"Not your office?"
"Naw, it's closed up."
"For good?"
"Don't know, son. Don't know. Ernie, thanks for introducing us."
"No problem, Mike. You always look out for your friends, don't you? Glad to do the same for you."
And it was time to wander out into the rain and hail a cab.
Alex Jaynor was listed in the Manhattan directory, an address on East Fifty-third Street. I took a chance on his being home and dialed from a pay phone around the corner. On the third ring, the phone was picked up and a smooth voice said, "Hello, Alex Jaynor here."
I had to grin at the way he merchandised his greeting.
"Hi, kid," I said. "Mike Hammer here."
"Hey, Mike—where are you?"
"Damn near on your doorstep. You have time to talk to me or are you busy?"
"Not at all. Come on up—or would you rather meet someplace?"
"I'll come up," I said, and cradled the phone.
The building was an old one, but nicely refurbished, the kind of place up-and-coming people used until they got to the top of the ladder where penthouses became their style. Meanwhile, they lived in quiet opulence with a gray-haired doorman who had a genuine Irish accent. I gave him Alex's name, he let me in, then pointed to the elevator in the lobby. "Apartment 4-C, sir."
I thanked him, went upstairs, found 4-C, and pushed the buzzer. The tall, sandy-haired politician came to the door grinning, holding his hand out, and practically pulled me inside. He was in a dark blue shirt without a tie and navy slacks, casual but crisp.
"Good to see you again, Mike. This is a nice surprise."
"Really?"
"Not often I have a living legend stepping over the threshold."
I had to laugh at that one. "Never mind about legend—I'm just glad to be living." I followed him in. "Anyway, Doolan was the legendary one, not me. I always felt I walked in his shadow."
"Well, having known the man, I can understand that. Make you a drink?"
"A CC and ginger will do it."
"Coming right up."
While he built the drinks at a wet bar, I took a look around. The apartment was a small world of rust-stained wood, modern and high-ceilinged, with open stairs going up to a loft-style bedroom. The kitchen was tucked under the loft and was small, metallic, and utilitarian—nobody in Manhattan seemed to think much about eating in, at least in this part of town.
There were doors off to a spare bedroom and a little study, but—with its comfortable leather chairs and sofa, and functional glass-and-metal tables—mostly the apartment had the feel of one big room, a masculine refuge from the world.
Alex handed me my drink and said, "Like the digs?"
"You got it made, kiddo. Good address, too."
"Doolan found it for me about a month after we met. How he found it, I'll never know. It's still a little expensive, but I'm making the nut now."
I said, "Cheers," and sipped the highball.
"So, to what do I owe this visit?" He pointed to a dark brown leather chair and matching sofa and he took the former while I settled onto the latter. I tossed my hat on the glass-and-metal coffee table separating us.
"You know, Alex, I wish I could lay a question out that made sense, but what I want to know is—what was going on with Doolan in the last, say, six months of his life?"
"Not sure I follow."
"I've been off the scene for a year, I hadn't seen him for at least a year before that, and now that he's gone, I'm trying to find out how he was dealing with what he had left of his life—facing that medical death sentence."
Eyebrows lifted and came back down in the chiseled face. "But you were closer than I ever was with Doolan..."
"I was then. You were now. Look, you two were tight during the time I was away. What was he like?"
"Compared to what?"
"Describe him," I said.
He swirled the drink around in his glass, the ice chinking the side. "Doolan was a damn good friend. It's an overused word lately, but he was a real mentor."
"You said you met him when you were a reporter for McWade's magazine."
He grimaced, then chuckled. "You make it sound like more than it was, Mike. I was a roving reporter. It wasn't the cushiest of jobs—low pay and minimum expenses."
"It's a Canadian publication—but you're not Canadian?"
"No. I'm originally from Boston. It was just a job I was able to land out of college. Headquarters are in Toronto, but the general circulation is bigger in the New England states than it is in Canada. Most of the news is collected from the Northeast U.S. anyway."
"McWade's send you to New York?"
"On special assignment. All the major cities are troubled by teenaged crime, and Toronto wanted to see how New York handled it. They really wanted drama more than information. Sensationalism posing as journalism is, I'm afraid, what sells magazines. Even in Canada."
"And what you were covering fitted in, huh?"
Alex nodded and tasted his drink. "I guess you know there's been some pretty heavy stuff going down with youth gangs, and some of that activity leaked over into Doolan's neighborhood."
"So I heard."
"They had the residents in a state of terror until Doolan got involved. With his connections, that place was swept clean in a week. There were arrests, convictions, and by damn, nine of those punks are pulling time now."
I grinned. "Doolan appreciate the publicity you could provide?"
"Hell no—he wouldn't even let me go back to McWade's. Refused to let me turn the story in!"
"How did he manage that?"
"He promised to connect me with some New York—based publications, and thanks to him, I got into freelancing articles on a regular basis, and did some things that caught attention and won some awards. Even did some TV work. Somewhere along the line, Doolan steered me into politics."
"He must have seen something in you he liked."
"We were close. I lost my father when I was very young, and he did fill a void. And I think having somebody my age, who could handle himself, to wade in with him into the rough parts of that neighborhood, well ... it's probably the kind of thing he'd have leaned on you to do, if you'd still been around."
"I'd like to think I would have helped out. Did it get rough?"
"Enough. That was the first time I had shots thrown at me."
"But not the last?"
"No. Hell, Mike, I'm no hero. No tough guy. I was in the army during Vietnam, but never saw much action. I know my way around firearms, but that's mostly because of gun clubs as a kid, and, of course, the Enfilade now."
"Tell me about getting shot at."
"Nothing you can pin down. I was in my car, the first time. On the street, the next. And when I was campaigning for office, on an anticrime platform, it happened again. That was when Doolan talked me into wearing a bulletproof vest whenever I go out."
"That can get a little bulky."
"Well, I'm a wiry type. It doesn't show. But sometimes I don't know why I bother—vests don't stop head hits."
"Do you know who was throwing those shots? I don't mean the specific shooters, but whatever group sent them?"
His grin was wide and turned up at either end, Cheshire Catlike. "Well, you saw them the other night, Mike—at the funeral home? Doolan was convinced it was the Bonettis behind not only the drugs in his neighborhood, but the attempts on my life."
Maybe the word on the street giving credit to old Alberto for taking Doolan out wasn't misplaced after all.
"What if I told you, Alex, that I think Doolan may have been murdered."
He said nothing for a moment, his light blue eyes unblinking. Then: "It may sound terrible, but I'd prefer that to suicide."
"I hear that."