Микки Спиллейн (Mickey Spillane)Chapter One
I came out of the cellarway to the street corner and stood there while the rain bit into my face. It was cold and wind-whipped, but it was good. It had a fresh, clean smell, and the rivulets that ran down into my collar had a living feel about them.
Behind me the little guy in the substreet doorway said, “See you,” and threw a friendly wave.
I winked at him. “Thanks, Mutt.”
“Sure, anytime,” he said, and slipped the door shut.
Across the street a cab disgorged a passenger, and when I whistled the driver fingered an okay sign, swept around in a screaming U turn, opened the door for me and took off again in a seemingly single operation.
The crowd was coming out of the Criminal Courts Building now, the photogs in front holding their cameras under their coats while they yelled and waved to the press cars at the curb to look awake. Behind them were the vultures who made the spectator’s seats home, and from their outraged clacking you could sense that they were annoyed at not having something to feed on.
The cabbie looked forward to take it all in, then half turned his head to ask over his shoulder, “You been at the trial, Mac?”
I leaned back against the cushions and stared at the ceiling. “I was there,” I said.
“He gonna sit in it?”
“Not this time.” I cranked the window all the way down to smell the fresh air again. “Take me to Sixth and Forty-ninth.”
Ahead the cabbie seemed to stretch up to meet my eyes in his rear-view mirror and when he spoke his voice was almost out of control.
“What!”
“Sixth and Forty-ninth,” I repeated.
Unbelievingly, the driver shook his head. “No... I mean about the trial. What’d you say?”
“You heard me.”
“Yeah, but what’d he do... cop a plea? Or did they knock it down to second degree?”
“Nothing like that at all, friend.”
The cabbie stretched again, trying to make contact with my eyes, but it was too dark and the mirror too small. He fidgeted, then: “Well, come on, Mac, what gives? All you’ve been hearing this last week is that trial. Papers. Radio. TV. Everybody I pick up hashes it over. So what happens. He escape or something?”
I waited a second before I said quietly, “You might call it that.”
“Brother!” There was a degree of awe in his voice.
I said, “The jury turned in a not guilty verdict.”