"I wasn't aware that you ever did, Mr. Hammer."
"What do you mean?"
"Play with them."
"You have a point."
He nodded toward my left arm. "Still, seeing that you've brought your own weapon, perhaps you would like to get in some practice."
"Good eye, Gerry."
"And nose—I can smell gun oil at fifty paces. Would you care to go below and mix with the members in attendance?"
"I would," I said.
Since I'd last been down the stairs into the Enfilade, the place had been renovated. The range itself was walled off from a social area, and from the lack of even muffled pops or cracks, it was either not currently in use or had been soundproofed to a fault.
The lounge area took up perhaps a third of the expansive basement. What had been sheerly functional was now softened with all the accoutrements of a grand billiard room—overstuffed leather chairs, a hand-carved decorative bar, and a table of stainless steel steamer trays for snacks (breakfast items right now). Overhead the soft whisper of heavy-duty exhaust fans sucked out any odor of cordite fumes, but we already seemed isolated from the range. Framed photographs decorated the walls, along with mounted displays of antique pistols, and shelves of trophies gave off a heavy silver glow in the muted light.
The group was having a coffee break, their sound mufflers hanging around their necks like chunky stethoscopes. They were in running togs, though their sport of choice was a standing-still affair.
The former U.S. champion saw me coming, broke into a wide grin, and half-laughed, "I'll be damned, look who's here—my old hero. I always wanted to be you when I grew up."
"Good thing you never grew up." I held out my hand for a good solid shake. "How you doing, Chuck?"
Chuck Webb was a compact five eight with sky-blue eyes, a tan rivaling mine, and brown hair cut Marine short. His creamcolor polo shirt bore the logo of Smith & Wesson, the company he toured for nationally, giving exhibitions.
He glanced at the others. "This is Mike Hammer," he said to them, "in case you don't recognize him."
The others were quick to say they did recognize me, greeting me with smiles and wide eyes. Maybe the years I'd put on and the weight I'd lost hadn't made too much difference after all.
We had coffee and conversation, then—after the others had gone off to resume their shooting—Chuck asked, "You going to squeeze off a few rounds?"
"Not today, buddy."
"Too bad. I figured on making a few bucks off you."
"At a range, you could. Out where people are shooting back, I might have the edge."
His expression was embarrassed. "No doubt. Man, I was 4-F. Closest I got to combat was that John Wayne movie about Vietnam. Listen, uh, Mike ... sorry to hear about your friend Doolan. Hell of a nice guy."
Now that the others were shooting, I could make out muffled gunfire. But damn faint for being right next to it.
"You know Doolan well, Chuck?"
He shrugged. "We weren't exactly close, but we were friendly acquaintances at least. He was in the Friday group, and so am I. Plus, I'd run into him at some of the functions upstairs. Caught him at some political meetings too. Such a nice fella, little on the crusty side. Not a bad shooter either, particularly for a guy of his years. Hard to believe he'd ... turn a gun on himself."
He hadn't.
"Doolan was pretty spry for his age," I said.
He let out a gentle laugh. "Sure as shit was. When you came in, did you stop and look at the pictures on the trophy wall?"
"No."
He jerked his head toward the far side of the room where the stairs emptied out. "Come on—this is worth the trip, Mike."
And there among the many framed photos on display was old Doolan, sometimes when he was not so old. I hadn't realized he'd stayed in active competition at pistol shooting for so long. Only two years ago he had taken second place in an interstate meet.
Of the half-dozen latest photos, I recognized faces in every one—state senators, a Supreme Court judge, a few heavies in military uniforms, and a pair of very lovely dolls.
Chuck saw me eyeing them and said, "I thought it wouldn't take Mike Hammer's eyeballs very long to find their way to that pair. Both those lovely ladies are top marksmen. Or is it markspersons? Anyway, they're reps for an arms manufacturer."
"That's one way to keep a buyer's attention," I said with an appreciative nod. I pointed to Alex Jaynor, who was standing between the dolls, and asked, "Is Alex any good with a gun?"
"Not really. Do you know Alex?"
"We met at Doolan's funeral. They were apparently pretty tight in recent years."
"So I understand. Well, Alex shoots for fun, not for glory. Best I can say is, he enjoys it. Pretty decent guy for a politician. Doolan sponsored his membership."
"They seem an unlikely combo."
The remark brought another shrug. "Not really. Story is, Alex helped Doolan clean up his neighborhood. There was a shooting gallery—and I don't mean the Enfilade kind—and they got rid of that. Ran the druggies and the dealers out."
Cleaning drugs out of a neighborhood could make you unpopular with whoever had been profiting.
Chuck was saying, "Alex and Doolan were both right-wing anticrime, antidrug crusaders, and I guess that bridged any differences in age and background."
"I understand Alex was a reporter and that it was Doolan who encouraged him to quit and go into politics."
"Jibes with what I hear." Chuck tapped the photo under the last guy in the group. "Here's an oddball for you. Know him?"
He indicated a small, narrow-faced, mustached character with dark curly hair and dark eyes too small for his otherwise handsome face.
I had to look long and hard before recognition kicked in. "Shit—is that Tony Tretriano?"
"Right. Little Tony. Son of Big Tony."
Big Tony Tretriano had been a minor crime boss who died quietly in his sleep maybe six years ago.
I was shaking my head. "What's a bush-league wiseguy like Little Tony Tret doing in this club?"
Chuck was shaking his head, too, but in a way meant to calm me down. "Mike, he's a good kid. You may recall his mother did her best to keep the old man's hands off him."
I did. Tony Tretriano had graduated from an Ivy League school with a law degree and, after his sainted mother died, represented his pop for just a few years. After Big Tony kicked off, Little Tony stopped practicing law. That was the last I knew of the kid.
Chuck was saying, "In recent years, Anthony Tretriano has made it very clear he's severed all ties with organized crime—and in the last year, he's become a very big deal in this town. Jeez, Mike, you have been away."
"How has Little Tony become a big deal?"
"You've heard of Club 52?"
The pops in the range were louder. They must have upped their caliber.
"I was in Florida, not dead," I said. "Club 52's the 'in' disco for everybody who is famous, wants to be famous, or just wants to rub up against somebody famous."
Chuck laughed. "Yeah, I wish I could get in—any celebrity who comes to the Big Apple hangs there. Anthony owns and manages the club—he prefers Anthony to Tony, by the way. There was an article just a week or two ago in New York magazine about how he's expanding to just about every major city in these United States."
"Great. Now every big city will have a club where nobody can get past the velvet rope and the ex-wrestler doorman."
"I'm sure the rich and famous won't have any trouble at any of the locations."
"And 'Anthony' claims there's no mob ties to his club?"
"He seems squeaky clean." Chuck gave me another short laugh. "Funny how kids turn out. Big brother Leo did his bit in the pen for extortion and took over his old man's slice of the rackets when Big Tony died. At least, that's what it said in the News. Anthony has nothing at all to do with that part of the family anymore."