Survival...Zero
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
“They had left him for dead in the middle of a pool of blood in his own bedroom, his belly slit open like gaping barn doors, the hilt of the knife wedged against his sternum. But the only trouble was that he had stayed alive somehow, his life pumping out, managing to knock the telephone off the little table and dial me. Now he was looking up at me with seconds left and all he could do was force out the words, ‘Mike ... there wasn’t no reason.’ ”
But that was all the reason Mike Hammer needed to set out to find the killers—and God help any man or woman who stood in his way ...
SURVIVAL ... ZERO!
SIGNET
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Books USA Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Books Ltd, 27 Wrights Lane,
London W8 5TZ, England
Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood,
Victoria, Australia
Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue,
Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2
Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road,
Auckland 10, New Zealand
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:
Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England
Published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Books USA Inc.
First Signet Printing, April, 1971
Copyright © 1970 by Mickey Spillane
All rights reserved.
eISBN : 978-1-101-17459-3
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
http://us.penguingroup.com
To Jack and Peggy McKenna With thanks for the many happy returns
CHAPTER 1
They had left him for dead in the middle of a pool of blood in his own bedroom, his belly slit open like gaping barn doors, the hilt of the knife wedged against his sternum. But the only trouble was that he had stayed alive somehow, his life pumping out, managing to knock the telephone off the little table and dial me. Now he was looking up at me with seconds left and all he could do was force out the words, “Mike ... there wasn’t no reason.”
I didn’t try to fake him out. He knew what was happening. I said, “Who, Lippy?”
His lips fought to frame the sentence. “Nobody I ... not the kind....No reason, Mike. No reason.”
And then Lippy Sullivan died painfully but quickly.
I went out in the hallway of the shabby brownstone rooming house and walked up to the front apartment that had SUPER scrawled across the top panels in faded white paint and gave it a rap with the toe of my shoe. Inside, somebody swore hoarsely and a chair scraped across bare wood. Two locks and a bolt rasped in their sockets and the door cracked open on a safety chain.
The fat-faced guy with the beery breath squinted up at me in the light from behind him, then his eyes narrowed, not liking what he saw. “Yeah?”
“You got a phone, buddy?”
“What if I do?”
“You can let me use it.”
“Drop dead.” He started to close the door, but I already had my foot in the crack.
I said, “Open up.”
For a second his jowls seemed to sag, then he got his beer courage back up again. “You a cop? Let’s see your badge.”
“I’ll show you more than a badge in a minute.”
This time he didn’t try smart-mouthing me. I let him close the door, slide the chain off, then pushed in past him. The room was a home-grown garbage collection, but I found the phone behind a pile of empty six-pack cartons, dialed my number and a solid Brooklyn voice said, “Homicide South, Sergeant Woods.”
“Captain Chambers in? This is Mike Hammer.”
Behind me a beer can popped open and the fat guy slid onto a chair.
When the phone was picked up I said, “Hi, Pat. I got a stiff for you.”
Softly, Pat muttered, “Damn, Mike ...”
“Hell,” I told him, “I didn’t do it.”
“Okay, give me the details.”
I gave him the address on West Forty-sixth, Lippy’s full name and told him the rest could wait. I didn’t want the guy behind me getting an earful and Pat got the message. He told me a squad car was on the way and he’d be right behind it. I hung up and lit a butt.
It was an election year and all the new brooms were waiting to sweep clean. The old ones were looking to sweep cleaner. It was another murder now, a nice, messy, newspaper-type murder and both sides would love to make me a target. I’d been in everybody’s hair just too damn long, I guess.
When I turned around the fat guy was sweating. The empty beer can had joined the others on the table beside him.
“Who’s ... the stiff?”
“A tenant named Lippy Sullivan.”
“Who’d want to kill him?”
I shoved my hat back and walked over to where he was sitting and let him look at the funny grin I knew I was wearing. “He have anybody in with him tonight?”
“Listen, Mister...”
“Just answer me.”
“I didn’t hear nothin’.”
“How long you been here?” I said.
“All night. I been sitting here all night and I didn’t hear nothin’.”
I let the grin go a little bigger and the grin wasn’t pretty at all. “You better be right,” I told him. “Now sit here some more and think about things and maybe something might come back to you.”
He gave me a jerky nod, reached for another beer and watched me leave. I went back to Lippy’s room, nudged the door open and stepped inside again. Somebody was going to give me hell for not calling an ambulance, but I had seen too many dead men to be bothered taking a call away from somebody who might really need it.
Death was having a peculiar effect on the body. In just a few minutes it had released the premature aging and all the worry had relaxed from his face. I said softly, “Adios, Lippy,” then took a good look at the room. Not that there was much to see. There were hundreds more just like it in the neighborhood, cheap one-room fleabags with a bed, some assorted pieces of furniture and a two-burner gas range on top of a secondhand dresser in one corner. The only thing that looked new was an inexpensive daybed against the far wall and from the way the mattress sagged on the brass four-poster I could see why he’d needed it.
I used a handkerchief, pulled out the dresser drawers, and fingered through the odds and ends that made up Lippy’s wardrobe. Nothing was neat or orderly, but that was Lippy, all right. Just another guy alone who didn’t give a damn about having ironed socks and shorts. The closet held a single wrinkled suit, some work clothes carelessly tossed onto hooks, two pairs of worn shoes and an old Army raincoat. I patted the pockets down. One pair of pants held three singles and a lunch ticket. There was nothing else.
Outside I heard the whine of a siren coming closer, then cut out when the squad car reached the building. I went over and elbowed the door open. Two uniformed cops came in properly geared for action. I said, “Over here.” Another car pulled up and I heard a door slam. Pat hadn’t wasted any time.
The lab technicians had dusted, photographed and taken the body away. All that was left of Lippy was a chalked outline on the floor beside the sticky damp sawdust that had soaked up his blood. I walked over and sat on the couch and waited until Pat slumped wearily into a chair t
hat looked as tired as he was.
Finally Pat said, “You ready now, Mike?”
I nodded.
“Want me to take notes?” Pat asked.
“You’ll get the report in the morning. Let’s make it real official.”
“We’d better. I know people who’d like to burn your ass for anything at all. They might even make it on this one. So let’s hear the story. Once more, from the top.”
“Lippy ... Lipton Sullivan,” I said. “We went to school together. He dropped out at the ninth grade and we met up again in the Army for a while. No record I know of. Just a hard-luck character who couldn’t make it in this world. Two years ago I got him a job checking out groceries in a wholesale warehouse.”
“See him often?”
“Only once since then. We had a couple of drinks together. He insisted on buying. Nice guy, but a born loser.”
Pat rubbed his hand across his eyes before looking up. “Heavy drinker?”
“Nope. He rarely touched the stuff.”
“Broads?”
“I told you he was a loser. Besides, he never was a big one for women. They seemed to be mutually unattractive to one another.”
This time Pat waited a long time before he spoke. “I don’t like it, Mike.”
“I can’t blame you.”
“No ... I don’t mean that.”
“So?”
“You’re involved, old buddy. I know what happens when you get involved. Right now you sit there and play it cool, but you know you’re damn well involved ...”
“Nuts,” I said. “He was a guy I knew, that’s all.”
“He didn’t call the cops, Mike. He called you. When was the last time he did that?”
“When I got him that job. He thanked me.”
“That was two years ago, you said. You changed your number since then.”
I grinned at him and reached for a cigarette. “You’re still pretty sharp, kid,” I told him. “No phone directory here, no memos in the papers on him so he must have memorized my new number.”
“Something like that.”
“Maybe he wanted to thank me again.”
“Can it.”
“So I’m his only famous friend.” I fired up the butt and blew a stream of gray smoke toward the ceiling.
“Let’s take the other reason why I don’t like it.”
“Go ahead.”
“For a nothing guy like him it’s too nasty a kill. Now suppose we see how smart you still are, friend.”
I glanced over at the discolored sawdust and felt my mouth turn sour. “One of three things. A psycho kill, a revenge kill or a torture kill. He could have stayed alive a long time with his belly slit open before somebody pounded the knife into his chest.”
“Which one, Mike?” Pat’s voice had a curious edge to it.
My own voice sounded strange. “I don’t know yet.”
“Yet?”
“Why don’t you handle it your own way?” I said.
“I’d love to, but I got that funny feeling again, Mike. Sometimes I can smell the way you think.”
“Not this time.”
“Okay, I’ll buy it for now. See you in the morning?”
“Roger, kiddo.”
The Blue Ribbon Restaurant on West Forty-fourth had closed an hour ago, but George and his wife were keeping Velda company in a corner booth over endless pots of coffee, and when I came in she gave me one of those “You did it again” looks and propped her chin on her hands, patiently waiting for an explanation. I sat down next to her, brushed my lips across that beautiful auburn pageboy roll of hair that curled around her shoulders and patted her thigh gently. “Sorry, honey,” I said.
George shook his head in mock wonder and poured my coffee. “How you can stand up somebody like your girl here gets me, Mike. Now you take a Greek like me ...”
His wife threw the hooks right into him. “To see my husband, I have to work the cash register. He loves this place more than he does me.”
“Business is business,” I reminded her.
Velda let her hand fall on top of mine and the warmth of her skin was like a gentle massage. “What happened, Mike?”
“Lippy Sullivan got himself sliced to death.”
“Lippy?”
“Don’t ask me why. That cat never did anything to get himself a smack in the eye. Somebody just got to him and took him apart. It could have been for any reason. Hell, in that neighborhood, you can get knocked off for a dime. Look at that wino last week ... murder for a half bottle of muscatel. Two days before and a block away some old dame gets mugged and killed for a three-dollar take. Great. Fun City at its best. If the pollution doesn’t get you, the traffic will. If you live through those two you’re fair game for the street hunters. So stay under the lights, kids, and carry a roll of quarters in your fist. The damn liberals haven’t outlawed money as a deadly weapon yet.”
Velda’s fingers squeezed around mine. “Did they find anything?”
“What the hell would Lippy have? A few bucks in his pocket, an almost punched-out lunch ticket, and some old clothes. But the lab’ll come up with something. Any nut who killed like that wouldn’t be careful about keeping it clean. It’s just a stupid murder that happened to a nice guy.”
“Nobody heard anything?” Velda asked me.
“The way he got sliced he wasn’t about to yell or anything else. Anybody could have walked in there, knocked on his door, got in and laid a blade on him. The front door was open, the super had his TV going and a belly full of beer and if anybody on the block saw anything they haven’t said so this far.”
“Mike ... you said he had a few dollars ...”
“Stuffed into his watch pocket,” I interrupted. “They don’t even make pants with them any more.”
“There has to be a reason for murder, Mike.”
“Not always,” I told her. “Not any more. It’s getting to be a way of life.”
We finished our coffee, said so long to George and his wife and grabbed a cab on the comer of Sixth Avenue. It was a comer I couldn’t remember any longer. All the old places were gone and architectural hangovers towered into the night air, the windows like dimly lit dead eyes watching the city gasping harder for breath every day.
New York was going to hell with itself. A monumental tombstone to commercialism.
When we reached Velda’s apartment she looked at me expectantly. “Nightcap?”
“Can I pass this time?”
“You’re rough on a woman’s ego. I had something special to show you.”
“I’d be lacking appreciation tonight, kitten.”
Her gentle smile told me all I needed to know. She had been around me too long not to recognize the signs. “You have to do it, Mike.”
“Just to make sure. The damn thing bugs me.”
“I understand. I’ll see you at the office tomorrow.” She leaned over, tasted my mouth with hers and brushed her fingers down my cheek. I said good night, watched her go into the building and told the driver to take me home.
The killing of Lippy Sullivan was only a one-column squib in the morning papers, the body being reported as having been discovered by a friend. Political news, a suspected gangland rubout of a prominent hood and the latest antics of a jet set divorce trial made Lippy the nonentity in death that he was in life.
My official statement had been taken down by a bored steno, signed, and Pat and I sat back to enjoy the cardboard-container tasting coffee. Ever since I had come in he had been giving me a funny, wary-eyed look and I was waiting for him to spit out what was on his mind. He took his own sweet time about it, swinging around in his swivel chair and making small talk.
Finally Pat said, “We were lucky on this one, buddy.”
“How?”
“Your name didn’t bring the grand explosion I thought it would.”
I shrugged and took a sip of the coffee. It was bitter. “Maybe the old days are gone.”
“Not with this bunch in office. Wh
en Schneider got knocked off last night it gave them something bigger to play with.”
I put the empty container on his desk and sat back. “Quit playing games, Pat,” I said.
He stopped swinging in the chair and gave me another of those looks again. “I got the lab report. A practically untraceable knife, no prints on the weapon at all ... nothing. The only prints on the doorknob were yours, so the killer apparently used gloves. Six other sets of prints were picked up in the room ... Lippy‘s, the super’s, two guys from the furniture store on Eighth Avenue who moved in a couch for him and two unidentified. The super had the idea that Lippy was friendly with a guy upstairs who used to have a beer with him now and then. He moved out a week ago. No forwarding address.”
“And the other set?”
“We’re running them through R and I now. If we don’t have anything, Washington may come up with a lead.”
“You’re sure going to a lot of trouble,” I said.
“Murders are murders. We’re not concerned with a pedigree.”
“This is old Mike you’re jazzing now, friend. You’re making like it was a prime project.”
Pat waited a minute, his face tight, then: “You holding back, Mike?”
“For Pete’s sake, what the hell kind of a deal is this? So I knew the guy. We weren’t roommates. You get a lousy kill in your lap and right away you got me slanted for working an angle. Come off it.”
“Okay, relax. But don’t say I haven’t got just cause, kid. Knowing a guy’s enough to get you kicking around and that’s just what I don’t want.”
“Balls.”
“All right,” he told me, “we checked Lippy out... his employers gave him a clean bill. He worked hard at a low-paying job, never any absenteeism, he was a friendly, well-liked guy ... no previous history of trouble, didn’t drink, gamble, and he paid his bills. He got himself killed, but he had memorized your number beforehand.”