Mickey Spillane - [Mike Hammer 02] by My Gun Is Quick Page B

they were real toughies, too. Young, strong, smart, with a reckless look that said they liked their job. I bet neither one of them smoked or drank.
    The band came on then, with a baby spot focused on the dance floor, and as the house lights were dimming out I saw the trio turn into an alcove over in the far corner. They were heading for the place I wanted to see ... Murray Candid’s office. I waited through the dance team and sat out a strip act, then paid my check and picked my way through the haze to the alcove and took the corridor that opened from it.
    There were two doors at the far end. One was glass-paneled and barred, with EXIT written across it. The other was steel, enameled to resemble wood, and there was no doorknob. Murray’s office. I touched the button in the sill and if a bell rang somewhere I didn’t hear it, but in a few seconds the door opened and one of the boys gave me a curt nod.
    I said, “I’d like to see Mr. Candid. Is he in?”
    “He’s in. Your name, please?”
    “Martin. Howard Martin from Des Moines.”
    He reached his hand to the wall and pulled down a house phone. While he called inside I felt the door. It was about three inches thick and the interior lining was of some resilient sound-proofing material. Nice place.
    The guy hung up and stepped inside. “Mr. Candid will see you.” His voice had a peculiar sound; toneless, the ability to speak without accentuating any syllable. Behind me the door closed with a soft click and we were in an anteroom that had but one decoration ... another door. This time he opened it and I stepped inside at once.
    I was halfway across the room before I heard a cough and looked to see another door about to close. The place was lousy with doors, but not a sign of a window.
    Murray Candid was half hidden by a huge oak desk that occupied most of the wall. Behind his head were framed pictures of his floor-show stars and studio photos of dozens of celebrities, all autographed. There was a couch, a few easy chairs and a small radio and bar combination. That was all, except for the other goon that was stretched out on the couch.
    “Mr. Candid?”
    He rose with a smile and stretched out his hand. I took it, expecting a moist, soft clasp. It wasn’t. “Mr. Martin from, ah, Des Moines, is that correct?”
    I said it was.
    “Sit down, sir. Now, what can I do for you?”
    The goon on the couch hardly turned his head to look at me, but he rasped, “He’s got a gun, Murray.”
    He didn’t catch me with my pants down at all. “Natch, brother,” I agreed, “I’m a cop, Des Moines police.” Just the same, it annoyed the hell out of me. The coat was cut to fit over the rod and you weren’t supposed to notice it. These guys were pros a long time.
    Murray gave me a big smile. “You officers probably don’t feel dressed unless you’re armed. Now, tell me, what can I do for you?”
    I sat back and lit a cigarette, taking my time. When I flicked the match into a wastebasket, I was ready to pop it. “I want a few women for a party. We’re having a convention in town next month and we want things set up for a good time.”
    If there was supposed to be a reaction it was a flop. Murray drew his brow into a puzzled frown and tapped his fingers on the desk. “I don’t quite understand. You said ... girls?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “But how can I ... ?”
    I let him have a grin that was half leer. “Look, Mr. Candid, I’m a cop. The boys come back home from a big time in the city and tell us all about it; they said you were the one to see about getting some girls.”
    Murray’s face seemed genuinely amazed. “Me? I admit, I cater to the tourist crowd, but I can’t see the connection. How could I supply you with girls. I’m certainly not a ... a ...”
    “I’m just doing like the boys said, Mr. Candid. They told me to come to you.”
    He smiled again. “Well, I’m afraid they were mistaken, Mr. Martin. I’m sorry I can’t help you.” He stood up, indicating