A Spill Of Blood Ch 01

This is a contribution to the "Hammered: an Ode to Mickey Spillane" event that Chloe Tzang has organized. As the title says, it's the first chapter of a longer story. I'll be publishing the subsequent chapters in regular, close intervals.

Harry lives seventy-five years after Mike Hammer debuted, but the streets of New York City are still brutal for the unlucky. There are hard men and beautiful women. There is violence and death and sex because that's what you get when you put those two together.

Harry is a little less quick with his fists than Mike, but when the dark moments come, a man has to do what he thinks is right--maybe not in the eyes of the law but certainly in his own--or else circle down the moral drain with his foes. People die, sometimes for the wrong reasons, and someone should do something about those.

I hope you enjoy it.

--C

CHAPTER 1

You know the old cliché, "He was wearing nothing but a platinum blonde"? I hate it when they're blondes because it reminds me of Amber. I ignored the stab and did my job.

Natasha Sullivan grabbed for a blanket, but my phone was live-streaming.

Walter Sullivan--who was not the man under her, of course--appreciated the reverse-cowgirl full-frontal that sailed over the ether onto his computer because it left no room for denial.

I appreciated the massive tits that had been pointed toward the ceiling as she put her weight back on her hands and pogoed that cootch up and down on Jordan H. Regan IV's dick.

The chambermaid appreciated the Benjamin for swiping her passkey through a lock and walking away.

Natasha Sullivan screamed at me. I didn't speak that language, so don't ask me what she said.

JHR swore he'd kill me. The tangled bedclothes turned his lunge out of bed into an ungraceful tumble beside it. I wasn't worried anyway. The only thing impressive about him was what was wilting between his legs. The rest looked like it was toned by nothing more than bronzer.

I backed out the door and headed for the back stairs at a trot. I'd told the chambermaid to give it two minutes then call security all distraught and tell them someone had snatched her credentials off her cart. It never pays to leave those who help you in the lurch, and they'd know whose keycard opened that door.

My landlord appreciated that I'd be making rent.

• • •

I didn't know the office wasn't empty until I was one step inside.

"It took me a while to find you."

Jordan Regan sat on my couch in a suit that cost more than I took home in a couple of months. I was already in motion because I remembered his words from when I'd last seen him. The second guy, the one I didn't see because he was behind the swing of the door, had other ideas.

He wasn't much bigger than an Amazon delivery truck. I bounced off the forty-eight-ounce ham masquerading as his fist. When I steadied myself off the wall and set my feet under me, he smiled and waggled his finger "no" at me. The glint of gold in his mouth where most of us had ivory told me something. The couple of detours his nose took as it made its way down from his face told me the same thing.

"Relax, Mr. Morgan," Regan said. "We're not here for trouble."

It didn't seem like it mattered to the truck in front of me either way. He was still grinning. But I didn't want trouble either. I wanted easy. I slid sideways toward my desk.

"You're here to thank me for freeing you from a relationship gone stale?" I asked as if this were an ordinary visit.

"If you're contemplating the revolver attached inside the well of your desk, it's not there anymore."

I froze. "It better be." I'd inherited that gun from my father, one of the few things that survived Mom's drinking problem after his death. Big guy or no, we were going to have a problem if it was gone.

"Again... relax, Mr. Morgan. Mitchell here somewhat liked it, but I pointed out that we have business and that might get us off on the wrong foot. It's in your bottom drawer with the bullets removed. And while we are on that subject, we are also aware that you sometimes carry a gun under your jacket. Please, let's just talk."

I sometimes did, an M&P Shield in.45, but I wasn't today. I slowly shrugged off my windbreaker under the watchful eyes of Mitchell, displaying all the nothing underneath, and moved to my desk chair.

"So, what's our business?"

"I want you to find someone. They took something that belonged to me, and I want it back."

"And you came to me because...?"

"I came to you because two things stuck in my memory once I got over my ire at you. The first was that you almost certainly broke the law in catching us. Even that final scene for Mr. Sullivan's benefit was a minor felony or two. That's a useful side of your character. The second is that you

did

catch us even though we were very careful, and I'm not a newbie at being careful."

I did and he had been. He contemplated me with thin amusement before continuing.

"There's a third reason. I'm not entirely over my pique. Natasha had the body of a goddess and was extraordinarily uninhibited about sharing it. You owe me, Mr. Morgan, and I'm here to collect."

If nothing had done so before, that told me this wasn't, "Go find my lost aunt." This was payback and that meant it wasn't safe for Mrs. Morgan's little boy.

"You've heard about the police?"

His smile held no humor. "I'm sure it's patently obvious that there will be no police report. We will make some inquiries from our side, but well, it's not exactly our area of expertise. Besides, I think it's prudent to have more than one horse in a race."

"And if I decline?"

"It seems to me"--he glanced around the office--"that you're not in the best financial shape. I need resolution within three weeks. Three thousand a day plus any reasonable expenses. Sixty large could go a long way to alleviating your condition, I think. Much better than my irritation continuing."

Mitchell's smirk showed me the irritation option suited him just fine.

Regan and I tugged at each other's eyeballs. His blinked first. It wasn't amusement. It was far colder.

"And of course, there's your uncle in the care facility out on the island. Or the ex-wife... though she might not be on your Christmas list, so perhaps not. But closer to home, that assistant of yours, Jessica Savard. I prefer women who are more curvaceous myself, but a certain type of man wouldn't mind offering her a job. I probably know people who know people."

The cold stare left no doubt what type of "job" that was: one where you spent a lot of time in rooms like I'd caught him in, but you didn't get to say, "I quit." I could see Mitchell's eyes as his boss's last words sank in. That febrile stare would have had any competent nurse reaching for a thermometer.

As quickly as it came on, Regan's expression disappeared, and the smile came back. "Three thousand a day, reasonable expenses, report to me on Fridays at this number." He laid a business card on my desk. And waited.

I thought about what a man like Mitchell could do to someone like Jess. I nodded.

Regan's smile was wide. Aren't we just the best of buddies? it said.

"Pictures from the party where it happened and names are in here." He set a 9"×12" manila envelope next to the card.

I undid the clasp and pulled out one. It was clearly taken by someone with a cellphone. It was also clearly not a party for kids unless you wanted them to play Pin the Tail on the Hooker's Panty-Clad Ass. I slid it back in for later, ignoring the smirk as he watched my expression.

"And if I find what you're looking for?"

"I want my property back. I want to know who is responsible so that I can negotiate assurances that this situation will not recur."

My eyes strayed to Mitchell. Regan caught it.

"Sometimes the needs of business preclude other methods of obtaining those assurances. My property back and a name, Mr. Morgan. Nothing more. No one needs to get hurt."

I was not on the road to Damascus, and faith did not fill me.

"What am I looking for?"

"Do you know what a eurobond, or more specifically, a eurodollar bond is?

"No."

"Do you know what a bearer bond is?"

"Vaguely. Something from old movies that worked like cash."

"Well, not quite like cash, but good enough. And yes, they were in old movies. They've been legislated almost out of existence in this country. However, they are alive and well abroad. You're looking for two. They are issued by Cypriot Interconnect and have a face value of one thousand dollars each. They were there the Saturday of the party. I saw them. They were gone Sunday."

He gave me the rest of it, then rose to his feet and adjusted one precisely shot shirt cuff. "Three weeks from today. I look forward to a progress report on Friday."

With that, Jordan H. Regan IV and Mitchell took their leave, leaving me wondering what the hell I'd gotten into and what the hell I was going to do to get out of it.

I opened the bottom drawer and pulled the Centennial 642 out. I reloaded it and rehung it on the inside of my desk. Then I walked myself down to the corner.

"Rittenhouse, Jimmy." Not that he wasn't already pouring. It was the only rye on the shelf, and I was a creature of habit.

• • •

"So," Jess said, "some rich guy breaks into our office with his bodyguard, who assaults you, then makes some threats unless you do a job for him that everyone knows is shady, and you don't call the cops?"

"Not just some threats, he--"

"Yeah, I got it! He threatened to hurt your uncle and have me taken. Not happy about that. All the more reason to call the cops."

I noticed she didn't mention Amber. She never did if she could avoid it, and when forced to, her tone was as alive as a three-day-old fish. I couldn't be sure whether she thought whatever happened to Amber was karma.

We glared at each other. She'd been my assistant for three years: one when it was Amber and me, one when it was barely me outside of a bottle, and one since then. I had no idea why she stuck it out. It wasn't for the paycheck, that much I knew. The white line around the finger she'd had when she applied had long since disappeared. The diffident attitude had followed it a year later, turning into one that sometimes irritated the everlasting bejesus out of me, but I couldn't deny had pulled me through.

"So why?"

"He's suspicious about a bunch of people, including them." I gestured at one of the pictures that lay on the desk between us. "I don't like their odds of what happens if he sends Mitchell to ask, which is probably Plan B despite what he said. He was calm and cool, but he's in a bind. There's no missing the stink of that."

Jess looked at the picture. There was very little doubt of what it showed. Four young women in varying stages of undress clustered in for a selfie at a party. A very special kind of party in a very special stratum of the world. That mahogany-paneled room with the long stretch of green pool table wasn't found in some "3br, 2.5ba" listing in the real-estate weekly from the deli, and those antiques didn't come from Big Fred's Furniture Mart.

Not to mention four young women, not one of whom was even remotely unattractive or a girl-next-door type. Call it the better part of a grand an hour... each. I guess a guy who could wear $7,000 suits and drove away from my office in a Bentley Mulsanne--yeah, I watched to make sure they left--wasn't worried about that.

Jess sniffed. "Men aren't too picky where they stick it, are they?"

I bit down on my words. I knew some of her history. "And because they're party girls, they deserve--"

She cut me off with an exasperated sound. "Of course not! Four, no--" She pointed to another who was barely in the frame off to the side, almost hidden by a lamp in between her and the camera, bent against a table by a man in a bathrobe with its ties hanging loose. "Five, and you're a sucker and a softy, so there's no point in me arguing."

I didn't protest that out loud. It was pointless. I did inside... both parts.

She sighed. "Tell me the rest."

She picked up the sheet where Regan had noted the details of the eurodollar bond. She didn't ask. She just dumped the packet on the desk and started pawing through it. As I said, an attitude that sometimes irritated the everlasting bejesus out of me.

"Why is something worth two thousand such a big deal that he'll spend one and a half that per day?" she asked.

"A very good question. I don't know."

"What does Cypriot Interconnect do?"

"Another good question to which I do not have the answer beyond the internet telling me it's privately held."

I pulled another sheet and slid it toward her. "There were nine people there besides Regan. Richard Bertram, Charlie Everett, and Larry Beck are described as long-time business associates. Anders Lindqvist was a new one.

"Here's the kicker. Regan tells me that under no circumstances do I approach Bertram, talk to Bertram's people, hint to Bertram. He implied maybe even whispering Bertram's name when I'm in the shower was out. Me? I'm thinking Bertram isn't just a business associate. I'm thinking he's a partner who doesn't know these bonds are missing and won't be too happy if he finds out."

Jess nodded. "And if Bertram's the culprit?"

"I cross that bridge when I've eliminated the others."

Together, we studied more photos that showed the men in question. They were party snaps and every one of them had one or more companions wrapped around the guy. I wondered for maybe two seconds why we got these and not some corporate headshots. It took only a second to answer myself.

He's bragging, Harry. He's the type to flaunt the lifestyle, let you know he's the man with the women, the cars, the everything. Look what I got, Harry, five of them, willing to do anything, and you don't even have one.

Jess seemed unruffled by the carnality portrayed.

"And who are they in real life?" she asked.

"Bertram runs an import-export business... which I figure is French for he's mobbed up. Everett's in the silk business, everything from men's ties to women's lingerie by way of some stupidly expensive expedition gear. Beck Resources is some big deal in crushed rock and cement. Lindqvist is a bit of a mystery. He's Swedish and seems to be something in shipping, but I don't have enough on him yet."

"What the hell do Regan and Bertram do that those three would become clients of theirs?"

"Damfino."

"And the women?" Her finger wandered down to the bottom part of the list. It had first names: Sasha, Emerald, Gia, Luiza, and Kimi.

"Regan says they don't know anything about the bonds and weren't anywhere near them. He figures the most they can tell us is if they saw something in someone's pockets later that evening."

"So, you've got one man you're not allowed to talk to. You've got three more that are rich enough to ignore you if they want to... and I'm betting they will want to because they're probably married, and who likes assholes waving pictures of a sex party anyway? Plus, you've got five women who know nothing. Why the hell is he counting on you to do anything? It's impossible. At least in that timeframe."

"I don't think he

is

counting on me."

She looked puzzled.

"I think I'm the tethered goat. He wants me to go out there and stir things up. He'll watch to see who scurries where. If I get hurt in the process... Well, he's still pissed at me no matter what he says, and that's just a bonus for him."

"You need to drop this."

"I can't."

"You can!"

We glared at each other. It was a long conversation in a dead-silent room. Finally, she sighed.

"So... what?"

"I think he's wrong about them." I pointed to the last five names in her hand. "Women always dig around in stuff that's none of their business."

Her look was half irritation at the crack and half understanding. She'd been around for Amber.

• • •

I had one entrée into that world. I'd never used it, mostly because my usual clients--or should I say, the husbands of my usual clients--didn't move in those circles. They were more likely to pick up a stripper at a club or call one of the low-end numbers.

Years ago, back when I was so wet behind the ears that my collar was damp, I gave someone a free pass. She was new to her game too. Not quite as new. She was still fresh-faced without the hard edge you can't quite hide after a while, but she knew enough to be resigned instead of "Oh, shit!" at the sight of two uniforms filling the bedroom door of the hotel suite.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" the guy started in, trying to find his balance.

My partner's raised hand stopped him. Or maybe it was the other hand resting on the butt of the service pistol. "Sir, we knocked and identified ourselves." Quiet politeness, just like they taught us in the academy. "No one answered."

That was no surprise. We could hear the yelling clearly as we walked down the hallway. So had the neighboring rooms. Probably so had the guests in the hotel next door. Add in that these two were in the bedroom, not out in the living area.

"Since you're the only person registered to this room, sir, perhaps you'd like to start?"

The silence that got didn't matter much. We didn't need an explanation. Him in a bathrobe. Her in a skirt, deep-v blouse, and heels. Only a single suitcase in the room. One look at the red mark on her cheek and we knew somebody either liked it rough or wanted to negotiate a discount.

My partner contemplated for a long moment while nobody said a word. He turned to the hotel flunky who had keyed us in. "Thank you, sir. I noticed the room across the hall is being made up. Perhaps my partner could take one of them there until things cool?"

The john glowered. The woman stiffened. The hotel guy gave a relieved nod--noise and police, two bad things in his business. My partner turned to me.

"I'll have a little talk with the gentleman here, get things calmed down. Why don't you take the lady? Oh and, rook?" He waited until I caught his eye and gave me a wink. "Welcome to the job."

She turned as the door latched shut behind me.

"What's your name, miss? Your full name."

"Lauren Cartier."

Yeah, like the watch... expensive. I wondered if her real name was something like Ann or Jill; I could hear the flat Midwest in her vowels.

"What's your side of the story?" I asked.

"There's no story." Her voice was cautious.

"Do you want to press charges?"

"Hardly." The faint scorn was unmistakable.

I considered what to do next. The silence seemed to prompt her. The resigned look came back in full, along with anger. "Let's get this over with." Her hand strayed to the buttons of her blouse.

"No."

Perplexity blossomed, then derision, and she opened her yap without thinking too much. "All those virile policemen don't mind your kind on the force these days?"

Her implication was obvious, and it riled me some. I was having a hard time not staring at the fingers frozen at the neck of her blouse. Or more accurately, at the two swells pushing up behind them. Nature, or somebody's scalpel, had been kind to this woman. Being tweaked about not putting her on her knees didn't sit well.

"Lady"--I bit back the "fuck you"--"I don't take a fifty backhander from some mom-and-pop shop to do my job, so I won't take the same from you."

Her jaw tightened, but her brain had caught up. She wasn't going to get into a pissing contest about price tags with someone who could still decide on a ride in the patrol car. I watched it turn fatalistic. Her hand dipped into the purse over her shoulder and came out with an envelope. "Not a fifty, huh? It's going to take the whole thing?"