Mickey Spillane - [Mike Hammer 13] by Black Alley

soldier. Either way, he volunteered. All he did was beat the paperwork.”
    Again, I got a hard stare. “And you came all the way down here to tell me where his ashes are?”
    “Only because your father left those instructions.”
    Knowingly, he asked, “What else?”
    “To find out if you could tell me any details that could have gotten him shot.”
    “You should do better than that, Mr. Hammer.” I waited and let him add the rest himself. “He was killed for a reason. He was a nobody. There wasn’t any property except his house, he didn’t have a big job, he didn’t get into any trouble, but something got him murdered. He didn’t get killed accidental-like.”
    “I think this was an accident waiting a long time to happen,” I said. “You know any of his friends at all?”
    “Nah. I never knew he had any. The only one I ever saw him around was old Harris.”
    “Who?”
    “Some old swampie they called Slipped Disk Harris.”
    “Who?”
    Velda answered me from across the room. “He was a bootlegger back in the prohibition days. They say he got his name from tossing too many cases of illegal whiskey into trucks.”
    “Now how would you know that?” I demanded.
    “I read a lot,” she told me. “Want more?”
    “Yeah,” I said, “I want more.”
    “Fine. He was very successful, always a great supplier, never got caught and became very rich. He was alleged to have been a made man, but that was never proven. However, he did have a great deal of influence with known big-time racketeers.”
    I looked at Marvin. “That sound like him?”
    Velda’s recitation had left him with a surprised expression. “Yeah,” he agreed, “that was him, all right. He holed up with the old man a couple of times when some of the guys were after his tail.”
    “Why?”
    Marvin gave a casual shrug. “What it sounded like to me was that Slipped Disk was still selling booze down in the big city, but his prices knocked the regular retailers to hell and gone.”
    “Look, you’re talking about a time long after prohibition. Hijacking went out of style when they brought the U.S. government down on them.”
    I got another shrug. “So who knows. I was only a little kid. I just remember them laughing about it.”
    “You think your father was in on it?”
    “My old man? Get outa here. He couldn’t be bothered getting into big business. All he wanted was to play it day by day. Now look what happens. He’s a handyman for mobsters and he gets gunned down like an informer. For what? Nothing, that’s what.” Marvin rubbed his hands over his face, then ran his fingers through his hair. “You want anything else?” he asked.
    “Would you give it to me if I did?”
    “Depends.”
    I handed him one of my old cards Velda had put in my pocket. “Just one thing, Marvin.”
    “Oh?”
    “Your father was killed for a reason. Whoever did it might think he entrusted information to you and—”
    “He didn’t tell me nothing! He—”
    “I know that and you know that, but the killer is up in the air so there’s a possibility that the quicker we get that guy the longer you’ll have to live. Give it a thought, Marvin.”
    I took Velda’s arm and steered her toward the door. When she reached the downstairs entrance she stopped and her hand slid under her coat. I knew she had her hand on the butt of the .38 she carried and reached out and grabbed her wrist. Darkness had settled in and we were in a strange area where security was null and patrol cars rarely cruised by.
    “Nobody followed us,” I told her.
    “Mike, you’ve been in bad shape . . .”
    “Nothing’s happened to my instincts, doll. After that bomb bit I kept my eyes open.” I stepped out onto the stoop, checked both ways and waved for Velda to come on. The car was still there, nobody had scratched it, kicked it or dented it. And the tiny bit of paper was still in the door hinge as a telltale.
    “Clean,” I said.
    “Why don’t you check under the hood