by Black Alley
“Hell, I’m tough,” he mumbled.
“How did he get to you?” Velda asked him.
“Snuck up on me, he did. I was getting ready to go down the road and hitch a ride to town.” He took a deep breath before going on. “Then, blam, there he was. Didn’t even say hello. Just swung something at my head and that’s all I knew.”
“You recognize him, Slateman?”
His head bobbed an affirmative. “Those cops . . . they had a picture. It was him, all right. You know who he was?”
“Yeah, we know.”
“What happened to him?”
“Right now he’s in the county jail medical facility here in Albany with the police guarding him every minute.” I gave him a big grin. “Don’t worry about him anymore. He’s got murder one charges going against him now. He is going to fall.”
“Good,” Slateman wheezed.
“What are you going to do?” I asked him.
“Y’mean after Medicare stops takin’ care of me?”
I nodded.
“Sure beats me,” he said. “I saw on TV where they wrecked my house and everything else.”
“If somebody built a place up there would you like to take care of it?”
“Now, who’d do that?”
“Wait until you’re on your feet, old-timer. We’ll talk again, okay?”
“Sure thing.”
We shook hands and left. I could feel his eyes on my back until we got in the elevator.
On the way down, Velda said, “Are you getting the jitters, Mike?”
“We have the blood tests, we have the license, now all we have to find is someone to tie the knot.”
She paused and squeezed my arm. “You going to fink out on me?”
“I’m thinking about it, so stop bugging me.”
“Mike . . .”
“Not long ago you told me to finish this thing. Remember?”
She didn’t get annoyed because I jostled her memory. She suddenly became my business partner again and realized that the job came first and there was no way to talk me out of it.
Her smile came slowly. It wasn’t grim. It said she understood and was ready to go along with my decision. “Okay, boss,” she said.
You can’t just leave things like that. I looked at that beautiful face and wondered how Hollywood hadn’t picked up on it years ago. She was dressed the way a business executive should be dressed, but there was that way clothes filled and swerved around unmistakable bodily outlines that couldn’t be concealed and I realized why the clients and the CEO’s in the restaurants and the college kids on the street looked at me the way they did.
I said, “Come with me, kid, and I’ll get you some candy.”
Velda stayed in the car around the corner from the store I went into. The manager gave me the big smile he saved for men getting ready to enter into the state of matrimony, though how he could tell his customers’ intentions was beyond me.
I said, “I want a two-carat diamond, emerald cut, set in gold. I want top quality, and when you show it to me, I want your loupe so I can check the stone myself. I’ll pay by check and I have plenty of identification. Can you handle that?”
His smile never faded. He nodded and went behind the counter. I could see what was on display, but he didn’t pick one from the case. What he showed me came from a small rack, separately locked, beneath my line of vision. His fingers flipped open the small box and nested in a black velvet bed was the engagement ring. He handed me the loupe, watched as I inspected the quality of the gem, and when I put it back in its container I said, “Very nice.”
“It’s very expensive,” he told me.
“About fifteen thousand, I’d say.”
“Quite right. Actually, you’re five hundred under the asking price, but given the circumstances, fifteen will do it.”
If you’re going to play the game, you might as well enjoy it. After this check I’d have about two thousand left in the office account, but the bills were all paid and there still was another week to refurbish my economic future.
I dug out my driver’s license and handed it to him with the check. He took down my license number after ascertaining that I matched the photo in the plastic and handed me the box his clerk had packaged so neatly.
When I was putting my cards back in my wallet he saw my New York state PI ticket in the folder and gave me a scrutinizing look. “You’re that Michael Hammer . . . the one who caught that mobster on the old Harris place?”
“Everybody’s got to be somebody,” I said.
“You were just on television, right before you came in here.”
“Come on, no cameras were at Harris’.”
“I don’t mean there. The police were looking for you.”
“What for?”
“Something’s happened. They didn’t say, but they want you to call any precinct station. You’re to ask for . . . a Mr. Holmes?”
“Mr. Watson.”
“Yes, that’s it. You can use my phone here if you’d like.”
I didn’t need a phone book. The police and fire department numbers were printed on stickers glued to the phone itself and I dialed the top number. I asked for Homer Watson, gave my name and waited through a patch to a radio in his car. He asked me where I was and he told me to stay in my car until he got there.
Velda saw me coming and jumped out to meet me. She started to say, “There was an announcement about you on the radio . . .”
“I know. It came over TV too. This town has a wild communication system.”
“What’s it all about?”
“Beats me, but Homer’s coming right over. Get back in the car.”
Once we were seated she said, “Where have you been?”
“Buying you some candy, kitten.” I took the box out of my pocket and handed it to her. Only for one second was there a question on her face, because candy wasn’t wrapped like that. There was just that thing about the size and shape and weight of the package that shouted to the world what it was and she tore into the fancy wrappings with nails like a tiger’s and yanked it out of the paper. She stared at it for a few seconds, looked at me with the expression that said that this had better not be a joke, then she opened the box.
The kiss was different this time. It was a brand-new experience, a once-in-a-lifetime feeling of fleshly heat and a wild promise of total satisfaction that had waited long enough and now was ready to explode into reality. Her mouth was soft and wet, a hungry lusciousness I didn’t want to stop tasting, but did so I could take the ring and slide it on her finger. It was just a little loose, but Velda didn’t care at all. Those deep brown eyes caressed mine and got foggy with the tears women get at times like this.
Homer Watson pulled up to snap the moment back to now. He hopped out of his car and got in the backseat of mine. “I wish you’d let me know where you are. We’ve been looking all over for you.”
“Hell, I’m not under arrest.”
“It could be worse, Hammer. You’re under a death threat.”
“What else is new?”
“This one’s different.”
His voice had strange overtones and he kept scanning the streets outside. When he was satisfied that we were clear, he said, “Ugo Ponti is loose. He broke out last night and hasn’t been located.”
“Come on, Homer. He had a police guard. What happened?”
“A military operation is what happened. We haven’t got accurate figures, but from what we put together, eight men came in, subdued the guards, cut the phone lines, herded building personnel into a room and locked it, then got Ugo out of there. They had cutters with them that freed him from the bed frames, clothes to go over his pajamas and they were gone.”
“Ugo wouldn’t have contacts like that up here,” I stated. “I doubt if he could pull that off in his own neighborhood.”
“And you’d be right. This wasn’t Ugo’s show at all.”
“Okay, who—”
“The long arm of the Mafia, friend. Lo
renzo Ponti was top dog in this area and the local capo decided that he owed his former don a debt of gratitude and arranged for the bust out.”
“You sure of this?”
“Absolutely. Two of those hoods were recognized by one of the people they locked up. He told us, but no way will he make that identification official. The cops got the word on the street about it too. Now, the debt’s been paid, so the heat is not on you from the mob up here. It’s Ugo . . . he’s gone completely nuts. All he wants is you, and from the threats he made earlier, he wants your hide.”
“What do you want, Homer?”
“I want you to stay alive until we get our hands on that money.”
“In other words, you still think I know where it is?”
He didn’t answer me, but he didn’t have to.
I told him, “Homer, how would anybody know if I had all those billions?”
“You tell me, Hammer,” he said.
I let my head move in a slow nod. “I’d have to show rich first, wouldn’t I?”
His eyes said that I was right.
“My Ford would have to get turned in for a BMW or a Mercedes and I’d move into an apartment on Fifth Avenue.” I paused, savoring the picture. “A couple of the agencies could furnish me bodyguards.”
Velda let out a chuckle and Homer gave her a concerned look. She said, “You have to get rid of your Hush Puppies and other crepe-soled shoes and carry a smaller gun.”
Then it was my turn to laugh. “You know, Homer, the mob doesn’t want me. It wants their money, and if there’s a chance that I can point them to it, I’m safe. If the good old U.S. Department of the Treasury or the IRS or any of those clowns think I have the key, they’ll guard me like Fort Knox.”
“That leaves Ugo Ponti as the loose cannon. Knowing him, nothing’s going to change until he kills you. Or Velda here.”
I got that sudden squeeze again. It wrapped itself around my middle, then centered on my side, like a flint arrowhead being pushed into a suppurated wound very slowly, stopping just before the pain got great enough to make you choke on your own breath.
Velda saw my face tighten and knew what was happening.
Homer frowned and said, “What are your plans?”
I knew what I had to do. For too long I had ignored it, but now I knew. I said, “I’m going back to the city, Mr. Watson. There’s nothing more I can do here.”
“We can run unmarked cars in front and in back of you if you want.”
Velda didn’t give me a chance to answer. “That will be fine, Mr. Watson.” He looked at me and I agreed with a nod.
“I’ll call Captain Chambers. Our teams will escort you back to the city limits and his men can cover you back to your apartment. Is that all right with you?”
“Sure.” I breathed slowly a few seconds until the pain receded a little. “But isn’t all this interdepartmental cooperation a little unusual?”
“Perhaps, but necessary. It makes bookkeeping easier. The prize involved demands it.”
“Baloney,” I said sourly, “the prize is all that counts.”
Velda drove going back, staying a little above the posted speeds like everyone else. The unmarked cars took turns leading our convoy and twice plain vans and a pickup with a camper top joined us to relieve the monotony in case we were being followed. All the cars were in communication by radio and when Pat’s men joined us I felt better. The other vehicles seemed to melt away and we made the apartment building without an incident. Bill Raabe was on duty, spotted us, and knew that something was up and didn’t ask any questions. When we got upstairs, Velda called Ralph Morgan and told him to get over as fast as he could.
My front door was fireproof, steel faced and solidly bolted and I didn’t want an armed guard outside, but Pat insisted and settled for a plainclothesman down in the lobby to keep Bill Raabe company. The patrol cars would make routine stops to check the situation periodically.
Velda wasn’t a hysterical female. She was as businesslike as she could get and got into my small arms cabinet and laid out three automatics with full loads at hidden but strategic places around the rooms. I let her play while I slipped into a tub of warm, soothing water and let the pain soften like the dirt on me and got out, dried off and dressed as the good doctor came in.
His face registered pure disgust. There was no small talk until he had gotten all my vital signs down on his pad, a new bandage on me and had a brief conversation with Velda out of my sight. When he came back he said, “You’ll live. How long, however, is in your hands. Your general condition is good, but it could have been much better. That wound of yours could erupt at any time. It’s right on the edge this minute. I’m not going to preach to you, Mike. It wouldn’t do any good. You made me well, for which I thank you, but you’ll do nothing for yourself. You haven’t got a death wish, have you?”
“Not likely.”
“Why don’t you retire?”
“From whom, pal? I’m self-employed. I can’t quit.”
The doctor looked over at Velda and she shrugged in resignation.
“When is this thing going to end?” he asked me.
“When it’s over,” I said.
Three days went past like a soft dream. I ate, I slept, I watched the weather channel on TV and fell asleep during two movies. Velda whispered around my apartment, keeping things clean and answering the phone. At regular intervals I took what medication she gave me and finally I began to think the doctor had slipped in something to keep me channelled in peaceful paths. There was no company and no noise and on the morning of the fourth day my eyes snapped open to total reality. There was no drug hangover, no pain in my side, and when I touched the bandaged area there was a soreness but nothing more. I was awake, I was alert and I felt great.
Velda had been watching and waiting. I didn’t eat in the bed again. I sat up in a chair and had breakfast spread out before me on a small table. The vitamins and the calories were all there, but I wasn’t smothered with huge portions. Something had happened to my appetite and the small portions she had doled out were just right.
She had my ring on her finger and I was feeling that being married wouldn’t be cutting a hole in my life at all.
That girl was reading my mind again. She deliberately waved the diamond in front of me and smiled. Then she told me to go shave and get cleaned up. Pat had called earlier and would be up to see me in another hour.
Something critical had cropped up.
“This is pure rumor,” Pat told me. “It’s straight off the streets and not documented at all, but I trust the sources.”
“Good news?”
“For you, yeah. The Albany mob that broke Ugo out of the jail hospital found out that he iced his father. The capo of that bunch was tight with old Lorenzo, that’s why he did the big favor, but when he got word of Ugo pulling the trigger, he hit the roof. There’s a contract out on Ugo like you can’t believe. The few old-timers who have their organizations in line are lending a hand and there’s no way Ugo is going to get out of this.”
“Have they located him yet?”
“Nobody has shown up yet, and his will be one corpse they won’t bury under concrete pilings in Jersey. Ugo is going to be a real example.”
“He already is, Pat. He’s still on the loose.”
“The families have tightened the net around New York. They’d sooner have him dead than controlling that money.”
“What money, Pat?” I asked him lightly.
“Knock it off, Mike.” He got up from his chair and paced the room twice. “His odds are bad. If the police nail him, he goes to prison. He’ll be killed there before they could get him in the chair. Keeping him alive for trial will be harder than trying to locate him.”
“What kind of a net have you got out?”
Pat glared out the window. “Every escape route is covered. Local police and the feds are searching the Albany area, but he had all the time in the world to break out of there. We heard the capo in the state capital l
aid ten grand on him and got him a nondescript car with straight plates, so he had transportation.”
“You got the plate numbers?”
“No. That was another rumor from a reliable source. We’re waiting for that capo to get sore enough to release the information so we can get an APB out on him.”
“They don’t do it that way, Pat.”
“Maybe this time they might.” He turned slowly and looked down at me sipping my second cup of coffee. “Mike, they all know about you. I think they hired historical researchers because Dooley, you and me are pieces of gossip coming out of the sides of mob mouths. I’ve been called in twice by my superiors to give an explanation of all this, but what do I know? If we were dealing with legitimate business it would be different, but mob money is as elusive as a will-o’-the-wisp. It’s there, but it’s not there. It’s not in use, but the mob business goes on. Nobody seems to know a thing, yet everybody knows all those billions are boxed and stored and a crazy is out there starting up even more trouble for the families.”
I said, “Get to your point, Pat.”
He hooked the chair with his foot and pulled it under him. “I just want you to tell me the truth, Mike. No fancy speculations. Like Jack Webb used to say, ‘Just the facts.’ ”
“Okay, you got it, Pat.”
“Is there really that much money stashed somewhere?”
“Dooley intimated that there was.”
“That’s not an answer, Mike.”
“That’s all he told me.”
Pat took a deep breath, stared up at the ceiling a moment, then said, “Do you know where it is?”
“No.”
Pat was a cop and I didn’t fool him a bit. “Do you think you know where it is?”
“I’ve been studying on that, pal.”
“What are your conclusions?”
“So far I haven’t gotten to that point. At least we know one thing: nobody else has recovered it. I assume you have alerted every warehouse in the state and have contacted all the hunting clubs to pinpoint cave sites in the Adirondack mountain range, right?”
“Among other efforts. The feds are laying out a barrel of loot to run this thing down. If Ugo turns up in their net it will only be coincidental.” His fingers drummed on the arm of the chair. “Tell me, Mike, did you ever figure Dooley for this kind of action?”