"Like for backstage at rock concerts? Well, it makes sense. It's called a disco, but they do live music, too."
"That right?"
"Big sensation now is that Chrome broad from Spain or Mexico or somewhere—she was on Johnny Carson, you know, and got signed to a major record label. Gonna tour at these franchise clubs Tony Tret is opening all around the country." He chugged his beer, thumped the stein down, and cocked his head at me. "Who the hell would a middle-aged type like you know that would rate that kind of backstage pass?"
"You knew him, too—Bill Doolan."
"Aw, balls."
Said the queen.
"Oh, he had that kind of pass," I insisted.
He was shaking his head, not buying it. "Come on, Mike, you knew Doolan better than that."
"I thought I did. Story is, he was taking pictures for some newspaper guy out in L.A. Which is funny, since I don't remember Doolan being any kind of photographer."
Ernie made a farting sound with his lips. "Doolan was a photographer like all you dicks are photographers—point it at a naked broad through a motel window, and shoot. Hey, if he was doing pro-level photographic work, I'd have known."
"Didn't he feed you tips in recent years?"
"Sure he did—old Doolan came onto stuff, usually when he was working for his pal Cummings, who's a real P.I. Unlike you, Mike, who just pretend to be one so you can find excuses to shoot people, and not with a camera."
"If it's not likely Doolan was shooting photos for an L.A.-based reporter, then what was he doing?"
He leaned forward. "You can bet that old son of a bitch wasn't just chasing young tail. He was working."
"Like how?"
"Beats the shit outa me. He was always into somethin'. He was an old pro and just liked to keep his hand in. Some guys never learn how to quit. Right, Mike?" Ernie paused, chewed on his lip a moment, then said, "Hard to believe he killed himself."
I just looked at him without saying anything at all, then all his gears started to mesh and I saw him tighten up across the shoulders.
He darted a look around, then said very softly, "So that's why you're back. You don't think Doolan snuffed himself either, do you, Mike?"
"No," I said.
He sat there thinking for maybe thirty seconds. Then he said, "Somebody you should talk to."
"Okay."
He slid out and came back two minutes later with a young guy about five ten with the long hair and mustache of his generation and a canary shirt with a pointed collar over a sport jacket that looked like couch upholstery.
"This is Lonnie Dean," he said, making room as the younger man slid in next to him.
"Christ, you are Mike Hammer," the kid said in a thin baritone. "I heard you were back in the city."
I just nodded.
Ernie said, "Mike, Lonnie wrote that story a while back about the new breed of organized crime family. Won a bunch of journalistic awards."
"Didn't see it," I admitted.
A grin blossomed under the younger reporter's thick mustache. "You wouldn't have, Mr. Hammer. The mob shake-up I wrote about followed that shoot-out on the pier you walked away from."
"Crawled is more like it," I said. "So I was an instrument of change, huh? Like the kids say, groovy."
His eyes were bright. He seemed enthusiastic and nervous, like he was meeting a movie star. "Mr. Hammer—"
"Make it 'Mike,' Lonnie."
"Mike. I could hardly believe it when Ernie came over and told me you were over here..."
Christ. Not a damn autograph hound.
"...I mean, we've never met, I've only been on the O.C. beat for a year. But you are news."
"Yeah, well. Some people would be flattered but—"
"No, I mean news right now. Didn't make the media, but that hooker who got run down? You got clipped, too, didn't you? And walked away from it?"
I frowned. "Where did you hear that, son?"
"I have sources."
"In the department?"
"Sure, Mr. Hammer ... Mike ... but those aren't the sources I'm talking about." He used a forefinger to bend his nose in the time-honored fashion to indicate he meant wiseguys. "Do you know who's claiming credit for almost running you down?"
"Surprise me."
"Alberto Bonetti."
I squinted at him. "Why? It wasn't his people."
Ernie got in a question: "How can you know that, Mike?"
I shrugged. "Alberto would've used a pro. A pro wouldn't have got the girl, if I was the target."
Lonnie said, "You mean, you'd be dead now."
"Maybe. I've been out of the game. But hit-and-run isn't the mob's style either. Too many potential witnesses, too imprecise. And that driver was strictly amateur night." I sipped beer, thought about it. "The word on the street is Bonetti hired it done?"
"Yeah." If the kid's eyes had been any brighter, I would have needed sunglasses. "And there's more, Mike. Your pal Doolan may not have been a suicide."
I managed not to smile. "Do tell."
"Bonetti's taking credit for that kill, too. Well, that may be oversimplifying it... You have something to do with that, too."
"Me?"
The shaggy-haired crime reporter nodded. He looked like a fucking Muppet, but he seemed to know his shit. "Nobody was figuring old Bill Doolan for murder until you came back to town. Word got out you were starting to nose around, which people took to mean Doolan musta been whacked, and the credit started going to Bonetti. Whether the rumors began with the old don, or just grew ... that's where it stands."
I was nodding slowly. "So the street says ... or anyway thinks ...that Bonetti took Doolan out to get back at me, and lure me out of hiding...?"
Lonnie nodded. "That's right, so he could have you taken out."
Ernie said, "Like in a hit-and-run."
The other reporter nodded.
"But it's bullshit," I said.
Lonnie shrugged. "Possibly, but it comes at a good time for Bonetti. He can use what it does for his rep among the other crime families right now. That shake-up is still under way, Mike—somebody new, somebody not so overt, is moving in on drug distribution. But the old-timers, like Don Giraldi and Pierluigi, if they solidify behind Alberto, the Bonetti family could be a power again."
It made sense.
Lonnie was chuckling. "You coming back to town, you really did old Alberto a favor. You ought to send him a bill for the good PR in his circles."
"I may," I said.
That stopped Lonnie's chuckling. "What are you going to do, Mr. Hammer?"
"Well, right now I'm going to ask you for a favor. You do me that favor, Lonnie, I'll give you the inside track on what'll be a big story."
"All right."
"Check your sources. I want to know two things."
"Okay."
"First—is there any activity involving rare gems going on in mob circles? Rip-offs involving gems, or valuable stones being used for money laundering—anything of that nature."
"You got it."
"Second—has Tony Tret really gone straight? His family was once associated with the Bonettis, loosely, but associated. Could Club 52 be a front for drugs?"
"Okay, but I doubt this Club 52 angle. As you must know, Mike, the authorities look the other way on the recreational stuff that goes down at that place. The club is in itself a goldmine, and I can't imagine Anthony Tretriano—who seems to despise his rough background—risking it."
I smiled. "How long have you been working the organized crime beat?"
"Just about a year."
"Have you seen any evidence that those people will stop at anything where making money is concerned?"
Lonnie laughed. "You got me there, Mr. Hammer. Mike."
I reached a hand across and we shook. "Nice knowing you. I'm at the Commodore."