Frank Driver, Private Eye

Author's Note: This story was submitted as part of the Hammered - An Ode to Mickey Spillane story event. It's written in a style that some readers may find uncomfortable and touches on subjects that are not often palatable in the modern era. Read at your discretion.

Chapter 1

Rain. Always with the rain. Rain never helped my mood.

I turned my collar up against the pinpricks of water that the wind spat onto my neck. It fell back down again, defiant. Time to get a new raincoat.

The cold came quickly this year. Here it was, not even October, and the cold had flown into the city like some toxic gas they used back in the first War.

Dammit. I needed to get outta my head. That first war - so much fun they decided to have a second. I spent way too much time thinking about that. It'd been a lifetime ago. Before my lifetime. The second one was my time.

It'd been two years already since they dropped the bomb on the Japs, letting us all go home.

My rainy, pathetic city. Home.

I turned the corner and was nearly blinded by the reflections off nearly every surface. Lights everywhere pierced the night like needle points. The wind couldn't get me here, though. Too many buildings blocking the way. Good.

"Shoe shine, mister?"

I looked down and saw a little colored boy, maybe ten. Possibly younger. He held onto a shine box older than he was. He was shivering, the cold eating through his torn fingerless gloves, like termites through rotting wood.

It was raining, but he was out trying to make his nickel. "Had much luck tonight?" I asked. He shook his head, and looked up at the sky. No customers on a rainy night.

We both looked at my shoes. They were in need of repair, not a shine. The boy would have worked his butt off to give me the best shine he could, even as the rain poured down on both of us.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"M-marcus," he answered. Then he set his jaw. He was upset that his stutter from the cold made him sound nervous instead.

I nodded, solemnly. "A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do for his family, right Marcus?"

He relaxed a little. He was a man too. Just over four feet, maybe, but definitely a man. He was out shilling for work, probably to help his mama. Maybe a brother or sister or two.

"I'll tell you what," I said, fishing into my pocket. "What if I pay you now, and you can shine my shoes when your hard work won't get washed away."

I flipped him two bits. He caught it, eyes wide. "Thanks, mister!" He stuffed the money into his pocket. The coin apparently found a hole in that one, and clanged to the ground. He picked it up and dropped it into his other pocket.

Another year or two and he would have looked at me suspiciously. For now, though, he was grateful and I knew he would fulfill his end of the bargain.

He looked up at me. "Long shift tonight?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Maybe," he said. "Dunno."

I nodded. "Yeah," I agreed. "Me too. Dunno."

I dropped my chin, and he dropped his in return. There wasn't anything more to say. I moved on, leaving my new blue-collar buddy behind.

The office wasn't far ahead from where Marcus had set up shop. Maybe half a block. In the rain, it felt like it was at least three blocks, but I got there. The door opened with a quick jerk, and the doorman tipped his cap.

"Good evening, Mr. Driver!" he said, cheerful as ever.

Christ.

"Evening, Bobby," I muttered.

"Um, Billy," he corrected me.

Crap. "Oh, yeah. Right, sorry. Must have the wrong name on the brain," I tried to cover my tracks.

"No problem, Mr. Driver," Bo-, I mean, Billy said. I never could get that kid's name straight in my head. I didn't think he bought it. He was polite, I'd give him that.

"Big case today?" he asked.

"Not today," I said, walking into the foyer of the building. Cheating wives and husbands don't really make for big cases. Just more proof that people are horrible all over. Maybe the A-bomb shouldn't have just been reserved for other countries.

"Gosh," he said. "You must get a lot of them, huh? Maybe some car chases, some mafia shootouts?"

I looked at him. Maybe eighteen, nineteen. Glasses. Too young to serve. Good for him. Let him dream big, but act small. He'll live longer that way. "Only if I'm really unlucky," I said.

"Oh, okay," Billy said, uncertain. "Well, uh, see ya later, Mr. Driver."

I nodded in reply. I wasn't in the mood for small talk.

The day had been long. It was over, almost. I wanted a date with my Old Grandad and a mostly clean glass in my bottom desk drawer.

I passed his dais into the large square space. The old building opened up to me like the legs of an old woman. Rickety, begrudgingly, uninviting. Old bones of iron girders from the turn of the century that must have been attractive, once. This old girl, though, she was past her prime.

The broken elevator just mocked me. Its open cage sat idle as always. No one trusted it, so no one used it. Only guests who didn't know any better.

Three flights of stairs. Days like today I just wanted to let that damn rickety thing haul my ass up to my office and spare me the climb in soggy shoes.

Most of the offices forming the perimeter of the space were empty on all sides. It was a quiet Friday night, everyone gone for the weekend. Good for them. Whatever businesses that hadn't abandoned the old girl were now all closed. Well, almost all of them.

I made the last step onto my floor. I knew there was something wrong the instant my foot planted. My office light shone through the frosted door. Movement caused a shadow to pass across the glass.

I pulled my .38 from my shoulder holster, and cocked the hammer. I reached for the door knob. Locked.

Okay, so that's how you want to play it?

I fished out my keys and looked down to see which one I needed. A good half gallon of water from the brim of my hat fell straight onto my hands.

Dammit.

I slipped the key into the lock. Turned it. The deadbolt slid out of place. I grabbed the knob one more time, took a breath, and burst into the room.

"God dammit, Frank!"

Tammi Malone, my protege and junior PI partner, stood bent over the edge of the desk - my desk - with her skirt bunched up around her waist. The young sailor docking his submarine in her port looked like a deer caught in headlights.

I sighed. This, again.

"You're on my desk," I said, holstering my piece. I stepped in and closed the door.

"No shit, Frank," she said. "Do you mind? We're kind of in the middle of something here."

"Um, should I go?" her friend asked.

She reached around and grabbed his tie. "Don't you dare," she said. "Don't mind him. Just keep going."

"Are you sure?" he asked, looking from her to me and back again. Gotta give the kid credit. Some big guy comes busting in on his fun time and his lettuce doesn't wilt. Impressive. "I mean, I could -"

She pulled harder on his tie, bringing him off balance. "If you stop," she said, "I'll take Frank's piece and shoot you myself."

"Don't mind me," I said, hanging up my coat. "I just run the place."

The kid started pounding her again, but never took his eyes off me. "Don't look at me, kid," I said, taking off my hat and coat. "I'm nowhere near the dish she is."

Tammi pushed back against him, trying to get him to pay more attention to her. He took ahold of her hips and picked up the pace.

I looked down at my shoes. They really did need a repair. No point in getting Marcus to shine them. You'd never know the difference.

I kicked off the shoes and sloshed in my stocking feet behind the desk and sat down. Tammi's body was sliding back and forth as her friend rogered her for all he was worth.

Tammi opened her eyes and looked at me. I ignored her. The whiskey was in the bottom drawer, but my matches were under her hands.

"Really?" she asked as I sat there.

"Move," I said, and lifted her hand so that I could get my matches. I lit up a smoke.

The kid was grunting now. He was getting close.

"Do you mind?" Tammi asked in between his thrusts. "Just five minutes, Frank. I just need five minutes."

I indicated her friend with my cigarette. "I give him two."

The kid groaned, proving my point. I reached into the drawer and pulled out the bottle and three glasses. I lined them up on my desk, and poured two fingers in each.

Ah, screw it. I poured myself a double.

"Frank," she warned, but she was losing her breath. The kid was doing a pretty good job of taking care of her. "Frank... Frank!" she yelled.

I didn't think she meant to say my name.

Gotta say, the kid had this locomotive quality to him. The slap, slap, slapping was almost hypnotic. I reached for some mail and ripped open the envelope.

Tammi made some sort of noise - I'm not sure if it was my name or not, but it definitely started with an "F" - and that's when the kid launched himself toward the finish line.

I opened one letter as they sped up.

Dear Mr. Driver. Our records indicate that the check you deposited on September 2 has been stopped for payment. As a result, your balance has been deducted by that amount...

Dammit.

That damn broad wanted her husband so much she was willing to put up with his philandering. So be it. But I still got the photos. I did the work. Now I had to go chase her for paying what she agreed, otherwise it would be $100 down the drain. Ten days worth of work.

"I'm close!" Tammi's friend announced to the world.

"Yes!" she cried in response. "Do it!"

He had been keeping his eyes closed the entire time, but now he opened them. He looked straight at me.

I toasted him and took a drag.

The poor kid closed his eyes again and tried to figure out where he was and what he was supposed to be doing. He winced and his face screwed up in a mask of frustration.

"I'm... I'm sorry," he said, wiping his brow. "I can't."

He pulled out of Tammi, who whipped her head back over her shoulder. "What? No! Don't do that," she protested, but he had already cast off his lines.

I couldn't help it. I looked at his baby maker as it bobbed and weaved better than Rocky Graziano. It was long and thin, longer and thinner than anything I ever saw in the Army showers, that's for sure. The kid had a swizzle stick for a dick. A swizzle dick.

I chuckled into my whiskey. Best joke I'd heard all week.

"I can't, I... I gotta go," he said. He bunched up his undress whites and pulled them to his waist, trying to get his prick to fit inside.

I indicated the glass waiting for him. "No, I -" he said, and then grabbed his flat hat and pea coat and raced out the door. I shrugged and downed his share.

Tammi collapsed onto the desk. Frustrated she pulled her nylons up and her skirt down. Now that rationing was over, nylons were back. I had missed them. That beautiful seam that went all the way up to a woman's -

I handed her a drink.

"Christ, Frank," she said, taking it from me. She downed it in one gulp and held it out for a refill. I obliged.

"Where'd ya find the anchor cranker?" I asked.

She shrugged. "Where'd ya think?" She lit up a smoke. "The Brine. It's got the best jits in town. Plus it's Friday."

I nodded. The Salty Brine wasn't the real name for the watering hole by the docks, but so many Navy men hung out there no one really remembered its real name any more. Friday was the first night of their weekend pass. I didn't dance, but Tammi loved to Lindy.

"You owe me," she huffed.

"Like hell I do," I said. "You're gonna get a reputation."

She grunted. "Why do you think I pick up the boys on leave? Nobody knows me and nobody cares."

"The locals'll know you."

"Like I said," she said, taking a drink. "Nobody cares."

"I don't understand you new breed," I said. "When I was your age, girls who do what you do had a name."

I wasn't actually all that much older than her. Maybe five or six years. Maybe the war made me even older than I was. Maybe she was trying to be older than she was.

"They still do," she frowned. "But when you were my age, you didn't get your job ripped away from you by every Joe coming back from the war."

Fair enough. I raised my glass to her. She wanted to argue, but once I agreed with her there was no point.

"Christ, Frank," she repeated, staring at the wall. "Can't a girl have a little fun every once in a while?"

"I don't judge."

"I wasn't talking about you."

"Not everyone has my understanding personality and charming disposition."

She looked at me. A wistful look fell across her face. "That's true," she sighed. There was something else she wanted to say, but she washed it down with the rest of her whiskey. She looked at the bottom of her glass, her pretty pageboy features lost in thought.

"You know," she said, her voice soft and buttery smooth. "You've got an opportunity here."

Uh, oh.

She looked at me, and a strange look came over her face. A smile that came dangerously close to a sneer. She shifted towards me, and crossed one leg over the other, her foot rubbing her calf. Nylons.

"I'm still hot to trot, Frank," she growled. "Wanna dip your wick?"

Her blouse was buttoned low, but her puppies remained caged. The sultry act was all wrong for her. She was cute, not seductive. She hated being cute.

"Am I interrupting something?" a voice purred from the door.

Tammi jumped, her hands flew to her blouse. So much for the seductress bit. I felt equal parts entertained and embarrassed on her behalf.

Now the dame in the doorway, that's a completely different story. She leaned against the door frame, her trench coat bundled up and protecting her against the wet cold. Long black tresses framed a waspish face. Ruby red lips curled up on one end, amused.

"No, I-" Tammi stuttered, her bravado dissolved like sugar in boiling water. "I was just, just..."

"Just heading home," I finished for her.

Tammi nodded, all traces of her previous attitude gone. She stood up and pounded her cigarette into the ash tray, then grabbed her coat off the rack. Poor kid. She just wanted to make her mark, but underneath it all she was just trying to break out of her mold. One could relate.

"Excuse me," Tammi muttered as she slipped by our visitor.

"Mind if I come in, Mr. Driver?" my guest asked.

I stood up and pointed a hand at the now vacant seat. "Please," I said. "Get comfortable."

Her face, once amused, fell. "I'm afraid 'comfortable' is something I may never be again."

She took off the coat and hung it on the rack that Tammi had just cleared off. She moved as fluid as a Turkish snake, and my flute was already charmed. When she turned to me, my inner Tex Avery had to be beaten back with a crowbar.

The brunette showed exactly how far Tammi had to go. Her hip shifted with each step, and I could hear the tympani beat with each bounce. It takes a very special figure to be able to wear a pencil skirt with curves like that, and her figures definitely added up.

"I don't often get movie stars in my office," I said, offering her a drink. She took it.

"The face of Janet Blair and the chest of Jane Russell, as my husband says... used to say," she said, bored. She'd heard it all. So much for compliments.

She raised the rotgut to her lips, but changed her mind once she smelled it. She placed it back on my desk untouched.

"I'm sorry for your loss," I said. It was as semi-automatic as the 1911 hidden under my desk.

"I'm not."

She looked at me pointedly, but I wasn't sure I got the message. "What can I do for you then, Mrs...?" I asked.

"Walker," she said. "Natalie Walker."

"Mrs. Walker," I repeated.

She fished out a cigarette and waited. I grabbed the matches and went over to her side of the desk. I pulled out a fresh one for myself, lit the match, and then offered her the flame first.

Always the gentleman.

She leaned back, and moved one of her dark curls away from her face and tucked it under her beret. Deep green eyes peered back at me. "I want you to find my husband's killer," she said.

"That's a job for the police," I said, reaching back for my glass.

She shook her pretty head. "The cops think I did it," she said, taking a drag.

"Did you?"

"No."

"So get a lawyer," I said.

"I have a lawyer," she said. "He'll help me with the legal trouble, but I need you to find the man who did this."

I studied her. "Why do the cops think you did it?"

She cocked her head at me. "My husband was a very rich man," she said. "And now I'm a very rich woman."

I nodded. A tale as old as time. "So if I succeed, you'll be cleared."

She cocked her head at me and took a long drag. "I'm a little disappointed, Mr. Driver," she drawled. "I was under the impression you wouldn't need everything spelled out for you."

"I've never been a good speller."

"Fine," she said, taking one final drag and reaching around me to stamp out her butt. "Yes. You find my husband's killer, and the cops get off my back. And you get paid."

"You don't seem broken up about your husband's murder," I observed.

She shrugged. "We all have our ways of coping."

"So tell me what you know," I said. "I need a place to start."

"My husband and I had a very special relationship," she said, fishing in her purse for another cigarette. "Neither one of us could satisfy the other. So he went looking elsewhere."

I had a hard time imagining this broad not satisfying anyone with a pulse faster than a corpse.

I lit her cig. She looked up at me after she drew in the first taste of the nicotine. "So did I."

I didn't react. In my business, you never react when your client tries to shock you. Well, potential client. It complicates things.

She pursed her ruby red lips into a perfect "O" and blew out a smoke ring. I absolutely did not pound my leg against my desk and holler at the moon. That would have been unprofessional.

"Does that shock you, Mr. Driver?" she asked.

"Like the electric company," I said sarcastically. But politely. Politely sarcastically. Or something.

"Good," she said, standing up. She reached around me and put out her fresh fag. She took a step towards me and ran her hand on my chest, and I could smell her perfume mixed in with the cigarette smoke. "So will you take the case?"

"Fee's ten dollars a day," I said, keeping calm. "Plus expenses."

She came closer. "I'll pay you thirty dollars a day," she said, her voice husky, "plus expenses, plus a bonus before and after."

That got a reaction out of me. "Thirty dollars?" I asked. "What's your angle?"

"I need you to find his killer by Monday morning," she said. "That's when they come and lock me up."

She caressed my face. "Can you imagine what would happen to me if they took me to jail?" she asked.

I could, but I didn't want to tell her that. "And what kind of bonus?" I asked.

Her hand fell down my chest and started tugging at my belt. "I said that my husband and I looked elsewhere," she smirked. "But I do more than look."

The war can leave a man broken, but thank god some things still worked. My little Army buddy stood at attention and saluted her, ramrod stiff and ready for action. Her fingernails stroked my rucksack as her mouth descended.

I had enough time to marvel at how her fingernail polish and her lipstick matched, before my mind got erased with her tongue. I think the next words in my thoughts were spelled with four g's and a silent q. What do I know? I'm a lousy speller.

I felt her lips sink down until they rested against her fingers, keeping me in place. Her nails stroked underneath and caressed me in time. It was a smooth descent, like an elevator of warmth and wetness.

I'd never been blown by a classy dame before. It was unlike every other I'd ever had. Granted, I hadn't had all that many, of course. "Nice" girls didn't do that sort of thing. Well, they didn't do that sort of thing with me.