Mickey Spillane - The Tough Guys

I grinned again and left his office. Things were looking up again. One of his news items, properly placed in the scheme of things, pointed to an answer. That is, if certain other items fell properly into place.

I didn't bother with any baggage. I had been a slob too long to let a change of drawers bother me when I was in a hurry. I grabbed the bus out to Kennedy and picked up a ticket at the desk. I needn't have hurried because no flight was leaving until 7:50 and that gave me three hours to wait.

Two newspapers and a magazine later I still had an hour to kill and wandered to the men's room. That took care of 15 minutes. I unlocked the door to my dime booth, took one step out and thought, in the tiny second I could still think, that my brains went all over the room.

That took care of another 30 minutes. I was able to convince the two cops that I fell, but the doctor wasn't buying it. He said nothing, but I knew what he was thinking. The cops were all for throwing me out until I produced my ticket, then they helped me to a bench outside where I could wait until plane time.

The 30 bucks I had loose in my side pocket were gone. The rest of the bundle was safe way back under my shirt and for once it paid to have a few bindle stiff habits. I cursed silently at the pain in my skull and wondered what kind of an artist was shrewd enough to spot dough riding with a seedy looking character like me.

When the flight was announced, I got on, took two of the pills the doctor gave me, and didn't wake up until we hit Phoenix.

It was hot in Phoenix. I took a taxi to town, had a large bowl of chili at the counter in the bus terminal, then found the address of the Board of Health in the phone directory.

The girl at the desk was a lovely tanned kid, in an off-the-shoulder Mexican blouse, with a quick smile, who said hello in a breathless way that made me wonder what she was doing working for the city. She took one look at my clothes and said, "Visitor?"

I said, "I'm trying to find a doctor."

"You don't look sick." Her mouth hid a smile.

"What I got a doctor won't cure, sugar." She blushed a little and made a face at me. "The doctor I want is a Thomas Hoyt. He was out here several years ago."

"Hoyt." She put a knuckle to her teeth, thought a moment, then said, "I know who you mean. Let me find out." It didn't take long. She came back with two cards she had scribbled notations on. She glanced at me, then asked, "Friend?"

"No."

She seemed relieved somehow. "Oh. Well . . . Dr. Hoyt is dead. He's been dead quite a few years."

"What happened?"

"I really don't know, but he died. October second, 1965."

The cold feeling hit me again. Inside, everything seems to drop out momentarily and it never does go back into place right. "You're sure? There wouldn't be two Dr. Hoyts?"

She shook her head. "I'm positive."

Outside I had the cabby take me down to the newspaper offices and I paid him off there.

Everybody was friendly in Phoenix. They all smiled and were all glad to help. The young fellow I asked about seeing back issues of the sheet took personal charge and brought back the issue I wanted. I sat down at a table, spread out the paper, and found the story about Dr. Thomas Hoyt on an inside page.

It was all very simple, very cut and dried. He and a friend by the name of Leo Grant were coming back from a hunting trip in the mountains, tried to take a turn too fast in their jeep, and hurtled off the road. Both were killed and it was several days before the wreck or the bodies were found.

I just started on the interesting part when the tall fellow in a short-sleeved sport shirt sat down beside me and said, "Howdy."

I said hello as politely as I could.

"My name is Stack. Joe Stack," he told me. "I handle police stuff."

"Really?"

"Mind telling me what's so interesting?" he motioned toward the paper with his thumb.

I got the pitch right away. "Somebody else been reading up?"

He nodded, his face expressionless.

There are ways you can play people and ways you can't and this one I decided to play straight. I said, "I'm Phil Rocca. You might have heard of me. I took a big fall eight years ago and right now I'm trying to catch up."

His eyebrows furrowed. "Rocca," he mused. "Rocca . . . sure, I remember that trial. I was with a sheet in Boston then. Hell, yes, I remember you. What are you doing here?"

"It was a bum rap, friend. I'm out to prove it. It might seem silly, but I'd like to get back in the field again and the only way I can do it is to shove that rap where it belongs. That whole deal was wrapped up in Rhino Massley and I'm trying to pick it apart. Rhino's big club that kept him on top was some damn hot evidence that kept key people in line. When Rhino died he left it somewhere, and that, buddy, I'd like to come up with."

I grinned at him and let him have some more. Oh, not too much. If it ever broke it was going to be my story, or at least something I could sell or bargain with. But I leaked enough to make Stack's eyes go a little bright at the thought of what could come out of the thing.

When I finished I asked, "Who else was after the paper?"

"A local boy. He's new in town and hasn't got a record, but word came in that he's a representative for the big ones on either coast. We don't know what's in the works, but we know he's got something going for him. As soon as two people asked for the same issue, Carey over there buzzed me upstairs. Now, what's the poop?"

"Hoyt was Rhino Massley's personal physician."

"Yeah, I remember. He has some mob connections back east. He never had an outside practice here at all."

Then I pointed to the interesting part. "The friend who was killed in the same wreck is listed as having been a prominent mortician here in town."

Stack pulled the paper over to him and scanned the item. "Uh-huh. I knew him slightly. Close-mouthed guy who started up after the war. What about him?"

"Any way of finding out who did the embalming on Rhino's body?"

His eyes pulled tight, then he nodded and got up. He spent a few minutes at the phone down the end then came back and sat down. "It was him. Leo Grant. Rhino's doctor and mortician were both killed in the same wreck."

"Unusual?"

He shrugged. "Not so. Their fields are related, they worked together with the same patient, they could have been friends."

"Any way of finding out?"

"Possibly. I'll try. How does it matter?"

"Let's say that you come up with the answer, and I'll tell you how it matters. Fair enough?"

He flipped a card from his pocket and handed it to me. "You can get me at any of those three numbers. And look, where are you staying?"

"No place yet, but I'll find a flop."

"Then try the Blue Sky Motel. Harry Coleman is a friend of mine and will treat you right. You on wheels?"

"No."

He picked the card from my hand, scribbled something on it, and handed it back. "Take it to the Mermak garage. They'll rent you wheels without breaking your back."

"Thanks."

There was no hitch in getting a car. I picked a two-year-old Ford, paid out three days in advance, got directions from the clerk to the Blue Sky Motel, and drove out to meet Harry Coleman. He was a big, genial guy tanned to his elbows and neck, but otherwise, like most of the natives, a sun-dodger. He put me in a duplex all the way down the row of buildings, brought me a paper, a cold can of beer, and some ice.

I wondered if I could do it or not. One lousy drink could have set me off anytime a week ago. Somehow now it was different, and sooner or later I was going to have to find out.

It went down just right. It tasted good and was just enough. I looked at myself in the mirror and winked.

Then I flopped down on the bed and let the sleep ooze over me.