Mickey Spillane - The Tough Guys

"Is it . . . really necessary now?"

"Somehow that contact is a key to all this. It has to be run down."

"Phil . . ."

"Whoever it was is dangerous. The stakes are high in this game and you make up the rules as you go along. You're a necessary factor in the game because, as far as anybody is concerned, you know old Rhino's secret. Keep them in the dark and we'll have the edge."

"But we can't fight those people, Phil."

"I don't intend to," I said. "I know when to holler for the troops."

"Like when?"

"Like now."

I went to the row of phone booths at the back of the room and put in a call for Dan. When he answered I said, "Dan, I want to see the D.A. tonight. Can you arrange it?"

There was the queer sound of silence a second, then incredulously Dan said, "Cal Porter?"

I could almost see him shrug. "I'll see what I can do. Give me five minutes."

I let him have the time. When I called back he had the information. "Porter is at his desk right now having been called away from a supper party to preside at the questioning of a hot suspect in last night's park kill. He said he'd see you."

When I came back I hurried Terry into a cab and up to the hotel. She cashed $500 in traveler's checks, gave me the bundle, a smile, and a kiss for good luck.

"Be careful, Phil. Please."

"Don't worry about me. You're the one on the spot. I'm an idiot for letting you stand alone, but there isn't anybody else. If you get in trouble, you call Dan Litvak or the cops. Don't stop to think it out . . . just call."

"I will. You'll be back soon?"

"Two days will do it."

She smiled, her mouth softly damp, coming closer to mine. "I'll miss you," she said.

Dan's call opened the door for me, not too widely, but enough for five minutes of the big man's time. Cal Porter had turned gray over the years, the leanness of youth lost to the thickening effect of middle age.

He stood up when I entered and said, "Mr. Rocca?" It was merely a formal question.

I nodded.

"Sit down, please." He turned briefly and smiled at the hawk-faced woman clutching the steno pad. "You needn't stay, Miss Marie. We'll finish in the morning."

Porter didn't waste any time. "Dan Litvak said you have something on your mind."

"I need some information, Mr. Porter."

He reached for a cigarette and lit it without taking his eyes off mine. "Why?"

"Because it might help me bust a story, that's why."

"This has something to do with you personally." Again it was a statement.

"I wouldn't give a damn, otherwise," I told him. "I wasn't exactly rehabilitated in the can, Mr. Porter. I came out with about as much regard for the human race as I have for malaria and, if I had my choice between the two, I'd have taken the disease."

Porter let a small, grim smile touch his mouth. "That sounds like a former attitude. What is it now?"

"I haven't decided yet. I'm walking the fence."

"Any preference which way you want to jump?"

I shrugged. "I could be influenced."

"All right," he said unexpectedly, "how can I help?"

Before I could speak he took a deep pull on the butt, poked it out in an ashtray, and leaned back in his chair. "I'll tell you why I'm interested, Rocca. You may not realize it, but I made my reputation prosecuting your case. Secondly, knowing of your past abilities, I'm quite willing to make use of anything you might have to take another step."

"Like over my dead body?"

"That's right. If it will take me closer to the tall chair in Albany."

"Now you want to be governor," I said. I could feel my face start to tighten. "You're awfully friendly, Mr. Porter. I'm a punk, remember? Seven years con time and now a barnacle in tenement row and not a nickel's worth of whiskey credit."

"I've kept track." he told me. "Besides, Litvak is no fool. He thinks you're up to something. Now what do you want to know?"

Without sparring around I said, "When Rhino Massley died, what was the condition of the mobs?"

His expression changed slowly, not so much in his face as in the squint of his eyes and a tightening of his shoulders. He leaned forward on the desk, lacing his fingers together.

"You can read the papers."

"Nuts, buddy. You have more than that. It would have come out except that his kicking off left you holding a half-filled bag."

He waited a moment, then: "Very well. The mobs, let's say, were in good condition. Their activities increased ten times while law enforcement agencies remained at the same level. Crime of every sort has been on the increase about 15 percent or better each year. When Massley died it was, like now, at a peak. The cost-of-living index has gone up on all fronts, you see."

"Good. Now did Massley's death put any kind of a dent in mob activities?"

His fingers were showing white now and there were taut lines around his mouth. For a moment I thought he would hedge, then he looked at me seriously. "At the time nobody was willing to admit that there was such a thing as a Syndicate. The Mafia was active, but under control, and organized gangs seemed to have only local prominence."

"However, we found out later that in the face of increased activity on the part of such gangs, a close liaison was necessary for obvious business reasons. A large-scale pseudo-legitimate setup was necessary to front for criminal deals and an underworld bank sort of thing required to have ready funds for any new enterprise."

"Massley, we believe, was the banker. When he died there was quite a bit of consternation in various quarters and certain phases of action we had been alerted against failed to come off. The conclusion was that the money wasn't available for it."

"What happened to it?"

Porter shrugged. "Frankly, we don't know."

"Can you guess?"

The frown came back again. "I can," he said. He paused, unlaced his fingers, and folded his arms across his chest. "The 'bank' wasn't really big yet . . . it was in the trial stage, so to speak. My guess is that whoever took over after Massley had access to the money."

I shook my head. "You're playing games with me now. You want me to try?"

Porter nodded and sat there waiting. I said, "That was hidden money. Massley alone knew where it was. He didn't expect to die, so he wasn't setting himself up as a target for some outside operator to shoot at by making its whereabouts common knowledge or even putting it on paper. Massley was right at his job when he died and that loot is still around." I grinned at him. "How's that one?"

Porter's face had a courtroom look now. "And you know where it is?"

"No."

"You think you might have a lead?"

"Maybe. To even bigger things."

"Explain."

This time I laughed at him. "No, not now, buddy. I have some pretty wild ideas that I'm going to make pay off one way or another. If I'm right and you go along, they can even get you that tall chair in Albany. If I'm wrong nobody gets hurt but me."

"I see."

"I don't think you do, but thanks for talking to me. It was good to see you again after all these years."

He scowled but didn't say anything. I stood up and put on my hat. "There's one more thing I'd like you to know, Mr. Porter. It doesn't make any difference anymore, but I'd just like to get things straight."

"Oh?"

I grinned at his expression. "The rap you got your reputation on was a bum one, buddy. Massley had me framed like a Van Gogh original and you went the route to make it stick. That's water over the falls now and I just don't give a damn about it anymore. But it's just something I'd like you to keep in mind, okay?"

He knew then. He knew it as well as I knew it, but with him it came too quickly and the thought of it was a little too big to swallow all at once. His face got a pasty white color that was a wordless apology and a soundless attempt at explaining away the naiveté that comes with boundless ambition in public service.