Mickey Spillane - The Tough Guys

For the kind of deal he was hoping to set up with me he was willing to forego all other engagements and took me back into his office with orders to his secretary not to disturb us. She had coffee ready, set us up and left.

"Now, Mr. Bannerman, how did you like the sites I pointed out?"

"Only two have possibilities," I said. "The old Witworth estate and the Flagler Hill section. However, they both lack one essential . . . a water table sufficient to my needs."

"How would you know about that?" he asked with a degree of surprise.

"When you know how to ask questions you get some great answers. It's my business."

"Well, I heard this rumor, but never gave it a thought. My, we have to find something else quickly."

"I'll tell you what I have in mind."

"Oh?"

"You'll have to investigate the deal . . . but it'll all be a matter of public record anyway. Check out that property my future cousin-in-law has next to the proposed city marina."

"But Mr. Bannerman . . ."

"For my purposes it's ideal. The building will be modern, handsome, the Industry smokeless, the access highways are at hand . . . a railroad siding can be extended from the Tompson works and the benefits to the city will be far greater than that of another gambling casino."

"But . . ."

"No buts, Mr. Helm. If you don't want to handle it there are others."

He couldn't fight that attitude. He shrugged and drank his coffee. "Very well, I'll see how far things have gone. However, if it is not possible . . ."

"Then I'll have to take something else," I finished for him. "How long will it take?"

He glanced at the clock on the wall. "If I get to it right away . . . perhaps this afternoon."

I got up and reached for my hat. "I'll be back later."

"Certainly, Mr. Bannerman," he said, rolling his tongue around the name.

Hank Feathers didn't reach his office until a little before noon. I whistled out the window of the car and he came plodding across the street all grin and crinkly eyes and got in beside me.

"Step on any toes?" I asked him.

"Well now, son, I don't know yet. I got up around the Maloney place and funny enough I know quite a few people up there. One of our printers has a place two houses away and a garrulous wife. Anyway, after due poking around I came up with a lot of answers."

"Gossip or answers?"

"You do the separating," Hank said. "This Maloney woman has quite a neighborhood reputation. She made no bones about her conduct, rather enjoying the Madame Pompadour concept. She had plenty of visitors, plenty."

"Anybody special?"

"Don't jump the gun, son," he smiled, holding up his hands. "Rudy Bannerman was positively identified having tried to gain admittance on two occasions, both times while he was crocked. One, during an afternoon, he was seen for better than an hour in her back yard while she was sunbathing. The whole thing was observed and though he was well tempted by that lovely dish, he stoutheartedly left before the husband returned."

"Good for him."

"The suspect Guy Sanders made several surreptitious trips to visit Irish and twice was seen with her in a neighborhood bar. It's enough to hang him."

"They'll sure try it."

"But here's the interesting note. From a couple of very nosey sources, one an old lady given to staying up late and the other our printer's wife who has some odd habits including insomnia, I learn that there was one fairly common visitor to the Maloney household when the husband was on the late shift at the Cherokee Club."

"Any description?"

"Very little. He was always dressed in a suit or topcoat, wore a hat and moved fast. Generally he drove up, apparently at a specified time and she came out, joined him in the car and they drove away."

"Car?"

"What old dame can identify a new car at night? It was a dark one, that's all. They suspect that he was Sanders."

"Great. What do you think?"

Hank shrugged, looked at me and said, "The guy was thin . . . so is Sanders. Rudy Bannerman is chubby. At least it wasn't him. Anything else you want me to get in trouble over?"

"I'll think of something."

He opened the door and stepped but, then remembered something and said, "By the way, I bumped into a guy who wants to see you very badly. A friend of your old man's."

"Who?"

"George P. Wilkenson, the family solicitor."

"Wilkenson? Damn, he must be ninety years old."

"Ninety-three. He's still active. Anyway, I told him you were back and he said it was urgent you get up and see him. He lives back in the past these days and can still chew your ears off. He and your old man were great fishing buddies."

"I'll say hello before I leave," I said. "And hey . . . who's a cop you can trust? Somebody with a gold badge."

"Try Lieutenant Travers. Tell him I recommended him."

I waved so-long, drove back downtown and cut over to the Municipal Building that housed the First Precinct and went in and asked for Lieutenant Travers. The desk sergeant made the call, told me to go on back and gave me directions.

Travers was pretty young as Lieutenants go, but he had all the little earmarks that stamped him as a professional law enforcement officer. Tough when he had to be, smart always, cute when necessary and suspicious eternally. He gave me one of those long slow up-and-down looks when I walked in, was ready enough with a handshake and an invitation to sit down and had I not left the .45 and the speed rig in the car he would have spotted it and shaken me down on the spot. He caught the name, but it didn't cut any ice with him at all.

"Related to the Bannerman family locally?" He held out a pack of butts and I shook my head.

"In a way. I'm a bastard." His eyes jumped up. "A real one . . . born out of wedlock and all that crap."

He sucked on his cigarette. "Yeah, I've heard that story. Now, what can I do for you?"

"I've recognized two Chicago hoodlums in this town, Lieutenant. One is Popeye Gage and the other Carl Matteau."

Travers watched me, swung slowly in his chair a few times and said, "I know they're here, but how did you recognize them, Mr. Bannerman?"

I had to grin. "Got in a little deal in Chicago once and they were pointed out as Syndicate men. They both have records and I thought you might like to know about it."

"Uh-huh." He took another big drag on the butt and laid it down. "We appreciate your being civic-minded, but there's nothing we can do. Is there a complaint you'd like to lodge?"

"Nope, but since I'm considering relocating back here I don't want any Syndicate people moving in on any business I have in mind."

"Then don't worry about it, Mr. Bannerman. Unfortunately, in any state that has legalized gambling, there is a certain amount of outside interference and an influx of off-color characters. In this case, Matteau is clean and has applied for a gambling license although his location is not specified. Knowing local politics, I'd say he'll have it accepted. Nevertheless, he'll be well investigated and will comply with all state and local laws."

I eased out of the chair and said, "Thanks, Lieutenant. It's nice to know we're all safe from the criminal element."

For some reason he gave me a funny look, his eyes slitted almost shut and grinned right across his face. "It's nice to be appreciated, Mr. Bastard Bannerman."

I laughed at him, threw a wave and went back to my car. Fifteen minutes later I parked in the rear of the Bannerman Building on Main Street and took the elevator up to Rudy's office where the receptionist told me she was sorry, but nobody could see Mr. Bannerman without an appointment.

When I said I was Cat Bannerman and she had no choice she reached for the intercom until I switched it off and she took one look at my face and thought it better to head for the ladies' room.