Free The Death Dealers by Mickey Spillane Page A

deliver it tonight.”
    “No games, Tiger,” he said.
    “Authenticated. Positive description. If you like I can get you three witnesses to prove the point.”
    Dick leaned forward staring at me, his face serious. “I’ll take that, Tiger buddy. I’ll assume you know the details of what you’re intimating so I won’t have to spell it out for you.”
    “I do.”
    “Okay, then we can get it circulated and throw out a net. This guy is top priority on the wanted sheet and if you come across with a bit like that maybe we can nail him. They suspect he’s in this area and are putting out directives on the hour. Washington’s got their best men in to work with us but we haven’t got a decent thing to go on.”
    “You will have.”
    “I’ll be waiting.”
    We finished another coffee before we left and I let Dick drive me down a couple of blocks from Ernie Bentley’s place, then walked the rest of the way. Virgil Adams had delivered the photo of Turos from Brazil and Ernie had a dozen duplicates ready for me in a manila folder.
    Fifteen minutes after I called him, little Harry was there getting a chemical treatment from Ernie that toned up his swarthy skin complexion, and in a dark suit, his hair reshaped and a thin mustache added, he was far from the turbaned and robed native that was on the Queen with me. Just to make sure he wouldn’t be tempted into exposing hidden animosities against a king who killed off some of his family, I patted him down, took a slim knife out of his sleeve and left it with Ernie. Harry grinned sheepishly, but said nothing, then went over with me to the hotel where I got dressed for the occasion.
    The Stacy was one of the newer hotels, towering and massive, like a new tombstone in an old graveyard. It nestled in the center of Manhattan defiantly, a new big kid who pushed out the older residents and dared them to do anything about it. Limousines were nose to bumper in the no parking zones, all sporting DPL tags that meant diplomatic immunity to police citations and cabs were disgorging the pompous and the famous like sick cats. Each side of the street was lined with uniformed patrolmen and a dozen mounted sergeants walked their horses along the curb to keep things moving, with a few motorcycle cops standing by for anything that might develop. The gawking crowd attracted by the display was probably loaded with plainclothesmen, but I only spotted a couple I knew by sight.
    Anybody entering the lobby was directed either to one side or another, those attending the reception to the left, the rest shunted the opposite way. A red velvet rope with matching carpet led the way to the first door where a pair of smiling young men in tuxedos inspected the invitations, tore a comer off the card to see if they were genuine, with a colored thin inner layer, then passed you inside to go through another screening.
    Washington was playing this one close to their vests, not taking any chances at all. I didn’t bother with trying to force the issue. With Harry beside me I made the rounds of the lobby, found the pay phones, then went in and called the desk. The harried operator put me through to the clerk and when I asked to speak to the nearest uniformed patrolman he almost choked up. Through the glass door I could see him wave a cop over and put him on.
    He said, “Patrolman Delaney speaking. Who is this?”
    “My name is Mann. I have a package for Lieutenant Gallagher he’s expecting. How the hell can I get it to him?”
    “He’s on duty right now and . ”
    “I know he is, but he wants this. Can you get him out in the lobby long enough to pick it up? This is department business, not personal and he’d appreciate it. ”
    That much decided him. He said he would give him the message and I told him I’d be at the desk in a few minutes. Instead of waiting, I hung up when the cop did, nodded for Harry to follow me, and trailed the policeman to the other side of the room and waited while he spoke to a