“I miss him,” she said, letting the sadness show in that lovely face. “At first I was so... so mad at him. But he must have been in a lot of pain.”
There was nothing to say to that, but, “How are you holding up, Gwen?”
“All I can say is, Leif’s been a real boon in all this. I don’t know where I’d be, or how I’d have begun to deal with this thing, without him.” She gave my hand a final little squeeze. “Now, go on in there, Mike.”
She bounced off, the cute red-clad bottom bidding me a friendly goodbye. Half-way down the cavernous hall, she looked back and called out, echoing a little, “Don’t worry about getting lost. I’ll be back to collect you!”
I went on through into a two-story study, dominated by dark masculine woods, the kind of book-lined affair that needs library ladders on both its floors. One wall was plaster and bookless, though, reserved for a fireplace and framed photos of stage and screen stars and the occasional celebrity politician, all featuring the late Martin Foster in handshake or arm-around-the-shoulder pose. In the midst of this was a big framed Hirschfeld caricature of the departed producer — damn near the size of a movie poster.
The floor was parquet but a good deal of it was taken up by another Oriental carpet, on which perched half a dozen brown-leather easy chairs surrounding a glass-topped coffee table, fairly massive, Playbill programs of Foster’s many theatrical productions spread out on display within.
But the most impressive thing in the room was a man who had to be Leif Borensen, a big, grinning blond guy looking for all the world as if he had just stepped ashore from a Viking longboat — if Vikings wore camel-colored cardigans, light pink shirts, gray slacks, and Rolex watches.
He’d heard me come in and left his easy chair by the coffee table to approach with a smile and an outstretched paw. We shook, and neither of us showed off, and he introduced himself and gestured me to one of the easy chairs.
“Can I get you something to drink, Mr. Hammer?”
“I wouldn’t turn my nose up at a rye and ginger.”
“Rocks?”
“Why not?”
At a nearby bar cart, he built that and something for himself as well, and sat across from me, that glassed-in array of his late father-in-law’s theatrical triumphs between us.
“You live up to your billing, Mr. Hammer.”
“Do I?”
He gestured with his tumbler of what appeared to be Scotch. “You’re big and look mean as hell. I’d cast you in one of my TV shows if I didn’t think you’d scare the women and children.”
I smiled at that. “Call me if a bad guy role opens up. Now what’s this about a thousand dollars?”
He sipped the apparent Scotch. Single malt, no doubt. I wondered if it was older than his fiancée. He certainly was — fifty, easily, though his face wasn’t as lined as you’d think. Plastic surgery perhaps, or maybe he didn’t use his face much.
“I have to admit,” he said, smiling mostly with his eyes and confirming my latter notion, “that I was tickled when Smith-Torrence suggested you as a referral.”
“Oh?”
He nodded and set the drink down on a coaster on a little mahogany table between him and the next chair. “I admit to being a fan. You may not know this, but I was a working actor... or anyway, I worked occasionally... back in your heyday in the early ’50s.”
“Is that right?”
“Am I irritating you?”
“No. I always look and sound like this.”
He shook his head, chuckled. “Well, I used to get a real kick out of it. Years later, I would tell the writers on my private eye shows, ‘Do a little research on that Mike Hammer in New York. Then you’ll know what a real tough private eye is really like.’”
“Nobody ever accused me of that before.”
He sipped Scotch, then gave me a concerned look. “What about this recent incident? Killing a burglar in your building?”
“Just looking after my interests,” I said with a shrug.
Everybody didn’t need to know a hitman was gunning for me. That might discourage business.
“So,” I said, changing the subject, “I’m who you think is right for a bridal shower security job? Sounds a little like overkill to me.”
He waved a hand like a bored magician. “I’ll understand if you want to take a pass, Mr. Hammer. This might be beneath you.”
“Yeah, it might be,” I said, “but that grand you mentioned to Smitty is just about eye level.”
He grinned with his whole face this time, and some lines came out of hiding. “It’ll be an afternoon affair, starting at four and going till six-thirty, this coming Friday.”
This was Tuesday. “I was going to ask you about that. Why such short notice?”
“The invites have been out for two weeks, but it was only after I got to thinking that I realized having some security makes a lot of sense. You see, we’re getting married in Hawaii at the end of the month, no family, with just a handful of friends we’re flying out with us. Just a romantic beach-side ceremony with lots of flowers and a luau after.”
I was ahead of him. “So this shower takes the place of a wedding reception.”
“Right. I have almost no friends in Manhattan any more, but of course Gwen does, and that means the gift table will be piled with treasures.”
“Understood.”
“I’d want you there at three, Mr. Hammer, just to get a handle on things. It’s at the Waldorf. I forget the suite number — I’ll get it to you.”
“How many guests?”
“Fifty very wealthy women. We’ll have some high-end entertainment, too. It’s essentially a cocktail party.”
“Do you expect trouble?”
“Not at all. But between the gifts and what those women will drape themselves with... could make a thief’s haul worth a couple of hundred thousand.”
I worked up a whistle.
“And a hold-up man with a gun,” Borensen said, eyebrows raised, “wouldn’t have much trouble intimidating a room full of females.”
Maybe, but not all females were alike.
I said, “I’m bringing my second-in-command along.”
“Miss Sterling? Velda?”
“That’s right. You’ve done your research.”
He smiled, shrugged. “She used to make the papers, too. Yes, I think that would be fine. I can bump the fee to $1500, if you like.”
“Bump away.”
He wrote me out a $750 check on the spot as a retainer.
I held the check in my fingertips and let the ink dry. “Do I need to rent a tux?”
“No. Just your best business suit.”
I gestured to myself. “This is it. Suitable?”
“A suitable suit, Mr. Hammer. Not to worry.”
He rose. I was in the process of being dismissed.
I got up, glancing around. “Cozy little place you have here.”
He laughed sadly as he came around to walk me out. “Yes, Martin was a hell of a showman. And he didn’t live small. He was only married once, though — did you know that?”
“I guess I didn’t.”
“Kind of remarkable, considering the, uh, opportunities a man like him would have. Gwen’s mother was in the chorus line of one of Martin’s first musicals. She had Gwen’s looks but not her talent. Still, she grew into the role of a society woman, as the Foster fame grew.”
The Foster bankroll, too.
“I heard you were in the process of mounting a new musical yourself,” I said, “when Foster took his life.”
He visibly paled. “Terrible thing. Awful tragedy. I had no idea Martin was in such... misery. He’d kept his cancer from us entirely. I haven’t smoked for years, and I’m glad of it.”
“Me, too, only recently I picked it back up again.”
“Well, stop, Mr. Hammer, if you don’t mind a little friendly advice. And, yes, I returned to the scene of my initial failure in show business in search of the redemption that can only be brought by success.”