The Summoned Help

The theme of

Hammered: An Ode to Mickey Spillane 2024

is "gritty, dark, and overflowing with violence and sex." My entry might be light on the sex, but I hope it delivers on the gritty, the dark, and the violent. Also, the funny, the tender, and the poignant, just a little.

Thanks to Chloe Tzang for organizing and to

oneagainst

for beta reading.

The fire is dying down but none of us want to turn in yet. We've been working hard all week re-opening the trail after last winter's storms. We've earned a few more beers before we go back to our lives, to our jobs and our wives.

Yes, our jobs and our wives. I have one of each now. I cook at a diner by the highway six days a week. Then I come home to my hard-bitten, grey-haired old lady, once divorced and once widowed but still as beautiful as the day I met her ten years ago.

On weekends I even go to church. Me. Can you imagine? But it's what people do around here. I sing in the choir, too. I'm literally a choir boy now.

I take another pull from my beer and stare into the glowing coals. What a wild ride it's been to get here, sixty years old and somehow neither dead nor imprisoned. Literally out of this world. As with all things, it started with a girl.

She wasn't much to look at. I guess that was an asset in her line of work. Asian, looking somewhere between twenty and forty depending on how she did her hair and makeup, wearing a puffy coat, loose pants, and sneakers. All black, like you do in New York, in December.

We both ignored her when she came in, Mikey and me. Just another civilian, thinking

Tony's Diner

actually served food. She'd check out the menu, get fed up with the poor selection and high prices, and leave.

Except she didn't. She walked up to the chipped laminate counter and said to Mikey, "Excuse me, sir. My name is Jane. Mr. Cucchiara asked to speak with me."

Her voice was soft, with a crisp British accent. I remember wondering how an Asian woman got an accent like that.

Mikey looked over her shoulder and caught my eye in the mirror over the door. I shrugged, a minuscule motion mostly of my eyebrows. Mikey told her, "Sorry, lady, nobody here by that name. You want to order?"

"No, thank you." She turned to me, lounging at the end of the counter. If she felt any nervousness about accosting a big, rough-looking man who clearly wanted to be left alone with his newspaper and his coffee, she didn't show it. As if reading off a script, she repeated, "Excuse me, sir. My name is Jane. Mr. Cucchiara asked to speak with me."

This time, she added, "I think it is worth your time to check. You can always take me for a swim later."

That got our attention.

Forcing a laugh, I said, "I got no idea what you're talking about, Jane. Why don't you get yourself something to eat? Mikey does a good omelet."

"I can do that." She nodded to me and turned back to Mikey. "Do I get to pick what you put inside?"

"Yeah, we got a build-your-own option." Mikey pointed vaguely at the faded menu over his head as if he had any idea what it said.

I finished my coffee and headed outside to make a call. When Marcello picked up, I cut straight to the chase. "Buddy, ask the old man if he forgot to tell me about a creepy little Asian lady named Jane."

"Yeah, hang on." Marcello muted me for a few minutes, then came back. "Junior's going to drop by."

It was the first time I'd heard Tony called "Mr. Cucchiara." I guess it had to happen sometime, though. The old man had been bringing his kid into the family business for a while now.

Jane was sitting at the counter inside, digging into her omelet. At my approach, she moved a mouthful of egg into one comically bulging cheek and mumbled, "Thank you for the omelet, sir. Your man is an excellent cook."

That was news to me. I gave Mikey a questioning look and got a shrug back. "Yeah, we take pride in our work. Joe's fine, by the way."

"I...am glad to hear he is well?" The confusion was plain on her face.

Who the fuck is Joe?

"I'm Joe," I clarified. "I'm saying you don't have to call me sir."

"Of course. I apologize. It has been some time for me." She didn't say since what. Before I could ask, Jane gestured at her plate. "I neglected to mention that I have no money. I trust that will not be a problem?"

"Yeah, don't worry about it."

"Thank you."

She ate the omelet and drank her tea. Then she asked if she could order more food. By the time Tony showed up, she was nearly done with her third omelet.

"Hiya," Tony said, sliding into the seat next to her. "I'm Tony. Go ahead and finish that, and then we'll take a walk, okay?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Your men have been most hospitable."

"Right," he drawled. "That's what we pay them for, to take care of people."

She finished and they walked out. Mikey and I exchanged looks, then Mikey shrugged eloquently and busied himself wiping down the counter.

I popped a couple of antacids and got myself some more coffee. My stomach didn't handle the stuff so well these days, but I could tell I was going to need it.

Tony brought Jane back in a short while later. To me, he said, "Jane is going to help us out with our problems. Take her around for me, all right? Whatever she needs. Don't worry about your regular stuff."

Regular for me was sitting around the diner until they needed me. They'd been needing me a lot recently. I raised my eyebrows, letting my eyes ask the question. Who was Jane, that

I

was the one babysitting her? Tony shook his head subtly. Not in front of Mikey, I guess. Fair enough.

Or maybe even I didn't need to know. That would be pretty close to the chest indeed.

"You got it, boss." I took Jane outside. "Where to?"

"A Chinese butcher."

That brought me up short. Good fences make good neighbors, as they say. We got along with the triads. I didn't want to be the one to change that, not now. "Why Chinese?"

"I need a live chicken."

"You need a live chicken," I repeated.

"That's right."

I waited a moment, in case she wanted to explain. She didn't. I took the hint. "All right, let's take a trip to Chinatown. I'm parked around back."

I took her to Sunset Park. Fuck me if I was going to look for parking in Manhattan. We drove around until Jane pointed out a storefront on the other side of the street.

"May we stop there?"

The awning was all in Chinese, but the cartoon of a smiling pig was clear enough. A neon sign in the window said "Open" and showed a bucket with some round things in it and the handle of a scoop sticking out.

"Sure."

"If you give me some cash, I can save you the trouble of parking the car."

"Yeah, sounds good." I pulled over in front of a hydrant. How much did a live chicken cost? Maybe she'd need stuff for it, a cage or something. I gave her a few hundreds, just to be safe. "Is that enough?"

"More than enough." She gave me an odd look. "Smaller bills would attract less attention."

I gave her some twenties too.

"May I bring you anything for yourself?"

Like what? My own chicken? I glanced at the sign again. Rocky Mountain oysters? "No, thanks."

She came out a few minutes later sucking on a cup of bubble tea.

"Where's the chicken?" I asked.

She looked at me, then at the awning. As if it had just occurred to her, she asked, "What languages can you read?"

I could have smacked myself. Not "That's the place we want," but "May we stop there?" And, "May I bring you anything for yourself?" From the place with a neon sign of a domed cup and some bubbles in the window. It even showed the straw.

Context. Context was everything, in my work. Just because I couldn't read the words didn't mean I couldn't look at everything else. What a rookie mistake.

"English, Jane." I forced myself to speak calmly. She wouldn't know it was myself I was angry at. "I can only read English."

"I apologize. I will be more explicit in the future."

"It's okay. I'm happy to buy you a cup of bubble tea." I thought about the three omelets she had packed away. "Are you still hungry?"

Her mouth twisted. Was she smiling? I hadn't seen her do that yet. It sat oddly on her face. "Hungry? No, not yet. But I could eat, if we have time."

Three omelets, each with a different filling. She wasn't looking for nourishment but flavor. "I'm yours for the duration. Why don't I park the car? We can walk around, sample the offerings."

When a man does this as long as I have, he learns a few things. One was the universal power of shared food to build relationships. Even Jane was no different.

Her face lit up. The transformation was shocking. Now this was a smile. She didn't look so plain anymore. "That would be wonderful. It has been so long since I have had the opportunity."

As we made our way down the street, ducking into shop after shop, she opened up. Nothing about herself, not yet, but she told me about the various foods we tried, where they came from, how they had evolved over the years and across the world. Her face became more animated. Even her speech became less stilted.

"You're using contractions now," I realized. "You didn't, before."

"It's been some time since I've spoken English." Jane gave me an apologetic smile. "And...sometimes it helps to be a little unsettling. It helps people take me more seriously, in certain situations. But I don't need to do that with you anymore, do I?"

"No," I said, kicking myself. I knew what kinds of problems we were having, and what kinds of people got hired to solve problems like that. I had under-estimated Jane. I needed to stop doing that. "It's funny. I have exactly the opposite problem, but in many ways it probably feels the same."

The years had softened my body but hardened my face. I tried not to linger outside playgrounds these days. There was no need to make people nervous like that.

We moved onto lighter topics. Eventually, Jane pointed to yet another store. "I think they'll have the chickens. Can you wait outside? I don't want them thinking you're some kind of tourist come to gawk."

She came out carrying a big cardboard box with some ragged holes punched in the top. It squawked and jumped in her hands.

"Back to the car now?" I asked.

"Please. Where will I stay tonight?"

So she wasn't local. And yet she didn't have any luggage, not even a backpack. "Do you know how long you'll be with us?"

"At least a few days. Probably not more than a few weeks."

I checked her into a motel near my own apartment. We arranged for me to pick her up again tomorrow at nine. I went home and immediately called the office. This time it was Tony who picked up. "Hey, buddy, can I talk to Junior? It'll be quick."

Tony picked up a minute later. "How'd your day go, old man?"

"Calm and relaxing, boss. Took her around, just like you said. Put her in a hotel for the night." I lowered my voice, even though that wasn't how wiretaps worked. "Listen, she bought three live chickens in a cardboard box. They're with her in the room now."

I left the question unspoken. He'd tell me if he wanted. He didn't. "That's fine. Whatever she wants. I gotta go, okay? Look after her for me."

"You got it." We said our goodbyes and I hung up. So I was off diner duty and I definitely did not need to know what Jane was up to. Very interesting.

I knocked on Jane's door at eight the next morning. "Where to?"

We got breakfast, then went clothes-shopping. She let me take her to Marshall's for socks and underwear, but everything else she wanted from thrift shops. "It's better if they look a little worn. Is there somewhere we can go afterward to speak freely?"

We walked along a deserted stretch of beach on Coney Island, letting the surf drown our voices. That was where she started asking questions.

She was sharp. I explained our problems and she got it immediately. The changing demographics hurting recruitment. Our usual income streams drying up. Our friends in official places distancing themselves for fear of inviting unwanted attention. And, capitalizing on all of this, the new guys muscling us out.

It was a catch-22. If it weren't for them, we could expand, diversify, cultivate new friendships. And if it weren't for our other troubles, we could muster the men and the money for a war.

She nodded thoughtfully. Then she asked to go to Flushing. "I need to buy more chickens. I don't want to use the same butcher again."

I looked at her. She looked back, poker-faced.

I drove her into Queens. Again, we walked and chatted and ate. It was amazing how much she could eat. Finally, she bought her chickens and I took her to the hotel.

The third day, when I picked her up, I asked if I could come in.

"Of course." She stepped aside.

I poked around. The mini-fridge was empty. The closet held only the clothes I'd bought her, neatly hung. Nowhere did I find a single chicken, much less six.

"What happened to the chickens?"

"I ate them," she said, deadpan.

"Okay, then." I knew how to mind my own business. "So you'll want some breakfast?"

"Yeah! Do you know any place that does ful medames? It's been ages since I had that."

I didn't. That was what the internet was for. Even I could type "ful medames near me" into a search engine. Well, actually, I had to get Jane to spell it for me, but you get the idea. I found us a place.

Over breakfast was the first time Jane admitted what she did. "I'll need everything you have on your new friends. What they look like. Where they live, where they work, where they shop and eat and party? And, when. When's important too."

"Yeah, we can go for a drive, talk about all of that." I paid and we picked up a more discreet car, a dinged-up subcompact registered to a laundromat.

Showing her people's faces was easy. Most of these chucklefucks were on social media. We had some kids following them from fake accounts.

It offended me, to be honest. People used to take pride in their work. They knew how to sweat the details.

Maybe that was why I took such a liking to Jane. When I put on my reading glasses and logged into one of our fake accounts, she spat a mouthful of bubble tea back down the straw.

I burst into laughter. "That's what I said!"

She reached out. "May I?"

I gave her my phone. She scrolled, eyes wide. I pointed people out as they appeared.

After a few minutes, she asked, "You've confirmed these?"

"Jane," I said, pretending to be hurt. "What kind of man do you think I am?"

"No, of course you would have. I do apologize." She got more formal when she was caught off-balance. It was cute.

"I get it, though. I thought they were setting us up too. They're not. They've been doing it for years. They really just..." I gestured at the phone. Even I had no words for stupidity of this level. "It's what the kids do these days."

"Extraordinary," she muttered.

Jane was old-school. Careful, suspicious, detail-oriented. She did her homework. We spent weeks cruising around in that tiny subcompact, checking out the places that appeared in those photos. We took our own photos. We made charts and graphs. It was a joy to watch a professional at work.

It's a cliche that men can't separate professional admiration from sexual attraction, when the professional in question has two tits and a pulse. It's a cliche because it's so often true.

You have to understand, my life was not one that let me meet many smart, competent women. I had no illusions about this business. It was rife with lowlifes and idiots and monsters. Hell, I was two of those all by myself. Smart, competent women knew they could do better elsewhere.

Me and Jane, spending nearly every waking hour together for weeks? Yeah, I fell for her. Hard.

I tried to resist.

She was a colleague. I wasn't the kind to shit where I ate.

Plus, I respected her. She deserved better than to have me pawing over her while she was trying to do her job.

And, pathetic as it may seem, I didn't want to risk our...whatever we had. The easy camaraderie, the long aimless conversations, the banter.

Okay, truth be told, I had no idea how to approach her. My usual line was, "Hey, honey, you working? How much?"

Luckily, Jane was better at this than I was. One night, she said, "It's been a long time since I've had a drink."

Now this was a situation a man like me could handle. "Oh, yeah, I can recommend a few good places. What are you in the mood for?"

She smiled at me, tilting her head just so. "What, you mean you don't have a bottle of fancy whiskey at home?"

I shook my head. "I'm more a beer kind of guy. But I know a great whiskey bar. I'll drop you off. Hey, if you give me your room key, I'll drop you off and then put your chickens in your room for you."

She was still going through three a day. We had a standing order at a butcher we trusted now. I'd given up on asking about them.

"On second thought, a beer sounds good. What kind of beer do you drink, Joe?"

I looked at her. She looked back, lips twitching. The penny dropped. I flushed.

She laughed. God, she had a beautiful laugh. Even when she was laughing at me.

I took her home. She watched as I unlocked my door. Showing off a little, I pointed out that the knob was Medeco and the deadbolt Mul-T-Lock and the frame reinforced. That was a rookie mistake, putting a fancy lock into a flimsy door frame. I had a steel security door set into a steel frame. It'd be easier to smash through the wall.

She wandered through my little studio, noting the blackout curtains. "Bars outside?"

"Of course. Except in the bedroom." Was it too aggressive, to bring her into my bedroom immediately? No, we were just talking. I showed her the keyless egress gate across the window going out to the fire escape. "Fires are a lot more common than hits."

She nodded approvingly. "It's true."

I hurried out before she got the wrong idea. I got her a cold one from the fridge. "Sit anywhere you want."

She sat in the middle of my three-seat sofa, a clear invitation. I don't think she understood how big I was, though. I'd be half in her lap if I sat on either side. It seemed...crude. She was a classy lady. I wanted to be a classy guy. I took the armchair.

She laughed again, rich and throaty. "Such a gentleman."

I smiled, in what I hoped was a suave way. "I try."

"Can I use your bathroom?"

"Yeah, sure." I pointed. It was the only door she hadn't been through yet.

She came out in my bathrobe. It wasn't immodest. Far from it. It nearly wrapped around her twice. It brushed against the tops of her plain white cotton socks. It showed flashes of her ankles as she walked.

Bare ankles, no longer covered by her pants. I can remember them to this day. Shapely. Well-turned. Isn't that what they said about ankles? Well-turned, like they came off a lathe or something? Her ankles belonged on a table in Versailles.

She tugged the beer out of my nerveless hand. She put it down on the table. On the coaster, I noticed. So attentive. So detail-oriented. God, I wanted to fuck her senseless.

She stepped between my legs. She pivoted, and sat on the arm of my chair. One leg draped casually across my lap. My bathrobe spilled open, revealing a long, creamy stretch of thigh.

My dick strained against my pants. I hadn't gotten so hard, so fast in years. I guess I still had it in me, for the right woman.

"So," I said, licking parched lips, "I want to make sure I'm not misreading the situation, because I respect you as a colleague and, uh, a friend, and, uh, I want to, you know, not---"

I broke off, interrupted by a peal of laughter. "Joe! How are you so

bad

at this?"

"Well, it's a lot to, to take in. It's a very new, um, experience. For me."