Mickey Spillane - Everybody's Watching Me

It would be time enough.

The guy who answered the door was all wrapped up in a bathrobe, his hair stringing down his face. He squinted at me, reluctant to be polite, but not naturally tough enough to be anything else but. He said, “If you’re looking for a room you’ll have to come around in the morning. I’m sorry.”

I showed him a bill with two numbers on it.

“Well…”

“I don’t want a room.”

He looked at the bill again, then a quick flash of terror crossed his face. His eyes rounded open, looked at me hard, then dissolved into curiosity. “Come…in.”

The door closed and he stepped around me into a small sitting room and snapped on a shaded desk lamp. His eyes went back down to the bill. I handed it over and watched it disappear into the bathrobe. “Yes?”

“Jack Cooley.”

The words did something to his face. It showed terror again, but not as much as before.

“I really don’t…”

“Forget the act. I’m not working for anybody in town. I was a friend of his.”

This time he scowled, not believing me.

I said, “Maybe I don’t look it, but I was.”

“So? What is it you want?” He licked his lips, seemed to tune his ears for some sound from upstairs. “Everybody’s been here. Police, newspapers. Those…men from town. They all want something.”

“Did Jack leave anything behind ?”

“Sure. Clothes, letters, the usual junk. The police have all that.”

“Did you get to see any of it?”

“Well…the letters were from dames. Nothing important.”

I nodded, fished around for a question a second before I found one. “How about his habits?”

The guy shrugged. “He paid on time. Usually came in late and slept late. No dames in his room.”

“That’s all?”

He was getting edgy. “What else is there? I didn’t go out with the guy. So now I know he spent plenty of nights in Renzo’s joint. I hear talk. You want to know what kind of butts he smoked? Hobbies, maybe? Hell, what is there to tell? He goes out at night. Sometimes he goes fishing. Sometimes…”

“Where?” I interrupted.

“Where what?”

“Fishing.”

“On one of his boats. He borrowed my stuff. He was fishing the day before he got bumped. Sometimes he’d slip me a ticket and I’d get away from the old lady.”

“How do the boats operate?”

He shrugged again, pursing his mouth. “They go down the bay to the tip of the inlet, gas up, pick up beer at Gulley’s and, go about ten miles out. Coming back they stop at Gulley’s for more beer and for the guys to dump the fish they don’t want. Gulley sells it in town. Everybody is usually drunk and happy.” He gave me another thoughtful look. “You writing a book about your friend?” he said sarcastically.

“Could be. Could be. I hate to see him dead.”

“If you ask me, he never should’ve fooled around Renzo. You better go home and save your money from now on, sonny.”

“I’ll take your advice,” I said, “and be a handyman around a rooming house.”

He gave me a dull stare as I stood up and didn’t bother to go to the door with me. He still had his hand in his pocket wrapped around the bill I gave him.

The street was empty and dark enough to keep me wrapped in a blanket of shadows. I stayed close to the houses, stopping now and then to listen. When I was sure I was by myself I felt better and followed the water smell of the bay.

At River Road a single pump gas station showed lights and the guy inside sat with his feet propped up on the desk. He opened one eye when I walked in, gave me the change I wanted for the phone, then went back to sleep again. I dialed the number of Gerot’s club, got the attendant and told him what I wanted. He gave me another number and I punched it out on the dial.

Two persons answered before a voice said, “Gerot speaking.”

“Hello, Captain. This is Joe. I was…”

“I remember,” he said.

“I called Sergeant Gonzales tonight. Phil Carboy paid me off to finger Vetter. Now I got two parties pushing me.”

“Three. Don’t forget us.”

“I’m not forgetting.”

“I hear you’ve been moving around, Joe. Those parties are excited. Where are you?”

I didn’t think he’d bother to trace the call, so I said, “Some joint in town.”

His voice sounded light this time. “About Vetter. Tell me.”

“Nothing to tell.”

“You had a call this morning.” I felt the chills starting to run up my back. They had a tap on my line already. “The voice wasn’t familiar and it said some peculiar things.”

“I know. I didn’t get it. I thought it was part of Renzo’s outfit getting wise. They beat up a buddy of mine so I’d know what a real beat-up guy looks like. It was all double talk to me.”

He was thinking it over. When he was ready he said, “Maybe so, kid. You hear about that dame you were with?”

I could hardly get the words out of my mouth. “Helen? No…What?”

“Somebody shot at her. Twice.”

“Did…”

“Not this time. She was able to walk away from it this time.”

“Who was it? Who shot at her?”

“That, little chum, is something we’d like to know too. She was waiting for a train out of town. The next time maybe we’ll have better luck. There’ll be a next time, in case you’re interested.”

“Yeah, I’m interested…and thanks. You know where she is now?”

“No, but we’re looking around. I hope we can find her first.”

I put the phone back and tried to get the dry taste out of my mouth. When I thought I could talk again I dialed Helen’s apartment, hung on while the phone rang endlessly, then held the receiver fork down until I got my coin back. I had to get Renzo’s club number from the book and the gravelly voice that answered rasped that the feature attraction hadn’t put in an appearance that night and for something’s sake to cut off the chatter and wait until tomorrow because the club was closed.

So I stood there and said things to myself until I was all balled up into a knot. I could see the parade of faces I hated drifting past my mind and all I could think of was how bad I wanted to smash every one of them as they came by. Helen had tried to run for it. She didn’t get far. Now where could she be? Where does a beautiful blonde go who is trying to hide? Who would take her in if they knew the score?

I could feel the sweat starting on my neck, soaking the back of my shirt. All of a sudden I felt washed out and wrung dry. Gone. All the way gone. Like there wasn’t anything left of me any more except a big hate for a whole damn city, the mugs who ran it and the people who were afraid of the mugs. And it wasn’t just one city either. There would be more of them scattered all over the states. For the people, by the people, Lincoln had said. Yeah. Great.

I turned around and walked out. I didn’t even bother to look back and if they were there, let them come. I walked for a half hour, found a cab parked at a corner with the driver sacking it behind the wheel and woke him up. I gave him the boarding house address and climbed in the back.

He let me off at the corner, collected his dough and turned around.

Then I heard that voice again and I froze the butt halfway to my mouth and squashed the matches in the palm of my hand.

It said, “Go ahead and light it.”

I breathed that first drag out with the words, “You nuts? They’re all around this place.”

“I know. Now be still and listen. The dame knows the score. They tried for her…”

We heard the feet at the same time. They were light as a cat, fast. Then he came out of the darkness and all I could see was the glint of the knife in his hand and the yell that was in my throat choked off when his fingers bit into my flesh. I had time to see that same hardened face that had looked into mine not so long ago, catch an expressionless grin from the hard boy, then the other shadows opened and the side of a palm smashed down against his neck. I pitched forward with his head at a queer, stiff angle, his mouth wrenched open and knew it was only a reflex that kept it that way because the hard boy was dead. You could hear the knife chatter across the sidewalk and the sound of the body hitting, a sound that really wasn’t much yet was a thunderous crash that split the night wide open.