Mickey Spillane - The Tough Guys

She was interesting, all right . . . but the most interesting part was that she was the same doll whose picture I had seen in Rudy's room, only then the red hair had photographed brunette.

Anita said, "She was beautiful, wasn't she?"

"I like you better. Ready to go?"

"Whenever you are."

I paid the tab, got her coat for her, said good night to Leslie Douglas on the way out and picked up the Ford myself. The kid in charge didn't seem anxious to tool anything less than a Caddie.

At the house I walked her to the door, turned her around and said, "Thanks for the night, honey."

She was crying. "Cat . . ."

"Look, I know. I know the reasons and the answers."

"Why does it have to be like this?"

"Because there's no other way. At least you're a real Bannerman. I'm still the bastard, remember."

"Please don't say that."

"Why fight the truth? There are two ends to the family . . . stay with the big one."

There was a funny light in her eyes when she said it. "I may at that."

Petey Salvo came out at three-thirty when the casino was empty. We drove a couple of miles to a drive in, ordered hamburgers and coffee and after a few minutes of old times I got to the point. "Petey . . . what's with this Maloney dish?"

"Ah, come on Cat, lay off her. She gave Chuck enough trouble. You don't want none of it."

"Who says I do?"

"Well, more guys get a stiff one for that broad than any I ever saw. She was always runnin' and Chuck was always belting some punk who went after her. She drove him nuts."

"Look . . . what about that guy the cops are after?"

"Him . . . Sanders? So he tried making a play for her and Chuck nailed him. He did it a couple more times and Chuck did the same thing. But the broad kept the guy coming back. She liked to see the action, that's what I think. Chuck should never've taken her out of show biz. He was better off without her."

"Rudy Bannerman."

"What about him?"

"He ever try for any of that?"

Petey bit into a hamburger and scowled. "You crazy? Chuck would've mangled him."

"So did he?"

"Ah, everybody tried one time or another. She used to hang around the tables a lot and you know how it goes. That Rudy makes like he's a wheel to all the dames and feels good when they play up to him, but he knew what would happen. Anyway, he's a damn drunk."

"So?"

"So when he gets loaded he's no good. I heard a couple of the kids he had out laughing about the guy. He's . . . he's . . . what's the word?"

"Impotent?"

"Yeah. No balls. Nothin' much else either. The dames laugh at him. Big guy and he falls apart in bed and bawls." He finished the other hamburger and washed it down with the coffee. "What you getting to anyway?"

"A little matter of blackmail, I think. I'm beginning to get ideas about how Maloney was killed."

"Well, if you find out, let me know first. Him and me were buddies."

CHAPTER FOUR

The first thing in the morning I called through to Chicago and got Sam Reed. In a hushed voice that always sounded scared when he was passing out a line he told me he had checked through on Popeye Gage and Carl Matteau and found out they were sent to Culver City ten days ago along with a bagman carrying a hundred grand that was going to set up an operation. The bagman came back, Gage and Matteau stayed to make sure Syndicate dough was spent like it was supposed to be. The only odd note was that although Popeye Gage was one of the "watchers," Matteau had come up in the organization the last few years and didn't take assignments like this unless he had a going interest in things. The word was that whatever the operation was to be, Matteau would run it. He was overseeing his product personally. The other bit was that Popeye had become a junkie and was pretty damn dangerous.

I told Sam thanks, said I'd return the favor and gave him the name of my motel in case anything else came up. He told me he would and broke the connection. Ordinarily Sam was closemouthed and it hurt him to get squeezed.

After breakfast I found out where Hank Feathers lived, got him out of the sack cussing up a storm until he knew it was me, then got invited over for coffee.

Hank lived alone in a small house outside of town. The old man and he used to laugh about their escapades with the women, but Hank never seemed to stick to one long enough to make it permanent. The place was small enough for him to take care of and served as a second office when necessary, and offered all the comforts a bachelor type could need.

When we got settled I said, "You did the story the night Maloney got killed at the Cherokee, didn't you?"

"Yeah, two columns. There wasn't anything to say."

"Run through it, will you?"

He watched me over the coffee cup. "Damn if you aren't your old man all over again. Get a nut in your head and you can't shake it loose."

"Well?"

Hank put the cup down and spread his hands. "Nothing. The guy was lying there dead with a knife hole in his chest. No scuffle, no nothing."

"Motive?"

"He had a five-hundred-buck watch some drunken clown gave him and a hundred eighty some odd bucks in his pocket. It wasn't robbery. He must have known the guy and didn't expect a shiv."

"Could have been something else."

"Oh?"

"Maybe he just wasn't afraid of him. He didn't expect the knife, but he wasn't scared."

"The cops had that angle too." He sipped his coffee again. "Not me though. I'd say it came as a complete surprise."

"Why?"

"He had a pack of club matches in one hand. There was a single unstruck match lying near the body. I'd say he was going to light a cigarette for somebody he knew when he got it in under the arms."

"The police reach the same conclusion?"

"Nope. Where he was were a lot of butts and some loose ones that fell out of his pocket. He always carried them loose. They say he was going to light his own and the guy caught him in that position."

I nodded, thought it through and finished my coffee. "I'd like a list of people who were there that night."

"Sure, check out two hundred reputable citizens and see what you can find. I tried it. What are you after anyway?"

"Something named Bannerman," I said. "Rudy Bannerman."

Hank Feathers grinned and leaned back into the chair. "Why didn't you ask it? He was plastered. He had just dropped fifteen Gs in the casino and got loaded at the bar. When the cops came they found him in the men's room locked in a toilet sick as a pig. He had puked his ears off and sobered up pretty fast . . . enough to get himself out of there in a hurry, but he couldn't have raised a burp far less than a knife."

"The cops ever find the weapon?" I asked him.

"Not likely. The police surgeon said it was made by a stiletto with a six inch blade three quarters of an inch wide at the base. With all the water around here to throw it into there's little chance of finding it. Whoever killed him had plenty of time to dump the knife . . . Maloney was dead twenty minutes before anybody knew about it."

"Nicely set up."

"Wasn't it though? Now you got something on your mind, boy. Get with it. I'll feed you, but let's you feed me too."

"Feel up to stepping on toes?"

"Son, that's my life."

"Okay, see if Irish Maloney ever had anything to do with Rudy Bannerman."

"Brother!"

"He had a picture of her in his room. Care to try it!"

"You just bought it, son. I hope you don't get hurt."

"I've been hurt all I'll ever be, Hank."

The Bannerman name carried a lot of weight. There was only one family of them in Culver City and whoever bore it was set apart as a special person to be considered in a unique fashion. And like all families who occupied that niche, little was unknown about them no matter what it was. From the docks to the country clubs, they knew my old man and liked him, but the rest were another breed entirely.