Down Among the Dead Men

This story is for: The 2022 "Hammered: an Ode to Mickey Spillane" Author Challenge.

When I wrote Just Another Day it was intended to be a one-off for Chloe Tzang's 2021 Mickey Spillane challenge. However, a number of comments together with Feedback e-mails received asked for more Sam Malone stories so I decided to give it a try and actually got the first half-dozen or so paragraphs of this story drafted. Then to my surprise, Chloe is repeating the event for this year---she must be psychic. So welcome once more to the sleazy underworld where men like Sam try to keep the dirt from advancing any further, rather like Hercules cleaning the Augean stables.

In keeping with the literary spirit of the times in which it's set, any sex in this story is hinted at rather than explicit. I hope this won't put you off. Try to think late 1940s-early1950s and I hope you enjoy it.

All characters and places are imaginary—any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

Copyright © 2022 to the author

* * * * *

The whole business began with a fight. I didn't start it. I didn't want it. But it was forced on me so I finished it before it could turn nasty.

It was in a dingy little tavern called A Hole In The Roof down near the waterfront, a real spit-and-sawdust dive, not the sort of place I'd normally go to for relaxation but I was tired and just fancied a beer before going off duty for the night. Looking round, a-hole pretty much summed the place up.

I'd spent almost the whole day (and several previous days) tailing round after some sad little guy called Claude Fenwick whose wife thought he was having an affair. More and more it was looking to me like he was working his sorry butt off doing two or three jobs to help maintain his wife's extravagant life-style. He was likely too exhausted to even think of an affair.

To complicate matters I reckoned Mrs Fenwick wasn't so innocent---I was almost certain that she was playing footsie with the muscle-bound, body-building kid she employed as a part-time gardener. A couple of times I'd gone to the house to give her an up-to-date report and the kid had come staggering out, flushed and dishevelled. I'd done a little background check on the kid---his name was Jimmy Scott, he was hoping for a football scholarship to a good college and was likely to get one. Mrs Fenwick held onto the family car during the day so the poor mutt of a husband had to go everywhere by subway or on foot with me tagging on behind. I'd almost come to the conclusion that she wanted out, taking all her husband's assets with her. PI work isn't all excitement and glamour, it can be shitty at times.

The subject's final job of the day seemed to be some low-level administrative position in a shipping office. So, weary and footsore I decided on a couple of beers before heading for the old corral and this joint was the first place I'd come across. The lighting was dim and I'm not sure if that was a good thing or not. For one it hid the overall grubbiness of the place and for two it helped highlight the overall grubbiness of the place. But I was here now so I decided might as well get that beer and settled on a stool at the bar. I just hoped the glasses were clean.

"Whaddayawant?" The barman, who had obviously learned the rudiments of good customer service at his mother's knee, was a rough-looking type, seemed to have fallen out of a plane and landed on his face.

"Beer," I grunted. I could match him courtesy for courtesy.

The glasses were clean and he even put my drink down gently. I'd have thought he was the slam-it-down-so-most-of-it-spilled breed of barman. I took a sip. The beer was pretty good, too.

I glanced round. Don't know what time their busy hour started but at the moment it was fairly early-evening quiet, the only other customers being three tough-looking characters at a table playing some kind of card game. This being near the waterfront, I guessed they were longshoremen. I turned back to my beer. There was a large and ornate fly-blown mirror back of the bar and I could watch everything that was going on without being obtrusive about it.

Enter the clown. He came from somewhere out back, maybe from the men's room. I recognised him and he recognised me for there was a sudden flicker of panic on his face. Arnie Scudamore. I ignored him.

Arnie Scudamore... well, what can I say about Arnie...petty criminal perhaps? Unsuccessful and dim-witted petty criminal is nearer the mark. He made the average stupid petty criminal look like a master's degree candidate. Legend had it that he once sold a stolen Rolex watch to a pawnbroker for five bucks and thought he'd made a killing. When he stole something, he might as well have left a sign saying 'Arnie woz here!' He should have been a three-time loser but he was so stupid and easily caught that the local cops took pity on him and sent him on his way with a kick up the ass. He really helped their clear-up rate---although most of his loot wasn't worth clearing up, save for the occasional five dollar Rolex---and I think he'd become a kind of mascot for them. Most of his pitiful income was made running errands for real criminals.

I watched Arnie in the mirror, resisting the urge to laugh as he made a wide detour round my stool. He stopped, looked around, then went to the table where the three workmen were sitting, bending over to say something. I think he gestured towards me and after two or three minutes handed the biggest guy what looked like a couple of greenbacks. Business finished, Arnie scurried out of the bar.

Now what was all that about? I was to find out.

After a few minutes, the biggest of the card-players got up, ambled over and stood next to me at the bar. Close. Too close. I glanced at him. Even his loving mom would shy away from that face. His nose had been broken more than once and there was a lot of scar-tissue around his cheeks and eyebrows. Street fighter I guessed, one of the bare-knuckle variety. Without a word, the barman placed a fresh beer in front of my neighbour who, not even trying to hide his movements, tipped the glass so that the beer spilled.

"Hey, bub, you spilled my drink!" His voice was like a fog-horn on one of the cargo ships he likely worked on. And there was some kind of faint accent there...Slavic descent maybe.

I couldn't be bothered to answer. "Another beer for the gent on my tab," I ordered.

The fresh beer went the way of the first with no pretence involved. "Now you spilled it on my pants," he growled.

I was getting tired of this. "No I didn't and you know it. Go away and leave me in peace."

"You callin' me a liar?"

"Take it any way you want."

He stood back a little, big fists clenched. "Get on yer feet, asshole, or I'll beat the crap out've you where yer sittin'".

"There's no need for this," I told him, "you sure you want it?"

"On yer feet!"

I shrugged and got up. "Mind waiting till I take my hat off?"

His brow furrowed, puzzled. Maybe men didn't ask that sort of thing in his world. Maybe they didn't wear smart hats in his world. Maybe they weren't smart in his world. I laid my fedora on the stool I'd vacated then spun back fast and kicked him straight in the balls with a steel toe-capped shoe. He folded with a funny little whinnying noise, clutching his undercarriage. It was unlikely but there might be an off-chance that he was like some characters in the pulps or comic books, the kind who take terrible beatings then get up smiling to annihilate their assailants. Taking no chances, I gripped the back of his neck and slammed his forehead into the side of the bar. He slumped to the floor, unmoving and moaning a little.

The barman was fumbling under his side of the bar, for a billy-club or similar, I suppose, and Mr Ugly's two pals got up and approached, apparently with murder in mind. "Whatever you've got down there, leave it!" I shouted to the barman, "And you two back off!" I allowed my jacket to flap back, so they could see my .45, at the same time taking out my wallet and flashing my PI's badge.

All licensed PIs in this city have an official badge with their ID card, a gold-and-ebony-colored, eight-pointed star inset with the city crest and license number. It looks impressive although it doesn't have the legal standing that a cop's badge has. I guessed that in the bar's dim lighting they couldn't tell the difference, if they even knew about it. Serious offence impersonating a police officer but I was okay. I hadn't actually said I was a cop and I had no control over what they might think. "|Got any problems?"

The barman straightened, empty-handed and shaking his head, while the longshoremen backed up to their seats, hands raised. "No problems, officer."

"Okay, that was unnecessary. So what was it all about? Your buddy had no reason to pick a fight with me."

"You see a skinny little guy come in?" said one. His accent, too, sounded east European from way back. I nodded. "Like this, he said like you was screwing his missus but you was too tough for him to handle. He paid Ivan there to rough you up for him. Didn't say you was the man..."

I sighed. Arnie, Arnie, Arnie... what've you got yourself into now? It had to be something serious---the pathetic little creep wouldn't pay to have me beaten up for no reason. Mostly he'd just disappear round the nearest corner if he saw me in the neighbourhood. "He's not married," I told them, "and I sure wouldn't screw any woman he'd find attractive. He's just a low-life who's got something on his conscience. Maybe thought I was after him. How much did he pay Ivan?"

"Twenty bucks."

"That all?" I shook my head and gestured towards Ivan. "You'd better get your buddy to a hospital before his nuts blow up like footballs." Christ, twenty bucks--- the hospital would charge him a lot more than twenty bucks to fix him up. I wouldn't give much for Arnie's chances if he came back here. Retrieving my hat, I threw some money on the bar. "Nice place you've got here," I told the barman, "I'll be sure to recommend it in Esquire magazine." I stepped out into what passed for fresh air round here. I glanced at my watch. It wasn't too late so I thought I'd go see if Arnie was home yet, have a word and find out what his game was.

* * * * *

Most of the time the little moron stayed in a so-called 'hotel'---'hotel' sounds better than flop-house---not too far from the waterfront and I reckoned he'd skedaddle there while I was being mashed. There was a reception desk of sorts manned by a scrawny kid in a grubby singlet. Feet propped up on the desk, he was reading a copy of Amazing Stories, the science-fiction magazine, so maybe he was brighter than he looked.

"Arnie Scudamore?"

He barely looked up. "Next floor, number five."

I headed for the staircase. "Don't call him," I ordered.

The kid shook a greasy head. "Cain't. Ain't no phones in the rooms," he said, "An' I ain't telegraphic." I think he might have meant 'telepathic'. I revised my opinion of his IQ. He was wasting his time reading Amazing Stories. Dr Seuss might suit him better.

When I got there, I hammered on Arnie's door. I could hear shuffling noises inside but he didn't answer so I hammered again, more loudly this time. "Open up, Arnie!"

A door just down the corridor opened and a tubby little guy with strands of hair tastefully arranged over a bald head stepped out. Like the kid downstairs he wore a singlet that had seen better days. "What's all the racket?"

I put on a mean face. "Debt collector," I lied, "Any objections?".

"Jesus, no!" He dived back in and slammed his door shut. As hoped, he probably thought I was an enforcer for some shylock or bookie. Nobody messes with them.

I turned back to the task in hand. "Arnie, if you don't open this door, then I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow the thing down. Then the management will charge you for a new door and you won't like that." I gave the door an extra hard kick to emphasise what I said. The flimsy wood shivered under the blow.

"Okay! Okay! I'm comin' " There was the sound of a bolt being drawn back. Bit pointless---the door was so weak that a really good blow would rip the bolt away from the jamb. There was a scrabbling noise like Arnie was trying to move fast and as I stepped in I saw the little idiot cowering in a corner, hands held up as if to ward off an evil spirit. Arnie, too, wore a grimy singlet. They must be de rigueur for this place.

The room was crummy but what else should I expect in this dump? A metal-framed bed with thin mattress and threadbare blankets pressed up against the far wall while the only floor covering was a small rag rug by the bed. Other furnishings comprised a gimcrack open-fronted closet, a shabby easy chair and a rickety wooden chair. It was a toss-up where to sit but the wooden chair looked as if it might collapse under my weight. I chose the easy chair and immediately regretted a bad mistake. It felt as if it was stuffed with old bricks and some barfly's broken bottles. I reckon a fakir's bed-of-nails would have been more comfortable. I pointed to the other chair and Arnie gingerly sat on the edge.

"Don't hurt me, Sam Malone, " he whimpered, "Please don't kill me!"

This wasn't exactly what I was expecting. "What the hell makes you think I'm here to kill you, Arnie?"

"You ain't? You ain't gonna beat me up an' kill me?"

"Arnie, all I want is to know why you paid that guy in the bar to beat me up."

"When I saw you in that bar, I thought you was on a contract to get me. Don't get many cops in there."

"I'm not a cop, Arnie. I'm a PI. And I don't take contracts to kill people. There's got to be more. Come on, give."

"I think I saw a murder," he muttered.

"You think you saw a murder. Where?"

"Up to Malanuk Hills." Malanuk was a small blink-and-you'd-miss-it kind of town about sixty miles from the city. Situated in Malanuk County, the town was mainly surrounded by forested hills. There wasn't much there for anyone save hunters in and out of season and bird-watchers who liked living dangerously when the hunters were a-hunting. It wasn't even in our state but over the line in the next one up.

Getting information from Arnie was like trying to get a discount from a hooker. " Not enough, Arnie, let's have the full story."

"Okay, okay!" He relit a half-smoked Camel with a shaking hand. "I gotta cousin, Billy Scudamore, gotta cabin up in the hills, makes 'shine. I kinda like what he makes and I go up there two... three times a year fer a coupla bottles. Get them cheap on accounta bein' fambly. Used ta go up there a lot when I was a kid, got to know the woods pretty well. I went up to see Billy maybe a week ago. He wasn't aroun' so thought I'd go fer a walk in the woods until he got back. Musta gone further than I meant and sudden like I heard voices so I snuck up to see who was there.

"Now I couldn't see too clear, it was startin' to get dark and there was a lot of branches and things in the way. I think maybe there was three or four o' them, just shapes like, and one suddenly pulls a gun and shoots one of the others. Don't know if I made a noise but one guy says 'Hey, someone's there.' So I beat it, real fast. One of 'em yells 'Get that motherfucker' so I run then dive into some undergrowth and stays real quiet. They got pretty close one time an' I heard 'em talkin', one askin' who lived round here. The other said only the moonshiner and it couldn't be him 'cos he's a real big guy---this 'un looked small from the glimpse he got. Anyhow, the speaker had seen the 'shiner drive into town a while back. They looked aroun' a bit but musta got pissed off and went away. I laid low quite a while then went back to Billy's place. He wasn't aroun' so I got in my ol' truck an' got the hell out. Didn't even get my bottles a' 'shine.

"When I saw you in that bar I figured they knew who I was and hired you to waste me."

"No, Arnie, I'd just gone in for a beer. Recognise the voices?"

"Nope."

I knew my next question was pointless but I had to ask it anyway. "Did you call the local cops to say what you thought you saw?"

"Do I look crazy?" I didn't hurt his feelings with the reply that deserved. Arnie brightened. "Hey, Mr Malone, how's about this---you could report it to the local cops for me."

"No I couldn't---from me it'd just be hearsay and that's useless as far as cops are concerned. You're the witness, you need to report it. It'll have to be the Malanuk cops---it's outside of city and state jurisdiction." I reckoned Arnie wouldn't do a thing. He didn't even seem sure that he had witnessed a killing. Maybe moonshine-induced gremlins were dancing round in his head like the pink elephants in Dumbo. And I had enough on my plate without getting involved with something that may not have happened miles away.

"Okay, Arnie, I'll leave it to you," I said, "Sleep easy tonight, I'm not a hitman." I got up to go. "One word of advice. Don't go back to that bar any more."

"Why not?"

"Because the guy you paid to work me over might not be very happy with you when he gets out of hospital..."

And with that I left, putting Arnie Scudamore and his murder that might not even be a murder out of my mind.

* * * * *

In the next day or so I closed up the Fenwick case. The poor guy wasn't having an affair although who could blame him if he was? He was only knocking himself out working. I told his wife as much when I took my final report to their house in a gated community. At least one of Claude's jobs must have been necessary just to pay the mortgage on a swish place like this. Mrs Fenwick was good-looking in an over-made-up kind of way but her eyes were as cold as a polar bear's dick. Think Joan Crawford in one of her meaner roles and you're getting close. She took me into the den, acting like royalty receiving a peasant, the gardener trailing along behind and standing back of me. Odd. Mrs Fenwick glowered as she took a check-book from an ornate but likely fake desk, wrote in the next check and passed it over.

I looked at it. "I think there's a mistake, Mrs Fenwick. This is less than half my agreed fee."

"No mistake." Her voice was cold. "You didn't give me the service I expected."

I sighed. "Ma'am, you asked me to find out if your husband was having an affair. He isn't and I told you so."

"You're the one making a mistake, Mr Malone. I expected you to tell me Claude was up to no good. You haven't delivered on that."

The probable truth hit me. She was trying to pull an unpleasant little scam by the sound of it. Husband caught playing away from home, poor betrayed wife sues for divorce, court awards her hefty alimony, the house and all legal costs and the poor little guy is in hock for the rest of his life. My client was some piece of work.

"No matter what you think, Mrs Fenwick, I wasn't hired to frame your husband."

"I think we're finished here," she said, "Jimmy, throw this person out."

A big hand landed on my shoulder. "C'mon mister, you're leaving now."

I didn't even look at him. "Jimmy, you're a big kid with huge muscles, but believe me, you're thinking way out of your league. Unless you take your hand off my shoulder right now, you'll find out how far out of your league you really are." I spoke quietly enough but Jimmy must have recognised something in my voice because he took his hand away fast.

"Are you scared of him?" the woman shrieked.

"If he is, he's showing a deal more sense than you are." I waved the check. "Is this your final word, Mrs Fenwick?"

"Yes!"

"Okay, I'm sorry it's come to this." I'd had an inkling that she was going to pull a stunt like this. In my job you get an instinct for the clients who'll try to stiff you and I'd taken precautions. I took an envelope from an inside pocket and passed it over. I had a sleazy acquaintance, a photographer who specialised in a certain kind of work. He was damned good at what he did, even with a telescopic lens. The envelope contained nine or ten photographs---every one studio clear---of Mrs Fenwick and Jimmy playing Adam and Eve without the benefit of fig-leaves. They hadn't even had the common sense to pull the drapes shut. Amazing how stupid lust can make some folk. Amazing how many folk are arrogant enough to think they're fireproof.