The Mike Hammer Collection

He pulled out and I was right behind him, our bumpers almost touching. There was no subtlety about this tail job, maybe that’s why I got away with it so long. He didn’t notice me until we were on the back road six miles out of town ripping off seventy miles an hour. Just the two of us. We had left all other traffic miles behind. I saw his eyes go to the rear-vision mirror and his car spurted ahead. I grinned evilly to myself and stepped down harder on the accelerator until I was pushing him again.

His eyes hardly left the mirror. There was fright in them now. A hand went out and he signaled me to pass. I ignored it. Eighty-five now. A four-store town went by with the wind. I barely heard the whistle of the town cop blast as I passed him. Eighty-seven. The other car was having trouble holding the turns. It leaned until the tires screamed as the driver jerked it around. I grinned again. The frame of my car was rigged for just such emergencies. Ninety. Trees shot by like a huge picket fence. Another town. A rapid parade of identical billboards advertising a casino in Brocton. Ninety-five. A straightaway came up lined with more billboards. A nice flat stretch was ahead, he would have opened up on it if he could have, but his load was doing all it could. At the end of the straightaway was the outline of a town.

My little friend, you have had it, I said to myself. I went down on the gas, the car leaped ahead, we rubbed fenders. For a split second I was looking into those eyes and remembering that night, before I cut across his hood. He took to the shoulder, fought the wheel furiously but couldn’t control it. The back end skidded around and the car went over on its side like a pinwheel. I stood on the brake, but his car was still rolling as I stopped.

I backed up and got out without shutting the engine off. The punk was lucky, damn lucky. His car had rolled but never upended, and those steel turret top jobs could take it on a roll in soft earth. He was crawling out of the door reaching under his coat for a rod when I jumped him. When I slapped him across that bandage he screamed and dropped the gun. I straddled him and picked it up, a snub-nosed .38, and thrust it in my waistband.

“Hello, pal,” I said.

Little bubbles of pink foam oozed from the corners of his mouth. “Don’t . . . don’t do nothing . . .”

“Shut up.”

“Please . . .”

“Shut up.” I looked at him, looked at him good. If my face said anything he could read it. “Remember me? Remember that night in the shack? Remember the kid?”

Recognition dawned on him. A terrible, fearful recognition and he shuddered the entire length of his body. “What’re ya gonna do?”

I brought my hand down across his face as hard as I could. He moaned and whimpered, “Don’t!” Blood started to seep through the bandage, bright red now.

“Where’s the guy I shot?”

He breathed, “Dead,” through a mouthful of gore. It ran out his mouth and dribbled down his chin.

“Who’s Mallory?”

He closed his eyes and shook his head. All right, don’t talk. Make me make you. This would be fun. I worked my nails under the adhesive of the bandage and ripped it off with one tug. Clotted blood pulled at his skin and he screamed again. A huge half-open tear went from the corner of his mouth up his jawline, giving him a perpetual grin like a clown.

“Open your eyes.” He forced his lids up, his chest heaved for air. Twitches of pain gripped his face. “Now listen to me, chum. I asked you who Mallory was. I’m going to put my fingers in your mouth and rip out those stitches one by one until you tell me. Then I’m going to open you up on the other side. If you’d sooner look like a clam, don’t talk.”

“No! I . . . I don’t know no Mallory.”

I slapped him across the cheek, then did as I promised. More blood welled out of the cut. He screamed once more, a short scream of intolerable agony. “Who’s Mallory?”

“Honest . . . don’t know . . .”

Another stitch went. He passed out cold.

I could wait. He came to groaning senselessly. I shook his head until his eyes opened. “Who do you work for, pal?”

His lips moved, but no sound came forth. I nudged him again. “The boss . . . Nelson . . . at the casino.”

Nelson. I hadn’t heard it before. “Who’s Mallory?”

“No more. I don’t know . . .” His voice faded out to nothing and his eyes shut. Except for the steady flow of blood seeping down his chin he looked as dead as they come.

It was getting dark again. I hadn’t noticed the cars driving up until the lights of one shone on me. People were piling out of the first car and running across the field, shouting at each other and pointing to the overturned car.

The first one was all out of breath when he reached me. “What happened, mister? Is he dead? God, look at his face!”

“He’ll be all right,” I told him. “He just passed out.” By that time the others were crowded around. One guy broke through the ring and flipped his coat open to show a badge.