“Oh, hell no.” I grinned. “It’ll be a big surprise. But he’ll let me in, don’t you worry.”
“You got that big .45 on you, man?”
“Always.”
“Safety off, one in the chamber?”
“You got it.”
“Then like somebody wise once said, ‘What me, worry?’”
Velda put a hand on Billy’s shoulder and said, “Thanks, Billy. This is very important.”
Billy lifted the stack of papers and hugged them again just as the dark blue Lincoln slowed at the light in the nearest northbound lane, right next to us. The driver leaned out the window as if to ask quick directions, and that was when I saw the ski mask, and I was going for the .45 in my raincoat pocket, an act that damnit slowed me down some, and Velda was clawing her purse for the .32, but the extended snout of the silenced automatic was already pointing out the window and three coughs, like a kid with asthma, told me I had put Velda and Billy in harm’s way, just by standing with them.
I had a complex thought that lasted a fraction of a second, and it was how I was going to die in the next instant, the light switch on my life going off, and my arrogance had done it, my belief that I was smarter and bigger and badder than anybody, but nobody is smarter and bigger and badder than three bullets rocketing their way at you.
Only the bullets didn’t hit me.
They hit Billy, thunking into those papers he was holding, missing his arms and chewing up newsprint, dotting an I on a headline, the power of those tiny guided missiles taking the little man down onto the pavement in a pile, armful of papers scattering, as faces on magazines smiled and looked everywhere but at him.
And the Lincoln was gone, jumping the light, flashing a license plate spattered with mud on a vehicle otherwise spotless. Other cars were going through an intersection the shooter was on the other side of, and the .45 in my hand couldn’t blow him a kiss without risking collateral damage.
Anyway, I was distracted by Velda, who never got her gun out, doing something I’d only heard her do a few times.
Screaming.
Chapter Eight
Velda’s scream trailed into the night as she quickly pulled herself together and joined me, bending over the fallen little man. I peeled the stack of papers away and three slugs stuck out of Billy’s heavy padded jacket like misplaced metallic buttons. Just as the cabbie’s skull had caused a sniper’s bullet to thump me harmlessly in the chest, the thickness of all that newsprint had slowed this deadly trio way down.
But Billy was unconscious and breathing ragged, hit hard by the rounds even if they had stopped short of his body.
“They didn’t penetrate,” she said, relieved and a little astounded. Her face was moist with mist. “Is he all right?”
I plucked the slugs out, dropped them in my trenchcoat pocket. “He’s alive, but he may have broken bones or internal bleeding. We need to get him help.”
“When the police get here,” she said, a little confused as she stated the obvious, “they’ll call an ambulance.”
I looked across my fallen friend at Velda and put a hand on her shoulder. “We’re going to call one first.”
“What?”
“That all-night drugstore on Forty-ninth. Get over there and use the phone and call the ambulance service we use. You know the one. Get a wagon over here right now. We’re taking over.”
I saw the doubt flicker on her face, but then she just nodded, her gypsy ringlets flicking moisture at me, and rose and went off at a brisk pace.
I called out, “Tell them to take Billy to our favorite private hospital! The one outside Newburgh!”
“Figured that,” she called, her back to me, and I watched till she was swallowed by the night and the mist.
I got up and went to the little stool Billy used and took the seat cushion off and rested it under his head. Then I sat on the cushion-less stool and lit up a Lucky and thought about killing some people.
The black-and-green-and-white patrol car streaked up the slick street with its siren playing banshee till it rolled to a stop. Two uniforms, one tall and young, the other medium-size but heavy-set and around my age, rolled out.
I gave them a quick report and said, “I already called for the ambulance.”
This seemed to satisfy them, but when the heavy-set cop asked for my identification and I handed over my open wallet, his eyes went big, taking in my P.I. badge and ticket.
“Mike Hammer,” he said, the way most people say “goddamnit.”
“You may want to inform my friend Captain Chambers directly about this,” I said, hoping to head off any unpleasantness.
He had a voice like tearing cardboard. “How the hell many shooting incidents have you been in this week anyway, buddy?”
I shrugged, as I took back the wallet. “Depends on how you’re counting. It’s technically four, but I only returned fire in two.” I blew out smoke but resisted the temptation to do it in his face. “Why don’t you call it in to Pat Chambers before this gets disagreeable?”
The younger guy, kneeling over Billy, said, “He’s alive and there aren’t wounds that I can see.”
“Like I said,” I said, “that stack of newspapers saved him.”
“And he’s out like a light, breathing heavy,” the young cop continued. “Don’t see any spent slugs. Holes in his jacket where maybe they hit.”
His older partner noted all that but kept his eyes on me. “You were the target here, Hammer?”
“Ask the shooter. Or better still, turn this over to somebody in plainclothes.” This time I did let him have the smoke in the pan, but inconspicuously, like maybe it was an accident. “Call Pat Chambers, for instance. Or did I say that already?”
Finally he trundled over to the patrol car and radioed it in to Chambers.
I told the young cop, “There’s a kid who fills in for Billy sometimes called Duck-Duck Jones. He also works as a swamper at a dive called the Clover Bar.”
“I know of it. What the heck kind of handle is ‘Duck-Duck?’”
“I’m going to go out on a limb and say it’s a nickname, particularly since his upper teeth stick out to here. I’d advise getting hold of the kid and having him get over here to lock the stand up and be ready to fill in for Billy, if he’s hospitalized for a while.”
The young cop was nodding. “Good idea... Jeez.”
“Jeez what?”
“Will you look at the dish walking down the street? Pretty girl like that shouldn’t be out alone, though.”
I looked behind me and Velda was on her way back, closing an already short distance. “This one can take care of herself. She’s my secretary. I sent her off to call it in.”
“I didn’t figure she was a streetwalker,” he allowed. “Too classy looking.”
“I’ll tell her that. She’ll be highly complimented.”
I left the callow cop to figure that one out and went over to meet Velda far enough away that we could talk freely.
“Okay, Mike,” she said, almost whispering. “Ambulance should be here any time. Why did I send for it? I mean, I assume you mean to whisk Billy away and keep him out of Pat’s hands. Why?”
“Who do you think those bullets were for?”
“Well, you of course.”
“Wrong. These pro shooters are generally right on target. If that cabbie the other day hadn’t stuck his head between me and that bullet, you’d be at a funeral-home visitation about now. No, honey, the guy in that Lincoln shot exactly who he meant to shoot. He just wasn’t counting on Billy having that fat stack of papers to slow the slugs.”
Her mouth made a scarlet O. “Billy!.. You mean, because he witnessed that...”
“I knew you’d catch up, sugar.”
She was frowning at me, not angry, but her mind working fast. “Are you saying Leif Borensen hired your murder, and Billy’s? What’s the connection?”