Mickey Spillane - I, The Jury

“Mike.”

“What?”

“Do you know what this is?” I looked at the number. It could have been a reference to a police file, but when I glanced at it a third time, I felt as though I had seen it before.

“Uh-uh. I should know it, I think. Something vaguely familiar about it.”

Velda took a pencil from her pocket and swung the pad around. “Suppose you write it this way,” she said. She put the numbers down to read: XX3-6904.

“Well, I’ll be damned! A phone number.”

“Roger, pal. Now fill in the first two letters of an exchange for the X’s and you’ll have it.”

I jumped to my feet and went to the files. Now I remembered where I had seen that number before. It was on the back of a card I had taken from a pimp. The little runt had tried to sell me a deal and I slapped him silly for it. I came back with a folder of note paper, cards, and numbers, scratched on the back of menus.

I picked one out of the file. “LEARN TO DANCE” it read, “TWENTY BEAUTIFUL GIRLS.” On the back of it was a number. I compared it to the one from Jack’s book. The same. Only this one had an exchange, LO, for Loellen. That was the number, all right, LO3-6904. Velda took it from my hand and read it.

“What is it, Mike?”

“It’s the telephone number of a call house. If I’m not mistaken, that’s where I’m going to find the Vickers girl.” I reached for the phone, but Velda put her hand out to stop me.

“You’re not actually going there, are you?”

“Why not?”

“Mike!” Her voice was indignant, hurt.

“For Pete’s sake, honey, do I look like a dope? I’m not going to buy anything. After all those pictures the army showed me of what happens to good little boys who go out with bad little girls, I’m even afraid to kiss my own mother.”

“Okay, go ahead, but watch your step, by damn, or you’re going to have to get a new secretary.” I ran my fingers through her hair and dialed the number.

The voice I got this time had a little life in it. Behind the “hello” I could see a frowsy blonde about fifty in a gaudy dress dangling a butt from her lips.

“Hello,” I said, “you booked for the night?”

“Who is this?”

“Pete Sterling. Got your number from a little guy downtown.”

“All right. Come up before nine or you won’t make the beginning of the entertainment. Want to stay all night?”

“Maybe. I’ll know better then. Book me for the night anyway. Guess I can get away from home.” I winked at Velda when I said it, but she didn’t wink back.

“You’re down. Bring cash. Ring three longs and a short when you come.”

“I got it.” I cradled the phone.

There were tears in Velda’s eyes. She was trying to remain grim, but she couldn’t hold them back.

I put my arms around her and hugged her gently. “Aw, look, honey,” I whispered, “I have to take a realistic approach to this case. Otherwise, how the hell am I going to get anywhere?”

“You don’t have to go that far,” she sniffled.

“But I told you I wouldn’t. For crying out loud, I’m not that bad off that I have to patronize those places. There’s lots of dames I could park with if I felt like it.”

She put her hands against my chest and shoved. “And don’t I know it,” she practically yelled. “I wouldn’t trust you to ... oh, gee, Mike, I’m sorry. I only work here. Forget it.”

I pinched her nose and smiled. “Work here, hell. I wouldn’t know what to do without you. Now behave yourself and stick near your phone either here or at home. I may need you to pick up a few angles for me.”

Velda gave a little laugh. “Okay, Mike. I’ll watch the angles, you watch out for the curves. Huba huba.”

She was cleaning off my desk when I left.

Chapter Eight

My first call was to Pat. He wanted to know how I was making out but I didn’t give him much. Later he could know about the Vickers girl, but first I wanted to get in my two bits. I picked a few numbers from the phone book and included the call-house number among them. I held on while Pat checked the addresses for me and passed on the information. After I thanked him, I checked with the phone book to make sure he had given me straight stuff. They checked. Pat was playing it square enough.

In case he fished around with the numbers I gave him, it would be some time before he got to the one I was working on.

This time I left my heap halfway down the block. 501 was the number I wanted, and it turned out to be an old brownstone apartment three stories high. I cased it from a spot across the street, but no one came or went. On the top floor a room was lit up faintly with no signs of life in it. Evidently I was early. The house was flanked on each side by another equally as drab and with as little color to it as the streets of a ghost town.

This was no regular red-light district. Just a good spot for what went on. An old, quiet neighborhood patrolled several times nightly by a friendly cop, a few struggling businesses in the basement apartments. No kids—the street was too dull for them. No drunks lounging in doorways either. I pulled on my cigarette for the last time, then crushed it under my heel and started across the street.

I pushed the button three longs and a short. Very faintly I heard the ring, then the door opened. It wasn’t the frowsy blonde I had expected. This woman was about fifty, all right, but her dress was conservative and neat. She had her hair done up in a roll with only the slightest suggestion of make-up. She looked like somebody’s mother.

“Pete Sterling,” I said.

“Oh, yes, won’t you come in?” She closed the door behind me while I waited, then motioned toward the sitting room off the hall. I went in. The transformation was startling. Unlike the dull exterior, this room was exciting, alive. The furniture was modern, yet comfortable. The walls were paneled in rich mahogany to blend with the redecorated mantel and the graceful staircase that curved down into the far end of the room. I could see why no light shone through the windows. They were completely blocked off with black velvet curtains.

“May I take your hat?” I snapped out of it long enough to hand over my lid. Upstairs a radio was playing, but there was no other sound. The woman came back after a moment and sat down, motioning me to be seated opposite her.

“Nice place you have,” I remarked.

“Yes, we’re very secluded here.” I was waiting for her to ask the questions, but she seemed in no hurry. “You told me on the phone that you had met one of our agents and he sent you here. Which one was it?”

“A little ratty guy. He didn’t make it sound as good as this. I slapped him around some.”

She gave me a tight smile. “Yes, I remember, Mr. Hammer. He had to take the week off.” If she thought she’d catch me jumping she was crazy.

“How did you spot me?”

“Please don’t be so modest. You’ve made too many headlines to be entirely unknown. Now tell me something, why did you choose to come here?”

“Guess,” I said.

She smiled again. “I imagine it can even happen to you, too. All right, Mr. ... er ... Sterling, would you like to go upstairs?”

“Yeah. Who’s up there?”

“An assortment you’ll find interesting. You’ll see. But first, twenty-five dollars, please.” I fished out the dough and handed it over.

She led me as far as the stairs. There was a push button mounted on the side of the newel post and she pushed it. Upstairs a chime rang and a door opened, flooding the stairs with light. A dark-haired girl wrapped in a transparent robe stood in the doorway.

“Come on up,” she said.

I took the stairs two at a time. She wasn’t pretty, I could see that, but the make-up enhanced what she had. A beautiful body, though. I walked in. Another sitting room, but this one was well occupied. The madam had meant what she said when she told me there was an assortment. The girls were sitting there reading or smoking; blondes, brunettes and a pair of redheads. None of them had much on.