Kiss Her Goodbye

by Mickey Spillane

  "He got shot right here, out on the street, in front of the club?"

  The Homicide captain nodded. "While he was picking out tonight's lucky customers from the crowd." His eyes went to the office building again. "We've already been up there. Empty office space."

  "Night watchmen?"

  "Six empty floors get a cursory inspection, twice a night. Whoever did this had a little eagle's nest setup. Regular Oswald routine. We found nothing but the three spent shells."

  "Three?"

  "Yeah, took the shooter three tries. The third one went in small and came out big, splattered a security guy pretty good." Pat sighed. "They were lucky it was a rainy night, and the crowd unusually small. Otherwise, those other two shots might have taken out a clubber or two."

  "Have you released the crowd?"

  "Yeah. We took names. I didn't see any need for holding them here. They saw nothing."

  "What about the security guys?"

  "They're still inside."

  "Mind if I step in there?"

  "What for?"

  "Maybe I want to pick up a souvenir swizzle stick."

  He grabbed my arm—not hard, not exactly friendly. "Mike—what's going on? I'm trying to tell myself you had nothing to do with that slaughter this afternoon. But even without that, the body count is getting out of hand. What kind of war is this?"

  "I'm not sure yet."

  "Mike...."

  "Pat, you'll be the first to know."

  "Will I?"

  "Okay—the second." I grinned at him.

  He couldn't help it—he grinned back. Where would he be without me to do his dirty work?

  The lights were up inside Club 52 and its magical world was revealed as the old theater it had once been, all its renovations designed only to work in the near dark. The club was a blowsy woman wearing a lot of flashy makeup, hoping to get picked up before last call and the lights coming on.

  Chrome was on stage.

  Not performing, sitting backward on a white caneback chair, like Marlene Dietrich in The Blue Angel. She was in an electric blue version of that midriff-baring outfit she'd done her disco thing in the other night—the blue against her naturally tan skin made a stark contrast. Nobody was up there with her. The drum kit on its riser, the synthesizer, a guitar on a stand, a few amps. But her Colombian "musicians" were M.I.A.

  I walked across the plexiglass dance floor where a pair of bare-chested bartenders were sweeping up, a strangely pitiful sight. Normally the stairs at the far side of the stage were blocked by security staff, but not now. I was able to go right up there.

  "Hi, honey," I said, depositing myself before her.

  She looked up. Her makeup had run, and the big brown almond-shaped eyes had the same raccoon look as that little, mostly naked kid in the cellar at the Y and S. The platinum mane was in disarray. "Mike. Oh, Mike, what a terrible night is this."

  Stress had not robbed the Latin lilt of its musicality.

  "Any idea who might want to kill Little Tony?"

  Her chin quivered. "He like to be called Anthony."

  "I know. No offense to the dead. You're taking it hard, kid. Wasn't he just a guy you worked for?"

  "I love him, Mike. He love me."

  "I thought you weren't anybody's girl."

  She swallowed. Tears were streaming. She was a wreck. "If he here, if he were alive ... I would be his. Only his."

  "Sorry. Look, Chrome—Anthony's murder is the latest sour note in a pretty sorry symphony. That nice man Doolan got killed, and so did a little hooker named Dulcie Thorpe."

  "Doolan, he kill himself, the papers say."

  "They say wrong. And there was a girl you knew who was mugged and murdered."

  She nodded, swallowed, trying to be brave. Her face was a shambles within the unruly platinum frame, but the long legs on either side of the chair were as smoothly appealing as ever.

  "Ginnie," she said. "My young friend, Ginnie Mathes. We were in dance class together. She was good. I wanted her to join my new act."

  "Didn't know you used backup dancers."

  "The new act, it will. Both boys and girls. It would have mean the whole new life for Ginnie. It is sad. Very sad."

  "Did you know Joseph Fidello?"

  Her scowl was underscored by those smeary, runny cosmetics. "Ginnie's ex? He was a bad person. He knew her a long time ago and he ... what is the word? Try to worm his way back in her life. I told her, he is the bad ... what is the word? Influence. I do not think she was seeing him anymore, when she ... when we lose her."

  "Okay. Look, I'm sorry to bug you right now. I can tell this is rough for you."

  "You come see me, Mike. You come see Chrome later. I will have myself put together." She smiled bravely. "You will like what you see. I promise."

  Her smile was a quavering thing, and I nodded and smiled, and left her alone.

  Alone in the middle of the stage of the hottest club in Manhattan, which tonight—and perhaps on any future night—was as dead as Little Tony Tret.

  Chapter 13

  THE CLOUDS OVER the city were as gray as industrial smoke, and you could smell the rain up there. But whether the stuff would get dumped on us again was hard to say. The gentle mist barely registered, a little thunder grumbled, and I had a feeling the worst was over.

  Or soon would be.

  A pity, in a way—when a heavy rain came, city sounds were overwhelmed by nature, traffic thinning, pedestrians driven indoors and leaving the sidewalks to those who liked walking in the rain. Velda and I had gone out in it often enough, grinning into the wind and spray like sailors riding the bow through choppy stuff, and if it caught up with us today, we wouldn't mind at all.

  Still, we were prepared—I was in the trench coat and she in her raincoat when we stepped from the cab in front of the East Side address of the turn-of-the-century former residence that housed the Enfilade gun club. It was pushing noon. I had skipped the Bing's workout and didn't swim either, because I got my exercise yesterday at the Y and S Club.

  And in the Honeymoon Suite. Our reunion had been a loving, gentle affair, as I was recovering from that pummeling my midsection had taken under the bulletproof vest. Bruises blossomed overnight like exotic purple and black flowers. At breakfast—where we sat and talked and worked at putting the remaining puzzle pieces together—Velda had fed me more aspirin.

  There had been no effort by her to get me back on the prescribed meds. Just the opposite. She had looked at the vials, reading over their contents, and her dark eyes flashed at me as I stood nearby shaving.

  She said, "Do you know what you've been taking?" I said no, and she just shook her head... and shook the contents from the bottles into the toilet and flushed them all away.

  Gerald, the dignified grayed guardian of the Enfilade gates, was at his nicely carved antique desk as usual. Velda smiled a little at the formality of his manner and his funeral director garb. He rose and bowed to her, which was pretty goddamn cute, I have to admit, then we stood before him like employees reporting to a benevolent boss.

  "Mr. Hammer," Gerald said. "You are welcome to bring your lovely guest along this morning. But you must both sign in..."

  He pushed the book toward me when I held up a hand. "We're just here with a couple of questions, Gerald."

  "Oh? Detective business?"

  "Gathering background."

  "Nothing regarding our members, I hope."

  "Well, frankly I'm investigating Inspector Doolan's death. It may not have been a suicide."

  Gerald frowned thoughtfully. "He did seem an unlikely candidate for such, so vital an individual. How may I be of service?"

  "I've never been an Enfilade regular, Gerry, so I'm not sure about certain procedures. Do members store their weapons here? I find it difficult to believe they hop out of a cab, or walk over from their parked cars, lugging firearms."

  His smile was gentle, as if he were dealing with a child. "Some, like yourself, Mr. Hammer, have permits to carry." He nodded towa
rd my left shoulder, indicating he could again tell I was packing. "Of course, there are firearms in use at the Enfilade, some of them vintage weapons, which would be difficult to transport in that fashion."

  "The range downstairs—I've only seen handguns in use. Do any of the members keep rifles here?"

  "A number do. Yes."

  Velda was looking at the book that Gerald had pushed our way. Her eyes came up sharply to mine. "You need to see this, Mike. A couple of interesting entries...."

  I checked them out, and said, "I see that Congressman Jaynor is downstairs."

  "Yes he is. This is not a busy time—he's one of a handful using the facility. Your friend Mr. Webb is here again, and a few other members. Would you like to go down?"

  After asking Gerald a few additional pointed questions, we did, passing the framed photos on that celebrity wall. Velda paused to look at several where Doolan posed with a group that included Anthony Tretriano and Alex Jaynor. We could make out the very muffled sounds of gunfire from the enclosed target range, but found Alex in the lounge area, seated with Smith & Wesson's resident champ, Chuck Webb. Two Wall Street boys sat with them in the midst of friendly conversation.

  Introductions were made, with everybody standing to smile and nod at Velda, all of them taking in her beauty with open but not offensive admiration. I helped her out of her raincoat and she showed them what a real woman could do with a simple white blouse and black skirt.

  I draped my trench coat over the back of a chair, and the Wall Street pair—in running clothes—excused themselves to go into the range. Chuck, in another polo shirt with the S & W logo, followed them in, throwing me a secret look and head wag, in back of Velda, letting me know what a lucky stiff he thought I was.

  The sandy-haired, brown-as-a-berry politician was apparently not here to shoot. Alex was in a well-tailored black suit with white pinstripes and had enough bulk that I could tell a bulletproof vest was a part of his ensemble. When you get shot at from the street often enough, that kind of vest can become a necessary fashion accessory.

  "So this is Velda," Alex said in the smooth, resonant voice that had served him well on television and in the political arena. "Doolan spoke of you warmly. He said you were the brains in the Hammer agency."

  She shrugged and smiled.

  I said, "Making me the beauty, I guess."

  The light blue eyes in the narrow handsome face turned alertly serious. "Are you getting anywhere with your investigation into Doolan's death, Mike?"

  "I've wrapped it up," I said, "as much as possible. In a case as complicated as this, not every loose end gets connected."

  "Does this Tretriano killing factor in?"

  I nodded. "At least in a peripheral way—Doolan was closing in on Little Tony. I believe the old boy was able to get close to 'Anthony,' and even scored an all-access pass to Club 52, thanks to their shared membership here."

  Alex's expression grew thoughtful. "Well now, Mike—they weren't exactly close friends. Of course, all of the members here are sociable, and I suppose that did provide a certain common ground...."

  "It must have. Doolan was fairly regular at Club 52 for a while, and he amassed evidence that connects Tony and his club to drug trafficking. These new clubs Little Tony's opening—or anyway was opening—would have expanded that operation nationwide."

  The politician's expression combined alarm and disgust. "My God. Why didn't Doolan share this with me? I would have helped!"

  "He was a sneaky old coot. He compartmentalized. You were close to him and shared his concern about illegal drugs in the city. And yet Doolan kept you unaware that Velda here had been working for him for nearly six months, the last two in South America, gathering intel on the cocaine cartel itself."

  "Remarkable," he said, looking at Velda through new eyes.

  I said, "This is far-reaching, Alex. Where all of the tendrils will finally reach remains to be seen ... but you can bet they'll be gathered up by federal investigators better equipped for the job than an old-time private dick like me."

  Alex sat forward, his gaze going from me to Velda and back. "Was it the Bonetti bunch? The news is full of that shoot-out at that Mafia social club. If Doolan really was murdered, they make a good candidate for instigator. The Bonettis, remember, are the family behind the drug operation that Doolan and I ran out of his neighborhood."

  "Hard to say," I said with a shrug. "If Little Tony got wind of what Doolan was up to, he might have been behind that fake suicide. And old Alberto Bonetti had his own reasons to get rid of Doolan, too. We'll probably never know."

  Alex squinted at me, like he was trying to get me in focus. "You're not just going to walk away, are you, Mike?"

  "Why not? It's over. That sniper who took Tony Tret out was almost certainly a survivor from the Y and S Club melee."

  "A reprisal?"

  "What else? When the rival mob families trying to control the narcotics racket are both in shot-to-shit disarray, what's left for me to do?"

  Now he shrugged. "I guess ... nothing."

  "Well," I said absently, "there is one thing. There's a very valuable item I came across, early on in this mess. I haven't even told Pat about it."

  "What is it?"

  "Can't say, or anyway shouldn't. You'll read about it eventually. Let's just say it's priceless and is nothing I should be holding on to. Frankly, it probably belongs in the estate of a poor dead kid named Ginnie Mathes."

  With an alarmed glance, Velda said, "Mike, this 'item'—is it somewhere safe?"

  "Oh yeah. I hid it where nobody will find it." I grinned at Alex. "You'll love this. It's stashed in Doolan's apartment. Little hiding place that only he and I knew about. Fitting, huh?"

  I exchanged casual smiles with Velda, and we got up, shook hands with the politician, and excused ourselves.

  "Mike," Alex said, "if you think of anything ... if there's anything I can do..."

  "You'll have plenty to do," I said. "When the feds come in and mop up after me, you'll be in a position to keep the drug racket at bay in this town for a goddamn change."

  I put the hat on, grabbed my coat, nodded at him, and followed the nice view Velda provided up the stairs.

  Out on the street, she said, "Think he took the bait?"

  "Oh yeah." My grin felt like it might burst my face. "Oh yeah...."

  This was where it had started.

  And started long before I'd returned from Florida, this quiet neighborhood that had gone from fashionable to rundown only to be rebuilt and reinvigorated before finally fading into a low-key, livable area where its many older residents felt comfortable and secure—like a certain Bill Doolan, who had been through fifty-two years of changes. Then a peaceful, even dull way of life had been threatened by the intrusion of a criminal element that the old retired cop had risen up on his haunches to help drive out like the plague-carrying rats they were.

  So once again I went up the sandstone steps into the small vestibule with its old-time ornamented brass mailboxes. This time the inner door was locked, and when I hit a random buzzer—not Doolan's—no one asked before buzzing me through.

  The door behind me closed of its own will, shutting out street sounds and replacing them with the stillness of the lonely life the old building's residents endured. I went up the two flights of stairs and down the hallway to the door of Doolan's apartment. I still had Pat's key for the padlock that had been affixed to the damaged door of the crime scene, but I didn't need it.

  Someone had forced it off, hasp and all.

  The lock lay on the floor, sleeping on a small bed of sawdust and splinters. Wouldn't have been much of a job, even with just a screwdriver, any noise minimal. Even as watchful as older tenants could be, the hearing-aid crowd would not likely be alerted by this break-in at Doolan's lonely, dimly lit end of the corridor.

  The trench coat was unbuttoned and my hand slipped easily under it and the sport jacket to bring out the .45 from its snug home under my left arm.

  Could the trap
I'd set have been turned around on me? Had I been so obvious that the drama I'd staged would wind up starring me as its tragic hero? Was a cold-blooded killer waiting on the other side of that door with his own gun?

  But when I walked into the old, slightly musty space—no lights on but enough of the gray day seeping from windows deeper in the place to help me navigate—no one greeted me with a gun or otherwise. I moved through the well-decorated, tidy quarters that still bore the signs of the cops who'd been here—print powder, cigarette butts—past the master bedroom and bath and on into Doolan's office/den.

  The antique desk that faced a window, adjacent to the wall that held the old man's beloved stereo system and books and mementoes, had its swivel chair pushed away to give the intruder better access to the hidden button that opened a side panel.

  Alex Jaynor had emptied the hideaway of the four guns stowed there, and they lay on the blotter of the desk like a courtroom exhibit. He had a hand stuffed in the compartment, feeling around, searching, obviously frustrated.

  From my trench coat pocket, my left hand withdrew the rough pebble with the shiny little window. I had it poised between thumb and middle finger, held up to window light, before I said, "Is this what you're looking for, Alex?"

  He whirled. That hard-edged, handsome face had a new wildness, the eyes wide and bright with something feral, the sandy hair not so perfect, three or four lacquered strands sticking out this way and that, like springs liberated from a threadbare couch. Only his pinstriped suit retained its dignity.

  "It was never in there," I said.

  I slipped the stone back in my pocket. What the hell—I put the .45 back in its sling, too.

  He swallowed, straightened himself, smoothed his suitcoat, though it didn't need smoothing. His head went back, and only the stray manic strands of hair betrayed him. Those and a seldom-blinking intensity of the sky-blue eyes.

  "That little stone is worth a lot of money," he said.

  "Yeah. The last of Basil's crop. Maybe you felt honored, being the final 'honest' man bought off with one of them. A lot of corruption flowed from a simple pouch of pebbles over the years. Enough money generated to make Nazis into good South American citizens, and to keep Colombian officials at arm's length while a cartel developed cocaine into the country's leading cash crop."