"Spillane, Mickey - Mike Hammer 11 - Survival . . . Zero! 1.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Spillane Mickey)

messy, newspaper-type murder and both sides would love to make me a target. I'd
been in everybody's hair just too damn long, I guess.
When I turned around the fat guy was sweating. The empty beer can had joined the
others on the table beside him.
"Who's ... the stiff?"
"A tenant named Lippy Sullivan."
"Who'd want to kill him?"
I shoved my hat back and walked over to where he was sitting and let him look at
the funny grin I knew I was wearing. "He have anybody in with him tonight?"
"Listen, Mister . .."
"Just answer me."
"I didn't hear nothin'."
"How long you been here?" I said.
"All night. I been sitting here all night and I didn't hear nothin'."
I let the grin go a little bigger and the grin wasn't pretty at all. "You better
be right," I told him. "Now sit here some more and think about things and maybe
something might come back to you."
He gave me a jerky nod, reached for another beer and watched me leave. I went
back to Lippy's room, nudged the door open and stepped inside again. Somebody
was going to give me hell for not calling an ambulance, but I had seen too many
dead men to be bothered taking a call away from somebody who might really need
it.
Death was having a peculiar effect on the body. In just a few minutes it had
released the premature aging and all the worry had relaxed from his face. I said
softly, "Adios, Lippy," then took a good look at the room. Not that there was
much to see. There were hundreds more just like it in the neighborhood, cheap
one-room fleabags with a bed, some assorted pieces of furniture and a two-burner
gas range on top of a secondhand dresser in one corner. The only thing that
looked new was an inexpensive daybed against the far wall and from the way the
mattress sagged on the brass four-poster I could see why he'd needed it.
I used a handkerchief, pulled out the dresser drawers, and fingered through the
odds and ends that made up Lippy's wardrobe. Nothing was neat or orderly, but
that was Lippy, all right. Just another guy alone who didn't give a damn about
having ironed socks and shorts. The closet held a single wrinkled suit, some
work clothes carelessly tossed onto hooks, two pairs of worn shoes and an old
Army raincoat. I patted the pockets down. One pair of pants held three singles
and a lunch ticket. There was nothing else.
Outside I heard the whine of a siren coming closer, then cut out when the squad
car reached the building. I went over and elbowed the door open. Two uniformed
cops came in properly geared for action. I said, "Over here." Another car pulled
up and I heard a door slam. Pat hadn't wasted any time.
The lab technicians had dusted, photographed and taken the body away. All that
was left of Lippy was a chalked outline on the floor beside the sticky damp
sawdust that had soaked up his blood. I walked over and sat on the couch and
waited until Pat slumped wearily into a chair that looked as tired as he was.
Finally Pat said, "You ready now, Mike?"
I nodded.
"Want me to take notes?" Pat asked.
"You'll get the report in the morning. Let's make it real official."
"We'd better. I know people who'd like to burn your ass for anything at all.