Mickey Spillane: The Tough Guys

I stood up, pulled the trench coat closed. When she realized I had seen her, she closed her eyes, let out a soft mewing sound, and let herself fold up in my arms. I put her down on the steps again and as I did, her pocketbook fell open. There was a sheaf of brand new bills inside, held by a bank wrapper. On it was printed the number 1,000.

Suddenly the porch light snapped on, the door opened, and a man stood there clutching his bathrobe at his middle. His wife peered over his shoulder, her face worried.

"You," he called out. "What are you doing there?" His voice didn't have too much snap to it.

I motioned to the girl. "There's a sick woman here. Look, call a doctor for me and hurry it, will you?"

"A doctor? What's . . ."

"Never mind what's the matter. You call. And turn out that light."

They were glad to get back inside. The porch light went out and inside one turned on. I propped the kid up, put her bag under her arm, and walked away from the house.

I didn't get very far. The car hissed up behind me and a voice said, "It's him again. The one who jumped Lennie and me in the restaurant."

There wasn't any sense running. A dozen fast steps would tear my side anyway. I just stood there and because I did the action that was all set to explode went sour. Nat Paley and the new guy who hopped out and came at me from different sides slowed, not able to figure me out.

Nat's hand came out of his pocket with a gun. The gun came up and Nat's face said it was the right time and the right place. Except somebody else thought differently and a strangely cold voice from inside the car said, "No noise."

They moved before I could yell. The other guy came in fast from the side, but I ducked in time to get the load in his fist off the top of my head. I kicked out, jabbed at his eyes, and made the touch. He couldn't yell with the sudden pain, ducked into my right and his face seemed to come apart under my knuckles.

And that was the end of it. Nat got me just right, one stunning blow behind the ear, and, as I sank to my knees, went over me expertly with a clubbed gun and ruthless feet. As one terrible kick exploded into my side, I thought I screamed and knew with absolute certainty that Nat had one more blow to deliver. It would come with bone-crushing force in that deadly spot at the base of the brain. I knew it was coming and I hoped it would, anything that would erase the awful thing that was happening to me inside.

It came all right, but a sudden convulsion that wracked my side made it miss and my shoulder took it all. Nat didn't realize that, though. A tiny part of my mind that could still discern things heard him laugh and drag the other guy into the car.

In the middle of a wild dream of sound and light I coughed, tried to turn my head away from the jarring, acrid fumes of ammonia, and then swam back into a consciousness I didn't want.

Somebody had carried me to the steps and a face peered anxiously into mine. The old guy watching me said, "It's all right. I'm Doctor McKeever."

"The girl . . ." I started.

"She's all right. She's inside. We'd better get you in there, too."

"I'm fine."

"What happened? Was there an accident?"

I shook my head, clearing it. "No . . . not actually."

When I moved my arm my shoulder muscles screamed. At least nothing was broken. I'd taken some bad ones before, but this took the cake. Under the bandages I could feel the warmth of blood and knew what was happening.

I said, "You saw the girl?"

"Yes."

"You got an idea of what happened?"

He chewed his lips a moment and nodded. "I know."

"You've seen it before, haven't you?"

At first he wasn't going to say anything, then he looked at me again. His voice had an edge to it. "Yes."

"Then you do like you did before, doc. You keep this under your hat, too. Let it get out and that kid is ruined here in town. She can be ruined no matter where she goes and it isn't worth a public announcement."

"Somebody has got to stop it," he said.

I said, "It'll be stopped, doc. It'll be stopped."

A small frown furrowed his forehead. His smile was crooked. "Toxin-anti-toxin," he said.

"What?"

"Poison against poison."

I nodded, spit, and said, "You go take care of that kid, then ride me back to the hotel."

When he had left I got sick again. I had to get those capsules I had left in my room. In just a few minutes now it was going to be worse than it ever had been and I'd be a raving maniac without a big jolt from the small bottle.

I couldn't tell how long he had been gone, but finally he came out leading the girl. A car pulled around from the side and the doctor bundled her into it, telling the driver to take her to his office and deliver her to his wife.

As soon as the car left, he had me on my feet, got me in his Ford, and started up. At the hotel he got out, opened my door, and took the arm on my good side to lead me in.

Dari Dahl was behind the desk, in white nylon no longer. She was wearing a black sweater and skirt combination that dramatized every curve of her body and making the yellow of her hair look like a pool of light.

The brief flicker of concern that hit her face turned to a peculiar look of satisfaction. She came around the desk, tiny lines playing at the corner of her mouth and said, "Trouble?"

"What else. Now get my key, please."

She smiled, went back, picked the key out, and came over and handed it to me. "Are you hurting, Mr. Smith?"

Both of us shot her funny looks.

"Is it true that when a narcotic addict tries to lay off he fights it until he's almost tortured to death before he takes a dose?"

McKeever said, "What are you talking about, Dari?"

"Ask him." She smiled too sweetly.

"She's bugged, doc, let's go."

We walked to the stairs, started up them, when Dari called, "Mr. Smith . . ."

I stopped, knowing somehow what was coming.

"Quite accidentally I dropped a bottle of capsules while cleaning your room. They fell down the toilet." She stopped, letting it sink in, then added, "And so did several prescriptions that were with the bottle. I hope you don't mind too much."

She could see the sweat that beaded my face and laughed. I could hear it all the way up the steps.

I flopped on the bed and it was then, when my coat came open, that McKeever saw the blood. He opened my shirt, saw the red seeping through the bandages, took one look at the color of my face, and rushed out.

Lying there, my ribs wouldn't flex to my breathing and the air seemed to whistle in my throat. It was like being branded; only the iron never left.

The door opened and I thought it was McKeever back, then I smelled the fragrance of her across the room. My eyes slitted open. She wasn't wearing that funny smile she had before.

"What the hell do you want?" I managed to get out.

"Doctor McKeever told me . . ." she paused and moistened her lips, "about Gloria Evans. You tried to help her."

"So what?" I said nastily.

"You tried to help Sonny Holmes the other night, too."

"Sure, I'm everybody's buddy."

I closed my eyes, trying to control my breathing. She said softly, a still determined tone in her voice, "About the other thing . . . drugs. I'm not sorry about that at all."

McKeever came in then, panting from the run up the stairs. He uncovered me, got his fingers under the bandage and worked it off. He said, "A doctor took care of you, didn't he?"

All I could do was nod.

I smelled the flower smell of her as she came closer and heard the sharp intake of her breath as she saw me. "What . . . happened?"

"This man has been shot. He's recuperating from an operation." I heard Dr. McKeever open the bag and the clink of bottles. "Didn't you have anything to take periodically to kill the pain?"