Mickey Spillane
The Menace
In memory of
JOE KANE
Phantom of the Movies
“Stephen King. Now I’m not crazy about him, but he’s a great writer.”
A Brief Introduction to the Menace
by the Co-Author
In 2006, following her late husband’s instructions, Jane Spillane turned over the files of Mickey Spillane’s unfinished, unpublished materials to me. He had told her, “Max will know what to do.”
In the subsequent decade and a half I have completed twelve Mike Hammer novels, working from material ranging from a manuscript lacking only a few chapters to one-page synopses, as well as two non-Hammer novels and a number of short stories both with and without his famous private eye. I concentrated on Hammer as, obviously, Mike was Mickey’s signature character. Not coincidentally, this book is being published during the 75th anniversary of Mike Hammer’s first appearance in the novel I, the Jury (1947).
Toward that end I am including, as a back-of-the-book bonus feature of sorts, the newly discovered original version of the only full-length Mike Hammer short story Mickey ever wrote. More about that, later...
Most of the material in Mickey’s files ran to substantial portions of novels he’d begun and set aside for a variety of reasons. The files contained fragments ranging from a few chapters to a few pages and even a few paragraphs. Among the few completed works were three unproduced non-Hammer screenplays. One, a western he’d written for his friend John Wayne, I novelized as The Legend of Caleb York and followed with (to date) five more Caleb York novels. Two more screenplays remained, and this book represents one of them.
I am not sure what Mickey intended for The Menace, as its length was rather short, indicating possibly a pilot for an anthology TV series of horror yarns designed for a one-hour time slot with commercials. I do know he was excited about it and hoped to produce it himself. He’d written it shortly before he and I became friends after we appeared together at a Bouchercon (the traveling convention for mystery fans and professionals) in Milwaukee in 1981.
The quote about Stephen King that I’ve included as an epigram is typically pithy of Mickey, but it requires explanation. Mickey, the bestselling American mystery writer of the Twentieth Century, was keenly aware of other singular writers whose popularity reached the same stratosphere as his own. In the final decades of his life, Mickey was almost semi-retired, only publishing occasionally, but someone with King’s astonishing popularity caught his attention... and the Mick was frequently asked his opinion about the newcomer.
Mickey had enormous respect for Stephen King’s storytelling ability as well as popularity, achieved in part by shrewd marketing, which included building a popular persona that had made the young writer a multi-media star... much as had been the case for Mickey, who stayed a celebrity long after he’d stopped publishing regularly.
When Mickey said he was “not crazy” about King, but that King was “a great writer,” Mike Hammer’s creator was being typically cryptic. When I pressed him about it, he explained he was referring to the supernatural subject matter that the author of Carrie often explored.
Mickey Spillane, as sometimes surprises people, was a very religious man, and conservatively so. He stopped writing his trademark sex-and-violence Hammer yarns for a decade after converting to the Jehovah’s Witnesses, and returned only during a period when he and his church were on the outs. Later, when he was back in the fold, Mickey struggled to write novels (including two Hammers) that would not put him at odds with his church or, for that matter, his fans. And he was uncomfortable with any demonic subjects in fiction (The Exorcist for example).
Actually he believed in such things and did not consider the occult anything to be fooled around with.
But Mickey was acutely aware of the rising popularity of horror fiction in the ’70s and early ’80s — thanks to Stephen King — and The Menace was his response. His horror yarn, as one might expect, was conceived in mystery/crime-novel terms, and with a founding in the real, not the supernatural.
Mickey was a circus buff who at times performed with both Clyde Beatty and Ringling Brothers, getting shot out of a cannon and doing trampoline stunts. Among the circus folk he knew and valued were sideshow performers — some called, in the parlance of the day, “freaks.” He knew of one such individual, born with deformities, who could convincingly portray the title “monster.” His script included references to attached photos of his friend, which unfortunately were no longer attached when it came into my hands.
He spoke to me numerous times of his excitement for this project, though — as I say — I’m not sure exactly what format he had in mind. He intended not only to produce, but possibly to direct it himself.
For now, I’ve created a version in the medium that made Mickey the Stephen King of his generation: the novel. I have not greatly expanded it, though I have attempted to expand it in ways I believe he would have, had the project gone into production (or even, for that matter, pre-production). The rather short script may have been intended to be a quick read for fund-raising purposes, and rather than augment it with new story elements, I have tried to honor Mickey’s intentions here, while creating a more fleshed-out setting and back stories for the characters.
For the purposes of this narrative, the action takes place when Mickey wrote it — the late 1970s. A mildly mentally challenged character in the novel is discussed in terms and attitudes consistent with those times.
Max Allan Collins
Muscatine, Iowa
June 2021
Chapter 1
The day the doctor died began well.
Retired obstetrician Vernon Petersen, 75, awoke at six as usual, almost eerily on the dot despite his never setting an alarm. After a yawn and a stretch, he swung out of bed and began his morning ritual with the usual regimen of pills, orange juice, oatmeal, one cup of black coffee and a slice of the Today show with Tom Brokaw. Once feeling fully ready to take on the world — or at least his three friends in their regular foursome at the Peachtree Heights Country Club — he took care of his toiletries (he preferred bathing to showering) and got dressed.
Vernon no longer felt the malaise that had for six long months been his uninvited companion since the death of his beloved wife, Jean. Their condo with its scenic view of the Chattahoochee River suddenly had seemed unnecessarily large without her in it. The cancer had come for her quick, which was merciful in a way, but after fifty years of marriage made for a long recovery for the spouse left behind.
His three kids were grown and gone, none of them in the South any longer and he sensed their invitations to come live with their respective families — and both his boy and each of the two girls had offered — would only be a prelude to a nursing home. No one wanted a seventy-five year-old man to move in with them. At their stage of life, he wouldn’t have either.
His only concession to his grief was to place Jean’s framed picture — each a different one, at various stages of her life, lovely at any age — in every room of this very modern condo filled with her antique furnishings. And he still talked to her, out loud, a habit he did not consider worth breaking. Having her picture to smile at him as he groused about this and that was a comfort.