The Mike Hammer Collection - Mickey Spillane [101]
“Here, kitten. What’s up?”
“Can you meet me for some small talk, honey?”
My fingers tightened involuntarily around the receiver. Small talk was a simple code. Trouble, it meant, be careful.
In case somebody was on an extension I kept my voice light. “Sure, kid. Where are you?”
“A little place on Eighth Avenue near the Garden . . . Lew Green’s Bar.”
“I know where it is. Be right down.”
“And, Mike . . . come alone.”
“Okay.”
On the way out I stopped by Nat Drutman’s office and talked him out of a .32 automatic he kept in his desk, shoved it under my belt behind my back, and grabbed a cab for Lew Green’s Bar. There was a dampness in the air and a slick was showing on the streets, reflecting the lights of the city back from all angles. It was one of those nights that had a bad smell to it.
Inside the bar a pair of chunkers were swapping stories in a half-drunken tone while a TV blared from the wall. A small archway led into the back room that was nestled in semi-darkness and when I went in a thin, reedy voice said from one side, “Walk easy, mister.”
He had his hands in his side pockets and would have been easy to take, loaded or not, but I went along with him. He steered me past the booths to the side entrance where another one waited who grinned in an insolent way and said, “He carries a heavy piece. You look for it?”
“You do it,” the thin guy said.
He knew right where to look. He dragged the .45 out, said, “Nice,” grinned again, and stuck it in his pocket. “Now outside. We got transportation waiting. You’re real V.I.P.”
The place they took me to was in Long Island City, a section ready to be torn down to make way for a new factory building. The car stopped outside an abandoned store and when the smart one nodded I followed him around the back with the thin one six feet behind me and went on inside.
They sat at a table, three of them, with Velda in a chair at the end. A single Coleman lamp threw everything into sharp lights and shadows, making their faces look unreal.
I looked past them to Velda. “You okay, honey?”
She nodded, but there was a tight cast to her mouth.
The heavy-set guy in the homburg said, “So you’re Mike Hammer.”
I took a wild guess. “Del Penner.”
His face hardened. “He clean?”
Both the guys at the door behind him nodded and the one took my .45 out and showed it. Del said, “You came too easy, Hammer.”
“Who expected trouble?”
“In your business you should always expect it.”
“I’ll remember it. What’s the action, Penner?”
“You sent her asking about me. Why?”
“Because I’m getting my toes stepped on. A guy named Kid Hand got shot and I hear you’re taking his place. I don’t like to get pushed. Now what?”
“You’ll get more than pushed, Hammer. Word’s around that you got yourself some top cover and knocking you off can make too much noise. Not that it can’t be handled, but who needs noise? Okay, you’re after something, so spill it.”
“Sure. You are stepping up then?”
Penner shrugged elaborately. “Somebody takes over. What else?” “Who’s Dickerson?”
Everybody looked at everybody else before Del Penner decided to answer me. He finally made up his mind. “You know that much, then you can have this. Nobody knows who Mr. Dickerson is.”
“Somebody knows.”
“Maybe, but not you and not us. What else?”
“You pull this stunt on your own?”
“That you can bet your life on. When this broad started nosing around I wanted to know why. So I asked her and she told me. She said they were your orders. Now get this . . . I know about the whole schmear with you knocking off Kid Hand and getting Levitt bumped and leaving Marv Kania running around with a slug in his gut. I ain’t got orders on you yet but like I said, when anybody noses around me I want to know why.”
“Supposing I put it this way then, Penner . . . I’m the same way. Anybody tries to shoot me up is in for a hard time. You looked like a good place to start with and don’t figure I’m the only one who’ll think of it. You don’t commit murder in this town and just walk away from it. If you