Read Online Kiss Her Goodbye by Mickey Spillane - Free Book Online
Authors: Mickey Spillane
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standard union bunch making a routine buck.
When I spotted Pat on the sidewalk, I walked over and said, "Looking for a part?"
He didn't even turn his head. He had a battered manila envelope under his arm. "Yeah, as the fall guy in your life story."
"Ms. Marshall called, huh?"
Now he looked at me like I'd asked to borrow a C-note. "She was not thrilled with me, passing you off as an NYPD cop last night."
"But you got off with a spanking, right? Worse dames to get a spanking from."
He picked out a stick of chewing gum, unwrapped it, and shoved it in his mouth; he'd stopped smoking, too. "You've been back one day."
"Almost."
"Uh-huh." He chewed on the gum, dragging out the flavor, then asked, "Why'd you have to pick La
Marshall
to move in on, for Christsakes?"
"It was at her invitation, remember?"
"Hey—she invited you through yours truly. You accepting that invite involved
me.
And I have to work in this department, you know."
I shrugged. "I think she enjoyed herself. Women love me, Pat. Remember?"
It was as if no year had passed. It was like those days when we were a little younger and still breathing hard.
He frowned at me, but his eyes weren't angry at all. "Mike—what the hell is going on?"
"Nothing's going on, Pat. I just asked what brought an important gal like her to the scene of some unimportant mugging."
His frown tightened until his eyes were almost shut. "Goddamn you, Mike. Why do you have to be such a fucking catalyst? You come back, and
everything
gets activated."
"Bullshit."
"No. Not bullshit. The guys at Doolan's funeral knew it, seeing you materialize like a goddamn apparition. Those goombahs sure as hell knew it.
Les Graves
knew it, seeing you at that crime scene last night. Now finally
I
know it. Finally it gets through my thick skull that Mike Hammer has decided an open-and-shut suicide is a murder, and so is a mugging fatality so routine it barely made the papers. One lousy goddamn day, and you've turned it all upside down again."
"It's a gift, Pat."
But there was no way to tell him that coming up on the plane, I'd had the same feeling—vague, but there. Not that I was going to do something, but that something was going to be done
to
me. Done to me good—real good. It wasn't a nice feeling at all.
"So what was Marshall doing at that crime scene?"
His turn to shrug. "Far as I know, just checking out a murder."
"And that's it?"
"She wanted to know whether Homicide was looking into that girl's murder."
"Virginia Mathes, you mean."
His eyes widened. "How the hell do you know her name? It wasn't in the papers."
"Maybe I'm psychic."
"Mike ... Mike. I'm getting too near retirement to play your kind of games."
A little laugh rumbled out of me. I took a look around, saw every crack in the masonry, and smelled the garbage in the gutter. Where I came from, the ocean would be warm, the sand squeaky-crunching under bare feet, and the boat ready to nose out into the Gulf Stream.
I said, "Who was she, Pat?"
He made one of those little noncommittal gestures. "You said it yourself—Virginia Mathes."
"Pat..."
"She was nobody."
"
Nobody's
nobody."
"
She
was," he told me. "Six years ago, she made a stab at entertaining in a club and got printed as part of our licensing requirement. We ran her through Social Security, got her address and where she worked. She was a waitress at Ollie Joe's Steak House for two years, was well liked, had nothing against her in our files, just walked out of Ollie Joe's last night and got herself killed."
"Just like that."
"You were there, Mike."
"Ollie Joe's sure as hell isn't in that neighborhood. But you've already been to Ollie Joe's, haven't you, Pat? And found out something else, too?"
Ten seconds dragged by; we were just two gawkers on the street watching a film crew. Finally he looked at me.
"Mike, I didn't find out a damned thing."
"
What
didn't you find out?"
I knew he was going to tell me. He ran it around his brain a couple of times, but we had
When I spotted Pat on the sidewalk, I walked over and said, "Looking for a part?"
He didn't even turn his head. He had a battered manila envelope under his arm. "Yeah, as the fall guy in your life story."
"Ms. Marshall called, huh?"
Now he looked at me like I'd asked to borrow a C-note. "She was not thrilled with me, passing you off as an NYPD cop last night."
"But you got off with a spanking, right? Worse dames to get a spanking from."
He picked out a stick of chewing gum, unwrapped it, and shoved it in his mouth; he'd stopped smoking, too. "You've been back one day."
"Almost."
"Uh-huh." He chewed on the gum, dragging out the flavor, then asked, "Why'd you have to pick La
Marshall
to move in on, for Christsakes?"
"It was at her invitation, remember?"
"Hey—she invited you through yours truly. You accepting that invite involved
me.
And I have to work in this department, you know."
I shrugged. "I think she enjoyed herself. Women love me, Pat. Remember?"
It was as if no year had passed. It was like those days when we were a little younger and still breathing hard.
He frowned at me, but his eyes weren't angry at all. "Mike—what the hell is going on?"
"Nothing's going on, Pat. I just asked what brought an important gal like her to the scene of some unimportant mugging."
His frown tightened until his eyes were almost shut. "Goddamn you, Mike. Why do you have to be such a fucking catalyst? You come back, and
everything
gets activated."
"Bullshit."
"No. Not bullshit. The guys at Doolan's funeral knew it, seeing you materialize like a goddamn apparition. Those goombahs sure as hell knew it.
Les Graves
knew it, seeing you at that crime scene last night. Now finally
I
know it. Finally it gets through my thick skull that Mike Hammer has decided an open-and-shut suicide is a murder, and so is a mugging fatality so routine it barely made the papers. One lousy goddamn day, and you've turned it all upside down again."
"It's a gift, Pat."
But there was no way to tell him that coming up on the plane, I'd had the same feeling—vague, but there. Not that I was going to do something, but that something was going to be done
to
me. Done to me good—real good. It wasn't a nice feeling at all.
"So what was Marshall doing at that crime scene?"
His turn to shrug. "Far as I know, just checking out a murder."
"And that's it?"
"She wanted to know whether Homicide was looking into that girl's murder."
"Virginia Mathes, you mean."
His eyes widened. "How the hell do you know her name? It wasn't in the papers."
"Maybe I'm psychic."
"Mike ... Mike. I'm getting too near retirement to play your kind of games."
A little laugh rumbled out of me. I took a look around, saw every crack in the masonry, and smelled the garbage in the gutter. Where I came from, the ocean would be warm, the sand squeaky-crunching under bare feet, and the boat ready to nose out into the Gulf Stream.
I said, "Who was she, Pat?"
He made one of those little noncommittal gestures. "You said it yourself—Virginia Mathes."
"Pat..."
"She was nobody."
"
Nobody's
nobody."
"
She
was," he told me. "Six years ago, she made a stab at entertaining in a club and got printed as part of our licensing requirement. We ran her through Social Security, got her address and where she worked. She was a waitress at Ollie Joe's Steak House for two years, was well liked, had nothing against her in our files, just walked out of Ollie Joe's last night and got herself killed."
"Just like that."
"You were there, Mike."
"Ollie Joe's sure as hell isn't in that neighborhood. But you've already been to Ollie Joe's, haven't you, Pat? And found out something else, too?"
Ten seconds dragged by; we were just two gawkers on the street watching a film crew. Finally he looked at me.
"Mike, I didn't find out a damned thing."
"
What
didn't you find out?"
I knew he was going to tell me. He ran it around his brain a couple of times, but we had
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