The Deep by Mickey Spillane Read Free Book Online Page B

and she’d never forgive herself. Come on, Irish.”
    â€œIt would be better if you stayed,” Lenny told her.
    She shook her head, her eyes cold and serious. “I’m sorry, Lenny. He’s right. I want to be there when it happens.” She picked up her purse and shrugged her magnificent shoulders into her coat, then stepped ahead of me to the aisle.
    Behind us Lenny laughed with genuine humor, a soft, furry kind of laugh.
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    Outside the rain had started again and the taxis cruising past all had the flag down. I took Helen’s arm and edged along the buildings out of the wet and started walking toward Sixth Avenue. We crossed over, headed south until we reached Martin’s and went in out of the drizzle.
    There wasn’t anybody in the place except the bartender, a thin, graying man with Broadway-wise eyes who nodded hello, brought out two coffees on order and withdrew to the end of the bar to watch TV.
    I spread my change on the bar, picked out the dimes and told Helen to hold tight. Her answer was the same cool stare of disgust, with her face mirroring the anticipation she knew would be realized.
    My three calls took as many minutes and when I went back to the bar I finished my coffee. When I put the cup down she said, “Where away now, big man?”
    I said, “Did you ever make bread?”
    Her eyes caught mine in the back bar mirror. “A long time ago.”
    â€œRemember how yeast worked?”
    Only her eyes were visible over her cup and they seemed to take on an upward slant. She nodded without speaking, finished her coffee and called to the bartender for a refill.
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    The guy who came in had little mouse eyes and a limp mustachio. The peak cap was a throwaway and a little too big and his pants and coat were alley stained and smelled sourly of sweat and garbage.
    I said, “Hello, Pedro,” then waved to the bar stool next to me. “You want a drink?”
    â€œNo. No drink.”
    â€œMoney?”
    â€œNo. I want nothing from you, I just come here. What you want?”
    â€œSit here.”
    â€œI don’t sit.”
    I reached out, lifted him by the arm and sat him on the bar stool. “You sit,” I said. When I looked at Helen the lushness had left her mouth and she was hating me again. I grinned at her. “He’s the kind of people you like, Irish? He’s the kind you use your influence to protect?”
    â€œKeep going, Deep. You’re doing great.”
    â€œThanks, baby. I’ll keep on trying. I want you to be overjoyed when I get killed. Our friend Pedro here is an important man in the scheme of things. That right, Pedro?”
    â€œI don’t know how you talk.” He held his hands bunched into fists close to his belly.
    â€œWhat are you doing to him, Deep?”
    I shrugged noncommittally. “Nothing. It’s just that Pedro is going to tell me a story. You know the one, Pedro?”
    He shook his head nervously.
    â€œSo I’ll clue you, Pedro. I want to hear about how you found Bennett when he was killed.”
    Helen’s cup stopped halfway to her mouth. Pedro’s hand began to twitch so hard he had to hold it with the other. He shot a quick glance toward the door and when I shook my head his eyes rolled piteously and he seemed to shrink down inside his clothes.
    â€œI ...”
    â€œGo on, Pedro.”
    â€œI don’t know this thing you are saying. I don’t know ...”
    â€œOkay, man. Then we stop playing. Suppose I put it this way. Feel in your left-hand pocket.”
    Instinctively his hand dropped to his side, felt the contents of his coat and in that one second he got the picture and tried to jerk away. I grabbed his arms, made him hold the edge of the bar and watched him while he shook.
    Helen said, “What happened to him?”
    I grinned nastily so Pedro could see it. “Nothing special. I just put our buddy in the path of law and order. He’s a