Mickey Spillane - [Mike Hammer]

by The Killing Man [lit]

  10 I was sweaty from the drive and had to change clothes, pissed off at the time IÒd had to waste making sure the area was clear. I took a fast shower, got dressed and called Pat. He was still at the office and barked a hello into the phone. ÓItÒs me, buddy,Ô I said. ÓI got an address for Fells and Bern. They still use an active safe house in Brooklyn.Ô ÓMike, damn it, thereÒs nothing we can do on that end of it.Ô ÓThen call Bradley and let him straighten it out. If the other agencies canÒt get close on this, theyÒll have to go along with us.Ô ÓThis address a positive?Ô ÓYou got it.Ô ÓWhere are you?Ô ÓHome.Ô ÓStay there. IÒll buzz Bradley and call you back.Ô I looked at the clock. It was a quarter to nine. I walked to the desk, got the bottle of Canadian Club out and made myself a normal-size drink, splashing in the ginger ale over the ice. I turned the TV on, watched CNN for ten minutes, switched to the sports channel and finished the drink. The phone went off. I grabbed it and Pat said, ÓBradley okayed the deal. WeÒre all meeting in my office in an hour.Ô ÓIÒll be there.Ô ÓGive me that address first. No telling what can happen to you on the way over.Ô ÓThanks,Ô I said, and gave him the street and number. My car I left sitting in the garage. It was easier to have the attendant flag me a cab down on the street, then hop in, covered by the parked cars on the street. Twenty minutes later I was walking into PatÒs office. He had already contacted a precinct in Brooklyn and was organizing a layup for the raid. I caught him between calls and asked, ÓAny problems with Bradley?Ô ÓHe sounded glad something positive was happening. HeÒs picking up Ferguson and Frank Carmody.Ô ÓCarmody? The FBI is still holding an interest?Ô ÓTheyÒre observers on this deal. NYPD makes the collar and they head up the interrogation, which is okay with me. YouÒre along on this out of the goodness of our hearts and because thereÒs no way of keeping you out of it. Keep your nose clean, will you?Ô ÓDonÒt sweat me out, pal. You have the safe house staked out?Ô ÓNobody is getting in or out of that block until we say so. You ready to move?Ô ÓAnytime.Ô Behind me Bennett Bradley came in with Ferguson and Carmody, their faces serious. Bradley was the only one not carrying, which was fine with me. Bradley tapped me on the shoulder and said, ÓI understand you came up with this lead.Ô ÓI lucked out.Ô ÓWho was your source?Ô ÓConfidential, Mr. Bradley.Ô ÓI hope it pans out,Ô he said. ÓHow are we getting there?Ô Pat slipped into his jacket and checked the .38 on his belt. ÓThere are a couple of unmarked cruisers downstairs. Now, IÒm going to run over our positions just once. Remember, youÒre observers. We do the active work.Ô He took five minutes outlining what he wanted on a green blackboard, then got us out of there. They said Brooklyn never changes, but it does. There was a different time, but now is now and the stupidity of progress had taken over. The neighborhoods had dissolved into complexes and the high-rises had become the crucibles of trouble, the old trying to retain what they had, the new ones caught up in the money world where all is a quick fuck, a coke high and a hole in the ground. I thought, A long time ago, I was born here. Menahan Street. ItÒs buried now under a pile of rubble, reconstructed later into a sand-and-plaster heap of garbage. The cop said, ÓWhatÒs wrong, Mike?Ô ÓI used to live here.Ô ÓWhen?Ô ÓBefore it changed.Ô ÓYouÒre an old timer,Ô he said. ÓHell, I was only a year old.Ô The cop grinned and went over to his station. Pat finished directing his crew and walked over to me. ÓThis better be good,Ô he said, and touched the button on his flashlight. They hit with all the precision in the world, quietly and close-shouldered. One team went in from the rear, one swarmed over the rooftop and the hot squad went right in through the front. I sat and watched and nothing happened. They all came out, untied their bulletproof vests and when I went over to where Pat was operating the station, he put down his earphone and said, ÓTwo dead men inside.Ô ÓWho?Ô ÓDamned if I know. LetÒs go see.Ô And they were dead. These were the quiet dead. No big holes in them, just a fast slug into a vital part and dead. The shot was knowledgeable, direct and certain. No screams. Whatever happened to them happened so fast they only had a chance to gasp, then die. Both of them were sitting at a table, coffee and soft rolls in front of them. Whatever hit them happened so quickly they never had a chance to react. The killer had come in the door, shot the one who was facing him square in the forehead and the one sitting opposite in the back of the skull. The wound entries were about the size a .22 would make, but there were no exit holes and there was a strange expansive look about both the heads. Pat looked at both the bodies carefully, a grimace drawing across his mouth. ÓIÒve seen hollow-tips do this. They fragment inside the skull and create a pressure that can make features pretty damn grotesque.Ô ÓWasnÒt much of a safe house,Ô I said. But now the picture was a little clearer. The two dead guys had been on the prowl for Penta, all right. He was their target. This thing had all the earmarks of a contract kill that went sour. Penta had gotten wise. Penta had gotten to them first. Someplace Penta had picked up their trail, followed them to the safe house and eliminated them. That is, if they were Bern and Fells. Dead bodies donÒt take long to smell. The odor from these two was starting to bubble up and when we had enough, Pat said, ÓLook at their fingers.Ô The tips had been cut off very neatly. I said, ÓAnother signature.Ô ÓThe one on DiCica was even better. He had a real mad on when he carved up that guy.Ô ÓDonÒt say it, Pat.Ô I knew what he was thinking. Lewis Ferguson made the identification. He came in behind us and said, ÓThatÒs Bern and Fells, all right.Ô ÓTheyÒre pretty bloated,Ô Pat said. ÓYouÒd better be sure.Ô ÓPositive. Prints will confirm it.Ô Pat nodded and called one of the detectives over. ÓGet all the preliminaries done, then sweep this place good. Like I mean take it apart. When youÒre done, I want it to look like the city wrecking crew was here. Pick your guys, keep the clowns out of here. I want some evidence, something, anything of what went on here. You got it?Ô ÓGot it, Captain.Ô Carmody and Ferguson were having a serious conversation with Bradley when we came out. Jurisdiction seemed to be the heart of the matter, but Pat called a halt to that in a hurry. He said, ÓLetÒs get something squared away, people. We got two more corpses inside my area and thatÒs where itÒs going to stay. You guys can play around with any espionage or international bellyaches you want, but these bodies belong to NYPD and until I get a direct order from my superior, thatÒs the way it goes.Ô ÓCaptain ...Ô Bradley started. Pat held up his hand. ÓDonÒt challenge me, Bradley. NYPD is a bigger outfit than yours and if you want to see how clout works, just mess around with this investigation.Ô ÓNo intention of doing that, Captain,Ô Bennett Bradley said. ÓLetÒs say that all of our agencies are anxious to cooperate in any way.Ô Ferguson agreed. ÓThis has overlapped into strange areas. Stumbling blocks we donÒt need.Ô One of the uniformed cops came up with a detective and got PatÒs attention. The detective said, ÓPatrolman Carsi here was working in the back. ThereÒs a garage attached to the building.Ô ÓNot quite attached. A walkway goes into the cellar,Ô the patrolman told him. ÓThereÒs a car in there. Pretty lush.Ô And there was the Mercedes. The rear tail-light was broken. I said, ÓIf you find my prints in there, you know when it happened.Ô There were New York State plates on the car, but a current Florida tag was on the floor under the front seat. In the glove compartment were all the goodies belonging to a Richard Welkes with a Miami Beach address. A uniformed sergeant drove by and told Pat that the press had just arrived on the other block. Pat muttered an annoyed ÓDamn,Ô then instructed the detective with him to go rough things in for them, playing it down as much as possible. An unidentified squeal on a couple of dead bodies could command the amount of police attention that was in the area, so there shouldnÒt be any kickback from the news hounds. Not right now, anyway. Within an hour only the investigative crew was left. A pair of uniforms stayed out of sight in the doorway, alert and quiet. Carmody came up with containers of coffee and we passed it around. You could hear nails being wrenched out of boards inside the building and occasionally something came crashing down. Forty-five minutes later a dust-covered detective came to the doorway and waved to Pat. ÓYou better come over here, Captain.Ô He told me,
ÓWait here,Ô and followed the cop inside. In ten minutes he came out with a small box in his hands, nodded toward the cars and said, ÓLetÒs go.Ô I sat beside him in the back and didnÒt say a word. He was waiting for me to throw a question because it was my work that had opened the murders up. Twice, in his reflection in the window, I saw him watching me. Finally I said, ÓNow it jumps back into BradleyÒs hands, doesnÒt it?Ô He said it very softly. ÓHowÒd you figure that out?Ô ÓI get tingling sensations.Ô I hit the window button and let some air in. ÓWhy did those two want to hit Penta?Ô ÓHe wasnÒt doing his primary job. He was off on something else.Ô I looked down at the box in his lap. ÓThe assholes didnÒt destroy a letter of authorization they got. We can assume it was Penta they were after, but the person was simply mentioned as ÑSubject.ÒÔ ÓWhat was PentaÒs primary job, Pat?Ô ÓYou mention this to anybody and youÒre on my permanent shit list.Ô ÓDonÒt insult me, buddy.Ô ÓSorry, Fells sent a letter to Harry Bern. He had gotten a contact from their employer overseas who wanted to know if they wanted the assignment of killing the VP.Ô ÓThe who?Ô ÓVP. I assume it stands for vice president.Ô ÓOf what?Ô I asked him. ÓLetÒs start with the United States.Ô ÓPat ... why the hell would anybody want the vice president dead? I can understand the president ...Ô ÓHold it, will you? Apparently Penta screwed up someplace along the line and his employer would only tolerate one mistake. Fells and Bern were offered his initial contract after they wiped him out. If those two could take out Penta, they certainly could hit the VP.Ô ÓSomebody has a damn good reason. With the VP dead, think of the consternation it would cause in Washington. Man, they never could figure that one out. The VP doesnÒt get the personal coverage the president does, so he would be an easier target. But hell, thatÒs still hitting right at the heart of our government.Ô ÓWhat bigger target has he got than that, for PeteÒs sake?Ô Pat just looked at me a couple of seconds. ÓI canÒt believe it,Ô he said. My eyes started to go tight. ÓBelieve what?Ô ÓIf the so-called subject is Penta, where you would come into the picture.Ô He stopped me before I could get a word out. ÓI know, youÒre not in. He was after DiCica and all the crap. But I canÒt figure that way. How the hell you do it, IÒll never know. IÒve said that before too, havenÒt I? How the hell you go from kicking around in the streets to substituting for the vice president of the United States in a murder scheme defies belief. Where do you come from, Mike? IÒve known you all these years, but I donÒt think I know you very well at all.Ô ÓPat...Ô He shook his head. ÓYouÒve been running me, havenÒt you? Here I thought you were my boy and I was running ... all the time you have something else going down.Ô He paused, wiped his hand across his face and took a deep breath. ÓWhatÒs happening, Mike?Ô I shrugged. ÓWhat else is in the box?Ô ÓForty-two one-thousand-dollar bills,Ô he said. ÓBe hard to cash,Ô I told him. ÓWhatÒs happening, Mike?Ô he asked again, ignoring my remark. ÓTomorrow, Pat. I have to make sure of something first.Ô ÓYou know, IÒm a lousy cop, old buddy. I have you inside this package like youÒre the PC or something. I have my neck out, giving you information, breaking all the rules×Ó ÓBalls. You had no choice. Like Candace Amory said, IÒm an adjunct of the law, licensed by the state, subject to conditions no ordinary citizen has to operate under. Consider it professional courtesy.Ô ÓI must be off my rocker,Ô he said. ÓYou going by your office?Ô ÓI have to.Ô ÓGood. I want to use your phone.Ô When we reached PatÒs office I slid behind PatÒs desk into his chair and punched the number into his phone. I had one foot up on Anthony DiCicaÒs antique toolbox, which Pat had in the kneehole, but took it off when I realized what it was. She picked up the phone on the first ring and there was no sleepiness in her voice at all. I said, ÓThis is Mike, Candace.Ô ÓWell, IÒve been waiting to hear from you.Ô ÓThe grapevine working?Ô ÓNot until after the Brooklyn soiree was over. I understand there were two bodies found.Ô ÓBoth shot.Ô ÓI donÒt suppose youÒd care to explain further.Ô ÓRight. All information will come from official sources. ItÒs strictly a police matter.Ô She had to probe with a lawyerÒs instinct. ÓBut you were there?Ô ÓThe police acted on my information. I went along for verification.Ô ÓVery neat.Ô ÓWhatÒs new on that load of cocaine?Ô ÓSomething extremely interesting. ItÒs totally hearsay, but often enough what sounds like a fairy tale is factual. Your friend Ray Wilson came up with another lead, an old dealer who is straight now and doesnÒt want his name mentioned in any way.Ô ÓSo?Ô He had heard about the shipment being set up. It was delivered by freighter at Miami, concealed as bags of coffee beans. The shipper was genuine and the destination was a reputable buyer. Nobody knows just how the switch was made, but the cargo was off-loaded into a tractor-trailer.Ô ÓDo you realize how much stuff that is?Ô ÓIn dollars the final street value is incredible. Anyway, it came up via Route Ninety-five into the New York area. The trailer was delivered to a depot in Brooklyn, all the paperwork completed, and the next day another tractor signed for them, hauled them out and it hasnÒt been seen to this day.Ô ÓYou canÒt just hide a trailer,Ô I told her. ÓI can see the run being made, but youÒd still be dealing with a driver who probably had a helper along.Ô ÓThanks to Ray Wilson we found a possible line on that one too. He went into the computers for known mob persons who could handle trucks. Not live ones, but deceased. He came up with two names of men who were found dead in a car that had apparently been sideswiped and knocked off Route Nine-W up near Bear Mountain. Two days later the brother of one was killed in a hit-and-run accident in Newark.Ô ÓThat took care of the driver and a helper,Ô I said. ÓYour hearsay is making pretty good sense.Ô ÓBut somebody would know where the cargo went to. Whoever gave the instructions to the two men DiCica killed would know.Ô ÓSure,Ô I said. ÓThe driver and the helper would have known. Those guys were probably made men who would lay down their lives for their bosses. They were taking no chances on any hijack action so they planned the delivery them-selves, which could have meant repainting the truck or changing the lettering somewhere along the way. The legitimate driver on the first leg of the run really took the odds for the mob boys. His making it to Brooklyn meant the job was coming out clean.Ô ÓThen the driver and helper were the only ones who knew?Ô ÓWhy not? The fewer the better. They picked their own hiding spot for the shipment, made up a map and delivered it to the bosses. On the way out they were followed by the hit men and taken out in a supposed accident.Ô ÓWhy kill...Ô ÓThe bosses didnÒt want anybody but them knowing where the stuff went to,Ô I told her. ÓUnfortunately, they were in line for a hit themselves that night. And unfortunately, they closed off the mobÒs only access to the stuff.Ô ÓAnd DiCica had it all.Ô ÓWild, huh? Tell me something. How much is the street value of the junk today?Ô She told me. I let out a low whistle. No wonder Penta could afford to pass up the VP for an old hood. Nine-digit figures are understandable. YOU DIE FOR KILLING ME. Okay, DiCica. You were the hit man. That was your trade. Who did you kill and how did you work it? That note was for you after all, wasnÒt it? ÓMike ...Ô I shook myself out of my thoughts. ÓSorry, kid.Ô ÓUnless we find that cargo, nothing will ever end.Ô ÓIs Ray checking out all the leads?Ô ÓThe trailer would take a certain size building to be concealed in. HeÒs working on the assumption something was bought, rather than leased. By now taxes would be owing and if anything matches, weÒll be on it.Ô ÓYou donÒt have that much time.Ô ÓAny other options?Ô ÓA lot of luck. We still have a killer out there waiting.Ô ÓFor what?Ô ÓPat will have to tell you that. Or Coleman or Carmody or Ferguson.Ô ÓYou going to be around?Ô I told her I would. She said sheÒd call tomorrow and I hung up. I would have gone home and crawled into bed, but I called in to check the tapes on my phone and a deep, sultry voice said to call at any hour. When the call went through, General Rudy Skubal answered it himself. As soon as he recognized my voice, he said, ÓI couldnÒt stand not having more pieces of the puzzle, Mike. I went back to when they were feeding information into the computers and zeroed in on Fells and Bern. We ran constant checks on our men without their knowledge, especially those whose performance was getting shoddy.Ô ÓBern and Fells are de
ad,Ô I interrupted. ÓKilled at the safe house, I presume?Ô ÓGood guess, General.Ô ÓIt wasnÒt a guess. That safe house was supposed to be known and used by Bern and Fells only. I have two reports that a third party had access to it on several occasions. No description.Ô ÓPenta,Ô I said. ÓWhat makes you think so?Ô ÓYou said he was here on a high-level assignment.Ô ÓThat was a generality.Ô ÓNow itÒs a specific. He had a target ... the vice president. He didnÒt make it a priority and was probably considered unreliable. Bern and Fells were sent to kill him. The only real contact they had with him was through me, so they tried the interrogation under narcotics in SmileyÒs garage. Hell, they probably used SmileyÒs premises before when they were on your team.Ô ÓShall I check on that point?Ô ÓNo use, General. One of them came back and knocked off Smiley so nobody would make the connection. Their mistake was using their old safe house again. If they had let slip to Penta when they worked together where that safe house was, he could have used it himself. It wouldnÒt have been much of a trick to get keys to the place. A nice piece of information to have just in case.Ô ÓHe used it well,Ô Skubal said. ÓI imagine he staked it out and killed them both together.Ô ÓLooked like a small-caliber hollow-point at close range, right in the heads.Ô ÓPenta has used that technique before. One shot each?Ô ÓHe didnÒt need any more.Ô ÓWhat else can keep him in the area, Mike?Ô ÓExplain.Ô ÓHe killed his first person in your office. HeÒs killed two men assigned to wipe him out. If the reports are correct, nothing is going to keep this Penta from fulfilling his contract.Ô ÓWhy should somebody want to kill the vice president?Ô ÓNo one can really understand the political mind. What happens at those levels arenÒt mine to consider, outside investigative situations. I collect facts now. However, there is one thing for you to reflect on.Ô Here it came again and I beat him to it. ÓHe doesnÒt want me, General.Ô ÓIf you say so. But somebody wants you. Why?Ô I said, ÓThey still think I know where their billion dollars went to.Ô The word billion stopped him momentarily. ÓFor that much money,Ô he told me, ÓI think they would go to far sterner methods to get you out of the way. Where are you now?Ô ÓIn PatÒs office. I couldnÒt be safer.Ô ÓYou realize, of course, that youÒre vulnerable. Have you seen the tabloid thatÒs on the newsstand?Ô ÓI picked it up on the way home.Ô ÓThen anyone who knows of your true connection with Velda can have a secondary target. Have you checked on her yet?Ô ÓNo, I was planning to, but×Ó ÓGet in gear, Michael. That girl had better be kept under close cover. The vice president is under security, money can always wait, but donÒt let that girl get killed. She was your primary reason for getting involved in this to start with, so keep it that way.Ô ÓOkay, General, you got it.Ô He hung up with a grunt before I could say good-bye. Pat was looking at me, washing a couple of aspirins down with a drink of water. He squashed the cup in his fingers and tossed it in a wastebasket. The clock on the wall said it was five minutes after midnight. He said, ÓItÒs tomorrow, pal. I think we should talk.Ô ÓYou feel it too?Ô He nodded. ÓItÒs all closing in and IÒm sitting on my thumbs. It started out as the murder of a nobody and now weÒre into all kinds of shit. Over in the other corner youÒre playing footsies with the Ice Lady and leaving me out in the cold. So letÒs put the pieces together. Sooner or later they are going to be asking me questions about your involvement and how and why I tolerated it and IÒd like it all to go down clean and neat so that IÒm off the hook and back on pension drive again. Now, letÒs do it.Ô Talk. I pushed myself out of the chair and walked to the window. A few drops of rain hit it and inched down the pane, gradually soaking into the New York grime. Talk. Nothing but air and sounds unless it made sense. I turned around and stared at Pat. He had settled down in the desk chair, slowly folding his hands behind his head. He propped his foot on the toolbox and pushed himself back into a leaning position, waiting for me to talk. When he saw me grin with my teeth tight and my lips pulled back, he started to frown because he knew something had happened. I picked up the phone. I called Candace again and told her to get down here right away. She got all pissed off this time and insisted I tell her why. I said because she wanted to be president, thatÒs why, and she didnÒt give me any more argument. I went to the coffee maker, poured a stale cup, stirred in enough sweetener so it didnÒt matter and sat down on the edge of the desk. Pat was giving me all the time in the world. I picked up a copy of Combat Handguns magazine, October 1988, and read the article titled ÓThe Assassin: Who, When, Where, Why.Ô ÓGot a later issue?Ô I asked him. He shook his head. I had just started reading the advertisements when Candace came in. She was mad, curious and beautiful, and now Pat took his hands down, leaned forward, waiting to see what I had to say. ÓYou were on the right track, Pat.Ô ÓWhat?Ô ÓHow come you didnÒt send that toolbox to the property clerk?Ô ÓItÒs active evidence, thatÒs why.Ô He reached down, picked up the box and set it on the desk. ÓFigure it out?Ô I got that odd look again. ÓIt didnÒt belong there. It was a keepsake. His old man made it.Ô He fondled the handle of one of the chisels and put it back again. ÓYou know whatÒs queer here, donÒt you?Ô ÓSure,Ô I said. ÓHe had no memory of his past except for the toolbox. They delivered him to his motherÒs house. He didnÒt know her, but spotted the box and just took it. He never even said why, except for one word. Mrs. DiCica said he told her ÑPapaÒ and that was all.Ô ÓMike, please,Ô Candace interrupted, Óget to the point.Ô ÓAfter he had his brains scrambled, he went to the hospital. His mother picked up his belongings and took them to her house. This toolbox was in his apartment. When he saw it again after his confinement, something registered in his mind. Something had left an impression heavy enough not to have been wiped out.Ô I dumped the tools out on PatÒs desk, looked at each piece carefully, then put them aside. Nothing was wrong with them at all. So it had to be in the box itself. The construction was sturdy, of hand-fitted three-quarter-inch-thick pine boards, the wood delicately carved and polished. The inch-thick dowel rod that ran the length of the box was worn smooth from constant handling in the center, with clever swirls growing deeper toward the ends. The box itself was more than a repository for tools. It was a personal thing whose maker was artisan as well as carpenter. And the damn thing was all solid wood. No hidden compartments, no secret places that I could see at all. But you arenÒt supposed to see secret places. They were made to remain unseen. I turned the box over and studied the initialed V.D., felt the grooving with my fingertip and probed where it fitted into the sides. Nothing. There wasnÒt one damn thing out of order. Pat was getting an exasperated look. There was disgust in his eyes and he pulled his hand across his mouth in an annoyed gesture. Candace still had some hope. Her eyes never left the box and when I put it back on the desk, finished with the examination, she still couldnÒt take her eyes off it. She had taken me at my word and saw the presidency sitting there be-cause I had told her I would do it. Pat said, ÓI hope this isnÒt a game, buddy.Ô I looked down into the empty box trying to think of something to say when I saw something that wasnÒt there at all. The wood grain of the bottom was typically pine, clear unknotted pine. I turned the box over again and looked at that part, beautifully clear unknotted pine. But the grain patterns were not identical. Close, but not identical. There was a famous knot in a rope that nobody could untie until the rough boy took his sword and slashed right through it and that ended that deal. I picked up the hammer, turned the box over and smashed it into the bottom. I didnÒt bother to look at how delicately or how cleverly the panel was built into the box ... I just pulled out the envelope, and three oversize one-hundred-dollar bills from the turn of the century, still redeemable in gold. I handed the bills to Pat and the envelope to Candace. PatÒs face had no expression to it at all. We looked at Candace as she opened the envelope and took out two typed sheets of paper. She glanced at it quickly, her eyes widening abruptly. Then she turned the pages around for us to see. ÓItÒs in code. The whole thingÒs in code.Ô I said, ÓPat... ?Ô There was no hesitation. ÓLetÒs get Ray Wilson. He can set up the computers and have a go at it.Ô ÓDecoding isnÒt that easy,Ô Candace said. ÓRa
y can get a few hours in on it before we even get it to the experts in Washington. Send them a copy anyway, but Ray gets first crack at it.Ô He reached for the phone and started to run down Wilson. ÓMike ...Ô ÓYeah?Ô ÓYou think this is it?Ô ÓWhat else can it be?Ô ÓIf we can locate this cache ...Ô ÓDonÒt go getting your hopes up, baby. All youÒll get will be the coke. There wonÒt be any line to the buyers or the sellers by now. What youÒre getting is like digging up a live blockbuster bomb left over from World War II. All itÒs good for is destruction. You take the potential destructive value away, then everything goes back to square one. The status stays quo. ThereÒs no use for the previous owners waiting for the stuff to show up or go on searching for it. ItÒs over.Ô ÓBut we havenÒt found it yet,Ô she said. I could feel my stomach tighten up and I said, ÓDamn it to hell!Ô Pat waved me to stop, but I ignored him and got out of there as fast as I could.