This story was written for the
The 2022 "Hammered: an Ode to Mickey Spillane" Author Challenge
. It is written in the noir style, with sex and and violence. Many thanks to
ChloeTzang
for sponsoring the event again this year.
_______________
When I was a teen back in small-town Sturbin, my dad told me that nothing good ever happens after midnight.
I laughed at the time, thinking of being out with friends, drinking and dancing and such, but just a few years later after the horrors of my time in Korea and just weeks into walking my beat on the night shift, I'd come to accept at least part of my father's wisdom, finding that greed and violence tend to haunt the dimly lit streets and dark alleys of the big city by night.
As a rookie officer in Manhattan in the early days of summer, 1953, I'd already seen some of the greed, exhibited by those who considered the streets their personal fiefdom, and the violence it bred almost every night by those who claimed it as their hunting ground.
What wasn't expected was when that violence stepped inside, behind closed doors, where one normally has the expectation of privacy and safety. From the look of the three-story townhouse, this was one of those places where one would expect the violence of the street to be a long way away. No, from the look, one wouldn't normally feel threatened in a home like this.
It was a ritzy, upper east-side address but the jamb was shattered from where the front door had been kicked in with great force. I looked to my partner, Joey Maroni, who nodded, and we both drew our revolvers and flashlights before entering.
What had once been nice furnishings were overturned and scattered across the room, with shattered crystal, broken porcelain, and assorted knickknacks littering the floor. The hall was clear and the first bedroom didn't look bad, but the office, just across the hall, looked like a tornado had hit it. The bathroom was seemingly untouched.
We quickly cleared the main floor and Joey propped a chair under the knob of the door that went down to the lower level. Having cleared a number of residences during my days as a fighting MP, I knew the importance of not allowing anyone to sneak up behind us.
Up the main stairs we went, with Joey checking left and me checking right, with the overhead fixture in the upstairs hall lighting our way. The first two rooms were clear but then I peeked into the next and whispered, "Joey."
There in what appeared to be the master bedroom was a body and a woman holding a revolver. She was leaning on the edge of the bed as if slumped against it, the gun hanging limply in her arm.
"Put it down, Ma'am," I said, covering her with my own service revolver, a.38 Special Colt Official Police revolver with a 4-inch barrel. While I'd only been on the beat for just over a month, most of an enlistment spent as a military policeman, an MP, including a good part of it in combat in Korea, had taught me not to let down my guard. Joey, my partner since I graduated from the academy in early May, stepped in to cover the other side of the room from behind the opposite jamb.
"It's over, Ma'am," I said, "and everything will be okay."
She slowly shook her head but let the gun fall from her hand onto the hardwood floor with a clatter. I moved in and kicked it away before asking, "Ma'am, are you okay?"
She shook her head again, as if in a daze. "No, they'll keep coming until they get me."
"What do you mean, Ma'am? Can you tell me what happened?"
Her knee buckled and she almost slid off the edge of the bed before I caught her, lifting her back up and seating her firmly on the mattress. In doing so, I realized she was wearing a thin dressing gown with nothing up top beneath it; her tits were warm and soft against me, and I could see a nipple and its pretty halo quite clearly through the cloth. I felt myself surge at the display, but could only hope she didn't feel it, too.
Pulling my eyes away, I saw that her blonde hair, carefully coiffed, had a number of loose strands and her makeup was only partially in place. With bright blue eyes filled with tears ready to flow, she was obviously a very attractive broad in an even worse situation. I wasn't sure but the maturity of her face and body told me that she was probably in her mid-to-late thirties and she reminded me of some actress I'd seen in a Cary Grant movie a few months earlier. There was a robe on a hook nearby, so I pointed and wagged a finger. Joey handed it to me and stepped toward the bathroom, his gun still at the ready. I draped the robe around her, trying to preserve what little was left of her modesty.
This time she gave a nod, a tiny one, as the tears bubbled over and rolled down her cheeks. "I...I was in the bathroom when I heard someone break in. I grabbed my gun and hid in the closet, just in time before he entered the room."
Joey stepped back into the room, his revolver going into its holster. "Clear," he muttered before his eyebrow went up.
I could see he was about to ask me why I wasn't taking notes, but I held up a finger, telling him I hadn't forgotten.
"He didn't see me, probably thinking I was out, so he went into the front room and started ransacking it. I stepped out of the closet and tried to call the police, but the phone wasn't working so I was about to go back in the closet when he surprised me. I think I surprised him just as much, so that gave me just enough time to get my pistol up before he reached me. I fired, twice, I think..."
He'd slumped to the floor just inside the doorway and hadn't moved again. A jagged hole in the left door jamb told me that at least one of her shots had missed. Since I'd put her mind at ease to at least a degree, I pulled out my pad and started writing. Joey nodded but looked peeved, probably planning to give me a lecture later.
"Do you know why he broke in, Ma'am? Downstairs it looks like he was looking for something."
"They. The second one tried to come in after I shot his friend. I took a shot at him, too, but I missed that time. He ran before I could take another shot. Daddy always told me to use what you need but not to waste bullets; he said you might need them later."
Joey, checking the cylinder on her revolver, gave me a three finger sign. Looking at the body, he showed two, and then to the jamb with one. She must be a pretty good shot to have hit the first one twice after all, even with missing the one that got away.
"Ma'am, what were they seeking?"
She rolled her eyes and said, "Oh, fuck it. I'll show you...and I'll testify...but you have to protect me. You have to promise. Promise me."
"We'll do everything we can to protect you, Ma'am."
"No...you, you promise me."
"Okay, I promise, Ma'am."
Joey rolled his eyes, dramatically enough that I saw and realized I'd made a real mistake this time, but she didn't notice. Instead, she moved to a painting on the wall and hit a hidden button on the bottom of its frame. This caused the painting to swing out, revealing a wall safe. "It's all in there, Red Hornaday's books and my affidavit. I can testify regarding his murder of Eldridge Kincaid, too. My name is Dinah Myatt, but you may have heard me referred to as Dyna Myte."
***
The assistant district attorney was on one side of the table and Lieutenant Jack Stevens, my boss, was on the other. I was at the end and they were both glaring at me, but I sensed that while the DA guy was angrier than hell, the L-T was mildly amused but giving me the expected treatment.
"Do you know who this is, son?" asked ADA Kimbro or Kimborough or something like that.
"No idea, sir. She said she had evidence and I promised we'd protect her. That's it."
"If you'd given me the chance, I could have gotten the fucking warrant and we'd have gotten the shit out and put her ass in jail, too!"
"I didn't make any deals, sir, and didn't promise her I'd keep her out of prison,
if
she deserves to go there. I just said we'd protect her."
"No, you promised that you'd protect her, and now she's made that a condition of the deal we're making. As for who she is, Dinah Myatt is 40 years old and has been in the city long enough that she's famous, as Dyna Myte, among those interested in that type of thing. These days, she supposedly runs the highest class call-girl operation in the city, if you can call a call-girl operation high class."
"Then why don't you arrest her for it? You can deal as you need to then." I was getting tired of his games.
"Because it's said she has the goods on the mayor, over half of the city councilmen, the police chief, and the district attorney, all to keep her business in good graces, out of the courtroom and out of the headlines, and her and her band of beautiful, high-class call-girls out of jail."
"Goods, sir? You're saying they're all corrupt?" I whispered, not believing my ears.
He leaned across the table toward me. "Listen, son, and listen close. I'm not saying they're corrupt, any of them, especially not my boss." Whispering, he continued. "What I am saying is that she's supposedly fucked every goddamn one of them and has the fucking proof locked away where nobody can find it. Since most of them are married, at least nominally...well, you get the point. If we try to make a move against her, there's always someone in her corner ready to pull her feet out of the fire. If I charge her and that happens, all my leverage is gone and she goes scot free...and Red Hornaday probably does, too."
The smell of garlic on his breath made me recoil away as he spoke and it was only after he drew back that I replied. "So what do you expect me to do about it?"
He looked mad enough to spit nails, but he shrugged. "Red Hornaday's not small potatoes. He fought with the Big Red One in the war—that's where he got his nickname, not from his hair—and helped Myatt set up her current operation soon after he got back. He supposedly takes a share in cash and services from some of her girls, but that was just his first venture. Now, he runs a network of street pimps and bookies, too, and is believed to be in the protection racket, but we've never been able to get him on anything significant."
"Then arrest him and put him away," I backtalked, as tired of his shit as he was of me.
"Pardee, enough."
I nodded to the lieutenant, but made it a point not to apologize to the ADA.
