Mickey Spillane - The Tough Guys

Dan said, "What happened . . . but don't talk if you're hurt."

"I'm . . . okay." I pointed to the closet and told Porter to open it. He found the catch, swung the door out, and picked up the box from the floor. He found the wallet, emptied it into his hands and looked at me.

I said, "Receipts for clothes . . . in cold storage. Look at . . . the date. They've been there for . . . years."

"Go on."

"Rhino's wife . . . hid the stuff there. A damn woman's . . . trick. Get to a phone. Check on it . . . and you'll be governor, Mr. Porter."

Dan hoisted me to my feet. "I have to call this story in. We can't keep it quiet now." He looked at the door and nodded. The crowd had already gathered, staring, gasping, speculating. The two cops were having a job keeping them out.

I said, "A favor, friend. I hate to make you share your scoop, but you know my buddy in Phoenix?"

"Okay," Dan laughed. "He'll get it the same time."

Porter had gotten his color back. He seemed different now, the softness gone from his face, the old determination back again. "Where's the nearest phone?"

"Store on the corner."

"I'll check this out." He smiled gently, trying for a degree of friendliness. "I have a feeling, you know what I mean?"

"I know. The stuff will be there." I put my hand on his arm. "Look," I told him. "No hard feelings. Things go wrong sometimes."

Outside a siren wailed, stopped in front of the buildings, and two uniformed cops came in with guns drawn. Porter gave Mannie over to them, left instructions with the others, and he turned to me with a final wave.

I went out in the hall behind him. The cops had squeezed everybody out the front door and were standing there waving them off. The little Gomez boy didn't bother coming in that way. He came up through the cellar and said very softly from behind me, "Meestair Phil?"

I turned around. "Oh, hello, kid."

"You look for the nice lady. Pretty lady with black hair? She who was here?"

My mouth was suddenly dry and I nodded.

"I see something, Meestair Phil. I don't tell nobody before. I no want trouble."

"What was it, kid?"

"You know Leavy's store?"

"Sure."

"By the side an alley?"

I nodded, remembering the place. "It was boarded up."

"No. Not boards. Somebody take down soon ago."

"Okay, no boards."

The kid looked around as though he were fearful of being overheard. "Thees pretty lady. She has bag." He stretched his hands apart showing me how big it was. "Like so. She walk down street and man come out. Thees man he very mad and he pull her inside. I hear her yell."

Without knowing it I had the kid by the shoulder shaking him. "Damn it, what happened?"

Sudden fear came into his eyes and he stiffened. I let him go, forced a smile and waited. He shrugged, swallowed, and said, "I do not go in there, Meestair Phil. I no want trouble."

"No trouble, kid." I reached in my pocket and took out a bill. The kid clutched at it like a miracle come true, grinned broadly, and darted off toward the darkness of the cellar. I walked back to the room where the bodies were, found Lafarge's .45 on the floor and shoved it back under my belt. Then I went out the way the kid had gone out, past the cops, the curious, onto a street whose occupants were all clustered in front of one building.

It was raining again, the dehydrated smells of the city being activated again into a foul soup of human essence. I walked through it to the corner, thinking of how Terry had run across this same street into the same room where so much had happened only minutes ago. And now there were only a few steps left.

Like the Gomez kid said, the boards weren't there anymore. I went through the gap into the blackness of an alley, my hands touching the rough brick of the building walls on either side of me. I walked slowly, feeling for debris with my feet, not knowing where I was or where I was going, knowing only that some place this alley ended and there I would find Terry.

Alive, if I weren't too late.

The alley was longer than I expected. Twice I felt the steel grilling from cellar windows under my feet and tried them, but they were rusted shut and impossible to budge. The litter of years, cans and papers and junk thrown off rooftops was thick, but curiously enough not scattered underfoot. It was as though a path had been kicked through the stuff.

That's how I knew when I reached the end of the path. A knee-high pile of garbage stopped me and when I felt the walls, in the one on my left I touched a door.

I had the .45 in my fist when I shoved it open. Unexpectedly it swung soundlessly and I stepped inside, my guts half ready to stop a bullet. My eyes were well-adjusted to the darkness and I could see as well as sense the incredible pile of junk that filled the room. It was an old storeroom of some kind, long unused. Very faintly a yellow tinge showed me the way, a path between stacked crates. I walked quietly, carefully, followed the bend in the aisle to the other door through whose time-grimed window came the pale glow of a lamp.

Inside there was the rhythmic clap of flesh on flesh and the steady cursing of a deep-chested voice saying vile things over and over again.

The door was locked. Momentarily. I kicked the damn thing open and went in with a roar and in that small fraction of time saw Terry, bloody and bruised in the chair, her eyes open without seeing and the face of Rhino Massley coming at me with a hoarse yell of maniacal fury.

I should have shot him then. I shouldn't have waited. I shouldn't have let all the pent-up things boil out of my mind into my fists because he slammed into me and the gun flew out of my hand to the floor and Rhino was on top of me clawing for my throat.

There was nothing left in me, nothing at all. I was a complete fool, dead weak from the terrible things that happened to me at the apartment and I couldn't tear him off.

If Terry hadn't moaned softly then, he would have killed me. Instead he cursed her with a hiss, climbed off me, and took a step toward the table. When he turned around, he had a gun in his hand, his eyes lit up so that the white showed all around the iris and I realized that Massley was mad, completely mad.

I looked up at him, my breath coming in great sucking gasps.

"You're part of this, aren't you?" he said.

Instead of answering him I lifted my hand and pointed to Terry. "She's . . . your daughter. You did that to . . . your daughter?"

His teeth shone in the yellow light, lips bared so that his face was a lined mask of hate. "I have no daughter. Somewhere I have a son. A son. A son."

I shook my head. "Terry is . . . ."

"Terry is my son!" he shouted. "Somewhere I have a son. Damn them all. Damn all women for what they are. I have only a son, do you understand! She left me a son and named him Terry. It was he who should have carried that suitcase. Damn you both! Damn you and that woman there. What have you done with him?"

He was quieter this time, a little more rational for the moment. "You know what it is I want, otherwise you wouldn't be here."

I let my head drop with a nod of assent.

"Do you tell me or do I simply kill you and look for myself. It won't be too hard to do."

"Let her go," I whispered.

He shrugged. "Why not? She really doesn't matter."

"My apartment. Down the street. Third house from the corner. Downstairs left apartment."

"I see." He looked toward Terry, smiling peculiarly. She was breathing heavily, a trickle of blood running from her nose, but now her eyes were closed. Without looking at me, knowing I was too far away to be able to do a thing, he said, "You like this . . . woman?"

Once again, I nodded dumbly, sensing full well what he was going to do. He still watched Terry, still smiled that terrible way. And while he watched I moved my eyes and saw the .45 where it had fallen and sobbed deeply and let myself collapse again.