Mickey Spillane - Dead Street

The atomic material was never recovered and supposition was that the robbery never even happened.

Typical government subterfuge.

All this, now that my blind Bettie had dredged a deadly word from her fractured memory: fission .

Bettie was letting her dog lick her ice cream cone when I crossed over to her porch.

I said, “That healthy, doll?”

“He won’t get sick,” she laughed.

Down the street I heard the bells from the ice cream truck. “I thought you didn’t like those fresh kids.”

“This one was new,” she told me. “Tacos didn’t even growl at him. Can I get you anything?”

“I’m fine. I came over to ask you something.”

“Oh?”

“When you were at Credentials...”

“Jack, I can’t remember those things. Sometimes I get a fuzzy picture, but I can’t make out what it is.”

“Okay. Does the number forty-four-twenty-eight mean anything to you?”

Her facial expression was blank and she shook her head. “Should it?”

“I don’t know. There’s no prefix, so it isn’t a phone number.” Then I gave it further thought and asked, “A file number?”

No use. She stared at me and shook her head.

“Listen, I have to check something out. Something out of town.”

“Kind of used to having you around, Jack.”

“Stay that way.”

And I kissed her. And she kissed me.

I don’t know if it helped her remember anything, but parts of me beside my memory bank were getting stimulated, all right.

“Why don’t we leave Tacos down here with the ice cream,” she said, “and go upstairs and... jog my memory.”

“Listen, doll — you’ve only known me since—”

“Forever.”

She took my hand and the blind led the blinded up the stairs into the bedroom. A shorts and halter top fell to the floor and she crawled up on the bed and onto her back and opened her arms and herself to me.

Every peak and valley of her long-legged body was exactly as my dreams had replayed them over too many years. I started out gentle but she urged me on, demanded I let all of the pent-up passion out and into her....

Forever, she’d said.

I wasn’t sure that would be long enough.

That evening I drove to the airport and left for New York. It was a direct flight and I got in early enough to go to the hospital where Ray Burnwald was being treated, identified myself to the uniformed officer at the door and he told me Burnwald was able to speak, but not for long.

When I went in Ray heard the door snick shut and opened his eyes. There was apprehension there for a moment, then the man in the hospital bed recognized me.

“I was shot,” he whispered.

He looked pale and drawn but wasn’t hooked up to an IV or any other life support. He was on the mend, all right.

I nodded. “I know.”

“I didn’t see who did it,” he added. “I don’t know why they did it, either.”

“The files that were disturbed — was there anything missing?”

“They were over twenty years old, Captain Stang. We couldn’t tell.”

“What was the nature of the files?”

He shook his head, bewildered and frustrated. “Just messages to and from our clients.”

“Standard language?”

“Sometimes coded, but that was just how they handled their business affairs. We had no knowledge of what it meant.” He smiled gently and said, “We are really just a transmission service.”

“I see. Has anyone asked for copies of those files?”

“They were over twenty years old,” Burnwald repeated.

I asked him, “Could you possibly remember who owned those files, or who had access to them?”

“Bettie... Bettie was the only one who might know... but she’s dead.”

I let the comment hang, but Burnwald didn’t notice.

Then, suddenly, he raised his hand and said, “Wait.”

I let him take his time. He was reaching back twenty years for something that had just come to him. When he finally had it in perspective he told me, “The client paid in advance. He wanted service for twenty-five years.”

“That’s a long time.”

“That’s why it made an impression. That’s why I remembered....”

“He pay by check?”

Burnwald shook his head. “No. He gave me cash. I put it in a manila envelope and had Bettie deposit it right away. It was a very sizable amount.”

“And you gave him a receipt?”

“No. He didn’t want one. I tried to tell him it was a tax-deductible transaction, but he refused. I... didn’t try to push it any further. The customer is always right, you know.”

“Did Bettie see him?”

Burnwald thought a moment, then nodded. His eyes had the clarity of vivid memory. “Yes. I called her in to give her the money in the large envelope.” He bit on his lower lip and his eyes watered. “She was a nice girl. It was too bad... what happened to her.”

I had been there too long. He was getting tired and twice he winced in pain.

So we shook hands gently and I went on outside. Halfway down the corridor, a doctor was walking up, consulting a chart in his hands. I said to the uniformed officer at the door, “Nobody’s been here, okay?”

He got the drift right away and said, “Okay, Captain.”

It was nice to have a reputation. Being nicknamed the Shooter leaves a mark on everybody’s mind.

On the flight back I kept thinking about that one thing Burnwald had told me. He couldn’t remember the man, but paying in advance for twenty-five years worth of service was a damned unusual request. What was supposed to happen at that time? Who would get the information? And what was the information about?

There was another factor running right along with this one. A five hundred million dollar shipment of government-owned atomic material was missing.

And a blind girl whose memory was filling in a thousand-piece jigsaw one puzzle piece at a time could be the key to everything. They had tried to kill her once but the attempt had failed. It was twenty years later, but could she still be recognized? Would she still be slated for a kill?

So I said to myself, screw the details and start off with the kidnapping. Why was Bettie the target back then? Could Bettie possibly have recognized the man for somebody other than who he was pretending to be?

When we were together, she’d been an avid reader of newspapers, had two national news magazines delivered to her home and for mental excitement attended court cases of nefarious criminals. I went with her twice, but those things were pretty damn dull after getting your hands dirty in making an arrest on those slobs.

I was back to being the barroom psychiatrist again. You didn’t need a college degree for that. Experience would do nicely, with some cop smarts on the side.

When I got my car out of the parking area beside the airport I drove directly home. The lights in Bettie’s house were on, so I parked in my carport and walked up the stairs of her porch. I heard Tacos sound off with a happy yip and when Bettie opened the door she held her arms out and gave me a big squeeze.

And all those years of not having her were suddenly wiped away again. She was more charmingly beautiful than ever, still smelling of little-girl freshness and wasn’t at all surprised when I kissed her lightly.

But lightly wasn’t what she wanted. There was an excited quivering to her, almost a sparkle in her sightless eyes and she said, “I remembered you, Jack! It was like waking from sleep when you have a great dream, but can only recall it for a second.”

I waited a long moment and she continued, “It was from a long time ago! We were young!”

“I was never young, Bettie.”

“It was you, wasn’t it?”

“Would you want it to be?”