The Last Cop Out (9 page)

Authors: Mickey Spillane

Tags: #Hard/Boiled/Crime

BOOK: The Last Cop Out

13.76Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

Sometimes Harvey Bartel wished he could see just who owned those cottages, but being a coward he was too scared to inquire and satisfied himself with a hand on the bare thigh of the fat girl from Summerland Key who had driven all the way up to see him. She wasn’t much. She was all lard and excitement, but she had a nice, wet mouth and liked to use it. Her father owned a machine shop in Miami and four sport fishing cruisers too.

The girl screamed because she thought the old man liked it that way. She got a belt across the head and Papa Menes said, “Shut it. I don’t pay for noise.”

Louise Belhander stopped screaming and twisted her head back so she could see the old man propped in position astride her legs. She laughed, made herself comfortable on her stomach and spread her legs as far apart as she could get them.

“Okay, have fun, daddy,” she said.

Fuck him, she thought, she liked it this way anyway. He wasn’t all that big and she had plenty of baby oil going in the way of lubricant and if he wanted to lay out all that green for a real piece of ass, he was the customer and the customer was always right. She felt his fingers separating her buttocks and nestled her head in her arms.
Have fun, baby,
she whispered to herself. That slob who got himself drowned last week was even better. He was too long and too big, but he was too strong and too heavy to fight. He had damned near wrecked her little goodie hole and sent her to the clinic with an anus rapist story that made those damn fucking interns pass snide remarks until they saw the actual injury.

Papa Menes even felt good. Louise raised her behind so he could get a better advantage and smiled.
Like brushing your teeth,
she thought,
or shining your shoes.
Most women didn’t know why guys had their shoes shined. They sat in a chair while somebody made their feet come with a brush and a rag and it was just like they had been laid. The cheapest screw in the world. You got your feet tingled, had a toe orgasm and went home never knowing where you had been.

Right now Louise Belhander was having her ass tickled and having all the experience of relaxation, all she was doing was enjoying it, thinking of where she was going to spend the money. If tiny cock up there was going to be a steady, she might even be able to afford the payments on that new convertible she wanted. Louise knew he was about to reach his climax and brought her expertise into being. For her, a professional since high school, it was simple.

One half hour later Papa Menes was completely drained, his mind refreshed since his monthly requirements had been satiated and he could think again. He picked up the phone and dialed the next cottage.

Artie Meeker had had too much to drink and that wild orgasmic feeling escaped him completely. When the phone rang and the girl looked up from what she was doing to listen to him say, “Rightaway, boss,” all she could think of was that she might have been better off getting married to that Tennessee catfish farmer who only took two years to accumulate a half a million bucks. Weird, but rich, but he sure could come a mouthful and that was her pleasure in life. This was a puff of dust and she bet Louise, in the next cottage, didn’t do any better. Those Wall Street boys were all alike. All money. No cock. It was hell to be a whore when you really liked it, she thought. Someday she’d go back to Lessiland.

Papa Menes looked at the map again until he found that little town in Pennsylvania and remembered when he had met Sylvia whom he had married. She was a virgin, her father was a rabbi and he was a crazy wop who made the hospital workers strike as a cover for killing Rierdon after they put him in jail. He was young then and the ones on the board had approved. They let him marry the virgin, have his stupid kids who grew up threatened between two religions, and after he had wiped out everybody who stood in his way, they were very happy to let him control the uncontrollable. Papa Menes was the boss. His stupid Jewish wife was a slob he endured. His idiotic kids had long ago gone into Star-of-David graves because he couldn’t tolerate them. The opposition thought they were his weak spot.

They were wrong, they died, he was justified in the records of the programmers and was counted as a man who could be expected to fulfill his obligations. When he was thirty-eight years old those obligations were filled and they began calling him Papa.

His wife still had a foible about letting him screw her up the ass because she had an enema complex, but by then it didn’t matter because Papa Menes had too many women around who didn’t care about foibles when it clashed with a small sheaf of bills on a dresser top.

All Papa could think of was the chubby little broad he had married protecting her puckered little anus the second week after the ceremony. She had scratched his face, gotten one hell of a broken nose out of the process, and aside from the few times he had come in loaded and screwed her whether she liked it or not, that was the end of their physical relationship. The rabbi father-in-law was dead, her mother was beside him, and she was playing canasta down in Miami, making sure her diamonds flashed and her furs were the best.

Too bad she didn’t like to get screwed up the ass, Papa thought. They might have had a damn good marriage, rabbi father or not. He even would have let her play around with that little schmuck Aaron whose father ran the dry cleaner’s place on the comer. Aaron was all cock and no sense. Not at all like a wop or an Irisher. At least you knew what to expect from the Irisher or wop. The crazy kikes had their own ideas.

Papa Menes was scared of Jews. That’s why he killed them every chance he got.

Maybe he shouldn’t have listened to his cousin when they put Mark Shelby in. His grandfather on his Mother’s side was a Jew and that wasn’t what they had in mind. The old man fell asleep remembering his cock up a young broad’s ass and the way she squirmed and groaned. The only trouble was the dark shadow that kept hanging around the edge of his dream with a bony hand waiting to touch him with the mark of the dead. But the specter was blindfolded and couldn’t find him and he was able to enjoy himself to the fullest.

Artie Meeker wasn’t very bright, but he had a memory remarkable for it’s ability to take down a fifteen-minute conversation, repeat it verbatim and forget it before the sun rose the next day. He had paid off the two girls with tips to equal their fees, dropped them at a taxi stand in Homestead with an extra fifty to get them back to Miami, then took his bag of change and went into the pay phone booth on the corner while the car was being serviced and got the number in New York. He finished two cigarettes while he listened, dropping in quarters whenever the speaker went overtime, said a simple “Right,” when it was done, paid for his gas and oil and got back on the highway.

Papa Menes was already up having coffee when he got to the house, standing on the porch watching the sun dance on the incoming tide. He asked “Well?” and began his briefing.

The Cleveland police had gotten a break. A girl who worked in the building opposite had noticed the car driven by Holland’s killer because it was in a slot normally occupied by the manager in the neighboring office and the plates contained three consecutive zeroes. When they checked out every available combination, the only car whose make and color coincided was a rental job.

Crime paid off because the agency had been held up four times the past year and had installed a hidden camera that photographed everyone at the counter and the person who had rented the car was now on film. He was tall, wore a blue raincoat over a dark suit, a gray hat, carried a small suitcase still tagged with an airline baggage check, had glasses, a thin mustache and cut marks on his chin from a hurried shave. The name on his driver’s license was Charles Hall from Elizabeth, New Jersey. He had paid by credit card. The Cleveland police were interrogating all the airline personnel looking for an identification. Copies of the photo were being sent to departments in all the other cities but not being released to the news media. Papa Menes would have his own copy in the mail tomorrow. The old man nodded and finished his coffee.

Gill Burke handed the photo back to Captain Long and said, “Mister Anybody. The glasses and mustache could be phony and who doesn’t cut themselves shaving? The marks would be gone by now.”

“Encouragement is great,” Bill Long said, “Just what I need.”

“How about the credit card and address?”

“Phony, what else? The address was a garage that never heard of the guy and the card was only used once. We’re checking up on the reference he used when he applied for credit but not hoping for much luck.”

“That took a lot of preparation, buddy.”

“Nothing more than you’d expect from a pro, Gill.”

“A little more,” Burke said. “The usual contract boys don’t like any kind of paperwork, you know that.”

“Yeah, so this smells a little more businesslike. Either a high-price deal or an organizational endeavor. At least we got a toehold now. Somebody’s going to recognize that photo sooner or later and we’ll get our first break. The lab’s got their specialists working on that negative and if there’s anything that can be brought out, they’ll do it.”

“Anything from the air terminal?”

“One big blank, that’s what.” He looked at Gill’s face and scowled. “What’s so damn funny?”

“The whole bit could be a decoy. He could have even known about that camera. If he was a good pro he could have switched clothes and slapped on a disguise in the men’s room and taken it from there.”

“Maybe, but that camera had only been there a week.”

“Then you got your toehold.”

“We have a better angle, or haven’t you talked to the D.A. yet?”

“He doesn’t offer me anything at all.”

“Stanley Holland,” Bill Long told him, “was a very well-kept secret. Now that we know who he was we’re putting the picture together. His activities were known only to a few of the higher-ups in the syndicate and whatever bunch got inside their little plan had to be an extremely well-financed, well-informed group. The L.A. police are really hammering at it and we ought to be getting a break any time.”

“Good luck,” Gill said.

“Yeah,” Long muttered. He put the picture back in his pocket and held a match to his cigarette. “Now what have you got?”

“Nothing concrete yet. Maybe by Wednesday I’ll toss something out at the meeting.”

“You’d better. There’s a little shit-assed columnist who’s got a mad-on at everybody in uniform who smelled out your participation in this thing?”

“Meyer Davis?”

“The same.”

Gill chuckled in his throat. “He didn’t like that boot in the tail I gave him for the job he did on Joyce Carroll. He nearly loused up my whole case.”

“Well, he’s sniffing around and he’s got that whole pinko paper behind him.”

“Another kick in the behind can straighten him out.”

“You lay off that shit.”

“Sure, boss.”

“Quit that shit too.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come on, Gill.”

Burke laughed at him. “Okay. See you Wednesday.”

Calling Willie Armstrong “Junior” was as diminutive as calling Mister Ruth “Babe.” He was a span over six feet, weighed two hundred thirty pounds and could talk like the college graduate which he was or drop into the dialect of a Georgia cotton farmer which his father had been. His teeth were a dazzling white in the blackness of his face, framed in a huge smile as he greeted Gill Burke at the door of his apartment on Lenox Avenue in Harlem.

“You sure got your nerve coming up here, white boy,” he said.

Gill gripped his hand and squeezed just as hard. “None of you cats ever give anybody trouble in the morning. You’re all too happy.”

“We’re tigers, man.”

“Only when the sun goes down. How’s Cammie?”

“Great, man. She started making the grits and red eye gravy soon as you called.”

“I wanted sausages and pancakes, Junior.”

“All on one plate, buddy. Just like the old days. Remember Looney Mooney, that cook we had in basic training?”

“Old take-care-of-the-troops Looney Mooney,” Gill said.