first. Mind if I look at this?" I picked up the report sheet and scanned it. When I finished remembering a couple of addresses I tossed it back.

He was looking at me carefully now, his eyes guarded. "Mike, did you leave something out of what you've told me?"

"Nope, not a thing."

"Then spill it."

I turned around and looked at him. I had to put my hand in my pocket to keep it still. "It just stinks, that's all. The guy was crying. You'd have to see him to know what he looked like and you didn't see him. Grown men don't cry like that. It stinks."

"Your're a crazy bastard," Pat said.

"So I've been told. Does the D.A. want to see me?"

"No, you were lucky it broke so fast."

"See you around then, Pat. I'll keep in touch with you."

"Do that," he said. I think he was laughing at me inside. I wasn't laughing though. There wasn't a damn thing to laugh about when you saw a guy cry, kiss his kid, then go out and make him an orphan.

Like I said, the whole thing stunk.

To high heaven.

It took me a little while to get over to the East Side. I cruised up the block where the murder happened, reached the corner and swung down to the street where Decker had lived. It was one of those shabby blocks a few years away from condemnation. The sidewalks were littered with ancient baby buggies, a horde of kids playing in the garbage on the sidewalks and people on the stoops who didn't give a damn what the kids did so long as they could yap and slop beer.

The number I had picked from Pat's report was 164, a four-story brownstone that seemed to tilt out toward the street. I parked the car and climbed out, picking my way through the swarm of kids, then went up the steps in to the vestibule. There wasn't any door, so I didn't have to ring any bells. One mailbox had SUPT scratched into the metal case under the 1-C. I walked down the dark channel of the hallway until I counted off three doors and knocked.

A guy loomed out of the darkness. He was a big guy, all right, about two inches over me with a chest like a barrel. There might have been a lot of fat under his hairy skin, but there was a lot of muscle there too.

"Watta ya want?" The way he said it you could tell he was used to scaring people right off.

I said, "Information, friend. What ya bet you give it to me?"

I watched his hands. They looked like they wanted to grab me. I stood balancing myself on my toes lightly so he'd get the idea that whatever he had I had enough to get away from him. Just like that he laughed. "You're a cocky little punk."

"You're the first guy who ever called me little, friend."

He laughed again. "Come on inside and have some coffee and keep your language where it belongs. I got all kinds of visitors today."

There was another long hallway with some light at the end that turned out be a kitchen. The big guy stood in the doorway nodding me in and I saw the priest at the table nibbling at a hard roll. The big guy said, "Father, this is... uh, what's the name?"

"Mike Hammer. Hello, Father."

The priest held out a big hand and we shook. Then the super tapped his chest with a forefinger. "Forgot myself, I did. John Vileck's the name. Sit down and have a bite and let's hear what you got on your mind." He took another cup and saucer off the shelf and filled it up. "Sugar'n milk's on the table."

When I was sugared and stirred I put my cards on the table. "I'm a private investigator. Right now I'm trying to get a line on a guy who lived here until last night."

Both the priest and the super exchanged glances quickly. "You mean William Decker?" the priest asked.

"That's right."

"May I ask who is retaining you?"

"Nobody, Father. I'm just sore, that's all. I was there when Decker was knocked off and I didn't like it. I'm on my own time and my own capital." I tried the coffee. It was strong as acid and hot as hell.

Vileck stared at his cup, swirling it around to cool it off. "Decker was an all-right guy. Had a nice wife, too. The cops was here last night and then morning again."