The Mike Hammer Collection - Mickey Spillane [195]
I was sick. It ran down my chin and wet my shirt. The smell of it made me sicker. My head was a huge balloon that kept getting bigger and bigger until it was taut and ready to burst into a thousand fragments. Something cold and metallic jarred my face repeatedly. I was cramped, horribly cramped. Even when I tried to move I stayed cramped. Ropes bit into my wrists leaving hempen splinters imbedded under the skin, burning like darts. Whenever the car hit a bump the jack on the floor would slam into my nose.
No one else was with me back there. The empty shoulder holster bit into my side. Nice going, I thought, you walked into that with your mouth open and your eyes shut. I tried to see over the back of the seat, but I couldn’t raise myself that far. We turned off the smooth concrete of the highway and the roadway became sloshy and irregular. The jack bounced around more often. First I tried to hold it down with my forehead, but it didn’t work, then I drew back from it. That was worse. The muscles in my back ached with the torture of the rack.
I got mad as hell. Sucker. That’s what I was. Sucker. Someone was taking me for a damn newcomer at this racket. Working me over with a billy then tossing me in the back of a car. Just like the prohibition days, going for a ride. What the hell did I look like? I had been tied up before and I had been in the back of a car before, but I didn’t stay there long. After the first time I learned my lesson. Boy Scout stuff, be prepared. Some son of a bitch was going to get his brains kicked out.
The car skidded to a stop. The driver got out and opened the door. His hands went under my armpits and I was thrown into the mud. Feet straddled me, feet that merged into a dark overcoat and a masked face, and a hand holding my own gun so that I was looking down the muzzle.
“Where is it?” the guy said. His voice carried an obvious attempt at disguise.
“What are you talking about?”
“Damn you anyway, what did you do with it? Don’t try to stall me, what did you do with it? You hid it somewhere, you bastard, it wasn’t in your pocket. Start talking or I’ll shoot your head off!”
The guy was working himself up into a kill-crazy mood. “How do I know where it is if you won’t tell me what you want?” I snarled.
“All right, you bastard, get smart. You stuck your neck out once too often. I’ll show you.” He stuck the gun in his pocket and bent over, his hands fastening in my coat collar and under my arm. I didn’t help him any. I gave him damn near two hundred pounds of dead weight to drag into the trees.
Twice the guy snagged himself in the brush and half fell. He took it out on me with a slap in the head and a nasty boot in the ribs. Every once in a while he’d curse and get a better grip on my coat, muttering under his breath what was going to happen to me. Fifty yards into the woods was enough. He dropped me in a heap and dragged the rod out again, fighting for his breath. The guy knew guns. The safety was off and the rod was ready to spit.
“Say it. Say it now, damn you, or you’ll never say it. What did you do with them . . . or should I work you over first?”
“Go to hell, you pig.”
His hand went up quickly. The gun described a chopping arc toward my jaw. That was what I was waiting for. I grabbed the gun with both hands and yanked, twisting at the same time. He screamed when his shoulder jumped out of the socket, screamed again when I clubbed the edge of my palm against his neck.
Feet jabbed out and ripped into my side, he scrambled to get up. In the middle of it I lost the gun. I held on with one arm and sank my fist into him, but the power of the blow was lost in that awkward position.
But it was enough. He wrenched away, regained his feet and went scrambling through the underbrush. By the time I found the gun he was gone. Time again. If I had had only a minute more I could have chased him, but I hadn’t had time to cut my feet loose. Yeah, I’d been on the floor of a car before with my hands tied behind my back. After that first time I have always carried a safety razor