Mickey Spillane - The Tough Guys

But it took us that long to shake the place down. We came up with three .38s, a half a case of booze and forty-two hundred bucks in cash, but that was all.

Popeye Gage was the first one to open his eyes. He saw Petey leaning over him and tried to fake it, but the act didn't hold. Petey dragged him to his feet and held him up against his chest and you never saw fear in a guy's eyes before unless you saw his.

I said, "Put him in the chair, Petey. We have something special for him."

"Let me give him something special, Cat."

"Save it for the other one. I know what will make this one talk."

Petey threw Popeye halfway across the room into an overstuffed chair and the punk cringed there shivering because he found something that didn't play out the way he thought it would and he was almost ready to hurt.

Carl Matteau wasn't quite so easy. He had gone the route before too and decided to take it cursing and swearing all the way, but no matter what Petey did to him he wasn't about to spill his guts. I was figuring on that and let him go through the rough stuff until the blood ran down his chin and his eyes were rolling in their sockets and said, "We want the knife, Carl. What do we do to get it?"

"Go screw yourself."

I hit him myself this time. I laid one on him that sent him out of the seat to the wall and he sat there on the floor glowering at me.

"You hit the wrong one, buddy. You're in a trap now."

He said two words.

Petey gave him one then and he went out cold.

Over in the corner Popeye Gage started to whimper. Petey said, "They done it, right?"

"They didn't done it," I told him. "They were just part of it."

"I'll kill 'em if you want, Cat. We can dump . . ."

"No killing, Petey. Don't involve yourself."

"Chuck was my friend."

"So we'll stick them. Only don't let's take a fall, okay?"

"You're calling it, Cat."

I went over to Gage and stood there looking at him for a minute. I said to Petey, "You know a place where we can put this one? Someplace where he can't be heard and nobody can hear him scream?"

"There's the smokehouse behind your place, remember?"

Remember? Damn right I remembered. I had taken enough beatings from Miles there often enough when Rudy and Teddy had made me take lumps.

"That should do it."

Popeye knew what I was getting at. He could see a couple of days going by without pumping a few shots of the big H into his veins and knew what would happen. His mouth worked until the words came out. "Look, I don't know nothing. I don't . . ."

"It's only what the others don't know, little man. That's what counts. They'll all think Carl clued you in, so sweat. Sweat hard," I said.

We left Carl Matteau like that and drove six miles back to the Bannerman place and locked Popeye in the smokehouse. He went quietly because Petey laid a short one on his jaw and left him on a pile of sawdust. When he woke up he'd be screaming for a shot and would be ready to say anything if we'd get him a fix.

I had Petey wait in the car and took the back door route to the house again. Annie had a ready smile, her hands and clothes white with flour. She told me Rudy had come home sick yesterday and was still in bed. Cousin Teddy left town on some mission and Uncle Miles was in the library with Vance Colby.

Rather than push on in, I stood there, listening to the heated voice coming from inside. The oak doors were too thick to transmit the words but it was Vance Colby that was doing the demanding and Uncle Miles aquiescing little by little. When their discussion came to an end I pulled back, let Vance Colby through without him seeing me, and after he was out and in his car I went inside to where Miles was hunched up behind his desk, his face looking like he had just been whipped.

"Hello, Uncle."

"I don't think you and I have anything to discuss."

"No?"

It wasn't what I said. It was the way I said it. His mouth started to hang open and I saw his hands shake. "What . . . do you mean?"

We did have something to discuss, all right, but I didn't know what it was. As long as he thought I did he was on the hook, not me. "I got the picture pretty well laid out," I told him, a grin on my face.

Miles looked like he was going to die right there. He'd make a lousy poker player too. He'd said enough with his face to show me not to push any further so I let out a chuckle and walked out of the room.

Anita was just coming down the stairs, saw me and hurried, both hands reaching for mine. Her voice was soft as she said, " Cat, Cat caught the rat. " When we were kids and she said that I used to chase her until I caught her and held her down squealing and kicking making like I was going to feed her a worm. It had been a great game.

"Hi, beautiful. Busy today?"

"Well, Vance . . ."

"He just left."

A frown creased her forehead. "That's funny. He didn't call me."

"Big business."

I walked toward the kitchen with her, my arm circling her waist. She fitted up against me unconsciously, her thigh rubbing mine. "He's been like that for a month now. He's . . . changed."

"Feel like doing a little touring with me?"

"Where, Cat?"

"Just around. I have some stops to make."

"Okay," she smiled happily, "let me get my jacket."

On the way to town I checked in the office of the motel to see if I had any calls. There were two, one from Sam Reed in Chicago and the other from Hank Feathers. I put the one through to Chicago first and got Sam at his place just as he was about to leave.

"Cat," he said, "I got a little more on Matteau. Guy I know pretty well used to work with him and when I got around to asking about him he let loose some odds and ends."

"Let's have them."

"The Syndicate didn't just move in down there. They were approached by somebody with a deal. They never would have touched the area after all the trouble they had the last time, but this deal looked solid and they went for it. Seems legit and Matteau is going to head it up. If it swings the Syndicate will get in good, but it's got to be legit. They can handle things once they're established. Now, that do you any good?"

"It makes sense, Sam. Thanks for calling."

"No trouble. Like I said, I'll be wanting a favor someday."

"You'll get it."

I held down the cutoff bar, let it up and gave the operator the out of town number for Hank Feathers. He was in a hotel a hundred miles away on an assignment they threw at him the last minute and had tried to locate me earlier and couldn't. I said, "What's up, doc?"

"Something you'll have to run down personally. The printer at the paper . . . the one who lives near Irish Maloney . . . well, his wife forgot to tell me something. One of her constant visitors backed into a parked car one night and never left a calling card. Minor damage, but she just happened to be coming home, saw the accident and took his license number and stuck it under the windshield wiper of the car he bumped."

"A neighborhood car?"

"Can't say. She didn't keep a record. She was just indignant about him running off."

"When did it happen?"

"A couple of weeks ago."

"Good deal. I'll see what I can do."

"One more thing . . . will you get over and see old man Wilkenson? He's bugging me on the hour. Get him off my back. So he'll yak for a couple hours about the old days, but then it's over."

"Yeah, sure. See you when you get back."

"Two, three days. No more."

Anita looked at me curiously when I got back in the car. "Are we going someplace?"

I nodded. "Making house calls. You're going to see an insurance investigator at work. At least I hope everybody thinks so."

"Why?"

"Because all this trouble the Bannermans are in has an answer and it's not the one you think it is."