Mickey Spillane - Dead Street

“Except for the small group who planned to do the repopulating,” I suggested.

“That would be the general idea.”

“Feasible?” I asked.

“If you want to speculate,” he said. “There are always wise guys like cops who seem to bust things up.”

“Quit being so damned cheerful, Paul.”

“Sure,” he said. “Now, what do you really need?”

“That nuclear material was probably enriched uranium. It has to be stored someplace. It had to have been transported in a secure manner with no radiation leakage and that would be in a mobile compartment inside the truck. Now, the truck was found empty. The cargo, being mechanically mobile, was taken in another vehicle and brought to a secure location. What would that be like?”

“Interesting question,” Paul responded. “The uranium itself isn’t very large, but the container that held it would be of good size. How it was structured so as not to leak radiation is probably a scientific secret, but since it has not been found or used, it may still be secure. Where it is being held is the important thing. Commercial storage areas are out of the question. Too many inspections. Sometimes they burn down. Sometimes they are selected for destruction when a new project is planned and they are in the way.”

“So?” I put in.

“So it would wind up at a privately owned location not selected for any development and as secure as it is possible to be.”

“That really tips the scales in the bad guy’s favor, doesn’t it?”

“Bad guys like it that way. That’s why they’re called bad guys.”

“What do we do about them, Paul?”

“Hell, buddy, you know the answer to that. You shoot them.”

“Great,” I said before I hung up.

This may be the information era, but getting the information you want isn’t all that easy. You have to give something in order to get something back.

I slouched in my big chair. I took out my t... .45’s, the Combat Commander and the standard 1911 model. I cleaned and oiled them again, checked the action in each and shoved in full clips. I was a New Yorker even though I didn’t like the place, and being in the quietude of Florida’s playground didn’t exercise my mental facilities at all. I wondered how the hell the other guys could stand it. Maybe I was just too damn mean for retirement.

Telling Bettie that I had to go back to the Big Apple again so soon wasn’t easy, but she smiled like she knew this was coming and didn’t argue. The way she squeezed my hand told me that she knew this had to be and that she was going to be right here waiting for me to come back wearing a CASE CLOSED smile.

The next morning when I kissed her so long, all I could think of was that she sure would make a great wife for a cop. Even a retired one. And would we be the first retirees in Sunset Lodge to consider starting a family?

The dog gave a puzzled look and whined, but when I petted his head he banged the floor with his tail again.

Chapter Seven

Davy Ross met me at the airport in an unmarked squad car. When I sat back against the seat and buckled up the safety belt, I had that “old times” feeling again.

Davy said, “I know you’re not carrying, so I brought you a Glock to wear. They’re getting to be standard weapons these days.”

I popped open the dashboard compartment and took out the automatic. It was a good gun, but I missed ... .45. I opened my belt a notch and bedded it down against my stomach and felt like I was on patrol again.

I told him thanks and he asked me where I wanted to go. He didn’t seem at all surprised when I told him to go by our old street again. “Most of it’s gone, pal.”

“So I’ll see the rest. Any vandalism so far?”

“Just some kids breaking windows. Hell, they’re going to be smashed up anyway. A couple of vagrants flopped in one house. They have about two weeks occupancy before the wrecking crews get to that building.”

“Why so slow?”

“Politics, Jack. Contractors fighting the city, some former occupants still putting up roadblocks, trying to get more money from the local government.”

“Think they will?”

“They’re still trying,” he said. “You know that place where Bucky Mohler lived?”

“Sure.”

“Know who built it?”

Davy loved stupid little surprises. “Tell me,” I said.

He turned his head. “Big Zappo Padrone, that’s who.”

Talk about ancient history. “The booze king of Manhattan?”

“The same. Ran a dozen whorehouses, and twenty-three speakeasies in operation, and even before the big crime families got started was the bank for the hoods. Big hoods, that is. Early mob stuff.”

“Where do you get all this information, pardner?”

“I read a lot.”

“Cops read?”

“Sure. When they’re not shooting bad guys.”

We turned in the old street at the open end. The station house was gone except for the old brick foundation. Looking toward the other end was like staring in an old fighter’s mouth full of broken teeth and a few good ones. Charlie Wing’s place was gone, but old Bessie O’Brian’s house was still up, and down a ways the restored tenement Bucky Mohler had lived in was intact. Not even the panes were broken in the windows.

“Who’s keeping it up, Davy?”

“One of those old city laws. The place was deeded to some big charitable organization. Padrone had a thing about helping down-and-outers.”

“Anybody in there now?”

“Hell, even the bums won’t go near the place. It’s supposed to have some sort of a curse on it.”

“Great,” I said. “I heard fancy apartments were going in.”

“Yeah. And guess who’s behind it?”

Another stupid little surprise, I supposed. “Tell me.”

“A Saudi investment group.”

“Only seems fair.”

“Yeah?”

“They took down two buildings, didn’t they? Ought to put up a few.”

Davy just looked at me.

Right behind us a city Yellow Cab pulled up in front of old Bessie O’Brian’s building and a middle-aged woman and old Bessie got out. Davy and I both yelled a big hello and Bessie waved back with a happy yell. “Damn me if it ain’t old Shooter! What you doing here, Captain Jack?”

“Saying so long to a friendly old street, Bessie.”

“Not so friendly any more.”

I walked over, said hello to her daughter from Elizabeth and asked Bessie how she liked the New Jersey countryside.

“Country,” she practically screeched. “It’s as bad as the Bronx! It’s crowded, that’s what. No different from the city here.”

“You like it?” I asked.

She gave a sly look toward her daughter and whispered, “It’s free. My kid’s a good cook, too.”

I glanced up at the old building she had inhabited for a couple eternities. “What are you back for, Bessie?”

She frowned and tapped her mouth with a wrinkled forefinger. “Left my damn lower teeth behind a slot in the wall back of my bed. Can’t eat right without ‘em. Not going to let any more dentists play with my mouth anymore, either. Damn teeth.”

“Come on, Bessie, you look great.”

“Don’t lie to me, sonny. I’m an old hag, I am. You know, I even knew Big Zappo Padrone, you know that?”

I said, “Nope.”

“That’s his house over there. I was just a kid then.”

I nodded.

“Saw that little punk, what’s his name... Bucky Mohler over there not long ago. He didn’t go in. He was just looking, then he walked away.”

“Bessie,” I said to her, “Bucky Mohler’s been dead a long time. He was killed up in the Bronx years ago.”

“The hell he was,” old Bessie insisted. “I ain’t got teeth, but I sure got eyes, and that was Bucky over there. He was older, but his damn swagger was still there. You remember the way he walked?”