Free Mickey Spillane - [Mike Hammer 02] by My Gun Is Quick Page B

On the way out he gave Velda a gentlemanly bow and strode out the door. She waited until the door had shut and said, “He’s nice, Mike. I like him.”
    “I like him too, kid. You don’t have many around like him any more.”
    “And he’s got money, too. We’re back in business again, huh?”
    “Uh-huh.” I looked at the intercom box. She had the switch up and had overheard the conversation. I frowned at her the way a boss should, but it didn’t scare her a bit.
    “Just curious, Mike. He was such an interesting guy,” she smiled.
    I faked a punch at her jaw and sat on the desk, reaching for the phone. When I got the dial tone I poked out Pat’s number and held on until he got on the wire. He gave me a breezy hello and said, “What’s new, kid?”
    “A few things here and there, but nothing that you can call withholding evidence. Look, have you had lunch yet?”
    “An hour ago.”
    “Well, how about some coffee and Danish. I want to know a few things, if you care to tell me.”
    “What kind of things?”
    “Stuff the police ought to know and the general public shouldn’t. Or would you rather have me find out for myself?”
    “Nuts to you. It’s better to have you obligated to me. I’ll meet you in Mooney’s as soon as you can make it. How’s that?”
    “Fine,” I said, then hung up.
    Pat beat me to the beanery by five minutes. He already had a table over in the back and was sipping coffee from an oversize mug the place used as a trademark. I pulled out a chair and sat down. I didn’t have time to waste; as soon as the waiter came over with my coffee and pastry I got right down to cases. “Pat, what’s the angle on the call-girl racket in this town?”
    The cup stopped halfway to his mouth. “Now, that’s a hell of a question to ask me. If I tell you, it implies that I’m crooked and I’m looking the other way. If I don’t, I look stupid for not knowing what goes on.”
    I gave him a disgusted grunt, then: “Pat, there are certain things that are going to happen in every town no matter how strait-laced the citizens are or how tough the cops are. It’s like taxes. We got ‘em and we can’t get rid of ’em. And who likes taxes except the small group of bureaucrats that handle the mazuma?”
    “Now you’ve made me feel better,” he chuckled. “There isn’t too much I can tell you because those outfits are good at keeping things to themselves. We rarely get complaints because their clientele isn’t in a position to lay themselves open to criticism by entering a complaint. However, the police are well aware of the existing situation and try to enforce the letter of the law. But remember one thing. Politics. There are ways of bogging the police down and it’s a hurdle hard to jump.
    “Then there’s a matter of evidence. The higher-ups don’t run houses or keep books where they can be found. It’s a matter of merely suggesting to someone just who is available and letting him do the rest. I think the girls come across with a cut of the take or the proper persons aren’t steered in their direction. They may get shoved around a little, too. In fact, there have been several deaths over the years that point suspiciously in that direction.”
    “That they got shoved too hard, you mean?” I asked.
    “Exactly.”
    “How did the coroner call them?”
    “Suicides, mainly.
    “Suicides, mainly ... except for Russ Bowen. You know about him ... he was the guy who ran a chain of houses and tried to buck the combine. We found him shot full of holes a couple of months ago and his houses closed out. We never could get a line on the killing. Even the stoolies clammed up when we mentioned his name. Yes, Russ was murdered, but the others were all called suicides.”
    “And you?”
    “Murder, Mike. The cases are still open, and someday we’re going to nail the goons that are behind them. Not only the hired hands that did the dirty work, but the ones that run the organizations. They’re the ones