Mickey Spillane - The Tough Guys

On the stage she was sensational, but meeting her stretched out on a chaise under a sun lamp was another thing. Oh, she had the lumps in the right places, the hippy curves and the full breasts that modern culture demands, the sensuous look that comes from Max Factor tins, but there were other things that took her down all the way. Clever lighting could take years off her, but up close you could see the years closing in, the tiny wrinkles around the eyes and the beginning of the flesh getting slack and the striations on the upper parts of her thighs where the skin had stretched sometime when she ate her way out of the burlecue circuit.

Yet inside her mind she was still twenty years old and all men were at her feet and she was able to prove it nightly at the Cherokee and forget that sheer professionalism and the help of electricians could put her across.

Petey said, "This here's my friend, Cat." He looked at me and conveniently forgot my last name. "Cat Cay. He was Chuck's friend too. He just wanted to talk, so I'll leave you guys alone. I got to get to the club. You got another hour yet, Irish."

I got the full treatment when Petey left; the way she sat up, took off the sunglasses and doubled her legs under her to make sure I got the full benefit of everything she had to show. The shorts were tight and showed the voluptuous V of her belly and deliberately low enough to show where she had shaved to fit into her costume. She leaned over to make me a drink from the decanter on the table, curving herself so I would be impressed by the way the halter held her breasts high and firm, pushing out over the top so the nipples were almost exposed.

Too many times I had gone the route before and knew the action so I could afford to ignore the invitation and when I took the drink and sat down opposite her I let her see my eyes and read my face until she knew I was what I was, but couldn't quite understand it.

I said, "Sorry about Chuck. He was a good friend. We were in the Marines together."

She lifted her glass, toasted me with a silent kiss. "That's how it goes."

"No remorse?"

"He was a little man."

"I don't know."

"He got himself killed, didn't he? This guy Sanders . . ."

She didn't let me finish. "Sanders was a nothing too. He couldn't kill a fly. All he was scared of was being put back in the pen." Irish Maloney downed the drink in three fast gulps and set the glass down.

"He wasn't a Rudy Bannerman?"

"Who?"

"Rudy."

"Him?" she said, "A nothing. Strictly nothing. A boy in long pants. He's good for a goose when nobody's watching and nothing more." She smiled at me, loose and wanting. "What kind of man are you, Mr. Cay?"

"Big," I said.

"Not if you were Chuck's friend. He never had big friends."

"In the Marines he had."

"Then come here and show me."

She reached her hand down and a zipper made that funny sound and the shorts were suddenly hanging loose down one side. She smiled again, her mouth wet and waiting and she leaned back watching me.

I stood up. "Thanks for the offer, honey, but like I said, Chuck was my friend. There should be a period of mourning."

I thought she'd get mad. They usually do, but not her. She giggled, blinked her eyes and made a mouth at me. "Ohoo, you got to be a big man to say no."

"Not necessarily."

The giggle again. Then she hooked her thumbs in the hem of the shorts, stripped them off in one swift motion, held them high overhead and let them fall to the floor. She let herself fall back into the chaise longue in a classic position, still smiling, knowing damn well what was happening to me. " Now say no. " Her voice was husky with the beat in it.

"No," I said.

I walked to the door, opened it and turned around. She hadn't changed position or stopped smiling. Before I could find the right words Irish Maloney said, "I'm coming to get you, big man."

"I'm not hard to find," I told her.

When I was in the Ford and on the way back to town I knew one thing. I had found a good motive for murder. The thing was, how did it tie in with Gage and Matteau being involved with the Bannermans? There was one way to find out.

CHAPTER FIVE

I walked around the house and went in the back way where Annie was cleaning up in the kitchen. When I tapped on the door her head jerked up, birdlike, and she put the tray of dirty glasses in the sink and minced to the porch, flicked the light on and peered out into the dark. "Yes . . . who is it?"

"Cat, honey. Open up."

She smiled happily, pulled the latch and I stepped inside. "My word, boy, what are you doing coming in the back way? You are a Bannerman."

"Hell, Annie, it's the only way I was ever allowed in the house anyway. You forget?"

"Well you don't have to do that now."

"This time I did," I said. "I want to talk to you before I see them."

Her mouth seemed to tighten up and she half turned away. "If you don't mind . . . I'm . . . only an employee. Please . . ."

"In the pig's neck. You were the only old lady I ever had. If it hadn't been for you and Anita they would have starved me out long before I left. The Bannermans don't have room for a bastard in their great halls of luxury." I put my arm around her and led the way to the breakfast niche and sat down opposite her.

"Look, honey. Nothing goes on around here that you don't know. You have eyes like an eagle and ears like a rabbit and there isn't a keyhole or pinprick in a wall you haven't peeked through. Any secrets this family have, you have too, even if you do keep them locked behind sealed lips. That's well appreciated if it's for the good, but right now something is wrong and there's big trouble going on . . ."

"You . . . can only make it worse."

"Do you know about it?"

She hesitated, then her eyes dropped in front of my gaze. "Yes," she said simply.

"So what's the pitch."

"I . . . don't think I should tell you."

"I can find out the hard way, Annie. The trouble might get worse then."

She fidgeted with the salt shaker on the table a moment, then looked up. "It's Rudy," she said. "He killed the attendant at the Cherokee Club."

" What? "

She nodded. "It's true. He was drunk and he gets mean when he's drunk and doesn't get his own way. He . . . went to get his car and the attendant thought he had too much to drink to drive and wouldn't get the car and Rudy . . . went back inside . . . and got the knife . . . and stabbed him."

I reached over and grabbed the fragile hand. "Who says so, Annie?"

"Those two men . . . they were there. They had just driven up."

The picture began to form then. "So they picked up the knife after Rudy ran for it and they got the thing with his fingerprints all over it," I stated.

"Yes."

"What does Rudy say about it?"

She shook her head sadly. "He doesn't remember a thing. He was drunk and sick. He can't remember anything."

"And now they want money, is that it?"

"Yes . . . I think so. I . . . really don't know."

"Everybody inside?"

"They're waiting for Vance. Yes, they're inside."

I got up, gave her hand a squeeze and told her not to worry. Then I went out the kitchen, through the hall into the library where the clan was gathered looking like they were waiting for a bomb to hit.

From the expression on their faces, when they saw me, they saw the bomb coming. Old Uncle Miles grabbed the arms of the chair and his face turned white. Rudy, who had been pacing the floor with his hands behind his back, suddenly became too flaccid to stand and tried to look nonchalant as he settled on the arm of the chair Teddy was cowering in.

Only Anita seemed genuinely glad to see me, her smile erasing the worry look as she left the couch to come across the room with her hand out. I knew what she was thinking, all right; she could steer me out of there before I churned things up. But even she wasn't going to stop what I was going to do.