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By Mickey Spillane, Max Allan Collins

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We were in the nowhere zone of a street that had died and hadn't been buried yet. Somehow, nobody had broken the antiquated street lamps yet and a pale yellow blob of light seemed to droop away from the poles. " I asked. "Just cutting around some road maintenance. " I gripped his sleeve. " He laid on the brakes. "Go back," I said tightly. " He shifted into reverse, gassed the car backward till I told him to stop, then I jumped out and ran to the sidewalk. Behind me, his sedan squealed into a tight turn, then ran up to the curb with the headlights shining like twin theatrical spots on the body sprawled on the concrete.

These cops may have shared a strange little ritual, preparing their friend for the boneyard; but those guys weren't playing. Death was part of every cop's life, whether you bought it on the street or survived into an old age haunted by nightmares or ate the muzzle of your gun as a rookie who couldn't take it or an old soldier who wanted to one-up the Big C. The guests had started to clear out. The photogs were first, hurrying to get their pictures into the labs, then the police. Pat and I walked Alex Jaynor to the door—he seemed moved by the simple, if odd ceremony.

Damn. 38 revolver. " I looked up at him quizzically. " "There are exceptions. " "Sure. Doc did a paraffin test on him right there. He fired the gun, all right. Powder and flash burns right on his shirt. No unusual angle to the bullet entry. It would be easy enough to do. We even have a time for the shot. A little old lady heard it. She didn't know what it was at first, but got pretty damn suspicious. " "Uh-huh. And she placed the time right on the nose. E. " Pat knew what I was going to ask next and beat me to it: "The door was locked.

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