Mickey Spillane - Dead Street

“Stang here,” I said quietly.

“Paul Burke, Jack.”

“Hi, Paul. What’s up?”

“Some follow-up on that stolen atomic shipment. You all clear down there?”

“Roger. Go ahead.”

“Right after the theft, the Feds got a pair of the conspirators and squeezed out some information. It was pretty complicated, so I won’t go into it now. But they arranged for the switch right under the noses of the inspecting group and got the container into a waiting truck, drove it to a transfer point where Benny Orbach was waiting to get it to the final point.”

I asked, “Paul... you mean that’s all the security they had?”

“It was a new twist, Jack. The time before when there was an attempted hijack, eight people got shot, a large transfer truck burned and the cargo was nearly lost. They went the other way this time. Less is more.”

“Less is less, Paul.”

“Yeah, well. Anyway, it was supposed to be secret.”

“Supposed?”

“Big money can buy big secrets, Jack. This old world is coming apart. 9-11 should have told us that. So should the mess in Iraq.”

“What the heck could anybody use it for? Who else had a delivery system anyway?”

“Jack,” he said, “some countries make no bones about atomic materials and use them as a bargaining point. Others are openly trying to develop nuclear weapons.”

“Paul, they couldn’t have gotten that stuff out of the country, could they?”

“No, not with our inspection devices. But...”

“Say it.”

“Suppose they want to use it right here?”

I wanted to explode but held it back.

“What kind of a team is on the prowl for it?” I asked him.

Paul told me, “From what I understand, the Feds have a small army of experts with their noses to the ground.”

“All chasing down Benny Orbach’s background and current associations?”

“Probably.”

“And getting nowhere?”

“I can’t find out anything. The big squeeze is on this.”

“Have newspapers or TV sources got a bite on the story?”

“No way. The Feds have got long arms with big sticks.” He paused for a moment and took a deep breath. “You remember those TV shots of the public running like hell when the World Trade buildings came tumbling down?”

“It hasn’t slipped my mind.”

“Imagine what would happen if someone popped off one giant atomic blast in the middle of Manhattan.”

“Damn!”

“Maybe there wouldn’t be anybody left to run away,” Paul said hoarsely.

“So we find the load of bad news.”

“Who’s ‘we,’ Jack?”

“Guess it’s up to the NYPD.”

“Jack — stay retired....”

“Oh absolutely,” I said derisively.

Chapter Eight

Darris Kinder drove me to a friend of his who operated a towing service and had several pieces of equipment on hand that could handle five tons with no difficulty. Tony Marks, the owner said, “How much weight you talking about?”

“At the minimum, a couple of tons.”

“What size?”

“Let’s say a four-foot cube.”

“No problem. Is it on the ground?”

“In a truck.”

“So you slide the skids under it and lift it out.” He thought about it, figuring out the next step. “Then,” he said, “you spin the load around on the same skids and drop it into the other truck.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that,” he repeated. “What are you figuring to steal, Mr. Stang?”

“A lady’s heart,” I laughed.

“Brother, that is a heavy load,” he laughed back.

On the way back to Sunset Lodge, Darris said, “Jack, I’m not going to get into your business, but if something is going to happen around here, I’d sure like a little warning.”

“It’s cool, Darris. If this were a trouble spot, I’d sure tell you.”

“Big time, right?” he said.

“Big time,” I agreed, “and out of the area.”

There are moments when you have to sit back and think things out. Other moments, time that seemed to drag on listlessly suddenly explodes into such action that you can hardly remember one second from another. Sometimes — like now — it was a bit of both. I went from being a listless retiree who was turned upside down by things of the past into a hairy old bull with a feather up his tail.

And unlike the immobilized past, the screaming present was unwinding like a high-speed spool of tape on an old-fashioned computer.

So I sat down in my own living room and let the facts roll by me. There weren’t many. What could Bettie have uncovered that would lay organized crime open for conviction? It was another generation of mob power now. Did they face the same dangers? What was the stolen atomic pile to be used for? Where was it hidden? It would have to be in a very protected place that could contain possible radiation.

Hell, all I had to do was read the papers. Who wanted atomic energy? Not the kind that could run productive factories or be used in scientific experiments or be beneficial to the citizens of the world.

Somebody wanted the destruction it could bring to cultures they hated. Progress was the 9-11 debacle, the terroristic political regime of Iran and neighboring nations of the same bent. Nothing was hidden any more. All their vicious desires were out in the open now, horrific endeavors barely disguised behind religious themes. With one blast of atomic power there wouldn’t be any need for suicide bombings or driving hijacked aircraft into huge commercial buildings. One big city, one gigantic explosion, one tremendous death quotient and their demonic point would be made.

The government had agencies to handle a crisis like this. But the government had agencies that moved as fast as a garbage scow with anchors down. And the government would never think that an almost dead street in Manhattan might be the breeding ground for a great catastrophe.

I ran my fingers through my hair and wondered where all the wild ideas came from. Ideas weren’t real — but they preceded reality.

I heard the bells from the ice cream truck coming down Kenneth Avenue. I left bleak thoughts behind and went outside and bought three vanilla super-cones from a kid with a ring in his nose and brought them over to Bettie’s house.

Tacos let out those race-dog yips and when Bettie opened the door he nearly took his own personal cone out of my hand, along with my fingers.

Bettie just stood there smiling in her see-through nightie, her untrimmed delta a refreshing pleasure in these days of bizarre pubic buzz cuts.

“Why do I like you?” she asked.

“Because I bring you expensive presents. Like ice cream cones.”

The dog had already dropped his on the floor and was busy licking up the mess. I got a paper towel and wiped out the tongue marks from the flooring.

Bettie said to me, “That’s the first time they came down this street.”

“You said they got fresh, before...?”

“Those drivers were always making remarks to me from the village area.”

“You’re worth whistling at any place, kid.”

“They aren’t from around here, you know.”

“Now how would you know that?”

“From being blind,” she said quietly. “My ears hear things... like dialects, that other people might not recognize. All those drivers have New York accents.”

“Most of the people down here are escapees from the big city.”

“Sure,” she agreed. “But those people have money.” She paused. “Do ice cream truck drivers get paid much?”

I shrugged. It was an oddball question. I asked her why.

She told me, “Darris said he thought he saw one of them in Sarasota driving a new Porsche convertible. He had a real snazzy blonde with him, too.”