The Mike Hammer Collection (2 page)

This omnibus collects the first three Mike Hammer novels—novels that turned publishing on its ear.

So perhaps it would surprise you to know that the most recent Spillane novel, Black Alley (1996), is only the thirteenth Mike Hammer book thus far. The Hammers represent a little less than half of Spillane's novelistic output—hardly a huge body of work—and yet Spillane's sales exceed 130 million copies, leading to the popular misconception that he is a prolific writer in the vein of Erle Stanley Gardner or Stephen King. An international sensation, Spillane was at one time the fifth most translated author in the world.

Spillane's success made him—and Mike Hammer—a media star. There was a Mike Hammer radio show at the end of that medium's “golden age;” a daily comic strip (ending abruptly following criticism of a panel depicting a man torturing a captive woman); gritty movies (significantly, director Robert Aldrich's influential 1955 film noir
Kiss Me Deadly
and the 1963
The Girl Hunters,
in which Spillane starred as his famous hero—both now available on home video in glorious widescreen); and popular TV series in the 1950s and 1980-90s, starring Darren Mc-Gavin and Stacy Keach, respectively.

Along the way Spillane quit writing about Hammer, twice—in 1953, after his surprising conversion to the conservative Jehovah's Witnesses sect; and again in 1970, out of apparent boredom. Occasional movie star Spillane has become an immediately recognizable American pop-culture personality, due largely to his successful series of commercials for Miller Lite in the 1970s and 80s, in which he spoofed Hammer's tough, womanizing persona.

Always an innovative storyteller and stylist, Spillane controls the reader by the commanding presence of his central characters, via an intense yet seemingly effortless use of first-person narration. From the moment his first novel hit the paperback stands, Spillane touched the psyche and libido of the reading public and influenced the shape of adventure and mystery fiction. Raymond Chandler's Philip Marlowe, for example, did not sleep with a woman (on the printed page, at least) until Hammer had blazed that sexual trail.

As Spillane scholar James Traylor has noted, the Hammer novels revealed the darkness underneath that 1950s Norman Rockwell surface, particularly the darkness inherent in the archetypal frontier hero, of which Hammer was a modern urban extension. Mike Hammer was perhaps the first widely popular antihero: a good guy who used the methods of the bad guy in pursuit of frontier justice, a vigilante who spared the courts the trouble of a trial by executing the villain himself.

Hammer remains the most misunderstood of American “tough guy” detectives. From his first novel, Spillane has been a social historian, painting an America whose postwar world did not live up to expectations; whose returning war heroes (Audie Murphy comes to mind) were passionate, righteous, yet flawed, even disturbed. Spillane's novels have always concerned themselves with political corruption, lust for money, and such social evils as drugs and prostitution. Spillane's vision is of a postmodern America, after World War II had destroyed her innocence, when its population woke up screaming from the American dream.

It has been my privilege—getting personal, once again—not only to meet Mickey, but to get to know him. Because of my reputation as his defender, I was asked at a mystery conference in 1981 to be the liaison between guest Spillane and the staff. We spent hours talking and have since spent time at each other's homes, collaborated on several projects, and—this is still astonishing to me—are good friends. One of the most amazing things in my life—and there are any number of those—is receiving the occasional social phone call from Mickey Spillane.

The creator of Mike Hammer is my son Nathan's godfather, and is as kind and gentle a man as Mike Hammer is mean and rough; but he is, I promise you, every bit as tough as his creation. I would never cross him—and yet I know, if anyone ever did me wrong, Mickey would be there to put things right.

These three novels speak for themselves, but I will say a few words about each.

I, the Jury is perhaps the most traditional hard-boiled mystery of Spillane's career, lean and swift, with the opening sequence—in which Hammer swears vengeance—and the classic shocking closing— in which Hammer takes vengeance—the most typically Spillane aspects. But from the very start Mickey was writing fight scenes of uncompromising brutality—no one writes action sequences better—and the alluring presence of beautiful willing women keeps the novel steamy, even after all these years.

The opening of
My Gun Is Quick
(1950) is a rare passage that Spillane—who rarely discusses his craft—singles out as a favorite ... his “once upon a time” invitation to the reader to sit down and “vicariously” enjoy an extraordinary tale. What follows—in addition to hard-hitting action and sensual romance—reveals Spillane's working-class instincts, his identification with society's dregs, where a prostitute represents nobility, while the upper class stands for ... something else.

Vengeance Is Mine!
(1950) reveals Mickey at his fast-paced best, with a tricky mystery, action, sex, and perhaps the best “socko” finish of any Spillane novel. Mickey has hit his stride here, as Mike Hammer and his beloved secretary, Velda, race through a fever-dream Manhattan, and this book represents—if there is any such animal—a “typical” Spillane novel. As Frank Sinatra once said, after listening to the playback of one of his own tunes, “If you don't like that, you don't like ice cream.” Again, Spillane's pride in his craft comes through when he singles out this novel as a personal favorite because he had managed to save the surprise ending until the very last word.

For those of you meeting Mike Hammer for the first time, if any of these surprise endings do not surprise you, it's only because so many other writers (and moviemakers) have—in the intervening years—stolen them. Rarely has it been noted that Mickey's endings—with Hammer's elaborate confrontation scenes with villains, in which every twist and turn of the twisty, turny plot is revealed and explained—connect the writer with the more complicated solutions of nonhard-boiled practitioners in the Agatha Christie mode. The Spillane surprise ending is a combination of stunning revelations followed by Mike Hammer's personally rendered justice upon the villain ... always exciting, never pretty.

Yet, after all the talk is over—whether about sex or violence or more literary matters—what these books are about is friendship, about loyalty in a world where disloyalty is common currency.

Mike Hammer is about to enter the room where his best friend—a guy who gave an arm in combat to save him—has been murdered. The world's toughest private eye will shake the rain off his hat, and the ride will begin.

Hold on.

 

—Max Allan Collins
Fall 2000

 

 

Max Allan Collins
is the author of the Shamus Award—winning “Nathan Heller” historical detective novels, the most recent of which—Angel in
Black
—explores the Black Dahlia murder case. Like Spillane, Collins has written comics, notably the comic strip
Dick Tracy
and the
Batman
comic book. An independent filmmaker in his native Iowa, Collins wrote and directed the cult favorite thrillers
Mommy
(1995) and
Mommy's
Day (1997), both of which featured Mickey Spillane in rare acting roles. Collins is also the writer/director of the award-winning documentary
Mike Hammer's Mickey Spillane
(1999) and (with James L. Traylor) wrote the Edgar-nominated
One Lonely Knight: Mickey Spillane's Mike Hammer
(1984).

I,

THE JURY

CHAPTER 1

I
shook the rain from my hat and walked into the room. Nobody said a word. They stepped back politely and I could feel their eyes on me. Pat Chambers was standing by the door to the bedroom trying to steady Myrna. The girl's body was racking with dry sobs. I walked over and put my arms around her.

“Take it easy, kid,” I told her. “Come on over here and lie down.” I led her to a studio couch that was against the far wall and sat her down. She was in pretty bad shape. One of the uniformed cops put a pillow down for her and she stretched out.

Pat motioned me over to him and pointed to the bedroom. “In there, Mike,” he said.

In there. The words hit me hard. In there was my best friend lying on the floor dead. The body. Now I could call it that. Yesterday it was Jack Williams, the guy that shared the same mud bed with me through two years of warfare in the stinking slime of the jungle. Jack, the guy who said he'd give his right arm for a friend and did when he stopped a bastard of a Jap from slitting me in two. He caught the bayonet in the biceps and they amputated his arm.

Pat didn't say a word. He let me uncover the body and feel the cold face. For the first time in my life I felt like crying. “Where did he get it, Pat?”

“In the stomach. Better not look at it. The killer carved the nose off a forty-five and gave it to him low”

I threw back the sheet anyway and a curse caught in my throat. Jack was in shorts, his one hand still clutching his belly in agony. The bullet went in clean, but where it came out left a hole big enough to cram a fist into.

Very gently I pulled the sheet back and stood up. It wasn't a complicated setup. A trail of blood led from the table beside the bed to where Jack's artificial arm lay. Under him the throw rug was ruffled and twisted. He had tried to drag himself along with his one arm, but never reached what he was after.

His police positive, still in the holster, was looped over the back of the chair. That was what he wanted. With a slug in his gut he never gave up.

I pointed to the rocker, overbalanced under the weight of the .38. “Did you move the chair, Pat?”

“No, why?”

“It doesn't belong there. Don't you see?”

Pat looked puzzled. “What are you getting at?”

“That chair was over there by the bed. I've been here often enough to remember that much. After the killer shot Jack, he pulled himself toward the chair. But the killer didn't leave after the shooting. He stood here and watched him grovel on the floor in agony. Jack was after that gun, but he never reached it. He could have if the killer didn't move it. The trigger-happy bastard must have stood by the door laughing while Jack tried to make his last play. He kept pulling the chair back, inch by inch, until Jack gave up. Tormenting a guy who's been through all sorts of hell. Laughing. This was no ordinary murder, Pat. It's as cold-blooded and as deliberate as I ever saw one. I'm going to get the one that did this.”

“You dealing yourself in, Mike?”

“I'm in. What did you expect?”

“You're going to have to go easy.”

“Uh-uh. Fast, Pat. From now on it's a race. I want the killer for myself. We'll work together as usual, but in the homestretch, I'm going to pull the trigger.”

“No, Mike, it can't be that way. You know it.”

“Okay, Pat,” I told him. “You have a job to do, but so have I. Jack was about the best friend I ever had. We lived together and fought together. And by Christ, I'm not letting the killer go through the tedious process of the law. You know what happens, damn it. They get the best lawyer there is and screw up the whole thing and wind up a hero! The dead can't speak for themselves. They can't tell what happened. How could Jack tell a jury what it was like to have his insides ripped out by a dumdum? Nobody in the box would know how it felt to be dying or have your own killer laugh in your face. One arm. Hell, what does that mean? So he has the Purple Heart. But did they ever try dragging themselves across a floor to a gun with that one arm, their insides filling up with blood, so goddamn mad to be shot they'd do anything to reach the killer. No, damn it. A jury is cold and impartial like they're supposed to be, while some snotty lawyer makes them pour tears as he tells how his client was insane at the moment or had to shoot in self-defense. Swell. The law is fine. But this time I'm the law and I'm not going to be cold and impartial. I'm going to remember all those things.”

I reached out and grabbed the lapels of his coat. “And something more, Pat. I want you to hear every word I say. I want you to tell it to everyone you know. And when you tell it, tell it strong, because I mean every word of it. There are ten thousand mugs that hate me and you know it. They hate me because if they mess with me I shoot their damn heads off. I've done it and I'll do it again.”

There was so much hate welled up inside me I was ready to blow up, but I turned and looked down at what was once Jack. Right then I felt like saying a prayer, but I was too mad.

“Jack, you're dead now. You can't hear me any more. Maybe you can. I hope so. I want you to hear what I'm about to say. You've known me a long time, Jack. My word is good just as long as I live. I'm going to get the louse that killed you. He won't sit in the chair. He won't hang. He will die exactly as you died, with a .45 slug in the gut, just a little below the belly button. No matter who it is, Jack, I'll get the one. Remember, no matter who it is, I promise.”

When I looked up, Pat was staring at me strangely. He shook his head. I knew what he was thinking. “Mike, lay off. For God's sake don't go off half-cocked about this. I know you too well. You'll start shooting up anyone connected with this and get in a jam you'll never get out of.”

“I'm over it now, Pat. Don't get excited. From now on I'm after one thing, the killer. You're a cop, Pat. You're tied down by rules and regulations. There's someone over you. I'm alone. I can slap someone in the puss and they can't do a damn thing. No one can kick me out of my job. Maybe there's nobody to put up a huge fuss if I get gunned down, but then I still have a private cop's license with the privilege to pack a rod, and they're afraid of me. I hate hard, Pat. When I latch on to the one behind this they're going to wish they hadn't started it. Some day, before long, I'm going to have my rod in my mitt and the killer in front of me. I'm going to watch the killer's face. I'm going to plunk one right in his gut, and when he's dying on the floor I may kick his teeth out.