"Ms. Sterling," Jenna said, shaking her head. "We're just grad students. We've delivered our package."
But Matthew answered his stepsister's question: "If somebody grabs us, where would that leave my dad and your mother?"
Again, the boy made an odd distinction, setting Jenna's mother to one side.
The Hurleys owned an apartment building in Brooklyn, where a recently vacated flat had been made available to the kids. While the parents lived in a spacious apartment in Greenwich Village, Matthew and Jenna needed the kind of protection that Velda and I could better provide under those more controlled conditions.
We sat quietly for the first part of the ride, the two kids as ghostly pale as the snowy city visible through the limo's smoked windows. We were just heading onto the Brooklyn Bridge when I sprang it on them.
"Maybe we better discuss the elephant," I said.
Both kids frowned, but it was Matthew who bit: "What elephant, Mr. Hammer?"
"The big gray bastard sitting in the middle of the room."
They both shook their heads, not following. I didn't intend them to. I just wanted their attention. But Velda knew, all right.
I said, "When you got your pocketbook shot up yesterday, Jenna, you and Matt were exiting a midtown hotel. What were you doing checking into a hotel, anyway? You presumably have rooms at your parents' place."
They exchanged nervous glances.
Then Jenna said, "Actually, we don't have rooms at their apartment anymore."
Matthew said, "They took over our bedrooms for home-office space years ago. Since our freshman year, I've been in a frat house and Jenna stayed in a dorm."
"Why didn't you go back there, then?" I held up a hand to stop the excuses. "Don't tell me you don't have rooms there anymore, either, or any such baloney. You checked into a hotel for the same reason as all normal healthy young unmarrieds in love. To be together."
Beside me, Velda sat with those lush legs crossed and with a smile going that could not have been more sly if she were a cat with a canary's tail hanging out of its damn mouth. Meantime, those kids were blushing like crazy.
I laughed. "Hey, it's okay. Incest doesn't hurt, as long as you keep it in the family."
Velda elbowed me. "Mike!"
"Okay, okay. Look, you two don't share any blood relatives. You're both what, twenty-one, twenty-two? Nobody's judging you."
Matthew's face had gone from beet red to onion white. "Please, Mr. Hammer," he said, leaning forward, his hands clasped pleadingly, "if our parents ever found out..."
"Well, they must be blind. But lots of parents are. Listen, I'm way past my job description here, giving you advice for the lovelorn. But you two need to hold hands with your heads held high. If your parents can't handle it, that's their damn problem."
Now the kids were smiling in relief, first at us, then at each other. And they took my advice, or at least part of it, and grasped hands.
"You see this beautiful woman sitting next to me?" I asked. "I was in love with her long before you two were born. There were reasons we waited this long to get hitched, but let me tell you— none of them were any good. If I had it to do over, I'd be celebrating an anniversary with some precious metal attached, not postponing a quick weekend elopement."
Jenna, wide-eyed, asked, "When were you supposed to get married, Mr. Hammer? Ms. Sterling?"
"This weekend," Velda admitted. "We had plane tickets to Las Vegas."
"Oh, I'm so sorry....It's our fault.... "
"Don't worry," Velda said. "I took out flight-cancellation insurance. This isn't the first time he's asked me to marry him, you know."
That made them laugh, and maybe I was the one blushing now. But you can't prove it.
It was a nondescript brick building on a quiet side street whose scrawny trees were plump with snow. I got out, had a talk with the doorman, gave him some pointed instructions, then went back and gathered Velda and the kids. I paused to tell the driver to stay with his vehicle no matter what he might hear, and he nodded, knowing the last thing I'd want is my ride compromised.
The building was a nice older number with black-and-white tile floors and lots of woodwork. Just beyond the vestibule there was an elevator about the size of a coffin, so we took the stairs instead. I didn't want us crammed in there or separated into two parties taking two rides up, either.
On the fifth floor, I made the kids wait by the stairwell door while I went down the hall to check out the pad. Because of all that warm and fuzzy talk in the limo, I was in a mood that maybe made me careless, and I'd damn near put the key in the lock when I heard the voices through the door.
They weren't loud voices, the wood muffled them, but I would have been able to make them out if the language being spoken were English. I couldn't tell you what tongue they were talking, but you didn't need to be a professor of dead languages to know its home was the Middle East.
Down the hall Velda was frowning at me, her expression asking if I wanted backup. Mine told her I didn't, to just hang with those kids.
The .45 was in my left hand when my right hand worked the key in the lock and I pushed through fast into a shockingly cold room. The small hallway opened onto a furnished living room, nothing fancy unless you counted the two guys with natural tans in gray jogging suits.
The mustached one at left was using a Bic to light up a cigarette for the bearded one, which meant the first guy had his rod in his waistband whereas the second one still had his piece, a big silenced automatic, in his mitt.
I was tossing the .45 from my left hand to my right, coming in low when the first shot got thrown at me, high and wild and as quiet as a cough, but then the other guy yanked his gun, a snubnose .38, and when it barked at me, I had to dive behind an easy chair.
They didn't want to shoot it out. They were cowardly killers, not soldiers with balls, and they scrambled out the already-open window, ready for a quick getaway through the passage that explained the indoor chill. I didn't see them fleeing, I heard it, running shoes pounding on squeaky iron, and when I popped up, I caught sight of the second one out on the landing. The ladder must have already been dropped down because they were no longer framed in the window when I crossed the room, their feet beating a noisy retreat down metal stairs.
I was no kid, and wasn't kidding myself otherwise. Once upon a time I'd have been out on that fire escape, ice be damned, scrambling down the stairs into whatever hell those two wanted to throw back at me. But I was faster then, and by the time I was out the window and onto the fire escape, they were down in the alley where a purple gypsy cab belching tailpipe pollution was waiting.
All I could do was fire down at them, the thundering report echoing off brick and cement, and I caught the mustached one in the head, at an angle in the back that went downward and his skull exploded in a scarlet splash. The bearded one threw another cough of a silenced shot my way and it whanged off the metal of the 'scape.
Then tires were squealing and through iron gridwork I saw the purple cab shimmying on ice as it pulled away. They had taken their fallen brother with them, leaving behind a puddle of blood and brains down in that alley with the rest of the garbage.
Velda was a good soldier. Her love for me didn't let her leave her post with those kids, down by the fire-exit door, and her jaw was firm as the .38 in her fist. But her tough expression melted when I emerged from the apartment and joined her.
I filled her in quickly.
"Should we call Pat?" she asked.
I shook my head. "Nothing to report. They took their boy along. They have special burial rites they have to perform for him if he wants to go to happyland where the harem girls are waiting."
Matthew and Jenna were in each other's arms, shivering, unafraid to show their love but, in every other way, scared as hell.
"Back to your apartment for now," I said to Velda. "We'll call in some reinforcements."
"But not Pat?"
"No. We'll call Secure Solutions."
The innocent-sounding agency was a
PI firm of ex-military and mercenaries, the only men in New York I trusted for black-bag-style ops.
She was watching my eyes. "You coming with us?" I shook my head. "That driver downstairs will get you home safe. I'll catch a cab."
"What for?"
"To catch another cab."
The black guy who had been on the site when the ex-president was selecting a spot in Harlem to open his new office had made a wise remark when he said, "There goes the neighborhood!"
America is an integrated country, all right, except that all the integrations are separated. Not segregated, just separated. Alone, I could be looked upon as an interloper. Not a threat, but an intruder of sorts. The waiter in the corner cafÉ would serve me with no trouble, but get a curious expression if I ordered grits on the side. He might figure I was getting cute with my soul-food airs, and didn't know I vacationed down South.
But walking the slushy sidewalk with Bozo Jackson, the big bald ebony ex-cop, gave me a special status around here. Bozo wore a black-leather version of a trench coat that got the attention of even a non-fashion plate like me. He'd been retired maybe five years and, even though he didn't have a PI ticket, he did cop stuff for hire on the same streets he used to patrol.
I was okay up here if I was Bozo Jackson's buddy. I had a damn key to the neighborhood. I could sense the feeling in the knowing looks I got—not exactly friendly, but nowhere near threatening.
Right now Bozo was escorting me to a big garage next to a small dead gas station. A modest gypsy-cab outfit was run out of here, with the office in the gas station.
The little Jamaican export standing in front of a cluttered desk had an unpronounceable last name and was known by one and all simply as Pete the Toke. He wore a greasy gray jumpsuit, had a headful of Rastafarian curls, smelled heavily of the reason for his nickname, and was a handshaker of a rare type. Man, he didn't want to let go at all.
Bozo Jackson introduced me as a "friend," no name, and after a minute or two of past business with Bozo in Pete's rapid-fire speech, Pete the Toke gave me a long stare like he'd just noticed I was here and commented, "You a white motherfucker!"
"Well, I'm white," I admitted.
"What you friends with Bozo for? No disrespeck."
"None taken, Pete. Bozo used to be a cop. I still am one. Makes us brothers."
Pete the Toke frowned. He knew all about Bozo having been a cop. But Bozo bringing around a current cop was a whole other thing...
"Priiiivate," Bozo explained soothingly.
"Oh! PI, huh? Look like a tough old boy. You pack?"
"Always," I said.
His eyes were wide and sleepy all at once. "Always?"
"How do you think I lived this long?"
"Not by comin' to this part of town, you didn't. You ain't afraid 'round here?"
"Nope." I grinned. "Not when I got Bozo Jackson as a bodyguard."
"Suppose you alone up this way?"
"I come up here a lot. But I'm never alone."
"Oh?"
I patted under my arm and grinned again. "Always packing, remember?"
Bozo seemed mildly amused by all this. "Pete. Don't you know who this is?"
"Who is this?"
"Hell, man, this is Mike Hammer."
Pete laughed and pawed the air and laughed some more. "No fuckin' way, Bozo! Everybody knows Mike Hammer, he die long time ago!"
I shrugged. "First I heard of it."
Bozo pointed to the garage side and said, "How many taxis you running these days?"
"Same four. That's all a body needs."
"You know most of the other operators, don't you?"
"Sure."
Bozo hooked a stool with his foot, pulled it over and squatted on it. Now he was only a head taller than Pete. "Any nasty-ass new boys in the game?"
Pete shook his head. "Nobody's trying to take a cut out of me." He looked my way with an eyebrow up. "People know I know Bozo Jackson, too."
Bozo was waving that off. "Not bad guys, Pete. I ain't talking street tax. I mean new faces in the game. Operators."
Silently, Pete mulled the question over, then shook his head. "Just the same ol' bunch. Some sell out, but to their own guys. Some die, like Duke Harrington, but his kid wound up with his daddy's six cabs. What's this all about, Mr. Jackson?"
"Somebody," Bozo told him, "ran a gypsy jobber to a hotel in Manhattan yesterday with a shooter who tried to knock off a couple of white college kids."
"Shit you say!" Suddenly Pete looked startled. "We don't need that kinda heat!"
"Be straight with me, Pete," I told him, "and I'll put in a word with Captain Chambers at Homicide."
Pete said nothing, mulling that.
I went on: "And earlier today, a purple gypsy beater dragged off a couple of brown-as-a-berry hit men who were after those same white kids."
"Those white kids could use some motherfuckin' help!"
"They're getting it."
Pete's eyes disappeared into slits that were like cuts in his face. "This ain't wiseguy business, is it? We ain't had that kind of trouble around here in a long time!"
"Not mob," I said.
Bozo put in: "Ragheads, Pete."
Pete blinked. "We got Muslims 'round here. I got two workin' for me, good drivers."
My eyebrows went up. "Yeah?"
Bozo said, "He means Black Muslims, Mike. This isn't a part of town that Middle Eastern types flock to."
I knew that. Which was part of what was puzzling about all this.
"If you hear something," Bozo said to Pete, "you will let me know?"
"If there's something to hear, Pete the Toke'll hear it all right. And when I do, so will you, Mr. Jackson." Pete paused, then shifted his eyes to me. "I believe maybe you are Mike Hammer."
"That's the rumor," I said.
Pete patted the breast of his greasy jumpsuit. "We don't bother people, Mr. Hammer. We stay to our own. We don't need none of this action, gypsy jobbers and white kids getting shot at by these camel jockeys."
"They aren't camel jockeys, Pete," I said. "They're ruthless, deadly people, trained to kill and to die for what they believe in. You hear something, you call Mr. Jackson."
Pete the Toke nodded dutifully.
There was another contact Bozo Jackson wanted to touch bases with. He ran a candy and smoke shop, but sold guns in the back—not that he kept any in stock where the law could snag him or some streetwise punk rob him. This was strictly a series of photo albums, where instead of vacation shots you saw pictures of available shooting irons. You could get information on any product you saw pictured, domestic or foreign, pay the full amount in cash and as soon as a day or no more than a week, the piece would be in your hand.
Bozo said, "Jellybean, this is Mike Hammer," and we shook hands. Hard. Mr. Jellybean wanted to know right away who he was dealing with. So then we were both squeezing like hell, and finally we grinned at each other and called it a draw.
In the small, spare backroom office, our host took his seat behind a metal desk and we took the visitor chairs.
Lanky Jellybean's name might have come from any number of things, from all that candy out front to his colorful disco-retro clothes, or the multiplicity of colors in his smile, an array of gold, silver, and diamond-studded-white teeth.
"Mike Hammer, no flyin' shit," Jellybean said. "You know, you got yourself a real following in this part of town."
"Yeah? I haven't had mail requesting autograph pictures."
His colorful smile widened. "Back when you tangled with those mob boys, when the younger and older generations butted heads? Ten, twelve years back? We had a regular cheering section going for you. Right around then, them guineas was tryin' to cut into our personal business here in the 'hood. We were glad to see you send 'em to hell."
"My pleasure."
He placed big hands with long powerful fingers on the desk; no jewelry on his hands and wrists, just the diamonds in his teeth. He jerked his head toward a file cabinet. "Now, what can I do fo
r you fine gentlemens? Something new in the small-arms category?"
Bozo Jackson cut in. "We don't need a gun. We looking for a shooter."
I filled him in about the try on the Hurley kids outside their hotel. Jellybean gave us a quiet nod and said very simply, "I know who you mean. That shooter's gone. Got out of town real fast."
We waited.
"Begins and ends there, gentlemens."
Bozo started to speak and I raised a hand. "No. Fill it in, Jellybean. We're not looking to bust your chops. If you sold the gun in question, that's strictly business."
"No offense, Mr. Hammer ... Mr. Jackson ... but are we doin' business?"
I said, "We don't need to do business, Jellybean. We're friends, remember? And friends don't sell out other friends to Captain Chambers of Homicide."
Now he got the picture. And he knew more—plenty. Bozo Jackson and I both felt it.
Wrinkles creased Jellybean's forehead as he thought out all the angles. "He came in four days ago. Stayed at the Cooper Hotel. You know where that is?"
Bozo nodded. "Residential, pretty decent, not some damn flop. Six blocks north?"
"That's the one. Said he was from Jersey City, but while he was here he bought only Chicago papers. Made old Charlie at the desk a little nervous."
"Just for buying an out-of-state paper?" I asked.
Jellybean shook his head. "No. Not just that. This character wore gloves all the time. Lightweight brown ones. Never took them off that anybody saw."
"It's cold out," I said.
"Not cold indoors."
"An injury?"
"No way. He carried a heavy little case all the time. Like a musician haulin' around his precious instrument. Old Charlie said he could smell gun oil on it."
"That would take some nose," Bozo remarked, eyebrows up.
Jellybean nodded. "And that's what old Charlie's got, too. He could sniff out a guy smokin' a joint up on the roof. Somebody with a crack pipe on the fourth floor, Charlie knows it at the desk and throws their ass out. Runs a respectable joint, Charlie."
I said, "Jellybean, that comment you made—about this shooter wearing gloves indoors? Did that come from personal observation?"
Jellybean swallowed thickly. "Mr. Hammer, you agreed with me, some things is strictly business. Somebody buys a piece from me, he doesn't want paperwork, and he sure as shit doesn't want no questions."
[Mike Hammer 14] - The Goliath Bone Page 6