Farewell to Mickey Spillane
Dr. X posts this from the drive-by window at Three-Fingered Mickey's:
"The cops aren't exactly dumb, you know. We can get our own answers."
"Not like I can. That's why you buzzed me so fast. You can figure things out as quickly as I can, but you haven't got the ways and means of doing the dirty work. That's where I come in. You'll be right behind me every inch of the way, but when the pinch comes I'll get shoved aside and you slap the cuffs on. That is, if you can shove me aside. I don't think you can."
"Okay, Mike, call it your own way. I want you in all right. But I want the killer, too. Don't forget that. I'll be trying to beat you to him. We have scientific facility at our disposal and a lot of men to do the leg work. We're not short in brains, either," he reminded me.
"Don't worry, I don't underrate the cops. But cops can't break a guy's arm to make him talk, and they can't shove his teeth in with the muzzle of a .45 to remind him that you aren't fooling. I do my own leg work, and there are a lot of guys who will tell me what I want to know because they know what I'll do to them if they don't. My staff is strictly ex officio, but very practical."
posted by Latouche at Large at 5:10 PM
1 Comments:
And there was Spillane, dead, dead like a ghost ham, dead like a sack of rat skulls, deader than a Reggae mixer night at the KKK hall. Death picked him up by the throat and slapped him around till his brain went out like Capone's mol on Rockfeller's dime on Saturday night in Manhattan, and left him in Hell's gutter where the other dead were, which was a lot, and they were all lying around like that.
And still, he didn't talk.
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