Mickey Spillane - The Tough Guys

"When he was in the lung?"

"On two occasions, when he was out of it for the few minutes necessary, he took the time to belt one woman with an ashtray and hit the other with a bottle of rubbing alcohol. After all the verbal abuse they took from Rhino that finished it. Both of them dropped the charges after an out-of-court settlement."

"Who was the third?"

"A newspaper woman. She was outside his window with a camera and he fired right through the window at her."

"What's your point?"

"It's an old story. He's had charges like these flung at him a dozen times. Anything there?"

I shrugged, took another small pull at the drink and pushed it away from me. It was no trouble to do it at all. "Nothing I can touch at the moment. It's a peculiar facet of his personality I found out about back home. Why this interest?"

"Because on everything else he was clean. Massley apparently went to every extent to keep in the background. He was legal, at least on the surface. He ran a neat, efficient organization and let as little trouble touch him as possible. Then this stuff pops up. He's gone after more dames with his hands or anything available than you can count. Each time he has to go out of his way to clear the deal with a handful of dough."

"So he hates dames."

"Not his nurse."

"There is always the exception," I said. I stood up and pushed the phone at him. "Call the airport and see who you know. I want a flight out."

He made a tight face. "The cops are going to want to talk to you."

"You talk for me."

"You're the one with the story. What can I say?"

"Maybe something about how peculiar it was that the doctor who signed Massley's death certificate and the mortician who embalmed him died in a supposed accident together right after the funeral that was held for a bag of sand. Hell, they ought to be glad they got the two who creamed Lafarge."

"That's one story they'll want everything on."

"Guardian of a buried sandbag," I told him. "As long as nobody dug the coffin up, Rhino was safe someplace. Those hoods who jumped me got the idea real fast and didn't want the information spread around. If you didn't show up, Lafarge and I would have filled that hole and if they handled it right nobody would have been wised up."

The DC8B landed short, slowed up on its brakes and turned into the first taxi strip. As it swung onto the apron I saw them, the unmistakables, men stamped by their jobs. The pair of two-tone patrol cars would not have been the giveaway, if they hadn't backed up the black sedan with the small mid-roof antenna.

Cops. Liaison between Phoenix and New York must have been excellent.

Cal Porter wasn't taking any chances on me running off with a hatful of information that could make him governor. At least I should have expected it. You don't keep murder quiet. At least not too inexpensively.

The cop met me at the foot of the ramp, took my arm, and tried to steer me. I said, "Lay off."

For a second it looked like he was going to have fun, then Cal Porter was there, smiling pleasantly just in case, another plainclothesman behind him. "Phoenix called, Rocca."

"It's what I expected, Porter."

The cop nudged me. "Say mister."

I gave him the old two words and turned to the D.A. "Lay off me, Porter. Treat me like a slob and it's going to look like you fell through the crapper. I'm past being pushed, especially by you. From now on you stay on the safe side, not me. You pulled the cork eight years ago, but it won't happen now." I looked around at the nice assemblage, well-trained and efficient, all there to do it the way the book said, no matter what it cost anybody else.

I said, "You got one stinking chance to play it smart, Porter. I won't give you two at all. If you spoke to Phoenix, you know there's a press working on my side this time without a publisher like Gates who let his men get thrown to the dogs."

"Maybe you know that I got time working for me and, if I don't talk, then you'll look like the most stupid idiot that ever faced a court and, brother, will I call the names out. In fact, come to think of it, you haven't got a damn thing to say at all. Not a god damn thing. So toss me in the slammer and I'll wait it out. I'll wait until it's over with, then shove it into you and break it off."

The plainclothesman said, "Want me to calm him down, Mr. Porter?"

Cal was white. His nostrils were pinched and turning green from pressure, but he shook his head. He waved his hand absently at the cops. "You men go back. Mr. Rocca here will go with me." He let the rage seep out of his face slowly. "That all right with you, Mr. Rocca?"

"Certainly, Mr. Porter," I said. "Has Dan filled you in on the details?"

"He has. Now we'll see what you have to say, Mr. Rocca."

We met Dan Litvak in Rooney's. He was alone in a booth, the ashtray littered with souvenirs of his wait. His face was carefully expressionless, but I knew what he was thinking. When Cal Porter sat down opposite him, he said, "You didn't play it wisely, Cal."

"So I learned. Maybe I can still smarten up."

Dan glanced up, thought about it, and smiled slowly. He reached in his pocket and took out a folded sheaf of papers covered with his own type of shorthand. "Between Cal and me, we have that information on Elena Harris."

I tried to keep the quaver out of my voice when I told him to spill it.

"Elena Harris booked passage for Rio two weeks after Rhino died."

"Supposedly died," I cut in.

He nodded. "Supposedly. She has been in Rio since and has been the constant companion of an unidentified gentleman known only as Richard Castor. This man joined her about the time she arrived and until a few months ago . . . well, you know how it gets."

"Yeah . . . sure."

"So Castor dropped out of sight. Meantime the Harris woman has been cutting a wide swath through local Latin society. She's a blonde and they go for blondes there, especially the ones with class."

"And Castor . . ."

"At this point, is missing," Dan said.

"No history at all?"

Dan shrugged. "All this came over the phone, but he had a beard, was distinguished, and had plenty of loot. The only trouble he got into was when he had a brawl with a couple of women. He beat both of them up pretty badly."

"Rhino," I said quietly. "It's him."

Cal Porter tapped the table with his fingers. "We caught the business with the women too." His fingers stopped the tapping and he looked at me. "Are you ready to talk?"

"In a minute. What's with Mannie Waller?"

"We can't locate him . . . yet. Several of his men are under surveillance and all his known hangouts are covered." He paused, coughed into his hand, and said, "He's pretty big now."

"How big?"

"Outsized. We didn't realize to what extent until we went to town on him. Mannie Waller, for all his crassness, is probably the Syndicate's Mr. Big. Since Appalachian they've played it plenty cute."

"And he disappeared right after I opened Rhino's grave."

"Apparently."

"The call got through then."

"That's right. Now supposing, since we're all in this nice informal atmosphere, you say what's on your mind. If I didn't feel like you had a possibility of being right, and on top of that, that it could have been me who sent you away for seven years on a bum rap, you wouldn't be getting this opportunity to make me look like a fool. And if Dan didn't go along with you, I don't think I would have either. But now you're getting your chance. Just lay it out so we can see what it is."

I sat back, put the pieces together the way it looked best and gave them the picture.

"Before I was sent up I made a project out of Rhino Massley, intending to get hold of the documented evidence that determined his position inside the organization he ran and the outside loot to go with it. You know what happened. I took too big a bite. Rhino managed a neatly set-up frame and I took a dive behind bars. And with me gone Rhino was riding high . . . nobody big enough to push or cut him out. He had it made, but then came a time when he wanted out of the organization and things like this just don't happen unless you kick off."