Mickey Spillane
Me, Hood!
Me, Hood!
First publication in Cavalier, July 1959
First publication in book form in Great Britain, 1963
They picked me up in a bar on Second Avenue and waited for the supper crowd to flow out before they made their tap, two tall smiling lads with late model narrow-brim Kellys that helped them blend into the background of young junior executives.
But both of them had that almost imperceptible cock to their arms that comes from wearing a gun too long on one side, and that made them something else again.
When they came in they pulled out stools on either side of me and began the routine, but I saved them all the trouble they had planned to go to. I finished my drink, pocketed my change and stood up. “We go now?”
Without changing the size of his smile the one with the pale blue eyes said, “We go now.”
I grinned, nodded toward the bartender and walked to the door. On the street a gentle nudge edged me north, then another turned me at the corner to where the car was parked. One got behind the wheel and one was on my right. I didn’t feel any gun rubbing against my hip where it should have, so I knew the guy on my right had it in his hand.
At the door the squat little man stood with his legs spraddled and hands in his pockets, looking at nothing, yet watching everything. The other one sat on the window ledge at my shoulder without saying anything.
Across the city the clock on the square boomed nine. Behind me the door to the inside office opened and a voice said, “Bring him in.”
Smiling Boy let me go ahead of him, followed me in and closed the door.
Then, for the first time, I was wishing I hadn’t played the wise guy. I felt like an idiot for being so damn dumb and while I was trying to put it together I could feel the coldness creeping over me like a winter fog. I shut my mouth and grinned so I wouldn’t start sounding off and let them see the hate I wore like my own skin.
Cops. Out of uniform, but cops. Five in front, one behind me. Two more in the room outside. There was something different about the five, though. The mold was the same, but the metal seemed tempered. If there were any cutting edges they were well hidden, yet ready to expose themselves as fast as a switch blade.
Five men in various shades of single-breasted blues and greys with solemn dark ties on white that hinted at formality not found in general police work. Five pairs of expressionless, yet scrutinizing eyes that somehow seemed weathered and not too easily amused.
But the thin one at the end of the table was different, and I watched him deliberately and knew he was hating my guts just as hard as I was hating his.
From his place at the door, Smiling Boy said, “He knew us. He was waiting for us.”
The thin one’s voice had a flat quality to it. “You think much for... a punk.”
“I’m not the kind of punk you’re used to.”
“How long have you known?”
I shrugged. “Since you started.” I told him, “Two weeks.”
They looked at each other, annoyed, some angry. One leaned forward on the desk, his face flushed. “How did you know?”
“I told you. I’m no ordinary punk.”
“...I asked you a question.”
I looked at the guy at the table. His hands were tight and white at the knuckles, but his face had lost its flush. “I’ve been a while at this game myself,” I said. “Every animal knows it’s got a tail no matter how short it is. I knew I had mine the first day you tacked it on.”
The guy looked past me to Smiling Boy. “Did you know that?”
My buddy at the door fidgeted a second, then: “No, sir.”
“Was it ever suspected?”
Another hesitation. “No, sir. None of the reports from the other shifts mentioned it.”
“Great,” the man said, “just great.” Then he looked back at me again. “You could have shaken this tail?”
“Anytime.”
“I see.” He paused and sucked his lip into his teeth. “But you preferred not to. Why?”
“Let’s say I was curious.”
“You have that kind of curiosity about someone who could be there to kill you?”
“Sure,” I said. “I’m a foolish man. You know that.”
“Watch your mouth, feller.”
I grinned at him so hard that the scar across my back got tight. “Go to hell!”
“Listen...”
“No, you listen, you stinking, miserable little slob... don’t tell me to watch my mouth. Don’t tell me one lousy little thing to do at all or I’ll tell you where to shove it. Don’t try to peg me because I have a record...”
In back of me the tall boy stopped smiling and hissed, “Let him say it out.”
“Damn right, let me say it out. You got no choice. You’re not fooling with a parolee or a hooker who’s scared stiff of cops. I hate cops in general and right now you slobs in particular. This little shake has all the earmarks of a frame and brother, you’re going in over your head if you try it.”
“That all?”
“No,” I said. “Now I’m done playing. I went along for the ride to see what the bit was and it stinks. So I leave. If you think I can’t, then put the arm on me and try stopping me. Then you monkeys are going to have a pretty time trying to explain this set up to a couple of tabloids I got friends on.”
The thin one said, “Finished?”
“Yeah. Now I’m leaving.”
“Don’t go.”
I stopped and stared at him. Nobody had moved to get in my way at all. There was something tight about the way they all stood there, something all wrong about the play that I couldn’t make. I could feel my back going tight again and I said, “What?”
The thin one swung around in his chair. “I thought you said you were a curious person.”
I went back to the table. “Okay, friend. But before I get suckered in, answer me some questions.”
The thin one nodded, his face impassive.
“You’re cops.”
He nodded, but now there was something new in his eyes. “All right, I’ll qualify it. We’re cops... of a sort.”
I asked, “Who am I?”
His answer was flat and methodical. “Ryan. The Irish One. Sixteen arrests, one conviction for assault and battery. Suspected of being involved in several killings, several robberies and an uncooperative witness in three homicide cases. Associates with known criminals, has no visible source of income except for partial disability pension from World War II. Present address...”
“That’s enough,” I said.
He paused and leaned back. “Also — you’re rather astute.”
“Thanks. I went to college for two years.”
“It made a difference criminally?”
“It made no difference one way or another. Get on with the pitch.”
His fingers made a slow roll on the table top.
“You knew you had been tailed for two weeks. Do you know why?”
“First guess is that you’re figuring a fix for me to turn stoolie,” I said. “If that’s it you’ve wasted time because you aren’t that smart to catch me off base.”
“Then you think you’re smarter than an entire law enforcement agency?”
They watched me. Nobody said a thing. Finally I said, “Okay. I’m a curious guy. Spell it out slow in punk language so I won’t miss the juicy parts.”
The others left the room when the thin one nodded.
He said, “There is a job that must be done. We can’t do it because of several factors involved. One is simple enough to understand; it is possible... even probable that we are known to those of... the opposition forces. The other reason has a psychological factor involved.”