Just Another Day

This story is for: Hammered: an ode to Mickey Spillane author challenge

"Write a story like those of hard-boiled thriller writer Mickey Spillane." Quite a far cry from my usual themes and style but fellow-writer Chloe Tzang persuaded me to have a go. Thinking about it, I'm probably one of the few Literotica writers/readers who was around near the start of Mickey Spillane's success and remembers all the fuss caused by his early books. On both sides of the Atlantic politicians, churchmen, teachers, parents, assorted do-gooders and self-appointed censors all leapt onto the bandwagon to condemn him. Far from protecting we youngsters, all they managed to do was make us more determined to read the books. After all, if so many adults found them offensive they had to be good. As for Mr Spillane himself, he should worry. He was making a fortune and most likely a larger one than he would have done had there been no furore.

There was no subtlety about Spillane's main character, private eye Mike Hammer. Not for him the careful gathering of clues and eventual brilliant deductions. His methods were far more blunt and invariably brutal. Here's an example and it's an actual quotation from one of the books (although I forget which one): "I hit the guy and he went down bubbling so I kicked him and he stopped bubbling." No fooling around with "You have the right to remain silent...", just simple direct action. If this kind of detection offends, then Poirot or Miss Marple make genteel alternatives. Otherwise, check the load in your Colt .45, put on your snap-brim fedora and settle down to enjoy the ride.

The early Spillane novels date from the late 1940s through the 1950s so I have tried to capture Spillane's style and the feel of that era. Characters in sex scenes are eighteen years old or over. All characters are imaginary--any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental. If you feel this story needs dramatic backing music, I suggest John Carpenter's 1976 score for the movie Assault on Precinct 13.

Thanks, Chloe, it's been fun.

Copyright © 2021 to the author

* * * * *

I'll say one thing for the persistent rain. It made this dark shithole of a street look a little cleaner. Other than that it was annoying. I stood in a narrow doorway that gave some limited shelter but it was shallow and freezing moisture dripped from the brim of my hat and down inside my collar pissing me off. I was damp enough already, for chrissake, and singing in the rain I wasn't. I'd rather have been in my apartment getting on the outside of a glass or two of Scotch but I was meeting a friend.

I took a final drag of the smoke cupped in my hand then dropped the butt to the sidewalk. The downpour pretty well extinguished it but I made sure by grinding my foot on it.

"Hey you! That's littering. Pick that butt up." I turned to look at this self-appointed guardian of the environment. What was with this jerk? We're in the pouring rain on one of the dirtiest, nastiest, roughest streets in this part of the city and he was worried about a single cigarette butt? Short, tubby and late middle-aged, he didn't have much going for him so I guessed he was just a local busybody or crank (he wasn't even wearing a coat). That or he liked living dangerously. There were guys in this neighbourhood who would dump him in the nearest river with lead ventilation just for saying "Hi!" the wrong way but they had the sense to stay out of the rain.

I said nothing, only stared at him. I heard a car pull up behind me and a door slam as the driver got out. I didn't bother to check, I had a good idea who it was. I just carried on staring at Mr Green. He tried to stare back but failed. A few seconds and I could almost feel him start to twitch. He opened and closed his mouth several times like a dying goldfish then decided not to pursue the matter. He turned and made his way across the road to where an old woman sat waiting in a bus shelter daubed with rude words, most of them spelled wrongly. She was chomping on what looked like an apple and tossed the core away even as the tubby dipshit approached.

"You really shouldn't go round scaring public-spirited citizens, Sam," said a quiet voice behind me. My pal Lyle Garrett. The friend I was waiting for. Captain Lyle Garrett of Homicide.

"Didn't say a word."

"You didn't need to. That basilisk stare of yours is plenty."

"Basilisk, eh?" I said, "Wow, a cop who knows fabulous beasts."

"I do open a book sometimes," Lyle said, "that's if I get the time when cleaning up one of your messes."

"Asshole!" The scream of rage echoed across the street. We looked up to see the old woman trying to beat the shit out of Mr Clean with her umbrella. It just wasn't his night. He ran. She ran after him, flailing with the umbrella. "Come back here and say that again, asshole!"

Lyle's hands were buried in his coat-pockets so he pointed with his chin towards the two who were disappearing round a corner. "There's got to be a moral there," he mused.

"Yeah," I said, "It's don't fuck with little old ladies carrying umbrellas."

Lyle nodded then said, "Well Sam, guess you didn't call me out this time of night in the rain to get some fresh air and enjoy the local cabaret so what have you got for me...?"

A few days previously

Just another day at the office. Or at least that's what it was meant to be. Things had been quiet lately and I was kind of liking it that way. Must be getting old. My secretary Cara had taken a few days' vacation to go and see her Mom, something like that, so I could put my feet up on my desk and relax.

Don't get me wrong, I'm pretty fond of Cara but she's got some nasty habits. They include telling me not to put my feet on the desk, don't drop my cigarette butts on the floor and don't drink Scotch at eleven in the a.m. There are other tellings-off from time to time. Her theory is that none of these things impress the clients. Like the kind of clients I usually get should worry. At least she hasn't objected to me keeping my hat on in the office---so far.

The outer office door was open, the janitor often left it that way first thing. If you're a would-be client, don't worry---all the important stuff is locked away in my office safe.

This time I was so busy checking the sports pages I got careless, didn't really notice the inner door was slightly ajar, just pushed my way in. When I got in there was a pair of feet on my desk but they weren't mine. They were attached to a skinny, weasel-like character with the kind of moustache only Clark Gable or David Niven can carry off. Sharp dresser, though. A zoot suit, sharp but not in very good taste, with a dark lilac shirt and a clashing multi-coloured tie .

"I don't know who you are, pal," I said, jerking my thumb at the door, "but you can get your feet off my desk and get the hell out. Like now."

He must have seen too many gangster movies and thought he was bad news. He didn't move his feet, just sneered and said: "Mr Mulrooney wants to see you, wise guy. As you said, 'like now'." If he expected me to quiver and melt he was disappointed.

"You tell Mr Mulrooney if he wants me that bad, come and get me himself and not send some errand boy."

Now Weasel's feet came off the desk and he stood. Maybe five-seven and a hundred-and-forty wringing wet. His eyes narrowed menacingly. I took it I was supposed to be scared. I wasn't.

"Tough guy, huh?" He reached into a pocket and came up with a nice, shiny set of brass knuckles that he fitted on his hand with a smirk. Looked like the little prick hoped to enjoy his work. "Guess I'll need to soften you up a bit before we go to see Mr Mulrooney." He stepped closer and threw a punch.

He might as well sent a wire about that punch. I could have gone to take a dump, washed and dried my hands, come back and still waited for it to land. I moved my head, grabbing his arm to jam it behind his back and pressed a nerve in his wrist. His fist opened in pain and I removed the brass fingerwear. "A word of advice," I told him, "Don't start fights with people you don't know---they may be tougher than you are."

Still holding his arm, I stepped back and to one side so blood wouldn't splash my third-best suit. Then I hit the bridge of his nose with his own brass knucks. I've got nothing against hitting people smaller than me, especially if they're trying to hit me first with an offensive weapon. There was a satisfactory crunching noise accompanied by a spurt of red and Weasel collapsed to his knees, clutching his face and whimpering. I threw the knuckles into my trash-basket then leaned down to haul the creep to a sitting position. My floor was grubby enough without a gallon of his blood being spattered on it. His zoot suit could take the worst of it.

That's when I realised---Christ! I am getting old. Weasel had a friend, or maybe just an acquaintance. Didn't matter much which, he still had something feeling like a gun pressing into my spine. And the guy was a pro. He made his presence known then stepped back a few paces so I couldn't do him any harm. He must have been standing between the open office door and the large filing cabinet, something I'd have checked in the old days. Hell, I had gotten soft.

"Easy now please, Mr Malone." I'll be damned, a polite gunman. "Take your pistol out slowly, left hand, finger and thumb, put it on the desk then step over to the window." I didn't think I was due to take a dive, it's just the window was far enough from the desk that I couldn't jump him. I carefully did as told.

When I reached the window I turned to look at Mr Polite who had picked up my gun (I usually carry a Colt 1911 .45 ACP semi-auto) and slipped it into a side pocket. He was about my size, tough- and competent-looking, not a guy to be messed with I reckoned. Sort of like me in fact although his suit was in better condition than mine. That was something else Cara nagged me about at times. Oh yes, and he had what looked like a Walther P38 pointing somewhere in my middle. Don't see many of them about. War souvenir maybe.

"Sorry about this," he apologised, "Mr Mulrooney said be nice but my colleague..." there was a note of disgust in his voice, "... has seen too many Jimmy Cagney movies, loves to play the tough guy.."

"He needs to rehearse a whole lot more or he'll never get to shout 'Top of the world, Ma!'. How'd you get in?"

"Getting in was easy." He gestured with his pistol. "Arnold here trained as a locksmith before he decided on a career change and came to work for Mr Mulrooney." So Mr Zoot Suit had a name. Arnold. I still preferred Weasel.

"Maybe he should have stuck to his old job. Not too good at this one."

"We should get going," said Mr Polite, "Can we be civilised, Mr Malone? Gentlemen's agreement? I'll play nice if you agree to play nice."

I shrugged. Why not? If Mulrooney wanted me dead, and he had no reason to, it would have been handled better than this. But gentlemen's agreement? Definitely an unusual enforcer. "Okay," I said, "We'll bring the creep along. My office ain't much but it's tidier without him. We can drop him at the nearest Emergency Room unless you want his blood all over your motor."

I hauled Weasel to his feet and handed him the tea-cloth Cara used to clean the coffee pot. "Hold this to your nose." Right now, it wasn't very clean but I wasn't going to cry if the little jerk got some nasty infection.

* * * * *

I kind of liked Mulrooney. A red-faced, hard-looking Mick, he was what I thought of as an ODC, that is an ordinary decent criminal. He had standards. He wouldn't deal in drugs and he wouldn't deal in prostitution or white slavery. If one of his mob went down for a stretch he made sure the guy's family was okay---bought him a lot of loyalty. Among other enterprises he ran betting, shylock and protection rackets but if a 'client' was having genuine cash-flow troubles, Mulrooney would give them a Get Out Of Jail Free card for as long as it took them to get back on their feet. Sometimes he acted more like a charitable institution than a gangster. We'd had our clashes in the past but no hard feelings on either side and mostly we rubbed along.

Keeping to our gentlemen's agreement, Mr Polite put his Walther away and I refrained from turning him into hamburger. We paused the car outside the nearest hospital and shoved the Weasel out into the cold. He stumbled into the gutter, his whimpers turned to pitiful moans which did my heart good to hear. I told him he could keep the tea-cloth, I'd buy Cara another one.

"And get back fast," Mr Polite told him, "Mr Mulrooney doesn't like incompetents who waste his time." Incompetents, eh? Impressive vocabulary for a gunsel. As I said, unusual. And good to see that compassion wasn't dead.

A few more minutes, mostly spent avoiding asshole cabbies who thought they could drive, and we found a parking spot a block or so from the old-fashioned mom-and-pop diner and coffee shop where Mulrooney had his office. Its narrow frontage disguises how deep it is. The java joint has a row of stools at the counter, about half-dozen booths and only goes back so far, to a door marked 'PRIVATE'. Beyond that is a short corridor leading to another door then a large open-plan area where I guess a bunch of old rooms had been knocked into one. Mr Polite nodded to the craggy-faced old Paddy serving cups of joe to the early trade and took me through. The door to the open-plan was guarded by something looking like King Kong only less handsome. He was reading the glamour photos in some cheesecake magazine called Yippee!

"He's here to see Mr Mulrooney," Mr Polite said to the ape.

The doorkeeper must have thought I was here for a telling-off, Mulrooney-style (you don't want to know), for he opened the door and as I walked through he shoved me, hard. I stumbled a bit but recovered. Maybe he thought I'd fall down. Instead I said: "Put another finger on me, ape, and I'll break your arm."

"You want I should cream him, boss?" Christ, it could talk. Another few thousand years of evolution and his descendants might even get their knuckles off the ground.

Mulrooney was sitting at a desk at the far end of the room. He waved a hand in a 'no' gesture. "Mr Malone's here as a friend," he told the gorilla. Well, I wouldn't go that far but it'd do for the moment. "And I don't want you to cream him for two reasons," added Mulrooney, "One, you try it and he would break your arm, in about four places. Then he'd do the same to the other one just for the hell of it. And maybe throw your legs in as a bonus. Next, I need you on that door and you'll be useless to me if you're in plaster from head to foot."

Dismissing King Kong, he turned to me, gesturing to a chair the far side of his desk. "Come in, Sam, and take a load off. Drink? It's the good stuff." He showed me a bottle of Jameson's and I thought, Cara's not around to nag me so why not? I nodded and took the chair. Mulrooney opened the bottle and produced three glasses, pouring generous measures into them. He passed one to me and one to Mr Polite who took it to a couch against the far wall and sat down.

"The boys treat you okay?"

I jerked a thumb towards Mr Polite. "He was all right. The other one needs a few lessons in the social graces."

"Who? Arnold? Yeah...hey, where is Arnold?"

"In the ER getting his broken nose fixed," said Mr Polite.

"Getting his bro--- Don't tell me..." (he sighed deeply) "... the little idiot tried to strong-arm Sam..."

"You got it."

"Holy Mother of God! The hired help these days!" He shook his head sadly then turned to Mr Polite. "You got Sam's gun, Howard? Okay, give it back to him."

Howard, eh?. I wondered what his story was. Not many gangsters with names like Howard. They were usually called Al or Pete or Lennie Two-fingers, things like that, and their manners weren't all that impressive. I took my Colt from him---I hadn't seen him do anything with it but I checked the load to be sure. It was okay, so was the Jameson's.

"So, to business." Mulrooney passed me a photograph, a black-and-white portrait-style of a very pretty girl, sweet-looking kid, probably college age. Just above the right corner of her mouth was a small mole or beauty spot which gave her a kind of innocent-sexy look. I turned the picture over and saw it had been taken by the city's most prestigious photo studio.

"And?"

Tapping the picture with a forefinger like a hot-dog, Mulrooney said: "Name's Kathleen Hennessey. She's gone missing, couple days now. Not long enough for the cops to be interested. They think she's just a wayward teenager off somewhere having a good time."

"And is that likely?"

Mulrooney shook his big head. "No, not the type and the cops should know that from her family. She's a good girl from a good home. Father's Thomas Hennessey. Know the name?"

I shuffled through my mental rolodex. "Big time financier on the Street, president of Hennessey & Pope Investments. That the one? What's your connection?"

"Tom Hennessey and me are friends. Hey! don't look so surprised, Sam. You know I got some legit businesses. And we know each other from the Knights."

I didn't need to ask who the Knights are. Big Catholic men's organisation, The Knights of the Grand Hibernian Order of St Patrick. Something like that, anyway. Devoted to church charities and good works. The Italians have something similar too, The Valiant Sicilian Knights of St Gnocchi or whatever. Most members in both groups are legit. The others...

...well, on Sundays they put on a fine show of going to Mass with their families, kneel there and mumble responses in Latin they likely don't understand---except for the mea culpa bit which they ignore anyway, it being foreign to their natures. Go home feeling all noble and virtuous, enjoy their Sunday lunch, play with the kids. Then on Monday they're back trying to kill each other.

"Any chance she's been kidnapped?" I asked.

Mulrooney shrugged. "Possible, but there's not been any ransom demand. Will you look into it, Sam?"

I weighed it up. Why not? I'd been getting stale with no action---see the easy way Howard reeled me in earlier---and the bank balance could do with topping up. "Can I keep this photo? I'll do what I can, no guarantees."

Mulrooney nodded then threw me several fifties. "Expenses advance," he said.

"General description?" I said.

"Nineteen, five-four, maybe hundred-ten, hundred-fifteen, dark-red hair, eyes brown. Home is..." [Mulrooney named a fashionable avenue] "...and she's at the City Community College, place she was last seen. Supposed to be going to one of the Ivy Leagues come fall."

As I was stuffing the money in an inside pocket, the door opened and an apparition, something like a half-mummy from a James Whale horror movie, appeared. It was the Weasel. He was plastered up across his nose and cheeks and there was a lint plug in each nostril forcing him to breathe through his mouth. He had fetching purple bruises round the eyes, his voice gargled and he wasn't pretty.

Mulrooney walked round his desk to meet his errant employee. Grabbing him by the lapels and shaking him, Mulrooney snarled: "Wha'd I tell you?"

"But boss, he said---"

Mulrooney punched him hard in the face, undoing all the good work from the infirmary. Fresh blood squirted and Weasel went down like a sack of shit in a cattle-barn, squealing like a patrol car's brakes. "I don't care what he said," Mulrooney growled, "When I say play nice, I mean play nice. I. Mean. Play. Nice." Each word was accompanied by a none-too-gentle toe in the side.

"Where's the car, Howard?"

Mr Polite told him.

"Go get it to take Sam back to his office. And get this useless sonofabitch outa here."