Read Online Delta Factor, The by Mickey Spillane - Free Book Online Page B

rumors?”
    â€œEither one. Both are probably true.”
    â€œOne’s easier to get.” He coughed, then added, “The things I’ll do for a slice of that forty mil amaze me, Morgan.”
    â€œJust remember that it’s all on speculation.”
    â€œI’ll trust your reputation. How do I reach you?”
    â€œYou can’t, I said. “I’ll call you.”
    I hung up and turned around. The muscles in my back and shoulders were bunched into knots and I could feel the tightness drawing my mouth into a flat line. Kim watched me a moment, saying nothing, knowing I had to get it out of me anyway.
    When I felt like bursting I said softly, “Bernice Case. She was my friend. They killed her for nothing.”
    I didn’t have to say anything more. She’d remember the name and call it in and all those big agencies could go to work on it and if they were smart they’d put things together and work it out with the ones in the neighborhood who could be just as efficient in their own way. And if they didn’t do it, I’d be back and do it for them.
    A promise, Bernice, for that wonderful night of just lying there on the sofa with you in my arms, warm and soapy smelling from a hot shower, with the perfume in your hair and that crazy Hawaiian mu-mu that seemed to glow in the darkness and all that silly talk about when we were kids. You were well liked, little kitty cat.
    I flopped on the bed and closed my eyes. In a few minutes I heard the bedsprings next to me creak. Outside, the tree frogs peeped an endless tune and far off I could hear the traffic on the highway going by.
    Kim’s voice was very quiet when she asked, “Was she your girl, Morgan?”
    â€œI only saw her once,” I said.
    For the second time that night she said, “I’m sorry.” For that one moment she was a woman, and not a trained pro playing watchdog to a fugitive.
    Â 
    By sunup we were on the road, picked up the Florida Turnpike and headed toward Miami. Traffic was light, but every twenty miles we’d have to bust our way through a thunderstorm and with the windows up the car was like the inside of a Bessemer Converter. I made a quick stop at the bank where Gavin Woolart had established an account for me, got a checkbook and with the first one drew out twenty thousand in handy denomination bills and folded them into my pocket. No one seemed concerned about the transaction, though there were several curious glances thrown my way. I figured Woolart had set up the deal so that I’d look like one of his own people and no questions were to be asked. Kim was mopping her face when I got back in the car and it felt like it was still getting hotter. I picked up the Palmetto Highway, swept around the Miami area and headed down into the Keys. Both of us were soaked in our own sweat by the time we reached the Grove Motel.
    While Kim headed for the shower, I went down the road, brought a six-pack of Pabst and put in a call for Art Keefer from a pay station. He said he’d be by in an hour, so I went back to the motel, parked in the slot beside our room and went inside.
    Kim wasn’t there, but her clothes were hung up near the air conditioner and her suitcase was open on the bed. From the back I could hear a couple of kids yelling around the pool, looked out and saw the back of her head in one of the lounge chairs, then showered, climbed into my trunks and went out with a can of beer in each hand.
    And almost dropped them.
    In a black-and-white bikini that would have been invisible had it not contrasted so sharply with the gold of her skin, she was stretched out languidly, her lovely body lying in a provocative S curve. It was a dizzy, instant experience to see the heady swell of her breasts that dipped into the hollow of her stomach, then flowed into the rise of her hips and melted into the warm, sweeping fullness of her thighs and calves.
    I sat on the end of the lounge quickly