Free The Death Dealers by Mickey Spillane

Even when you find a bad one or one on the take, he’s still a guy ready to lay his life on the line if he has to and will go in a dark alley after a killer with no concern about his own safety. But most are the best. They have to be or they wouldn’t be there.
    These are the ones who can analyze the population at a glance. They can spot a stranger, single out the wrong characters, sense the mood of the city and prepare in advance for what will happen. These are the crime surgeons, the crime deterrents, the ones who answer when you yell for a cop.
    I called Dick Gallagher at his precinct number hoping to get a lead on the way the department was going to handle Teish El Abin’s visit to the city and for the first time I ran into luck. Over coffee at the hash house opposite the station Dick told me his vacation had just been stepped up a week and he was burning about it. He had to cancel his reservations at Atlantic City and nothing was vacant when he got his leave.
    “Why?” I asked him.
    “Visiting dignitaries. You read about our new friends from Selachin?”
    “Who hasn’t?”
    “So we’re covering His Highness. What with the World’s Fair, the race riots and the usual summer trouble we’re the only section they can draw from for special duty and I get tapped.”
    “Maybe there’ll be some excitement.”
    “How? By playing doorman at a reception?”
    “Who are you alerted for?”
    “The usual fanatics,” he shrugged. “These Middle East characters can raise some powerful hatreds. Look what happens with the S.A. bunch. Double it and you get this outfit. It’s like having Nasser around ... you never know what side is going to start shooting first and we’re always caught in the middle.”
    “What is it, invitation only?”
    “Damn right.”
    “Sounds interesting. Maybe I can wangle a card?”
    “Why?”
    I grinned at him and finished my coffee. “I know a few editors who would print the story. I hear he’s got a nice chick with him.”
    “Nice trouble. I haven’t seen one yet who couldn’t make it.
    “How can I get in, Dick?”
    “You can’t, old buddy. Every invitation is numbered and will be checked off against a master list.”
    “Who holds that?”
    “Now do you think the Washington boys would trust us with a thing like that? Hell, one of their men will handle it. Besides, where do you fit in? I didn’t think you went the social route.”
    “Politics intrigue me,” I said.
    “Yeah, sure. Me too. You go for cocktails, pink sandwiches, limp handshakes and double talk. Baloney. Besides, you know the big deal at the reception?”
    I shook my head.
    Dick said, “Teish El Abin gets to see himself on TV for the first time. They’re broadcasting his five-minute speech to the welcoming committee on the news program then slamming in a closed-circuit segment for twenty minutes covering his whole arrival. Nobody gets to see it but the bunch at the reception. A phoney deal, but it’s got him happy. The networks wouldn’t touch the idea so they’re doing it this way.”
    “Fast thinking. Whose idea was it?”
    “Sergeant Anderson’s, down at the 4th Precinct. You can’t imagine the State Department dreaming that one up, could you?”
    “Their dreams aren’t so realistic. Look, I’m going to try to wangle an invitation.”
    “Don’t waste your time.”
    “I won’t,” I said. “By the way, you ever heard of Malcolm Turos?”
    He gave me a funny little smile that could mean anything. Finally he said, “You’re not paying off to receive official information, are you?”
    “I don’t have to.”
    “Yeah, I heard of him.”
    “Just lately,” I grinned.
    He didn’t have to be on guard with me and knew it. “Very lately. His description has been flashed to all departments.”
    “It won’t fit any more,” I told him.
    He waited for the rest, never losing his grin. “No?”
    “Like a nice clear picture of the guy, a late photo you can use?”
    “When?”
    “Maybe I’ll