Mickey Spillane - The Tough Guys

Mr. Simpson's office was empty. I opened his window, lit my wick on the whiskey bottle, and threw it down. Below me there was a small breaking of glass, a tiny flame that grew. I drew back from the window.

I had three more quarts of fuel oil under my arm. I let it run out at the two big doors opposite Simpson's office and soak into the carpet. This one caught quickly, a sheet of flame coming off the floor. Nobody was coming out that door.

Someplace below there was a yell, then a scream. I opened the window and got out on the top of the second floor porch roof. From there the top floor was blanked out completely. Heavy drapes covered the windows and, though several were open for ventilation, not a streak of light shone through.

I stepped between the window and the draperies, entirely concealed, then held the folds of the heavy velvet back. It was a small theater in the round. There was a person shrouded in black tapping drums and that was all the music they had. Two more in black tights with masked faces were circling about a table. They each held long thin whips, and whenever the drummer raised the tempo they snapped them, and sometimes simply brought them against the floor so that the metal tips made a sharp popping sound.

She was there in the middle, tied to the table. She was robed in a great swath of silk.

From where I stood I could see the town and the long line of lights winding with tantalizing slowness toward the hill.

Down below they were yelling now, their voices frantic, but here in this room nobody was listening. They were watching the performance, in each one's hand a slim length of belt that could bring joy to minds who had tried everything else and now needed this.

She was conscious. Tied and gagged, but she could know what was happening. She faced the ring of them and saw the curtain move where I was. I took the big chance and moved it enough so she alone could see me standing there and when she jerked her head to keep anyone from seeing the hope in her eyes I knew it was the time.

There was only one other door in the room, a single door on the other side. It was against all fire regulations and now they'd know why. I lit the wick on the last bottle, let it catch hold all the way, stepped inside, and threw it across the room.

Everything seemed to come at once . . . the screams, the yelling from outside. Somebody shouted and opened the big doors at the head of the room and a sheet of flame leaped in on the draft.

There was Harry Adrano. I shot him.

There was Calvin Bock. I shot him.

There was Sergei Rudinoff. I shot him and took the briefcase off his body and knew that what I had done would upset the Soviet world.

There was the man who owned the airlines and I shot him.

Only Nat Paley saw me and tried to go for his gun. All the rest were screaming and trying to go through the maze of flame at the door. But it was like Nat to go for his gun so I shot him, too, but not as cleanly as the rest. He could burn the rest of the way.

I got Dari out of the straps that held her down, carried her to the one window that offered escape, and shoved her out. In the room the bongo drummer went screaming through the wall of flame. From far off came staccato bursts of gunfire and now no matter what happened, it was won.

I shoved her on the roof and, although everything there was flame, this one place was still empty and cool.

And while she waited for me there, I stepped back inside the room, the shriveling heat beating at my face, and saw the gross Mr. Simpson still alive, trapped by his own obesity, a foul thing on a ridiculous throne, still in his robes, still clutching his belt . . .

And I did him a favor. I said, "So long, Senator."

I brought the shotgun up and let him look all the way into that great black eye and then blew his head off.

It was an easy jump to the ground. I caught her. We walked away.

Tomorrow there would be strange events, strange people, and a new national policy.

But now Dari was looking at me, her eyes loving, her mouth wanting, her mind a turbulence of fear because she thought I was part of it all and didn't know I was a cop, and I had all the time in the world to tell her true.

THE SEVEN-YEAR KILL

For seven long years Rocca had been down. And he was almost out when the beautiful brunette wound up in his closet — and started him on a trip that would lead through a terrifying maze of bodies both hot and cold. At the end of the road lay the biggest surprise of all — a surprise that could prove fatal to an ordinary guy.

From far off in the heat and sea of sweat I heard the noise and the voices.

The gloom of the room was split by a shaft of light that stretched across my face from the partly opened door. It was from there that the voice kept saying, "Open this damn door, buddy."

I rolled off the cot and finally got to the door, pushed it shut, slipped off the chain, then backed off when it almost knocked me down swinging open.

Both the hoods were big. The snub-nose jobs in their hands made them even bigger. But they didn't come that big. I said, "What the hell you want?"

Without even looking, one swung and last night came boiling out of me all over the floor and I crouched there on my hands and knees trying to keep from dying.

The other guy said, "She ain't here. This joker was drunk on the cot with the chain on. How could she get in here?"

Neither one said anything, but when I raised my head the guy with the long face and bloody shoe was looking at me. I started to grin at him. Not mean. Just a big, friendly grin like I knew how it was and I kept it going until the guy shrugged and said to the other. "He's nuts. Come on."

It was five minutes before I could get up, and another five before I could reach the sink. I ran it cold and splashed it over my face and head, washing the blood down the drain.

I didn't bother looking in the mirror. I felt my way back inside, reached the cot, and flopped out on it, suddenly grateful for the heat of the wall that sucked at the vast pain that was my head.

When I knew I was ready I said, "Okay, come on out of there."

Across the room the paneled closet door that seemed to be part of the wall swung open. For a moment there was only the darkness, then a shadow detached itself from the deeper black, took a step forward with a harsh, shuddering sob, and stood there, rigid.

I reached behind me and turned on the night lamp. It gave off a dull reddish glow, but it was enough.

She was beautiful. There was something Indian-like about her, maybe the black hair or the high planes of her face. Sweat had plastered her dress across her body, her breasts in high, bold relief, the muscular flatness of her belly moving as she breathed. Sudden fear of the hunted had drained her face so that her lips made a full red splash in contrast.

She stood there watching me, saying nothing, a quiver in her flanks as in a mare about to bolt. Spraddle-legged like that I could see the sweep of her thighs and liked what I saw.

I said, "They're gone."

"I never chain that door," I said. "Never. And that closet's the only place to hide in here. Cleverly made, that."

Her tongue flicked out and wet her lips. "When did you . . . realize."

"Right away." The words had blood on them and I wiped it away with my sleeve.

She was staring at my face. "You could have told. Then they . . ."

"I wouldn't tell them punks if their legs were on fire."

"Thank you."

"Sure. It's just a helluva way to get waked up, that's all."

For the first time she started to smile. No, not quite smile . . . a grin, sort of. It changed her whole face and somehow there was no heat and no hangover and no pain in my head and everything was different and I was different. But it was like a flash flood, suddenly there and suddenly gone, leaving behind it only damage from another broken memory.