“Frank Morrison. He’s due here in exactly—” She checked a tiny gold pearl watch on her left wrist, “seven minutes.”
“Great,” I said. “I love split-second timing.” I joined her at the window. The ocean was dead calm, with a few white sails edging the horizon. Clear day, no fog. “Just what is it that you do for Mr. Morrison? I mean, besides fetching lust-crazed private detectives to Malibu. Or shouldn’t I ask?”
“I’m his live-in secretary,” she said. “And you can make anything you want out of that.” She said it coldly. In fact, she hadn’t smiled since we’d arrived here. Once she’d dropped her yogurt act, she was just what she said, strictly business. Which depressed hell out of me. She looked like the Raintree Shampoo Girl and talked like Walter Mondale.
A car pulled into the gravel drive in front of the beach house. White 1955 T-Bird. In classic condition. Guy got out. Silver-gray crewcut. Not tall, but beefy. Wide chest and shoulders. Wearing a red-checked sport coat and matching slacks. Colorful.
He walked in and shook my hand, giving the bones a real workout. “I’m Frank Morrison,” he said.
“No, you’re not.” I gave him a level stare. “You’re Mickey Spillane.”
He grinned at me. “Okay, so my full name is Frank Morrison Spillane — but I try to keep a low profile.”
“Sure,” I nodded. “By doing coast-to-coast beer commercials and playing your own character, Mike Hammer, in the movies.”
“Guilty on the commercials, but I only played Hammer once, and that was back in the early sixties.”
“I watch a lot of late night TV,” I said.
Spillane walked over to Charlene, gave her a kiss on the cheek. Fatherly. Maybe she was his secretary.
“Get us a couple beers, doll.”
She got two cans out of the fridge, gave me one. Spillane tabbed his open, took a long swig. Charlene poured herself some orange juice and we all sat down.
“I drink too much of this stuff,” he said. “Gives you a big gut when you get older. And I’m no spring chicken.” He belched. “But I work out, sweat it off.”
“I’d like to get to the point,” I said. “Why did you have me brought here?”
“Simple. To nail a creep who’s been doing a number on me. He wants to shut off my juice.”
“You talk like a comic strip,” I told him.
“Hah!” Spillane chuckled. “That’s where I got my start — with the comics. Used to write Captain America and Plastic Man. In the forties. Hammer came right out of that period. I wrote him as ‘Mike Danger, Private Eye.’ Planned to star him in his own comic book. But then I changed my mind and wrote him into I, The Jury as Mike Hammer. Did that first novel in just nine days. I write fast. And I’m not out to win the Pulitzer, I’m in it for the bucks.” He scowled at me. “Anything wrong with that?”
I put up a hand. “Hey, I’m on your side.”
He grinned. “I didn’t mean to sound off — but I’ve taken a lot of hard raps for my stuff. From the critics. I don’t know what the hell they expect! I write books and people buy ’em. It’s just that simple.”
“You say somebody’s been after you? Threatening you?”
“More than just threats,” Spillane said. He got up with his beer, began pacing the room. His heels rang on the polished hardwood floor. “About a month ago I came down here to film a commercial. From Big Sur, where I have a cabin. When I got here this was waiting for me.”
The handwritten letter he handed over was addressed: To a Thief.
You have stolen from me. Through Kathleen, I know that all sins are punished. If not in this lifetime, then in the next. You will suffer bad karma for what you have done. I am here to serve cosmic justice. It is time for you to leave your present body, and I shall hasten your departure. Sum up your affairs. You have little time remaining.
And it was signed: John D. Carroll.
“You know the guy?” I asked Spillane, handing the letter back to him.
“Only John Carroll I ever knew was a film actor,” he told me. “Used to work for the old Republic Studios in those sword-and-tit flicks. Haven’t seen him for years. John’s probably dead by now. But I know one thing. That’s not his handwriting.”
“A good chance the name’s a phony,” I said.
“In my game you get a lot of crazy mail,” declared Spillane. “I ignored the letter, forgot about it. Two days later the phone rings and this wacko is on the line. ‘I’m the man you robbed,’ he says. ‘Retribution is at hand.’ And he hangs up.”
“Is that all he said?”
“Yeah. Didn’t bother to tell me what I’d robbed him of.”
“You have any idea what he could be talking about?”
“Not a clue. But wackos don’t need to make sense.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothin’ is what I did. But then, two days later, he calls again. And this time he says just one word: ‘Tomorrow.’ And hangs up.”
“So?”
“So I didn’t go out the next day. Stayed at my hotel. I own a .45 and I kept it out and ready. But nothing happened all day and I figured it was an empty threat.” He took a final swig from the can, squeezed it double with one hand, tossed it into a wastebasket.
“Want another?” asked Charlene.
“Yeah,” said Spillane. “How about you, Nick?”
“I’m fine. Got half the can left.”
“Okay, so around eleven o’clock I drive down to an all-night market for a six-pack and just as I’m about to park on the lot somebody lets go with a pumpgun. Blamo! Took out the left side window. But I’d seen a flash of metal from the dark side of the building just before he’d fired. I ducked and floored the pedal. Really hot-assed it outa there!”
“Did you report it to the cops?”
“No, I just got the hell back to Big Sur. Then, this month, with more commercials pegged, I had Charlie here rent me this Malibu joint. So now I’m worried that this wacko will make another try for me.”
“Have you heard from him this trip?”
“Not yet. But I expect to.”
“I still don’t see why you haven’t called in some law.”
“If I went to the cops on this they’d just tell me to wait till he takes another crack at me, then give ’em a ring. I could be stiffed by then! Also, I don’t need any publicity right now. Like I said, outside of the commercials, I keep a low profile.”
“You just might get your low profile blown away by Johnny-boy’s popgun,” I told him.
He squinted at me, gripping my left shoulder. “Look, I want you to find this psycho sonofabitch. I’ll pay whatever it costs.”
“Why me? There’s a pisspot full of private investigators in L.A. with reps better than mine.”
“Your brother recommended you,” said Spillane. “Hell, Bart and I go way back. I wanted him to handle it, but he says he’s leaving the detective game. Gettin’ too old for blonds and bullets.”
“Well, I can believe it about the bullets,” I said.
“Speaking of bullets...” Spillane gave me a hard look. “Do you pack heat?”
“When I have to,” I said. “But I don’t play it the way Bart does. He’s the family gunslinger. Enjoys shooting people. I try to avoid doing that.”
“Then you don’t carry a piece?”
“Not on me, no.”
“I make it you’ll need one when you find this guy.”
“Maybe,” I said.
Spillane leaned forward to give me a flash of the .45 holstered under his left armpit.
I whistled. “Impressive.”
“And I know how to use it.”
“Obviously you’re a lot tougher than I am,” I said. “How come you don’t go after this wacko yourself, with your big .45? Play Mike Hammer for real?”