The Mike Hammer Collection - Mickey Spillane [139]
“I don’t know, Mike. Remember Bernarr Macfadden making his first parachute jump into the river when he was about the same age?”
“Uh-huh. It could be done.”
“Then the answer is still to find Blackie Conley.”
“That’s right.”
“How?”
“If we can restore another old man’s memory we might get the answer.”
“Sonny Motley?”
“Yup.”
“Tonight? ”
“Right now, sugar.”
CHAPTER 10
Finding Sonny Motley’s apartment wasn’t easy. Nobody in the gin mills knew where he lived; the cop on the beat around his store knew him but not his address. I checked the few newsstands that were open and they gave me a negative. It was at the last one that a hackie standing by heard me mention the name and said, “You mean that old con?”
“Yeah, the one who has the shoe shop.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. We need some information about a missing person and he might be able to help us.”
“Ha, I’d like to see those old cons talk. They won’t give nobody the right time.”
“You know where he lives?”
“Sure. Took him home plenty of times. Hop in.”
We climbed in the cab, went angling up to a shoddy section that bordered on the edge of Harlem, and the cabbie pointed out the place. “He’s downstairs there on this side. Probably in bed by now.”
“I’ll get him up.” I gave him a buck tip for his trouble and led the way down the sandstone steps to the iron gate at the bottom. I pushed the bell four or five times before a light came on inside.
A voice said, “Yeah, whatta ya want?”
“Sonny?”
“Who’re you?”
“Mike Hammer.”
“Oh, fer . . .” He came to the door, opened it, and reached for the grilled gate that held us out. He had a faded old robe wrapped around his body and a scowl on his face as black as night. Then he saw Velda and the sky lightened. “Hey . . . how about that.”
“This is Velda, my secretary. Sonny Motley.”
“Hello, Sonny.”
“Well, don’t just stand there. Come on in. Hot damn, I ain’t had a broad in my joint since before I went to stir. Hot damn, this is great!” He slammed the gate, locked the door, and led the way down the hall. He pushed his door open and said, “Don’t mind the place, huh? So it’s a crummy place and who comes here? I’m a crummy old man anyway. Sure feels good to have a broad in the joint. Want a drink?”
“I’ll pass,” I said.
“Not me.” He grinned. “A sexy broad comes in like her and I’m gonna have me a drink.”
“I thought you were all over the sex angle, Sonny.”
“Maybe inside I am, but my eyes don’t know it. No, sir. You sit down and let me get dressed. Be right back.”
Sit down? We had a choice of box seats. Egg boxes or apple boxes. There was one old sofa that didn’t look safe and a chair to match that had no cushion in it. The best bet was the arms of the chair so Velda took one side and I took the other.
A choice between living here or a nice comfortable prison would be easy to make. But like the man said, at least he was free. Sonny was back in a minute, hitching suspenders over bony shoulders, a bottle of cheap booze in his hand.
“You sure you don’t want nothing?”
“No, thanks.”
“No need to break out glasses then.” He took a long pull from the bottle, ambled over to the couch, and sat down facing us. “Hot damn,” he said, “those are the prettiest legs I ever saw.”
Velda shifted uncomfortably, but I said, “That’s what I keep telling her.”
“You keep telling her, boy. They love to hear that kind of talk. Right, lady?”
She laughed at the impish look on his face. “I guess we can stand it.”
“Damn right you can. Used to be a real killer with the ladies myself. All gone now though.” He pulled at the bottle again. “’Cept for looking. Guess a man never tires of looking.” He set the bottle down on the floor between his feet and leaned back, his eyes glowing. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“I’m still asking questions, Sonny.”
He waved his hands expansively. “Go ahead. If I can answer ’em it’s all free.”
“I can’t get rid of the idea your old partner’s still alive.”
His shoulders jerked with a silent laugh.