Free The Deep by Mickey Spillane Page B

though.”
    â€œRemember the club from Ninth Avenue who gave that dance?” I asked.
    â€œWhen those goons tried to shag Helen and Sugar Lee down the cellar? Sure I remember that. Man, how we tore that place apart. Hardly nobody walked home that night. I got six stitches in my head from that one. You and Bennett beat hell out of that cop who tried to break it up.”
    â€œHe busted my nose,” I said.
    â€œYou stole his rod, too, so it evened things up. You still got that rod, Deep?”
    I pointed to my pants hanging on the closet door. The .38 in the speed rig weighed them down, pulling them out of shape. I said, “Go call Augie and get him over here.”
    â€œSure, Deep.” He was halfway out the door when he stopped and turned around. “You know, them days weren’t really so much fun.”
    â€œYeah,” I told him. “I know. Then we were all punks. Now we’re going to have fun. We’ll make up for it.”
    Â 
    Augie had some details of the operation with him. The package was small, but the scope of the organization a vast thing that swept like the smear of a giant hand across the city, poking fat fingers into Jersey and outlying sections.
    I went over the sheets quickly, getting a synopsis picture of Bennett’s empire, estimating the take and the angles. I spent a couple hours making notes for my own reference, then stacked the sheets and put them back in the folder.
    I handed them to Augie. “Anybody give you any trouble?”
    â€œNo. They might have wanted to, but no one did.”
    â€œGood. Where’s the breakdown on it?”
    â€œMr. Batten has it in a safe place. It’s available anytime we need it.”
    â€œOr want it,” I said.
    â€œOr want it,” he repeated.
    â€œI don’t suppose Wilse likes the idea.”
    â€œHe hasn’t much choice, has he, Deep?”
    â€œNone. You think he’s holding anything back?”
    Augie shook his head. “He can’t afford to. Mr. Batten isn’t exactly the ... violent type. He doesn’t want trouble. I think he’d prefer to wait you out.”
    â€œHe’s remembering something you’re forgetting, Augie.” He looked at me, puzzled. “All Bennett’s trinkets will come to me by law. Me or Batten. But you don’t inherit an empire of policy slips and horse rooms and whore houses and protection that goes with it. You take it. It’s up for grabs and the biggest one takes it. I got it now.”
    â€œThat’s right, Deep. All you have to do is keep it.”
    I gave him a nasty grin and nodded. “It won’t be hard.”
    At noontime Hymie’s deli around the corner sent up lunch. There was a paper on the tray turned to Roscoe Tate’s column of “Uptown Speaking” and I knew how it got there. The lead paragraph was the first step in building my coffin, the gentle whisper of hate, the feathery touch of fear.
    Murder has come back to Manhattan. The death of “Boss” Bennett had the crime hierarchy scrambling for control of his multimillion dollar enterprise of filth and corruption. But they were too late. A dead man had left his hand in office. The Heir Apparent had been selected long ago and has taken command. The Deep One is back. Murder is with us again.
    When I read it I handed it to Cat. He grimaced and said, “Wise guy. You want to learn him one?”
    â€œIt’s bad enough he has to live with himself, Cat.”
    â€œHe always was a punk. Him and his chicken liver sandwiches.” He flicked his eyes up at me. “Saw him give a dog half a sandwich once when a hungry little-kid was standing right next to him.”
    â€œDogs got to eat too,” I said.
    Both of them looked at me, their faces impassive. I said, “I’ll speak to the boy myself. That sticks and stones bit don’t go with me.”
    Augie said, “Play it smart, Deep. You don’t want to fight