Mickey Spillane’s If You Give a Mouse a Cookie:
I was in my grimy oven-box of an office on the 15th floor of the Flatiron with the Anvil Chorus playing an encore in my head. I’d engaged their services at O’Grady’s the night before, with the friendly bartender happy to act as conductor. The sudden scratching noise of somebody trying and failing to sneak around the blurred edge of my awareness put the .45 in my hand. I liked its reassuring wrecking-ball weight and snapped back the hammer with the sharp click of an bank vault opening on foreclosure day.
“I don’t wan’no trouble!” squeaked the intruder. I narrowed my gaze on his beady eyes and pointy nose over a mess of unshaven whiskers.
“Well, everybody wants something,” I muttered, more gravel in my voice than an underworked quarry.
“I, uh, t’ought… maybe a cookie?”
I closed my eyes briefly as the anvils crashed. “There was a guy named Fritz who wanted a cookie from me in the Ardennes. He ended up dancing a Schuhplattler on the end of my bayonet. I got a medal for that, which I traded for a double bourbon the day I got back to the States.” I put the automatic down, letting it rest on my desk while still pointed at the intruder, its barrel yawning at him like every bored V-girl he’d tried to make in his entire miserable 4F life. I traded the wrecking ball for the reassuring cold curve of my reserve bottle and took a drink to quiet the chorus and send them on their way, positive review promised for tomorrow’s Herald Tribune.