Free The Mike Hammer Collection by Mickey Spillane Page B

say “Howday, Mistah Hammah. Glad to see yuh. Long time since yuh done been in dis part of town.”
    When they heard my name mentioned they both moved their drinks six feet down the bar. Sam knew I was here for more than a beer. He moved to the end of the bar and I followed him.
    â€œWhat’s up, Mistah Hammah? Somethin’ I can do fuh yuh?”
    â€œYeah. You got the numbers running in here?”
    Sam gave a quick look around before he answered. “Yeah. De boys take ’em down same’s they do the othah places. Why?”
    â€œIs George Kalecki still the big boy?”
    He licked his thick lips. Sam was nervous. He didn’t want to be a squealer, yet he wanted to help me. “It’s murder, Sam,” I told him. “It’s better you tell me than have the bulls drag you to the station. You know how they are.”
    I could see he was giving it thought. The black skin of his forehead furrowed up. “Okay, Mistah Hammah. Guess it’s all right. Kalecki is still head man, but he don’t come around hisself. De runners do all the work.”
    â€œIs Bobo Hopper doing the running yet? He was with Kalecki some time. Hangs out here all the time, doesn’t he?”
    â€œYassuh. He’s heah now, but he don’ do no mo’ running. He done had a good job the last few months. Keeps bees, too.”
    This was new. Bobo Hopper was only half human, an example of what environment can do to a man. His mental age was about twelve, with a build that went with it. Underfed all his life, he developed into a skinny caricature of a person. I knew him well. A nice Joe that had a heart of gold. No matter how badly you treated him, you were still his friend. Everything was his friend. Birds, animals, insects. Why, once I saw him cry because some kids had stepped on an anthill and crushed a dozen of its occupants. Now he had a “good” job and was keeping bees.
    â€œWhere is he, Sam? Back room?”
    â€œYassuh. You know where. Last I seed him he was looking at a pitcher book of bees.”
    I polished the beer off in one swallow, hoping the guys that had used it before me didn’t have anything contagious. When I passed the high yellow and his friend, I saw their eyes follow me right through the doors of the back room.
    Bobo Hopper was sitting at a table in the far corner of the room. The place used to be fixed up with a dice table and a couple of wheels, but now the stuff was stacked in a corner. High up on the wall a single barred window was trying hard to keep out what light seeped down the air shaft, leaving all the work to the solitary bulb dangling on the wire strand from the ceiling. Rubbish was piled high along one side, held back by a few frail pieces of beer poster cardboards.
    On the walls a few dirty pictures still hung from thumbtacks, the scenes half wiped out by finger smudges and dust. Someone had tried to copy the stuff in pencil on the wallpaper, but it was a poor try. The door to the bar was the only exit. I fished for the bolt lock, but there was nothing to slide it into so I let it be.
    Bobo didn’t hear me come in, he was so absorbed in his book. For a few seconds I looked at the pictures over his shoulders, watching his mouth work as he tried to spell out the words. I slammed him on the back.
    â€œHey, there, don’t you say hello to an old friend?”
    He half leaped from his chair, then saw that it was me and broke into a big smile. “Gee, Mike Hammer! Golly, I’m glad to see you.” He stuck out a skinny paw at me and I took it. “Whatcha doin’ down here, Mike? Come down just to see me, huh? Here, lemme get you a chair.” He rolled an empty quarter keg that had seen better days over to the table and I parked on it.
    â€œHear you’re keeping bees now, Bobo. That right?”
    â€œGee, yeah, an’ I’m learning all about it from this book here. It’s lotsa fun. They even know me, Mike.