"Strange world," I mused.
"Crazy," he agreed. The light blue eyes brightened. "Mike, come on over and try the range. I have a new piece you'd dig—an S & W Model 29."
"What, the .44 mag?"
"You got it. Four-inch barrel. Herrett's Jordan Trooper stock in walnut. Adjustable sights..."
"Tempting. But another time, okay?"
"Sure." He shook his head, then laughed. "Yeah, that Doolan, he was still a pisser. Did you know that old fart had a young girlfriend?"
"I knew he still had an eye for beauty. But an honest-to-God girlfriend?"
His shrug was elaborate and his expression amused. "I never saw her, but a couple of the other members did. A big blonde, they said. Hey, that's a coincidence."
"What is?"
"You know where one of the guys said they saw Doolan with this young dish?"
"Where?"
"Club 52! How would a coot like Bill Doolan get into that trendy a watering hole? Much less land in the lap of some blonde out of Penthouse. Of course, just because he was getting up in years, doesn't mean he—"
"Couldn't get it up?" I finished. "Good to see you, Chuck. Don't let me keep you from your fun."
"Sure you don't wanna play with that .44 mag?"
"I haven't met the guy I couldn't stop with a .45."
I let him think about that as I waved and headed up the stairs.
Once again, Peter Cummings was in his office when I got there. Crouched behind a pile of papers at his desk, he looked up when I opened the door and motioned for me to come in—he was writing something in longhand. I waited for him to finish, which took maybe two minutes.
Then he let out a weight-of-the-world sigh Atlas might have envied, took the wire-rim glasses off, tossed them, wiped his eyes, and leaned back in his chair. "Well, Mike—are you getting anywhere on your New York vacation?"
I said nothing. I had already plopped down in the same chair as before. Now I put my feet up on his desk.
"Make yourself at home," he said.
"How come you're making me work so hard, Pete?"
"What do you mean?"
"People keep telling me things that you could have. Like how Doolan made a target out of himself by running dopers and pushers out of his neighborhood. Like how the old boy still had a regular girlfriend."
The old ex-cop with the well-grooved face was not intimidated. He just grunted a laugh at the middle-aged child across from him. "You got to learn to walk before you run, kiddo."
"I took a leave of absence, pal. I didn't die."
He studied me a few seconds before he ran a hand through the gray bristles of his hair. "Oh, you died, all right, Mike. You dragged it out right to the last, then you died."
My hands started to form fists and my chest felt tight. "Oh?"
Pete nodded. "Don't fight it, Mike—it's nothing to be ashamed of. When the piss and vinegar run out?" He shrugged. "Just relax and enjoy life."
"Nothing ran out."
"Sure it did," he told me. "The vinegar's all gone, anyway. All that's left is the piss."
"That's enough."
He frowned and sat forward in the old swivel chair. "No, Mike, you're wrong. An old street fighter like you needs the whole schmear, piss and vinegar and balls of fucking steel. You go tangling assholes with any of the young turks we have around today, and they'll make a memory out of you in a hurry. In one lousy year, the whole game's changed again ... and there's no room left for cripples. Physical or emotional."
This time the tension started in my back and I breathed deeply held it, and exhaled slowly. Pete was goading me. Trying to tell me something that he figured I didn't want to hear.
"Just what is it you call the 'vinegar,' Pete?"
He showed me his teeth; a skull was grinning at me. "The aggression, kid, the damn fulminating, wild-assed attack attitude you used to shake everybody up with. That's what you haven't got anymore."
"How do you know?" I asked softly.
"Ah, I can read you like a book," he told me, waving me away like a wino bugging him for a buck. "It was all over you the other day, like a sick bad smell. And you know I'm right."
"You were right."
"What do you mean?"
I opened the jacket and I showed him the .45 in the sling. Then I showed him my teeth and let him see my eyes.
"Shit," he said. He swallowed. "Sorry. I, uh, should have given you a closer look, Mike. You are back."
"Yeah. Full of piss and vinegar and no fucking medication. Now what's this shit about Doolan having a girlfriend?"
Pete raised his eyebrows quizzically. "And you're not brain-dead either...."
"Well?"
"Doolan never told me outright, but I could read the signs."
"What signs?"
Pete rocked in his chair, smiling slightly. "Oh, a certain neatness of dress on odd occasions, a small scent that clung to his clothing that whispered woman. A bit of a secretive air, I'd say—like he wanted me to ask him something."
"But you didn't?"
Pete waved me off again. "Of course not."
"You suppose he was fooling around? Maybe with a married woman?"
"I don't know about married women, but I always hoped he was out there getting a little in his old age. Something was putting life back in his veins and a smile on his puss. Plus, it gives another old goat hope—means there might still be some juice left in me, too."
"Look," I said impatiently, "do you know who she was?"
"No, but she'd be about five eight, a person of good taste, fond of dancing, and much too young for him."
The corners of his mouth twitched in a smile. While he waited for me to figure it out, he got up, knelt at his little fridge like the special altar it was, and got us a couple of beers. Tossed me a cold can, popped his own, and sat again.
I popped mine, sipped the icy liquid, and said, "With two-inch heels, she left a makeup smear on him just high enough for dance contact—Doolan was a six footer—and the gift he gave her had class and was selected with a young woman in mind."
"Wise ass," he said. "Just don't put too much stock in this info. Him and younger women, it happened before. Once the daughter of an old friend who was visiting town for a week, another time it was the middle-aged widow of a cop he'd known. You know, some paternal-type romancing here and there."
"You think this last doll was paternal?"
"Maybe. Maybe not."
"Was that why you thought maybe he killed himself? He fell in love with some fine young thing, got dumped, and took the exit ramp?"
He stared thoughtfully at the wall above my head, nodding slowly. "Maybe that did help me buy the suicide bit. The woman seemed to drop out of his life maybe two months ago."
"But now you're not buying it."
"No." He gulped some beer, sat the can down hard on the desk, making a slosh. "Mike, when I think about it, really think about it? Doolan was an old dog. His fun times long past. His looking times were still with him, and he was smart enough to know the difference. If he made any kind of a run with the babes, it was commensurate with his age and health and all I could say was good luck to him."
"Pat speculate about this?"
"Not outside a vulgar remark or two." He sat forward and leaned on the desk. "Now about Doolan running the druggies out of his neighborhood—he was point man for a citizens' committee, but it was his young pal Jaynor who took the heat. That politician got some bullets thrown at him."