Mickey Spillane - Dead Street

And I breathed a small sigh of relief. This place, even at the gated entry, spelled quiet luxury. From a distance I could see the pleasant shapes of small buildings and the sand sprouted acres of bright green grass. I stuck my head out the window, away from the air-conditioned atmosphere I’d been breathing, and took a deep sniff of the tangy, salt-laden ocean air. Outside the red-brick guard post was a neatly painted sign that read, Yacht Docking and Boat Rental Facilities. Guided Ocean Fishing Trips. Crewed Scenic Sailing Tours Daily .

The good doctor had really gone all out for his protégé.

The tan-uniformed attendant, carrying a clipboard in his hand, came out to meet me. He walked with the air of someone in total authority, disguised by neighborly friendliness. He said, “Good morning, sir — can I help you?”

He was a trim sixty or so with his blond hair cut in a military crew. I handed him the document of home ownership and his smile grew into something natural. When he handed it back he said very seriously, “Great to have you here with us, sir.”

I took the papers, nodded back and said, “You’re from New Jersey, aren’t you?”

“Newark. Been retired three years. Name’s George Wilson. My accent show?”

“To a New Yorker, absolutely.” I stuck my hand out and shook his. “Jack Stang, NYPD, retired.”

He scowled a few seconds, then gave me a big grin. “Damn, you’re the Shooter, aren’t you?”

I gave him a weary laugh. “That’s what the tabloids called me.”

“Didn’t you off Creamy Abbott during that bank heist back in ’82?”

“No choice,” I told him. “He swung that AK at me and I had to pop him.”

“Yeah,” he laughed, “one shot right between the horns from fifty feet away.”

“Pure luck,” I retorted.

“Pure twice weekly visits to a gun range, pal,” he said.

I made a face at that observation.

“Somebody around here was saying they just demolished an old station house back in the big city — was that yours?”

I nodded. “When I went, the old building went. Hell,” I added, “the street went too.”

“This place isn’t Manhattan, you know. Think you’ll like it here?”

I gave him a little shrug and answered, “Anything beats out city noise and multiple gunshots.”

“Won’t get much of that here,” he told me, “except on the firing range.... Want me to have a car lead the way in to your place?”

I shook my head. “I’ll find it. I used to be a detective, you know. I’ll have to get adjusted to the area anyway.”

“No problem. Streets are all in numerical or alphabetical order.”

“I’ll find it.”

“Sure. You want me to tell the boys at the clubhouse you got here? You’ll be a real surprise to them.”

“The clubhouse?”

He pointed vaguely. “Can’t miss it. A big brick building with blue doors right in the middle of the shopping area. You want the right and left turns?”

I waved him off on that one. “Naw, let me handle it alone. I have to get settled in first.”

“Sure, Captain. I know how it is.”

“You can skip the ‘captain.’ I’m off the Job now.”

“We’re never off the Job, Captain,” Wilson said seriously.

Everything radiated out from the big early Floridian-styled building with the wooden chiseled sign across its entry that read SUNSET LODGE. I found the block I wanted and followed it halfway to its end. The stucco houses along Kenneth Avenue were one-and-a-half stories, bigger than the other homes I’d passed.

I saw number 820, Bettie Brice’s address, and my foot came off the gas pedal as though somebody had kicked it away. A few kids played beside other houses nearby, but 820 was quiet, empty. The front windows were half-opened and a UPS package nestled between the arms of a rocking chair on the porch. No car was parked in the driveway.

My heart started to hammer again as I eased into the driveway beside 818, then got out slowly and walked up the porch steps to the door. I put the key in the lock, turned it and heard it click open.

The place had a new, recently cleaned smell to it. To me a chair was a seat and a bed was where you slept, but someone had gone to a lot of lengths to furnish this place with truly masculine pieces. Nothing gaudy, nothing oddball, just masculine — with the exception of Bettie’s old four-poster bed and antique desk, which had beat me down here thanks to the movers. Both were in the master bedroom upstairs.

I wandered through the rooms checking every item out. This was a house a man would have lived in, but furnished by a woman who thought a lot of him and his personal likes and dislikes. One of the ex-cops’ wives down here had lent a hand on the decorating front.

In a sealed envelope attached to a few other papers was the description of a “secret” area in the master bedroom where I could store any weapons, ammunition or important documents I had. It had been built into the house itself, an area almost impossible to find unless you had a dog that could sniff out gunpowder or gun oil odors. Somebody had been thinking ahead.

I located the disguised wall section — paneling that was really a door — that revealed a hold for rifles and handguns, shelves for ammunition, ear mufflers for shooting on gun ranges, goggles, latex gloves, and pistol and rifle cleaning equipment. There were two heavy clothes hooks on one wall with a pamphlet selling bulletproof vests hanging from the nearest.

Even before I laid out my clothes, I pulled all my weaponry out of its case and deposited everything except ... .45 and the old shoulder holster in its newly assigned hiding place. My well-oiled piece I kept right where I could reach it in a hurry on the nightstand. The gun and the four-poster bed made an unlikely couple. Of course, once upon a time so had Bettie and me.

Getting my clothes in the dresser drawers and the closet took ten minutes, then I went to the kitchen. Non-perishables were stored in the pantry and the refrigerator held all the staples I’d need for a few days. The cooking utensils were stacked away, some still showing their price tags. Even the bathroom was in working order, with new soap cakes, rolls of toilet paper and plenty of new, white towels.

I tried the toilet bowl and it flushed perfectly. The faucets poured out clean, clear water and the drinking cups had paper hoods draped over them. Thomas Brice had made sure of everything.

I hoped he had made sure of tomorrow. I’d be seeing her then. When I thought of it I had to take a deep breath and hold it for half a minute. By then my heart rate had returned to normal.

The drive down had been more tiring than I had expected. My eyes were heavy and as early as it was I hopped into the shower, cleaned up, brushed my teeth and got into bed.

Some dreams are impossible to remember. They get scrambled and exist beyond comprehension. This dream was different. Bettie was outside my door. I could smell her perfume. She was staring at my door and never noticed the black draped figure tiptoeing up the porch stairs behind her. He was carrying a longbladed knife in one hand and the other was stretched out to muffle any sound she tried to let out.

And I couldn’t turn the knob! I couldn’t get the damned door open!

I pulled and twisted but the knob wouldn’t turn and just before I could let out an agonizing howl of despair my eyes flew open and I muffled the yell that nearly came out of me.

Sweat had drenched me. My pulse rate was incredible. It was five minutes before I went back to normal. This time I forced myself to sleep.

It was still dark when I awoke. In the east the sky was barely showing the first edges of light and I knew that in an hour a new time of life would begin for me.