"He'll be overjoyed, we'll all be overjoyed, if you just get your ass out of here."
"My pleasure, buddy," I told him. "Feel like hitting the Blue Ribbon for supper?"
He gave me a "you gotta be kidding" expression, but it melted, and the cop became a friend again. "What's the special tonight?"
"Beats me, but I could dig some of that crazy knockwurst."
Pat leaned back in his chair. He even found a chuckle for me. "You buying?"
"Sure."
"Then you're on."
And we went out for a late dinner, leaving our conversation behind.
Anybody who walked into my office would have a hard time figuring out who it belonged to. Back in the old Hackard Building, it had been a cluttered, lovely mess. But they were giving the old landmark a major overhaul, and I'd had to move to new digs, maybe temporarily, maybe not. Anyway, now the address was classy, the view scenic if you liked towering Manhattan tombstones, with a doorman who after six months still looked at me like I didn't belong.
Velda had added decorating to her secretarial duties, keeping the place rugged enough to maintain my occupational image without scaring off the more timid clients. The outer office was inviting, furnishings modern but not metal, nice lush dark wood and a couch with dark leather padding. Wood panels bore framed newspaper stories about her boss and various sharpshooting plaques I'd racked up, and even a couple of civic awards from groups not afraid to endorse my brand of rough justice.
She was still the teaser, though. In her own area outside my private office she had installed an antique but functional desk, at which she could be seen when my inner office door was open, so I could take in both of those lovely, disconcerting legs crossing and uncrossing down in the desk's well.
And if that wasn't enough of an invitation, she'd smile over her Smith Corona and inhale deeply so the tight jersey tops she always wore would swell out with an open challenge to give her more breathing room.
Velda.
Wide shoulders, deep, dark tresses falling in a pageboy that fashion had long since left behind, yet still the most beautiful hairstyle of all. A tall woman, with dark almond-shaped eyes, rich with mystery, and a lush red-lipsticked mouth that made a guy consider doing the kinds of things that get you arrested in some states....
Morning sun was slanting through the blinds and throwing horizontal patterns on the hardwood floor as I stepped into my new, modern suite of offices, and closed the door behind me. "Hello, kitten."
Her teeth flashed in a smile so white, the sunlight seemed to bounce off and get brighter. She stood behind her desk and reached out to take my hands in hers.
"Mike, you bastard," she said, and held her mouth up for a fiery little office kiss. Then she tugged me back to my favorite sitting spot on the edge of her desk.
"'Mike, you bastard'... what kind of welcome is that?"
Her pout was a phony. "You could have stopped by when you got back. You didn't even call me last night. You were home, weren't you?"
"Not till fairly late. I got caught up in something."
She frowned. "Yeah, I know. Pat called me. He can call me, but you couldn't take the time?"
"Listen, last night when I got back, I hit the rack and was asleep before I could turn out the light. I'm not a kid anymore, you know. You're up on what happened?"
She nodded crisply. "I read about it in the evening papers, and this morning the coverage was more detailed, but still with plenty of lines to read between...." She tucked her lower lip between her teeth, waited a moment, and said, "Pretty nasty scene?"
"Nasty enough." I shrugged. "Could have been worse."
"Oh?"
"This Billy Blue—he's apparently a nice kid, and those punks were out to tear him up."
Her head cocked in that RCA-Victor-dog fashion, only she was no dog. "What were you doing there, Mike?"
"Hey, just delivering that report to Klein. I'd just come out of his damn building. I was on my way up here."
She sighed, shook her head, and all that auburn hair shimmered. "Oh, Mike, how do you always manage to get involved in these crazy scrapes?"
"Like the man said—just lucky I guess."
Velda gave that a little laugh, which was more than it deserved, then looked into my eyes. "Good vacation?"
"Plenty of sun, caught some fish, got my paperwork done, and managed to locate Klein's missing shipment by telephone."
"The private eye's best weapon." Now her eyes got narrow. "Get laid?"
"What a question."
"So answer me."
I shifted on my desk perch. "Number one, it's none of your damn business."
"And number two?"
"Number two, let's just say I didn't have any decent offers, and number three, maybe I didn't feel like it."
"I'll ignore number two, and politely pretend number three can be taken seriously."
"Hell," I said, "I was saving it all up for you."
"That I won't ignore." She kissed me again, lightly, then ran her hand gently down my side. "How's the wound?"
"Healed, but still sore. Hurts like a son of a bitch when I sneeze."
"So don't sneeze. But I bet you feel better than the two guys who jumped you outside Dewey Wong's."
"I don't know, doll. When you're dead and buried, like those clowns, nothing much hurts. Even in a landfill."
She was stroking my hand now. "That little brannigan yesterday, that didn't do you any good either, did it?"
"I'll survive."
"That's what some people are afraid of, I think." She gave me an odd look of resignation. "Was that dustup the end of something, or the beginning?"
"You and Pat can throw a lot of curve balls, sugar. What's with you two?"
She shook her head. "We've known you too long, maybe. Way ahead of you—like a dog who brings in the newspaper before his master even realizes he wants to read it."
I said it before, but this time out loud: "Baby, you're no dog."
She smiled impishly, reached over, picked up a folder from the desk, and handed it to me.
"What's this?"
"A rundown on those kids."
I gaped at her. "You been working on this already?"
"Think of it as the newspaper you didn't realize you wanted to read yet."
"Oh yeah, where's my pipe and slippers?"
She slapped me gently on the leg.
"Kitten, I appreciate the effort, but I went over the police reports and Pat filled me in a little. Do we really need to dig into this thing?"
"How about where Billy Blue is concerned?"
"According to Pat, he's clean."
Velda nodded, looking at me thoughtfully. "He seems to be, but I found a store owner in his neighborhood who had seen him talking to two of his future assailants—Felton and Brix. It looked like an argument, but he couldn't be sure."
"What are you, a witch? How'd you find this stuff out so fast?"
Her smile said she liked the implied compliment, witch remark or not. "I been working the phone. Private eye's best weapon, remember?"
"Naw. A good secretary, that's a private eye's best weapon. Who's the beat cop in the area?"
"Officer named Sherman—you can thank Pat for that tidbit. Sherman knew the players in your little melodrama yesterday, including Haver, the driver? But Officer Sherman never saw all four together. He gave the Blue kid a clean bill, but said the others were all just biding time before jail or an O.D. Real hardcases for their age. Haver had just beaten up his mother the day before. She doesn't even want to go to his funeral."
"There's a picture Norman Rockwell could paint."
She frowned thoughtfully. "But, Mike, it was a shop teacher in the high school Billy Blue goes to who put me onto something. Mr. Lang thinks both Brix and Felton were hustling narcotics to some of the kids. With Billy working in the hospital, they might have seen a potential source in the boy—tried to make a supplier out of him."
I nodded. Smart cookie, my Velda. "You check at Dorch
ester Medical College?"
"I haven't had time." She nodded toward the phone and the fat directory on her blotter. "I could only let my fingers do so much walking.... Anyway, I thought you might like to poke around yourself."
I flipped the folder open and gave a slow scan to the four pages inside—four life histories with pertinent remarks contained on one page apiece. Idly, I wondered how many pages it would take to summarize my own life. Of course, just the fatalities I'd racked up would rate more than four.
I said, "Now I know what Pat meant."
"Oh?"
"Why he told me to lay off, I mean. These boys have interesting records. Interesting ties."
She was studying me warily. "Are you going to? Lay off, I mean?"
I gave her a big ugly grin. "If you thought I would, baby, then you wouldn't have bothered with the legwork."
"Fingerwork," she said, holding up pretty red-nailed digits. "All that means is, I know what you're going to want before you do."
"You're a good little doggie after all, honey."
"Then why don't you pet me?"
She leaned toward me, half rising, and I leaned toward her, and I was half rising myself, though I was still perched there. My fingers started in the softness of her hair, touched their way down over the firm slope of her breasts and slipped lower till nestled snugly against her flat belly. In this position, that was as far as I could reach. I stopped, cupped her face in my hands, and kissed her again.
When I pushed her back, she said, "That was mean."
"You asked me to," I reminded her.
"I meant stopping," she said.
I got off her desk and stood there and straightened my tie and said, "Just trying to maintain a little office decorum."
She was laughing and pointing at me. "What's that, our new hat rack?"
I said, "I told you I was saving it all up for you," then I covered myself with my porkpie hat and went back out into the hall. I could still hear her laughing behind the glass of the door as I headed off to find out just what it was I'd gotten myself into, playing Mighty Mouse for a kid called Billy Blue.
Chapter Two
DORCHESTER MEDICAL COLLEGE was an old, reputable, well-funded institution that specialized in rare-disease research. It was housed in two baronial-style mansions joined by a modern white-brick structure on the upper edge of Manhattan, quietly exclusive and staffed with the finest minds available courtesy of generous endowments from several giant corporations.
The nurse at the personnel desk had received her own generous endowments, but no corporations had been involved. Her hair was red-blonde and her freckled nose was almost as cute as her long-lashed blue eyes, which she batted at me when I made my inquiries.
Seemed she didn't usually give out information about employees, and unlike some people, she didn't mistake the ID card and badge for a city cop's. But the name on the ID made her eyes widen.
"I saw in the papers what happened to Billy," she said, and the blue eyes spiked with indignation. "It's all anybody around here is talking about today."
"I bet."
"It's lucky you were there. On the scene. You're a real hero, Mr. Hammer."
"Maybe, maybe not, but I'm doing follow-up and wanted to get some background on Billy."
She almost frowned. "As I said, we don't usually give out information about employees, Mr. Hammer...."
"That's a shame."
She fluttered some more. "But you are sort of almost a policeman, aren't you?"
I leaned a hand on her desk. "I never heard it put better."
Then she fetched the file on William R. Blue, age 17, and the rear view while she fished in a filing cabinet was worth the trip. She allowed me to copy down the kid's local address with references from school, clergy, and neighborhood shopkeepers.
Billy Blue was engaged in part-time work on weekdays, with a full day on Saturday, and he always accepted overtime if it was asked of him. There were no complaints from his supervisors and in seven months he had only taken off one day, for a dental visit. He had started with light janitorial work, moved into the dietary kitchen, then got assigned to Dr. David Harrin, chief of staff at nearby Saxony Hospital, who regularly taught at Dorchester.
I asked the nurse, "What does he do for Dr. Harrin?"
"Everything from sterilizing equipment to delivering supplies. The doctor has taken a rather personal interest in Billy, after seeing how enthusiastic the young man is about his job. Billy works very hard at his studies, too."
"But he's not a student here at Dorchester—he's still in high school...?"
"That's right, but Dr. Harrin took the boy under his wing. He's a nice kid, Billy, and I think Dr. Harrin sees a lot of potential in him."
I gave her a lopsided grin. "It's nice to know there are still some people like that around."
A touch of concern creased her brow. She lowered her voice as if sharing a secret: "Well, you know, the doctor lost his own son two years ago. The boy died of a heart attack a short while after a track meet."
"Damn," I said. "That's rough."
She nodded. "Especially so, what with Dr. Harrin being widowed a year earlier. His wife was killed in an automobile accident on Long Island. I imagine he feels a kinship with Billy, since the boy's an orphan himself. Did you know Billy practically supports his grandparents?"
I handed the file back to her. "Doesn't sound like Billy's exactly a problem child. But I just like to check everything out."
The blue eyes widened. "You could talk to Billy."
"I plan to."
"Or his friends at the high school..."
"Naw, that's not worth the bother. You know how it is. They're usually reluctant to say anything about other kids."
"How well I know. I have a sister that age."
"There's more at home like you?"
She didn't have a reply for that, just a smile. Then she glanced at her watch and said, "Billy and Dr. Harrin are quite close—you might want to speak to the doctor. You'll probably find him in the staff cafeteria about now." She pointed to one side. "Up those stairs and first door on the left."
"Appreciate it," I said.
"Any other information I can provide?"
"Nope."
But she gave me more info just the same, by way of her phone number.
I took the slip of paper and thanked her for it, but I'd pitch it. Not that a redhead like her couldn't soothe my pains, but if Velda ran across that scrap of paper, I'd need a doctor not a nurse.
Up in the cafeteria, a gnome-ish waitress in a hairnet who didn't exactly spark my appetite pointed out Dr. David Harrin. Though he sat hunched over a coffee by a window, he was clearly a tall man. He had a distinguished air and a bony, Lincolnesque physique. At the moment, he was studiously going over some handwritten notes in a spiral pad.
When I approached, the white-haired, bespectacled physician looked up and I knew at once that he, too, wasn't the kind you could fake out with a state license and a metal badge. His eyes were a washed-out blue, set in a firm, friendly face that had looked upon life and death a thousand times, searching for answers to ten thousand baffling questions.
"Dr. Harrin?"
"Yes?"
"I'm Mike Hammer."
He stood up and held out his hand, and I took it—there was a secure, tensile strength in his grip.
His smile was quick and genuine. "Ah, yes. The celebrated Mr. Hammer. Hero of the hour, and star of a dozen tabloid tales."
That was delivered in good humor, so I just said, "Guilty as charged."
"Sit down, Mr. Hammer, please. Coffee?"
Before I could answer, he signaled to a perky little waitress who was filling coffee cups and water glasses, and she nodded and went off to do his bidding.
Then he pulled his chair around so he could face me.
"I'm very happy you dropped by," he said. "It's a pleasure and a privilege to have you where I can thank you in person for helping Billy out of that jam."
"No troubl
e."
"I would think a world of trouble. Society has a way of punishing good Samaritans."
I'd been called a lot of things in my time, but good Samaritan wasn't one of them.
The doc was saying, "I hope you won't be having any difficulty yourself, with the, uh, messy aftermath."
"No," I assured him, "I'm clear. There were too many witnesses and, anyway, those punks had plenty of strikes against them already. How's Billy?"
His smile was one of relief. "Strictly bruises, lacerations, and a badly sprained ankle from that fall he took when the car swiped him. I'm making him stay at Saxony another couple of days—he doesn't relish the idea, but doctor's orders are, as they say, doctor's orders."
"Rank's got its privileges, all right."
The coffee came and we both thanked the perky little gal. This one was cute enough that the hairnet didn't defeat her.
As I stirred some cream and sugar in, I said offhandedly, "Billy mention why those clowns went after him?"
He looked up with a thoughtful squint. He reminded me of somebody—the actor John Carradine, maybe?
"Mr. Hammer, I'd say they were after his money. He'd just been paid, you know. Must it be anything more sinister than that?"
"No. That's sinister enough."
His eyebrows, which were as black as his hair was white, rose high. "The same thing happened twice last month to an orderly and a nurse. Open, daylight muggings by apparent narcotics addicts."
"What does Billy have to say on the subject?"
"He doesn't. He couldn't give any reason for the attack at all." Harrin made a wry gesture that was matched by his facial expression and said, "It doesn't matter much now, does it? That is, thanks to your quick action, Mr. Hammer. Two are dead and the other one is under arrest, and in critical condition."
"There are plenty more shitheels where they came from."
His look turned grave. "And we get them at Saxony, poor wretches."
"You feel sorry for them?"
"Not for them. For the human beings they once were."
"You know kids—they think they're going to live forever."
He said nothing, and I realized what I'd said.
The Big Bang Page 2