Mickey Spillane - [Mike Hammer 13] by Black Alley

looking at me as if I were the biggest liar in the world and she was about to expose me to the world. Before she could, I pulled the shirt out of my pants and lifted it up, my fingers going under the bandage I had lightly taped down, and when I leaned back in my chair she got a good look at the scarred, ugly mess on my belly that was still runny with a pinkish discharge and dotted with tiny stitch marks that held it all together. Right now, it needed a lot of taking care of, but it looked worse than it was, disgusting enough to make the lady DA’s face contort with a spasm as her guts churned and she damn near vomited on her own feet. It didn’t bother the other three. They all leaned forward in curiosity, like they were appreciating some artwork.
    I put my shirt back and I thought she was going to thank me.
    She had only lost her composure momentarily. As if nothing happened, she asked, “Who took care of that wound?”
    Again, the shrug. “I didn’t gain consciousness for over a week.”
    “You knew where you were?”
    “Uh-huh. In a medical facility somewhere. I really didn’t care.”
    “Who attended you?”
    “I knew it was a male. He wasn’t young, at least that was my impression.”
    “You do have a bill for services.”
    “No. I will probably get one. I said probably. Somebody could have taken care of me out of the goodness of his heart.”
    “And probably not,” she said, then added, “At least none that I know.”
    “What difference does it make?”
    “He could be a witness to a murder.”
    “Whose?”
    “The man who shot you.”
    “Lady, I don’t know who that was.” I lied, but there was no way she could prove it. “Besides, I don’t have the slugs that got me.”
    “The doctor should. A legitimate doctor wouldn’t destroy evidence like that.”
    I didn’t back off. “He could have been a vet, ma’am, or a medical student. Or maybe some old retired guy who decided to keep his hand in but was a little shook up about what had happened.” At least I was closer to the truth there. “I already told you, I was out of it. I was moved down to Florida into something like a rental beach house. Most of the time I was sedated. I was alone for a long while, just healing up.”
    “What made you come back?”
    Another white lie. “I read The Daily News somebody had dropped near the house. A good friend of mine had been murdered. We had been in the army together and I wanted to go to the funeral.”
    “Who was the person?” she asked me.
    “Marcos Dooley.” Her assistant wrote the name down. Later he would check it out.
    For half a minute it was quiet. Nobody spoke and she never took her eyes off me. She retracted the tip of the ballpoint pen she kept in her fingers for effect, then said, “You know, of course, we could take you downtown and hammer all this out in great detail.”
    I nodded. “Sure, I know that, but I wouldn’t tell you anything more or different. Besides . . .” and I gave her a big grin again, “with all those cameras doing the local color out there and ready to catch all the action they can get, I don’t think it would be a good idea, do you?”
    She forced a smile and stood up. The rest of the coterie was on its feet immediately. “I didn’t know this was going to be a press conference, Mr. Hammer,” she said. “The next time we’ll make it more private.”
    You didn’t have to spell it out for the newssharks. They got the picture right away. When the door opened the buzz of conversation died down and the little tight-lipped smiles began. A couple of floodlights went on and their cameras turned, but it was for file copy only unless something really big came out of my return.
    When I went out there it wasn’t like that at all and we had a swinging press conference. I told them nothing different or new, but laid it on the way an audience would enjoy it. They got twelve minutes on tape before I ran out of steam and my belly started to hurt again. It showed in my