Mickey Spillane - Dead Street

“I didn’t acquire shit,” I said, “and the mob boys know it. They’re pretty efficient. We have our own sources inside their operations.”

“They haven’t given up, you know.”

I asked him, “What good would it do them to poke around here, even if they knew enough to? Bettie Brice has lost every trace of her memory. There’s nothing she can say or do that could implicate organized crime any more. All that was twenty years ago.”

“But it isn’t over yet.”

“Isn’t it?”

“You’re here now.”

“Retired.”

“Noted.”

Invisible fingers seemed to walk up my back, nails leaving little dents in their trek, not hurting, barely annoying, but indicating something was there that I should recognize.

My voice didn’t quite sound like me when I half-whispered, “What do you know, Darris?”

A few seconds passed before he said quietly, “Nothing that would hold up in court.”

“I didn’t ask you that.”

“You know how cops are, Jack.”

“They’re all retirees here.”

“Sure. That doesn’t stop them thinking. They don’t say much, but they think, all right. They aren’t under orders here any more than you and I are. But we’re still cops and you don’t shake all that training and action. We still obey some rules that were never written.”

I grinned at him.

He scowled. “What’s so funny?”

“How come we’ll never be plain old civilians again?”

A faint grin twisted his mouth. “Would you want to?”

When I shook my head, the grin reached his eyes.

Then Kinder reached into his back pocket and brought out a small leather pad. He opened it, wrote a few things in it, took down some personal information related to my police work, then handed me the three sheets to sign.

I frowned at what I saw.

Kinder only smiled and nodded again. “I am authorized by the state of Florida to issue permits to carry a concealed weapon to properly trained personnel. I assume you have your own personal pieces with you.”

“A Colt Combat Commande... .45 caliber, a Colt 1911 model and a regulation old fashioned Police Co... .38 revolver. If you want samples of fired slugs, I’ll get them to you.”

“Nice, but not necessary. However, I’ll appreciate the effort. There’s a range on the west end of the village.”

I studied the ice-blue eyes. “How come you don’t trust me, Captain Kinder?”

“They used to call you the Shooter, didn’t they?”

“Only the ones who stayed alive.”

Kinder’s response was to watch me close, a knowing smile on his lips.

“Everything was legal, buddy. Justified and approved,” I said.

An eyebrow hiked. “Sure got you one hell of a reputation.”

“In case you’re wondering about it, I have no intention of improving on it.”

A tiny shrug. “Good enough.”

“Now, can I ask you something else?”

“Sure.”

“Sunset Lodge has got the highest concentration of cops, firemen and even retired federal law enforcement in the USA. They have equipment here that most cities would envy.”

“Anything wrong with any of that?”

I shook my head. “No, but how did it get that way?”

“Sunset Lodge was founded by a wealthy man who had been abducted by the old Dutch Schultz outfit in NYC. Two dedicated police officers tracked down the abductors, rescued the victim after a wild shootout, during which both the cops were wounded. The well-off victim became such a great friend of the police, and, by association, the firemen who had assisted in his rescue, that this place was his gift to Civil Service retirees. If you qualify, cost here is minimal. We are independent and well-funded. Well-protected, too.”

“Good enough,” I remarked.

“You’ll learn more as you go along,” he said as he stood up. He handed me a card and told me, “I can be reached through any of these three numbers. Call me for any information.”

“Tell me something now.”

“Shoot.”

I smiled at his choice of word and said, “What’s with this Garrison Properties outfit down the road?”

“They’ve been in business for fifteen years. Some upper-echelon mobsters are among the retirees, but we have no evidence they’re any more influential in Garrison than the retired dentists and lawyers. Lately they’ve been trying to class up their act — expanding their land holdings and putting in major lots, putting up major housing. And trying to capitalize on this place, I’d say.”

“But it’s been around fifteen years?”

“Yeah, and the clientele pre-existing those new fancy estates isn’t very classy. A couple of youth gangs operate out of there and word has it they’ve been selling drugs.”

“Any arrests?”

“Several, but money bailed them out in a hurry.”

“That’s all?”

“A couple of cars were stolen. One was recovered in Tampa and the other was in a ditch off the road. No damage to the vehicles, but two empty bottles of booze were found on the back seat of one.”

“Prints?”

“None that could be identified at this point.” He shrugged. “Probably juveniles.”

“Well, I’m glad to be here,” I said, rising. “Nice to be with the good guys.”

He got up, we shook hands, exchanged respectful if wary glances, and Captain Kinder was gone.

I took a two-hour tour of the Sunset Lodge compound until I had the area pretty well defined in my head. I saw four faces I recognized from Manhattan precincts but I didn’t call out to them. I passed the S.L. Station House, spotted one old sergeant who’d retired when I got my first promotion and two retirees from the Two-Two and suddenly I was feeling very much at home.

Then I turned at the end of the block and retraced my path to the building that looked so old but was so new. It was a surprise to see no uniforms showing, but everybody going in and out had that identical cop walk and when you looked at their feet, only two were wearing fancy footwear. The others still held on to their old brogans.

Parking was behind the building and I found a place, backed into it like everyone else did, making a quick getaway easy. Habit is a hard thing to break. When I got out of the car I hadn’t gone ten feet when a voice said, “Damn, look who’s here!”

Joe Pender had retired as a sergeant when he had put his full time in on the Job. Sergeant was as high as the husky redhead had wanted to go — his pension was adequate and he had made an outside job with another cop, renovating old buildings and renting them, so he wasn’t hurting for money.

I said, “Good to see you, pal. I didn’t know you’d retired down this way.”

As we shook hands he told me, “The wife’s doing. She’s a real Florida lover. New York got to be too much for her. You moving in?”

“Got a place over on Kenneth Avenue.”

“Fancy, man!” he laughed. “That’s where the brass have their digs. Got an old commissioner at the far end of the street with a pair of inspectors right beside him.”

“They still giving orders?”

“Hell no. This time we have a very democratic club.” He paused and nodded toward the building behind him. “Damn, Jack, let’s get you in and on the rolls.”

“I just got here yesterday.”

He wrapped his fingers around my arm and said, “And now is when you get back on duty.”

“Duty?”

“Sure. The guys would flip out if they tried to hide their cop background and just be plain civilians. We rotate helping Kinder out on security stuff. No rank, no roll calls, plenty of shooting matches on our own firing ranges.”

“Who buys the ammunition?” I asked him.

“We have reloading equipment. All calibers. Even the women get in on this action.”