Mickey Spillane - [Mike Hammer]

by The Killing Man [lit]

  3 Burke had wanted Velda to stay quiet as long as possible, so I didnÒt get to the hospital until eight. We had coffee in the lounge and I asked him how she was progressing. ÓShe was lucky. You canÒt imagine how lucky. She was probably on the phone and tossed her hair all to one side while she was talking×Ó ÓA habit she has,Ô I interrupted. ÓAnyway, sheÒs awake and sedated.Ô ÓDid she say anything to you?Ô He popped five spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee and stirred it around. ÓSweet tooth,Ô he explained. ÓNo, she said nothing except hello and the usual ÑWhere am I?Ò but sheÒs pretty aware of whatÒs going on.Ô ÓCan I talk to her?Ô ÓGently, Mike, gently, and not for long. Nothing exciting.Ô ÓHow long will she be here?Ô ÓAt least two more days. If that was just a simple knockout-type blow she would be home by now, but somebody tried to kill her.Ô I told him thanks and didnÒt bother to finish the coffee. I could see why Burke used all that sugar. Pat had called ahead, and the cop at the door looked at my ID and let me in. The room was in deep gloom, only a small night-light on the wall making it possible to see the outlines of the bed and equipment. When the door snicked shut I picked up the straightbacked chair by the sink, went to the bed and sat down beside her. Little by little I started to bunch up again, my hands squeezing the rails of the bed. My lips were stretched across my mouth and I wanted to hurt something or tear somebody apart. He should have told me. He never should have let me come in cold and see her like this. Velda. Beautiful, gorgeous Velda. Those deep brown eyes and that full, full mouth. Shimmering auburn hair that fell in a page-boy around her shoulders. Now her face was a bloated black-and-blue mask on one side, one eye totally closed under the bulbous swelling, the other a flat slit. Her hair was gone around the bandaged area and her upper lip was twice normal size. I put my hand over hers and whispered, ÓDamn it, kitten ...Ô Then her wrist moved and her fingers squeezed mine gently. ÓAre you ... all right?Ô she asked me softly. ÓIÒm fine, honey, IÒm okay. Now donÒt talk. Just take it easy. All I want is to be here with you. ThatÒs enough.Ô So I just sat there and in a minute she said, ÓI can ... listen, Mike. Please tell me ... what happened.Ô I played it back to her without building it up at all. I didnÒt tell her the details of the kill and hinted that it was strictly the work of a nut, but she knew better. Under my fingers I could feel her pulse. It was steady. Her hand squeezed mine again. ÓHe came in ... very fast. He had one hand over his face Å and he was . .. swinging at me Å with the other. I ... never saw his face at all.Ô Remem-bering it hadnÒt excited her. The pulse rate hadnÒt changed. I said, ÓOkay, honey, thatÒs enough. YouÒre supposed to take it real easy awhile.Ô But she insisted. ÓMike ...Ô ÓWhat, kitten?Ô ÓIf the police ... ask questions ÅÔ I knew what she was thinking. In her mind she had already put it on a case basis and filed it for immediate activity. There was no way she could be foxed into believing the story of a psycho on the loose. We had been too close too long and now she was reading my mind. She wanted me to have more space to work in, even if she had to be a target herself. ÓPlay sick,Ô I said. Until she made a statement, everything was up in the air. She was still alive, so there was a possibility that she could have seen the killer. He couldnÒt afford any witness at all, but if he tried to erase her heÒd be a sitting duck himself. From here on, there would be a solid cover on the hospital room. The killer was going to sweat a little more now. I thought I saw the good corner of her mouth twitch in a faint smile and again I got the small finger squeeze. ÓBe careful,Ô she said. Her voice was barely audible and she was slipping back into a sleep once more. ÓI want ... you back.Ô Her fingers loosened and her hand slipped out of mine. She didnÒt hear me when I said, ÓI want you back too, baby.Ô Outside the door the cop said, ÓHow is she?Ô ÓMaking it.Ô He was a young cop, this one. He still had that determined look. He had the freshness of youth, but his eyes told me he had seen plenty of street work since he left the academy. ÓDid Captain Chambers tell you what this was about?Ô I asked. ÓOnly that it was heavy. The rest I got through the grapevine.Ô ÓItÒs going to get rougher,Ô I said. ÓDonÒt play down what youÒre doing.Ô He grinned at me. ÓDonÒt worry, Mike, IÒm not jaded yet.Ô ÓWay to go, kiddo.Ô ÓBy the way ...Ô ÓWhatÒs that?Ô ÓHow come you never locked into the department?Ô ÓKing Arthur wouldnÒt let me go.Ô ÓThatÒs right,Ô he laughed. ÓI forgot, youÒre the Black Knight.Ô ÓTake care of my girl in there, will you?Ô His face suddenly went serious. ÓYou got it, Mike.Ô Downstairs another shift was coming on, fresh faces in white uniforms replacing the worn-out platoon that had gone through a rough offensive on the day watch. The interns looked too young to be doctors, but they already had the wear and tear of the profession etched into them. One had almost made it to the door when the hidden PA speaker brought him up short, and with an expression of total fatigue, he shrugged and went back inside. I cut around the little groups and pushed my way through the outside door. The rain had stopped, but the night was clammy, muting the street sounds and diffusing the lights of the buildings. Nights like this stunk. There were no incoming taxis and it was a two-block walk to where they might cruise by. There was no other choice, so I went down the steps to the street. Behind me two interns were debating waiting for a nurse who had a car, then decided they were too tired to wait and followed me, taking the other side of the street. At night this area was solid bumper-to-bumper parked cars, wedged so tightly together you wanted to see how they came unstuck in the morning. A smart one had a two-foot space in front of him with his wheels cranked hard away from the curb so he couldnÒt be pushed up, and I walked right past it like a Jersey tourist before I knew it didnÒt fit and the slight metallic creak of a door was wrong and everything exploded at once. Ducking and twisting was automatic and something whispered by over my head. Then a pair of bodies were on me, fists smashing at my kidneys and bouncing off my neck. I rammed my elbow back and felt teeth go under it and the back of my head mashed the guyÒs nose who was holding me. I was off balance and before I could use my feet another flying pair of arms nailed my legs together in a crude tackle and we all hit the pavement with me on the bottom. My .45 was still tight in the shoulder holster and I felt a hand going under my coat and yanking it clear. It wasnÒt a mugging. I felt the needle go into my hip and within seconds the drowsiness started. Somebody was cursing and spitting blood behind me, and when I had no strength left the restraining arms fell away and I heard a voice saying he wanted to kick my brains out for breaking his nose. It wasnÒt dream time. There were faraway sounds and feelings of being in motion. I could hear voices, but didnÒt know what they were saying. And it was black. I felt tired and wanted to sleep, but I was in a limbo all alone. Time itself had no meaning. Its passage I could record by the throbbing where my body hurt, but no other way. So I just let it all happen, thinking of what a damned sucker I had been for letting myself get trapped. I said, ÓShit,Ô and my ears heard it and I let my eyes slide open and lifted my head up. Somebody said, ÓHeÒs awake.Ô There was barely any light and it came from a small open bulb thirty feet away. I was tied to a chair, my arms and legs snug to it and two turns of rope holding me tight against the back. There was no sense wasting any strength thrashing around. Pros had done this job and I could barely make out the form of one of them in front of me, his face an indistinguishable pale orb. There was another behind me and he wasnÒt breathing right. He kept swearing under his breath and spitting on the floor. A hand came out of the darkness and tilted my head back. The beam of a small flashlight swept across my eyes and the voice said, ÓItÒs all worn off. HeÒs wide awake.Ô It was an accented voice, but nothing I could place. The other one sounded like he had a bad cold, his words whispery deep with a rasp to it. He moved in closer, but I still couldnÒt make out his face. ÓTell us about Penta,Ô he said. Sometimes you have to mouth off. I told him, ÓUp yours.Ô His hand came around and there was no way I could move. It was a flat-handed slap with a hell of a lot of meat behind it and I could taste blood in my mouth. ÓOne more time, Hammer.Ô ÓAsshole,Ô I said. The hand got me again, harder than before. My ear was ringing so ba
dly I hardly heard the other voice say, ÓKnock if off. We havenÒt got time for this.Ô ÓYou just let me ...Ô ÓDamn it, youÒre not playing with some patsy. HeÒs been through the rough stuff before. Give him the sodium Pentothal.Ô I thought now somebody would come in close enough for me to get a good look at them, but an oily smelling towel was tossed over my head, then somebody pulled my sleeve back. I felt the cold touch of an alcohol swab, then a needle went into my forearm. Again, reality drifted away. It took all my defenses with it and I could hear and speak and even see light through the worn towel. A little part of my brain told me if I fought real hard I could lie right through the truth serum, but then, why bother lying when telling the truth was so much fun? ÓWho is Penta?Ô ÓI donÒt know.Ô ÓWhere is Penta now?Ô ÓI donÒt know.Ô ÓWhen did you meet Penta?Ô ÓI never met Penta.Ô ÓWho is Penta?Ô ÓI donÒt know.Ô The first voice said, ÓLetÒs increase the dosage.Ô I felt the needle again. There was another long pause before the questions started. I gave them the same answers. It was almost a pleasure to be able to do it. Another needle, and this time they waited almost too long. The sleep was coming on me. The voice said, ÓI am Penta.Ô Only my brain made an idiotic grin. If I said he wasnÒt, it would mean I knew Penta. My tongue said, ÓGood for you.Ô ÓDo you work for Penta?Ô They were trying it again. ÓI work ... by myself.Ô The words didnÒt come out easily at all. The raspy one said, ÓHeÒs going.Ô ÓWell, thatÒs it,Ô his partner told him. ÓYou think he was faking it?Ô ÓI donÒt know how he could.Ô Sounds were too faint now to register and I felt myself being jostled around, then the sleep came and the strange, fuzzy chemical dreams that had no direction or substance, shooting off into one area after another like a firefight pat-tern of tracer bullets gone wild. Awakening was in slow motion, one part at a time. I stayed immobile until I had things back in focus again, trying to remember what had preceded the odd stupor I was in. Then the mental door unlatched and it was all there, not totally clear, but discernible enough. The ropes holding me in the chair had been loosened, with just enough tension there to keep me from falling off the chair. I shook them loose, then leaned forward and stood up. I was shaky, so I didnÒt move for a minute. No drugs were lousing me up now and I could see better in the light from that dull bulb than I could before. I was in some kind of a garage, the oil and grease smell thick, dull forms of heavy machinery on either side of me. On the floor, in front of my feet, was my hat. Next to it was my .45. Bending down was easy. Getting back up wasnÒt. I put the .45 back in the holster and straightened out my hat. No, that wasnÒt a mugging. That was as far away from a mugging as you could get. I still had my money in my wallet and when I looked at my watch it read four fifteen. A wide sliding door was on the other side of the light with a normal door built into it. I twisted the lock, pulled on the knob and went out to the street. A sign over the door read SMILEYÒS AUTOMOTIVE in old hand-painted letters. I walked to the corner slowly, saw where I was, then crossed the street and went another long block to where the lights were, waited a good five minutes, then flagged down a taxi. The driverÒs eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. ÓYou okay, mac?Ô I nodded. ÓYeah, just been one of those nights.Ô I gave him my address and closed my eyes. Pat looked at me with total disgust and jammed his hands in his pockets. ÓMike, what kind of clown crap you call this? You let ten hours go by before you give me the story of what happened. You think we wouldnÒt have responded right away?Ô ÓThey were pros.Ô ÓPros can leave marks behind,Ô he reminded me. ÓWhat did you find?Ô ÓOkay, nothing of importance. The chair, ropes. Somebody spit blood on the floor. Type O positive.Ô ÓAnd thatÒs half the population,Ô I said. ÓAt least thereÒs somebody with some teeth out of whack and another dude with a busted nose probably sporting a pair of beautiful black eyes right now. You get anything more from the owner?Ô ÓZilch, thatÒs what, SmileyÒs place has been in that spot for over twenty years. During the slow season he shuts down and heads for the tracks. Playing the ponies is his one vice.Ô ÓThatÒs not a great area to leave a business alone, buddy.Ô ÓWhatÒs he got to steal? A couple of hydraulic presses for straightening car frames? WhatÒre you getting at anyway?Ô ÓThe guys who had me knew the place would be empty.Ô ÓHell, there were two other places down the street that were empty too.Ô He stopped and breathed in deeply. ÓMaybe weÒll get lucky and find a broken nose or de-toothed slob who has grease marks on his shoe soles we can identify.Ô ÓDonÒt bother. They would have thought of that too.Ô ÓWhy didnÒt you answer your phone?Ô ÓBecause I was beat. There wasnÒt one damn thing I could have done.Ô ÓWhen those interns called 911 we had you IDÒd in fifteen minutes. Every car in the city was scrounging around looking for you.Ô ÓHow about the car they threw me into?Ô ÓA black Mercedes. Late model and nobody got the number. One intern said the right rear tail-light was out. So far, we havenÒt located it.Ô ÓSo what are you all pissed off about?Ô I asked him. ÓIÒm here, nothingÒs happened and we know somebody else is looking for the Penta character too.Ô Pat took another of those comforting deep breaths, quieted down and then told me, ÓWe have all the information on the late Anthony DiCica.Ô ÓOh?Ô ÓForget those minor counts in New York. DiCica turns out to have been an enforcer for the New York mob. He was a suspect in four homicides, never got tapped for any of them and gained a reputation of being a pretty efficient workman.Ô ÓThen howÒd he get to be a delivery man?Ô ÓSimple. Somebody cracked his skull open in a street brawl and he came all unraveled. He was in a hospital seven months and left with severely impaired mental faculties.Ô ÓWho sponsored him?Ô ÓNobody took him in. He remembered very little of his past, but he could handle uncomplicated things. He had been working with that printer you used for over a year. The hospital had no choice except to release him.Ô ÓWhatÒs the tag line, Pat?Ô ÓHe could have made enemies. Somebody saw him and came after him.Ô ÓIn my office?Ô ÓAnybody with a hate big enough to take him apart like that wouldnÒt be rational about it. HeÒd take him when and where he could and your office was it. He spotted him, followed him, then went in after him. If your unknown client did show up afterward all the activity scared him off.Ô For a minute I thought about it. There was still the ÓwalkerÔ Maria Escalante had seen, but for now I was keeping that to myself. I said, ÓWhy the hell was I abducted then, Pat? Nobody wanted me. They wanted Penta.Ô A detective came in and handed Pat a thick folder and left. Pat flopped it open, scowled, then closed the office door, sealing out the confusion on the other side. ÓMike, you remember Ray Wilson?Ô ÓSure. The old intelligence guy?Ô ÓHeÒs had Penta on the computers with Washington for two days. Usually we get some sort of a reply in a short, reasonable time. With Penta itÒs all delays and referrals to other agencies.Ô ÓWhatÒs that supposed to mean?Ô ÓProbably nothing,Ô Pat said. ÓRay seems to think that when Penta was mentioned a flag went up somewhere down the line. When that happens weÒre into something pretty damn heavy.Ô I let out a laugh. ÓAnd I can see what will drop on you if they know we have such great heart-to-heart talks.Ô I looked around. ÓThis place bugged?Ô He looked startled a second, then grinned. ÓGo screw yourself, pal. YouÒre my pigeon and IÒm running you.Ô ÓGood story,Ô I said. ÓStick to it.Ô I looked at my watch. It was almost four oÒclock. ÓWhenÒs the next briefing?Ô ÓLike now,Ô Pat said. ÓLetÒs go.Ô This time the Ice Lady wore a cool blue sheath of a fabric that seemed to caress her whenever she moved. She knew what it did and every motion was beautifully orchestrated for her audience. Their response was just as carefully calculated, as though they were totally ignorant of this vibrant woman who was one of them too. They saw us come in, but only stopped talking when we were close enough to hear what they were saying. Pat motioned to the table. ÓShall we sit down?Ô I didnÒt bother with the chair bit this time. I took a seat across from Jerome Coleman and when he was ready, he nodded to the man next to him and said, ÓThis is Frank Carmody and his assistant, Phillip Smith, both of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. On my right is Mr. Bennett Bradley, representing the State Department, and his special assistant from the CIA, Mr. Lewis Ferguson.Ô ItÒs funny how cops look lik
e cops. When theyÒre federal they seem to dress alike, groom themselves identically and use the same body language. There were slight differences in the color and pattern of their suits, but not much. They were all in their early forties and probably had the same barber who gave proper haircuts and shaved close. At least Bradley, the guy from State, was different. His suit was a light gray, his tie was red and he wore a mustache, which was more hair than he had on his head. Like Yul BrynnerÒs, it was shaved off on the back of his skull for conve-nience. But he was still State, bore the bureaucratic attitude of tired integrity and seemed anxious to get on with the meeting. Pat said, ÓIÒm Captain Chambers and this is Michael Hammer. I believe you want to ask him some questions.Ô I held up my hand before they could talk, ÓThis is a strange interagency relationship here. Cooperation between the FBI and CIA is pretty damn rare. Not to mention State. Do I need a lawyer here?Ô The Ice Lady said, ÓYou are not in jeopardy, Mr. Hammer.Ô ÓMy licenses are intact, I presume.Ô ÓFor now.Ô There was no inflection in her voice at all. I gestured with my hand and sat back. Carmody spoke up first. ÓWe want to know about Penta, Mr. Hammer.Ô ÓSo does everybody else,Ô I told him. ÓYes. WeÒve all read the statement you gave Captain Chambers. The witnesses at the hospital saw the assailants, saw you abducted, and we know what you have said.Ô ÓWhatÒs your point?Ô It was Bennett Bradley from the State Department who broke in. ÓMr. Hammer ... when your name came up in this matter I remembered having heard it before. After an inquiry or two I opened a file that made interesting reading.Ô Pat grunted and said, ÓEverything he does is interesting.Ô Bradley simply ignored him and said, ÓYou testified at a trial as to the possible inaccuracy of the polygraph test. In fact, you gave a demonstration using an authorized operator of the device and succeeded in lying without being detected.Ô ÓThere were two others who did the same thing, Mr. Bradley. If you know how to do it thereÒs no trick to it at all.Ô ÓThe State lost that case, I might add.Ô ÓSo be it,Ô I said. ÓWhatÒs that got to do with now?Ô ÓCould you possibly do it under sodium Pentothal?Ô They were playing with me now and I was getting ticked off. ÓI suppose there could be a trick to that too.Ô All of them watched me, waiting. I said, ÓWhy are you so interested in nailing this loony?Ô It was Lewis Ferguson who looked to Pat for confirmation and when Pat nodded slightly, he said, ÓThis one ... this Penta murdered one of our men. You seem to have enough ... familiarization with police departments to understand how we feel about this.Ô ÓI know how the cops feel about it.Ô ÓWeÒre no different.Ô ÓCops donÒt have the State Department backing them up,Ô I said. Bradley gave me an enigmatic smile. Those State guys had a thing with them that made me want to belt them right in the mouth. ÓThe agent who was killed was carrying some very valuable information. If he gave it up before he died, the security of the United States could be compromised.Ô ÓOh, for PeteÒs sake, IÒve heard that ÑcompromisedÒ line a million times. What the hell can one man carry that could destroy us? You know damn well nobody can afford to start tossing nukes around and live to brag about it, so how the hell do we get compromised?Ô ÓIÒm not referring to the big nations, Mr. Hammer. Some of the Third World countries have nuclear capabilities nobody likes to speak about. They may not have the same moral attitudes we have.Ô ÓSo why kill your agent?Ô ÓBecause he knew which country was planning to let the first bird fly. He was about to deliver that information.Ô ÓDamn,Ô I said, Óhere I was thinking about how altruistic you were about your agent getting killed. Things are starting to blossom out.Ô ÓMr. Hammer,Ô Ferguson said. ÓDid you lie to your abductors about Penta?Ô I shrugged. It was better than words. Finally I told them, ÓI donÒt know. I was under the influence of drugs.Ô They were very polite and thanked me. The Ice Lady looked at me and her eyes were as cool as her dress. She turned just a little bit and the fold of her neckline opened enough to show the fullness of her breasts, snowy white against icy blue. I didnÒt try to hide my appreciation, and let her see the edges of my teeth under a smile. Pat and I looked at each other in the empty room and he said, ÓWant to go have coffee?Ô ÓSure. Think we can get Ray Wilson to go with us?Ô ÓHeÒs always glad to go anywhere.Ô He pushed back his chair. ÓWhat do you want him for, anyway?Ô I said, ÓYou reminded me that he was in the intelligence unit.Ô ÓFourteen yearsÒ worth.Ô ÓDidnÒt he head up the operation when Qaddafi threatened personal attacks on Reagan?Ô ÓHe headed up the New York command post. Incidentally, heÒs our liaison with some international counterparts.Ô He frowned, looking at me quizzically. ÓWhy?Ô ÓMaybe he can straighten out a few things for me.Ô ÓBeautiful. Never say New YorkÒs Finest doesnÒt do its damnedest to keep the public happy.Ô ÓCome on, pal, I pay my taxes,Ô I said. ÓDonÒt forget your license fees.Ô ÓNever,Ô I grinned. ÓNow, do we go downstairs together or one at a time?Ô Pat shook his head at me. ÓAfter all these years, this department has given up on you and me.Ô ÓNot the DAÒs office, though.Ô ÓAh, them,Ô Pat said. ÓThey come and go with the elections. Just donÒt underplay Candace Amory, buddy.Ô Musingly, I said, ÓThe Ice Lady.Ô ÓYeah, her.Ô ÓSheÒs going to supper with me,Ô I told him. ÓBullshit.Ô He seemed startled. ÓWhen did this happen?Ô ÓAs soon as I ask her, kiddo.Ô Ray Wilson was already at a table when we got to the deli, a half-eaten pastrami sandwich and an empty coffee cup in front of him. ÓCouldnÒt wait for you guys,Ô he explained. ÓWant coffee?Ô We both nodded and he held up two fingers. Before we were in the booth the waiter had the coffee down. The old cop went back to his sandwich, had another bite and added, ÓNobody ever asks me out for anything unless they want something.Ô ÓHow about women?Ô I suggested. ÓBoy oh boy, do they want something. My apartment, my salary, my pension.Ô ÓJust because youÒre good-looking?Ô ÓMan,Ô he leered, ÓI may not be a beauty, but I sure got something that is. Well trained. Knows all the tricks. But thatÒs not what you want to know about. So whatÒs up?Ô ÓMikeÒs been thinking,Ô Pat said. He nodded and waited. I said, ÓYou know about me being mugged. I mean, classically mugged?Ô ÓPat told me,Ô he said casually. ÓTwo of them questioned me about Penta. Their voices were accented, but at the time I was pretty cloudy from the shot they had given me and didnÒt try to place the inflections. Every time I think back now I seem to come to one conclusion. Those accents were faked.Ô ÓWell?Ô My coffee was too hot to drink, so I sipped at it. ÓWhatÒs your opinion on Penta?Ô Wilson gave Pat another of those looks and Pat gave him the Ógo aheadÔ sign with his hands. He said to me, ÓI assume youÒre asking me if the guys who grabbed you were from some government agency?Ô ÓYou got it.Ô ÓWhy?Ô ÓTheir method, their attitude. All that was pretty well structured.Ô ÓHell, Mike, even a bunch of punks could do that. ÓWould punks want Penta?Ô Pat held up his hand and interrupted. ÓSuppose as a mob hit man, DiCica thought he had killed Penta and didnÒt. That still leaves him open to be knocked off.Ô ÓWhere does that put me then?Ô I asked Pat. ÓIn the middle, pal, right in the frigging middle. If you know anything about Penta, they wanted to know about it.Ô ÓThen why did they leave my gun right there on the floor? No punk is going to walk away from a piece like that.Ô Wilson let out a derisive laugh. ÓWith the pieces we get in off the street, nobody would want an antique .45 like yours. Nowadays the hoods opt for Uzis, .357 Magnums and anything untraceable. A registered piece like your Colt could mean trouble.Ô ÓRight,Ô I agreed. ÓBut if they did come from some agency everything would still fit.Ô ÓTrue.Ô Wilson finished his sandwich, wiped his hands on a napkin and lit up a butt. ÓAll you wanted was my opinion?Ô ÓThatÒs all.Ô ÓOkay, they werenÒt hoods. They had some intelligence going for them. They knew about the hospital, they had the car preparked, ready for a quick getaway. Sodium Pentothal or a quick-acting tranquilizer could be easy to get, but using SmileyÒs garage meant plenty of preknowledge. One other thing, after you damaged two of their guys nobody bothered to lay anything on you. ThatÒs a real professional attitude.Ô He stopped, took a long drag on his butt and let the smoke drift toward the ceiling, watching it laze its way upward. ÓSo they were government personnel?Ô ÓI didnÒt say which government. Or whose,Ô he replied ea
sily. ÓBesides, all you wanted was an opinion.Ô ÓThere were FBI and CIA troops probing for more of the same an hour ago.Ô ÓCarmody and Ferguson,Ô he stated. ÓThose are the ones.Ô ÓOld spooks. I know them. Good guys but dull. They were real busy during the Black Panther days. Later Ferguson spent a lot of time overseas helping smooth over some of the blunders we made.Ô ÓYouÒre real current, Ray.Ô He winked at Pat. ÓInterdepartmental cooperation, they call it.Ô Now I took my time about polishing off my coffee. When it was gone I put it down slowly. Little things were beginning to show. I said, ÓWhere does Bradley come into it?Ô ÓHeÒs a State Department troubleshooter.Ô ÓOn what level?Ô I asked him. ÓThat I donÒt know. He spent the last six months in England and was rotated back here about three weeks ago.Ô Someplace there had to be a connection. ÓPentaÒs beginning to have an international flavor.Ô ÓNot necessarily,Ô Wilson told me. ÓState might be into this just to protect one of their own sources. Washington gets pretty damn touchy about the contacts they have running for them.Ô ÓLike Pat runs me?Ô Wilson grunted something unintelligible. ÓYeah.Ô ÓSo who the hell is Penta?Ô I asked. ÓAnd why did you kill him?Ô Pat said. When I gave him a nasty look he added, ÓThat damn note meant something, Mike.Ô ÓNot if it was DiCica he was really after. In that case you guys have a plain old murder and not some kind of conspiracy.Ô I got up to leave and tossed a buck down for my coffee. ÓSomehow,Ô Pat insisted, Óthat note is important. Just how do you explain him saying ÑYou die for killing meÒ?Ô ÓEasy,Ô I said. They both looked up at me. ÓSomebody gave him AIDS.Ô PatÒs eyes got hard and I waved him off before he could say anything. ÓWasnÒt me, buddy,Ô I said. I thought the little guy in the oddball suit who shuffled up to me was another panhandler. When I closed the cab door he peered at me, a grin twisting his mouth, and said, ÓRemember me? IÒm Ambrose.Ô ÓAmbrose who?Ô ÓHow many people with a name like that you know? From Charlie the GreekÒs place, man.Ô Then I remembered him behind a mop getting the spilled beer off the floors. They called him Ambie then. He said, ÓCharlie says for you to give him a call.Ô ÓWhy?Ô ÓBeats me, man. He just told me to tell you that. And the sooner the better. ItÒs important.Ô I told him okay, handed him two bucks and watched him scuttle away. When I got upstairs I dug out the old phone book, looked up the GreekÒs place and called Charlie. His raspy voice started chewing me out for not stopping by the past six months and when he got finished he said, ÓThereÒs a gent that wants to meet with you, Mike.Ô Charlie was an old-fashioned guy. When he said ÓgentÔ it was with capital quote marks around it, printed in red. Any ÓgentÔ would be somebody in the chain of command that led into the strange avenues of what they deny is organized crime. He wasnÒt connected; he was simply a useful tool in the underworld apparatus. ÓHe got a name, Charlie?Ô ÓSure, I guess. But I donÒt know it.Ô ÓWhatÒs the deal?Ô ÓLike tonight. Can you make it down here tonight?Ô ÓYou know what time it is?Ô ÓSince when are you a day person?Ô ÓHe there now?Ô ÓI got a number to call. He can be here in an hour.Ô I looked at my watch. ÓOkay, but make it two. You think I ought to have some backup?Ô ÓNaw. This guyÒs clean.Ô ÓTell him to sit at the bar.Ô ÓYou got it, Mike.Ô The GreekÒs place was just a run-down old saloon in a neighborhood that was going under the wreckerÒs ball little by little. Half the places had been abandoned, but CharlieÒs joint was near the corner, got a regular trade and a lot of daytime transients. From four to seven every evening the gay crowd took over like a swing shift, then left abruptly and everything went back to sloppy normalcy. A pair of old biddies were sipping beer at the end of the bar and right in the center was a middle-aged portly guy in a dark suit having a highball. His eyes picked me up in the back bar mirror when I came in and we didnÒt have to be introduced. He waved Charlie over. I said, ÓCanadian Club and ginger,Ô then we picked up the drinks and went to a table across the room. ÓAppreciate your coming,Ô he said. ÓNo trouble. WhatÒs happening?Ô ÓThere are some people interested in Tony DiCicaÒs death.Ô ÓPretty messy subject. You know what happened to him?Ô He bobbed his head. ÓTough.Ô ÓYeah. He sure as hell messed up my office. But thatÒs not what you want to know.Ô He stared around the room, then sipped at his drink. ÓYou and that police officer checked out his apartment.Ô ÓRight.Ô ÓDid you find anything?Ô ÓThere was a loaded clip from an automatic, but no gun. The only thing he had was an old toolbox.Ô ÓYouÒre coming at me fast and easy, buddy.Ô ÓNegative answers are easy to give.Ô ÓThat place really get shaken down?Ô ÓWe didnÒt take it apart.Ô I pushed my drink aside. I still hadnÒt tasted it. ÓWhat should we have found?Ô He gave me a long, steady look, then showed a little smile. ÓYou would have known.Ô Now I tasted my drink. Charlie had given me a double charge and barely taste it was all I did. The guy opposite was watching me curiously, not quite knowing how to steer the conversation. Finally I said, ÓLetÒs get something squared away here. You guys donÒt give a shit who knocked off DiCica, do you?Ô ÓCouldnÒt care less.Ô ÓDonÒt hand me that,Ô I told him. ÓYou mean unless he got from Tony what you wanted.Ô After thinking about it he acknowledged the point. ÓSomething like that.Ô I said, ÓYou know, I donÒt give a ratÒs ass what Tony had. The guy who took him out thought he was me, and I give a shit who did the killing.Ô ÓSome people arenÒt going to look at it that way,Ô he told me. ÓUntil theyÒre absolutely satisfied, youÒre going to have a problem.Ô ÓThereÒs one hell of a hole in your presentation, fella,Ô I said. ÓTonyÒs been running loose a long time. If he had something, why didnÒt they get it from him when he was alive?Ô ÓYou know about TonyÒs history?Ô ÓI know.Ô ÓIf you guess the answer IÒll tell you if itÒs right.Ô Hell, there could only be one answer. I said, ÓTony had something he could hang somebody with.Ô The guy kept watching me. ÓHe had permanent amnesia after getting his head bashed in and didnÒt remember having it or putting it some-where.Ô The eyes were still on mine. The storyline started to open up now. ÓJust lately he said or did something that might indicate a sudden return of memory.Ô The eyes narrowed and I knew I had it. When he put his drink away in two quick swallows, he rolled the empty glass in his fingers a moment. ÓIt came in the day he was killed. A week before he suddenly recognized somebody they kept close to him and called him by his right name.Ô ÓThen he relapsed back into the amnesia again?Ô ÓNobody knows that.Ô ÓDonÒt tell me they never checked his apartment before.Ô ÓTwice. DidnÒt find a damn thing. If they had splintered the place he might have panicked. After all, he was living in a whole new world. If he stayed that way and the stuff stayed with him everything wouldÒve been okay. But he came out of it.Ô Now I was beginning to see what he was getting at. ÓAnd you think somebody else was watching him too, waiting for him to shake off the amnesia.Ô He just looked at me, not saying a word. ÓWhere do I come in?Ô I asked him. ÓMike, you got a big reputation, you know that?Ô ÓSo?Ô ÓYou have your fingers in all kinds of shit. You move with the clean guys and you go with the dirty ones just as easy. Nobody likes to mess with you because youÒve blown a few asses off with that cannon of yours and you got buddies up in Badgeville where it counts. So youÒd be just the kind of guy Tony DiCica would run to with a story that would keep his head on his shoulders.Ô ÓCrazy,Ô I said. ÓNot really. HeÒd been to your office three times before.Ô ÓBusiness with the printer. My secretary took care of it.Ô ÓYou say. He could have been discussing his business.Ô ÓWrong,Ô I stated. ÓCan you prove otherwise?Ô I thought a second. ÓNo.Ô ÓThe day he was killed he had come in to arrange something with you. Before you got there somebody else showed up and did the job, expecting to walk away with the information. He didnÒt have it on him, but he sure would have talked when he was getting his fingers whacked off.Ô This thing was really coming back at me. ÓOkay, whatÒs my part?Ô ÓHe is your client, Mr. Hammer. He has told you all in return for an escape route you are to furnish.Ô ÓThatÒs a lot of bullshit, you know.Ô A gesture of his hands meant it didnÒt make any difference. ÓYou see, as far as certain people are concerned, you are in until they say youÒre out. The information Tony had can be worth a lot of money and can cause a lot of killing. One way
or another, they expect to get it back.Ô ÓWhat happens if the cops get it first?Ô ÓNobody really expects that to happen,Ô he said. He pulled his cuff back and looked at his watch. ÓIf the killer didnÒt get the info from Tony heÒll be thinking the same way the others are ... that you have it or know where it is.Ô I took one more sip of my drink and stood up. ÓI guess everybody wants me dead.Ô ÓAt least certain people are giving you a few days of grace to make a decision.Ô I could feel my lips pulling back in controlled anger and knew it wasnÒt a nice grin at all. I pulled the .45 out, watched his eyes go blank until I flipped out the clip and fingered a shell loose. I handed it to him. ÓGive them that,Ô I said. ÓWhatÒs this supposed to mean?Ô ÓTheyÒll know,Ô I told him.