Mickey Spillane - [Mike Hammer 13] (16 page)

“As soon as it’s not classified.” He picked up his cup and finished the coffee. “Wondering why I’m telling you this much?”

I nodded. “As a matter of fact, I am.”

Pat wiped his mouth and stood up. “I’m curious to see what you’re going to do.”

I said, “Oh,” paid the bill, and told him so long outside the diner.

 

 

Willie-the-Actor was a little skinny guy with a strange kid-like voice, a deep love for any kind of booze, and no money at all. The job I held out for him was easy enough to do and meant a whole week in a bar if he could handle his money properly. It took a whole morning to get the scene staged properly and when I was sure he had it, we got in a cab, went to the address that I knew and made a call from a cellular phone.

He didn’t know who he was talking to, but he said it fast and clearly, sounding like a twelve-year-old street kid half out of breath and real excited. He didn’t even wait for the person on the other end to answer him. He said, “Ugo . . . Ugo . . . that you? You know that place where you guys meet? Some guy is watching it. I think he’s gonna bust in there. I had to let you know cause we’re kind of neighbors. You better get over here, Ugo.” He stopped a moment and I could hear shouting in the phone, then he said, “Gee, he’s lookin’ over this way. I gotta go.”

When he hung up I handed him his pay, let him get out of sight around the corner and went back to my cab. We didn’t have to wait very long. Ugo Ponti came out of the garage under his house in the dark blue Buick and took off with a screeching of his wheels. My driver followed him without any difficulty at all. In New York there are cabs all over the city and one seems to look just like another. Twice we rode right alongside him and I got a good look at the glowering face of the prince of the local family.

We got down to Greenwich Village where new businesses have renovated the dilapidated old area and breathed new life into it. There was room at the curb for his car so he parked and hopped out. I paid off the cabby down the block, saw Ponti scan the street then enter a narrow alley between two buildings and disappear. The doorway was there, a heavy wooden leftover from a different century. The lock had been replaced with a good model, but one I could handle, so I just backed off, waited inside the lobby of a publishing firm until I saw Ugo step out, maddeningly puzzled, his face tight with anger. He looked around, shook his head and went back to his car, probably silently cursing the “kid” who had recognized him and passed on a bad tip to him.

The lock was as easy as I expected and I closed the door behind me, locking it again. I was in a stairwell with wide, old-fashioned treads and an ornately carved banister leading to the upper floors. I didn’t have to go higher than the second. A pile of empty cardboard boxes and assorted trash blocked the way so I used my tools on the lock in the door to my left. Enough light came in from the old round window in the wall to let me see what I was doing and in two minutes I was inside.

Here I could use the lights. The windows were completely blacked out so that whatever was done here was done in secret. The tables were made of plywood on sawhorses, cheap chairs and soda boxes were used for chairs, and cardboard cartons were the containers for all the paper that ran through the computers and copiers that lined the room. There was a fortune in electronics and exotic machinery in every available space, and from the paper residue it had been in constant use.

There was nothing I could understand. I took out a good ten feet of paper, rolled it up and stuffed it in my pocket. Maybe somebody else could decipher the numbers. What I wanted to find was the material they were using for their computations. There were two filing cabinets. One held replacement tapes and copier paper, the other a set of repair tools and some replacement parts. Twice, I made a circuit of the room, poking into anything that might contain what I wanted. Nothing. I finally got it when I noticed the phones beside each one of the computer stations. They weren’t taking any chances at all. They simply called out to another location to get their input material, reducing the odds of somebody getting wise.

I was all set to leave when I heard the stairs outside creak. I flipped the lights off, then squeezed in behind a four-drawer filing cabinet just before a key went into the lock and the door opened. The .357 came in first with Ugo right behind it and Howie Drago backing him up with an automatic in his fist.

Howie closed the door, then fanned out a little from Ugo and surveyed the room inch by inch. I was in a darkened corner and didn’t move, so his eyes went right past the cabinets. Six feet away Ugo was doing the same thing, seemingly disappointed because they hadn’t surprised anybody.

Finally Howie said, “You think that tip was square?”

“It was from a kid and they’re not gonna make up stories like this.”

“So you’re like a hero to him, huh?”

“Why not? All the kids know who I am.”

Howie wasn’t sure at all. “What the hell was a kid doing over here?”

He got a disgusted sneer from Ugo for that one. “You think the kids don’t follow me around? They know where I go to eat, the joints where I hang out—”

“That’s not here, boss.”

“It don’t surprise me none, but I’ll check it out.”

“Tell me, why would anybody want to break in this place? There’s nothin’ here they could understand. The guys take all the books with them when they leave.”

“If they saw this equipment being delivered here,” Ugo told him, “and they knew the place was empty most of the time, this would be like a candy store for some druggie. They could even peddle the phones.”

“I thought you was gonna get rid of this stuff.”

“We are. Patterson’s on it now. He has a truck coming in this week. They proved that the cash is missing, but they still don’t know where. We paid a lot of idiots for nothin’.”

Both of them were still moving while they talked, cautiously peering under the tables and kicking at piles of discarded waste. Ugo was the closest and his frustration was making him more nervous with every step. He was going to be damn sure nobody else was here and I knew he’d see the filing cabinet was out far enough from the wall to hide somebody behind it.

I stayed as immobile as I could. Ugo was getting close. I could hear his footsteps, the impact when his shoe booted something aside, then he was right up to the cabinet and he stopped dead. He saw the possible area, the only place in the room that could conceal a person and he was about to earn his bones once more.

It was too bad he was right-handed. Had he shifted the .357 to his other hand and come around the corner he would have nailed me, but he led with a stiffened right arm and I had twisted the rod out of his fingers before he knew what had happened, spun him around and held the muzzle of his own gun to the back of his neck. His breath was sucked in and he couldn’t even talk, but I could smell the fear that oozed out of him and knew when he wet his pants.

When Howie saw Ugo standing there with the fear painted on his face and a forearm at his neck he stiffened momentarily until he saw the gun come away from Ugo’s head and level directly at his face. And it was a big gun. It was the biggest S&W that they made and looked even bigger with all that nickel plating on it.

I said, “Drop the piece, Howie.” My voice was nice and cold.

The automatic clattered to the floor. He kicked it away without being asked. He hadn’t seen my face yet and didn’t place my voice.

I said, “Turn around.” He barely moved, so I thumbed the hammer back on the .357 and his face went white when he heard the click. He turned around then. “Walk backward over to me.” His feet took little tiny steps as though he was forcing them to go in the wrong direction. I had him stop when he reached the spot I wanted, then cranked down on Ugo’s neck so he couldn’t move and slammed the gun against the side of Howie’s skull. He went straight down like a puppet when you cut the strings and Ugo almost did the same thing when his knees gave way. I moved the gun back to his head again and felt his body begin to twitch. Ugo Ponti was looking down his own black alley.

There was no sense trying to change the tone of my voice. I just changed the tempo and volume when I said, “So your inheritance is down the drain, kiddo. Even the computer whiz kids don’t know where it went. No transactions, no deposits . . . just a big nothing.” I let my words sink in, let him measure the caliber of my voice. “But I’m going to find it, Ugo baby, only first you’re going to tell me something.”

His head bobbed against my arm and I loosened the hold enough so he could speak. Down at his feet Howie Drago’s head was leaking blood that had pooled in the dirt of the floor and it was hard to tell if he were dead or alive.

Ugo waited for me to ask him what I wanted to know, hoping he’d be able to satisfy me with an answer of sorts. I said, “Who set up the hit on your old man at the piers last February?”

The consternation made him twitch again. It was a question he never expected at all and he fumbled for words. “It . . . was Azi.”

“Azi’s dead, kiddo. Who was helping him?”

“Reevo . . . Andy Reevo. He’s from the family in Jersey.”

“He’s dead too, Ugo.”

Ugo was running scared now, his words starting to choke him. “I . . . can’t help it. The two of them . . . they planned it . . .”

“How did you know about it?”

“I . . . I heard them talking.”

“You could have told the don, kiddo.” I let him feel a nudge from the .357 and he tensed again.

“The old man . . . never would’ve believed me.”

And he was right there. Azi was his pet, but the old don had sensed a loosening of the bonds and prepared for the eventuality of being set up. He could have even figured it out in advance. That lost money could do all sorts of things to family relationships.

I eased the gun away from Ugo’s skin and let it run down his back, pressing against his spine. His mind was wondering if he’d feel the shot, cursing himself for not wearing body armor, not knowing whether or not to hope he’d die fast, but realizing that, if anything took out his spinal cord he was going to be strapped in a wheelchair for a long time. No parties, no broads, no booze, and just maybe somebody he kicked around might come up and plant a slug right in his face where he could see it coming.

Before he could faint on me I belted him in the head with his own gun and let him drop right on top of Howie. The blood from the gash above his temple mingled with the puddle on the floor and they were going to be a couple of real soreheads in the morning. I picked up the automatic and stuck it in my belt with Ugo’s .357.

Pat could do a ballistics check on them both and maybe get some brownie points if they had been used in a crime scene earlier.

Downstairs Ugo’s car was at the curb and I looked at the license plate. The first three numbers were 411.

NO GUNS HAD GONE OFF, but the nervous excitement of having Ugo and Howie Drago almost nail me had started a reaction inside my guts and I felt the little needles of pain begin to stab in sensitive places and knew that those needles would turn into great spikes of red-hot iron, and if I didn’t stop it they would become killers. I took two of the pills Dr. Morgan had given me, eased myself onto the couch and stretched out. For ten minutes, the pain got bigger and broader, then gradually began to subside until it was localized at the wound in my side. I pulled up my shirt and stared at the bandage. It had turned a watery red.

Very gently, I pulled the phone over to me and dialed the number of Morgan’s hotel. He was in and I told him what happened. His bedside manner had gotten a little better. He didn’t get on my case at all. I called down to Bill Raabe and told him to come up and let the doctor in. I was okay, but didn’t want to get up. There was no telling what he might give me that would make me sleep, so I called Pat and told him about the guns I had confiscated. He said he’d pick them up later. I told him to get them from Bill at the security desk because I was feeling lousy.

It took thirty minutes for the doctor to get to my apartment. Morgan took a look at me, shook his head and got my shirt off. He had Bill get some hot water and towels, then stuck a needle in my arm. Whatever it was, it eased any pain from stripping the bandage off. He washed and medicated the area and let Bill dispose of the discard. When I saw his face I knew he was beginning to realize what kind of a business I was in. He wiped the sweat from his upper lip, took the guns I had rolled up in a newspaper and went back downstairs.

Dr. Morgan said, “You’re not going to be able to take much more of this, you know?”

I blinked once and he grinned at me.

“How long will it take, Mike?”

This time I didn’t blink. I simply shrugged.

“Is the end in sight?”

I blinked twice.
No.

“Will it be . . . dangerous?”

I nodded.

He nodded back. “You can call me anytime. I won’t be going anyplace.” He paused and pulled my shirt down over the fresh bandage. “You know how a cat is supposed to have nine lives, Mike?”

I blinked again.
Yes.

“Well, if you were a cat, I’d say that you had already used up seven of them.” His eyes bored into mine. “Get the picture?”

I blinked once, and this time my eyelids stayed closed. Whatever he had injected me with had really taken hold. I heard him get up and the door click behind him when he left.

 

Something cool was on my forehead and there was an odd warmth next to me. I let my eyes open slowly, squinting at the muted light coming in the window. The small throb in my side made me remember times of sharper pains and a feeling of relief stirred me into a new wakefulness.

I raised my hand and felt my forehead, picking the damp washcloth off. Then the warmth next to me stirred and said, “It’s about time you woke up.”