Mickey Spillane - [Mike Hammer 13] Read Online Free

groceries.”
    “How come you’re being so nice to me?” I asked him.
    Once more I got one of his concerned doctor frowns and he said, “You’ve turned a corner. Now you’re entering a new phase.”
    “I didn’t mean it that way,” I said.
    The frown turned into an embarrassed grin. “Well . . . no sense lying to you.”
    “So?”
    “I need your expertise.” He saw the expression on my face. “Your advice,” he added.
    “On what?”
    “On how not to go to jail. I’m running around in the old jalopy with stolen New York plates and sure as hell I’m going to get stopped because the wreck is smoking, the tires are bad and the muffler is making a racket.”
    It was nice to be needed. I didn’t even have to think hard on that one. “You got any money, doc?”
    “Yeah, I was never that much of a dummy.”
    “Got your old papers?”
    “Whatever was in my wallet. Driver’s license, an old voter registration, medical ID from the hospital, stuff like that.”
    “Great. Then go buy a car, get it legally registered in your right name, then get licensed in the state. You can prove your identity and just tell them that total retirement didn’t suit you and you want back into the action if they ask you any questions.”
    “Mike, I am supposed to be legally dead !”
    “Look, doc,” I told him roughly, “who’s going to remember a stupid action that took place so many years ago? Besides, you don’t look dead at all. Believe me, nobody’s going to bother you. Only first get yourself some decent clothes to make it all believable. Plaid pants, maybe, and a golf shirt with a lizard on it.”
    “I don’t play golf.”
    “So get a fishing shirt.”
    He stood there looking down at me. Then he let out a big smile and said, “Man, I didn’t enjoy being dead at all.”
     
    The phone rang. The doctor wasn’t here to answer it. Whenever he did there was something of importance to be said, medical or household needs to be discussed.
    I picked the receiver off the cradle and in as growling voice as I could put on, said, “Yes?”
    When I heard his first word I felt a chill work its way across my shoulders. He said, “Hi, Mike, feeling better?” His tone was as pleasant as could be, as though there had been no break at all in our relationship, no firefight on the dockside.
    For a second I paused, took a breath, then said normally, “How’d you know where to find me, Pat?”
    “I’m a cop, remember. Captains have a little clout.”
    “Where you calling from?”
    “A safe phone in a closed booth in a department store.”
    “Then how’d you locate me?”
    “It wasn’t easy,” he told me.
    “Since you found me, somebody else can.”
    “Not unless they have the manpower and electronics we have,” Pat said.
    I took another deep, easy breath. “Then tell me this, pal. Why?”
    This time he paused a moment. “Somebody shot Marcos Dooley.”
    Softly, I muttered, “Damn.”
    Pat knew what I was thinking and let me take my time. Old buddy Marcos Dooley had brought Pat and me into the intelligence end of the military before the war ended and steered us to where we were today. Only Pat could still wear the uniform, an NYPD blue. I carried a New York State PI ticket and a permit to keep a concealed weapon on my person. Marcos Dooley had become a wild-ass bum, and now he was dead. But we had backed each other up during the raging times of hot shrapnel and bullets that sang high-pitched songs of destruction, and we had beaten the death game because we’d done it right and covered each other’s tails until our hearts stopped pounding and breathing became easier.
    “What happened, Pat?”
    “Somebody broke into the house and shot him in the guts.”
    “You know who?”
    “Not yet. We may have a suspect.”
    “Anyone I know?”
    “Sure. You shot his brother. Ugo Ponti.”
    I said something unintelligible. “How is he?”
    “Dying. Do you think you can make it up here? He wants to see you.”
    “I’ll be