While most young people won’t recognize the name, Mickey Spillane, many will know of his famous character, Mike Hammer, private eye.
Mickey was an American icon and, contrary to his rough, tough image, a modest, pleasant, kind, and generous man.
He lived to be 88 years old and died in 2006. He grew up in Brooklyn , New York New Jersey
I met and came to know Mickey several months before his death in July of ’06. A mutual friend approached him and told him that one of the women he worked with was married to a former criminal prosecutor and was now a writer of crime novels. Mickey said he always enjoyed talking with former law enforcement types, especially writers. Subsequently, we met at a restaurant in Murrells Inlet, about six miles from my home.
Mickey and I spent over three hours sitting there talking about all the things we had in common. We both had played a little football. He was a pilot; I had been a student pilot, though was never licensed. He was a parachutist, as was I. He was a writer, and though not in his class, so am I.
At the end of our meeting he invited me to visit him at his home at any time. I visited him several times and we talked about writing and the things we liked. He was a fierce patriot.
We often sat in the office in his house. It was a medium sized room with floor to ceiling bookshelves all around. On his desk sat an old Corona Corona
He lived in the same place, in Murrells Inlet for 54 years. His house was on stilts near the water. I noticed that under his house sat a car covered with a tarp. I asked him about it and he told me that while he was in Hollywood Wayne
Walking out of his home one morning shortly after his return, he saw a brand new white Jaguar ragtop with a red ribbon wrapped around it with a note attached from John Wayne thanking him for the help he gave on the screenplay. He told me he drove it one time and then parked it under his house.
Mickey told me that he had sold over 147 million books and didn’t really enjoy writing all that much. I recently read on the Internet that the number was actually 225 million. I can’t explain the difference, but he told me 147. Either way, that’s a lot of books … and a lot of money.
I asked him one day, “Mickey, what was the shortest time it ever took you to write a book?” He replied that it was nine days and he did that several times. Nine days? Hell, it takes me that long to come up with a title.
Very near the date of his death he learned that he had pancreatic cancer. He spent some time in the hospital and when he came home, I went to see him. He was lying on a divan in his office covered with a blanket. He looked bad. He actually apologized to me for not being able to go out to sit on the porch. Here’s a guy dying of cancer and apologizing to me. After about half an hour I realized that he was tired, so I excused myself saying that I’d be back when he was feeling better.
The following week my wife and I were down at the Inlet Square Mall. I bought a get well card, and a small gift--one of those porcelain figurines with an eagle flying over a mountain draped with the American flag.
When I met up with my wife to leave, she was wearing a long face. I asked her what was wrong and she said, “I have bad news. Mickey died this morning.” It was a sad day for me, as I’m sure it was for everyone who knew him.
I kept the gift and it still sits on top of one of my bookcases. One other possession I hold dear is the photo taken of the two of us sitting at a table in the restaurant where we first met. I put it on my website. He looks old, but almost anyone who knows how he looked in his earlier years would recognize him.
He was a terrific guy. We were friends, and I believe given more time, we would have become good friends. I won’t forget him.
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