It's in the Book
By Mickey Spillane and Max Allan Collins
3.5/5
()
About this ebook
For years, cops have whispered legends that Don Nicholas Giraldi, the gentleman godfather, kept a ledger going back decades, keeping track of every police officer, mogul, and politician who took even a cent of his dirty money. Finding the register would put mayors, senators, and even a president or two on the hook for prosecution—or blackmail. When old Nic finally kicks the bucket, one such official comes to Mike Hammer and begs him to find the book before it falls into the wrong hands.
Mike has never believed the stories of the old don’s journal, but for $10,000, he is happy to play along. Every hood in town wants to get his hands on the book, and finding it will mean pushing to the very heart of Nic’s family. No matter how many years may have passed, Mike Hammer can still push harder.
The Bibliomysteries are a series of short tales about deadly books, by top mystery authors.
Mickey Spillane
Mickey Spillane published his first novel, I, the Jury, in 1947. Since then his books have sold more than 140 million copies, and his private eye character Mike Hammer has become a household name. A Grand Master of the Mystery Writers of America, Spillane lived, fished, and found that writing just kept coming back to find him in Murrells Inlet, South Carolina. Mickey Spillane died July 17, 2006.
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Reviews for It's in the Book
9 ratings1 review
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Mike Hammer finds himself being approached by multiple representatives about an infamous ledger. The recent death of Mafia Don Giraldi, who Hammer did jobs for now and then, has left everyone scrambling to find the legendary ledger that the old man had filled with every murder, pay-out and exploit. Hammer isn't convinced the book really exists, but he doesn't mind telling everyone he'll look for it in exchange for cash.This is part of The Mysterious Bookshop series. At just 65 pages, it's a novella or long short story. The manuscript was begun by Spillane, then finished by Collins, who explains that it seems that Spillane was working on it in the 80's, so that's when Collins set it. It's a tidy little story, one that seems pretty tame aside from some language, and then a sudden burst of gunfire and case closed.
Book preview
It's in the Book - Mickey Spillane
Co-author’s note: It’s unclear when Mickey began this story, which I have developed from an unfinished typescript, but internal evidence suggests the 1980s, so I have made that the time period of the tale. M.A.C.
COPS ALWAYS COME IN TWOS. One will knock on the door, but a pair will come in, a duet on hand in case you get rowdy. One uniform drives the squad car, the other answers the radio. One plain-clothes dick asks the questions, the other takes the notes. Sometimes I think the only time they go solo is to the dentist. Or to bed. Or to kill themselves.
I went out into the outer office where a client had been waiting for ten minutes for me to wrap up a phone call. I nodded to him, but the six-footer was already on his feet, brown shoes, brown suit, brown eyes, brown hair. It was a relief his name wasn’t Brown.
I said, I can see you now, Mr. Hanson.
At her reception desk to one side of my inner-office door, Velda—a raven-haired vision in a white blouse and black skirt—was giving me a faintly amused look that said she had made him, too.
Mr. Hanson nodded back. There was no nervous smile, no anxiety in his manner at all. Generally, anybody needing a private investigator is not at ease. When I walked toward him, he extended a hand for me to shake, but I moved right past, going to the door and pulling it open.
His partner was standing with his back to the wall, like a sentry, hands clasped behind his back. He was a little smaller than Hanson, wearing a different shade of brown, going wild with a tie of yellow and white stripes. Of course, he was younger, maybe thirty, where his partner was pushing forty.
Why don’t you come in and join your buddy,
I said, and made an after-you gesture.
This one didn’t smile either. He simply gave me a long look and, without nodding or saying a word, stepped inside and stood beside Hanson, like they were sharing the wrong end of a firing squad.
Something was tickling one corner of Velda’s pretty mouth as I closed the door and marched the cops into my private office.
I got behind my desk and waved at the client’s chairs, inviting them to sit down. But cops don’t like invitations and they stayed on their feet.
Rocking back, I said, You fellas aren’t flashing any warrants, meaning this isn’t a search party or an arrest. So have a seat.
Reluctantly, they did.
Hanson’s partner, who looked like his feelings had been hurt, said, How’d you make us?
I don’t know how to give enigmatic looks, so I said, Come off it.
We could be businessmen.
Businessmen don’t wear guns on their hips, or if they do, they could afford a suit tailored for it. You’re too clean-cut to be hoods, but not enough to be feds. You’re either NYPD or visiting badges from Jersey.
This time they looked at each other and Hanson shrugged. Why fight it? They were cops with a job to do; this was nothing personal. He casually reached in a side suit coat pocket and flicked a folded hundred-dollar bill onto the desk as if leaving a generous tip.
Okay,
I said. You have my attention.
We want to hire you.
The way he hated saying it made it tough for me to keep a straight face. Who is we?
You said it before,
Hanson said. NYPD.
He almost choked, getting that out.