Read Mickey Spillane - [Mike Hammer 13] for Free Online Page A

organization who have their feet in the wrong century. Now the younger ones want their share of the power.”
    “Think they’ll get it, Pat?”
    “Eventually. If they can’t force the issue they’ll finally inherit it.”
    “How many of the old dons are dead or in retirement?”
    “You read the papers, Mike. Not more than a handful are around. Some of them went down in odd ways, but old age can do that to a person. Besides, who cared if they kicked off or not?”
    Pat let out a grunt and stretched his legs. “What have you got on your mind, Mike?”
    “There was a motive for Dooley’s death, pal.” Pat’s nod was very solemn. “He was into a bookie for fifty-five hundred bucks.”
    “Who?”
    “Marty Diamond.”
    “Nuts, Marty isn’t like that and you know it.”
    “Word had it he used some loan sharks a couple of times.”
    “A lot of people do. Nobody messed up Dooley so he probably paid off his debts.”
    “He was murdered, Mike,” Pat reminded me, “so there was a motive. It could have been something he heard or something he saw, but it cost him his life.”
    I wanted to tell Pat it could have been something he did , but I didn’t want to dig any holes in the playing field. Not yet, anyway. “So what’s your opinion?” I asked him.
    “Well, you knew him as much as I did. He was an okay guy, but he lived with some strange company. Outside of being one hell of a soldier, he had no special talents. He never had command duties, but he was great in the field on special assignments. Now where does that get you in civilian life?”
    “How much did he make working for Ponti?”
    Pat screwed his face up and looked at me. “That was a big surprise. He made more than I do, but I can see why. We had a look at Ponti’s work sheets and Dooley really kept his estates in order. He could hire guys to help him if he needed to, any supplies he needed he could order directly, his time was his own, and nobody ever complained about his work.”
    “I guess he was cut out for more than we thought,” I said. “What did he do in New York?”
    “Not much. Work was out on Long Island or upstate on the apple farm. Ponti had a couple of places in Jersey, but sold them some years ago. Ponti is one old don who likes his Sicilian feet down deep in the earth.” He paused, leaned back and gazed at the ceiling for a couple of seconds, then said, “What are you holding back, Mike?”
    “What makes you think that?”
    “Because you’re the only guy I know who always wears crepe rubber soles on his shoes. Nobody ever hears you walking. The original gumshoe, always sneaking up on somebody.”
    “Not on you, pal.”
    “Come on, you’ve been on top of some pretty big cases and I’ve always wondered how the hell you did it. You’ve gotten ahead of the local cops, the feds and a few other agencies—”
    “Not all the time,” I interrupted.
    “Enough to make me think about it.”
    “I try not to get side-tracked, Pat. I only take one problem at a time.”
    “Yeah, I know. You chew it to pieces until you can swallow it.” He gave me that stare again. “Then you shoot somebody,” he added.
    I knew he was going to say that. He was right, too. And so far so was I. The courts had picked me apart and the press had a field day with me, but that was before I had my guts churned up by .357 slugs. The same kind that killed Dooley. But that was pure coincidence at this point. Magnum-style pistols were all over the streets these days and no matter how many laws were passed they were going to stay available to anybody who had the money for them.
    “I’m not doing any more shooting, Pat. I can’t even carry a piece on that side anymore.”
    He was going to say something, but stopped and gave me an odd, sideways look. It wasn’t what I said, but the way I said it. Finally, he accepted it and got to his feet. But it wasn’t an acceptance that lasted very long. He let out a laugh and ran his fingers through his hair. “Man,