“Yeah? At this rate they’ll run out of money fast.”
Billy shrugged and grunted another laugh, a humorless one. “One killing does not necessarily a bankruptcy make, old buddy.”
“Sounds like you’ve been reading again,” I said. “Stick to the funny books.”
He ignored that, sold another paper, then said, “If you rated a contract, they’ll try again, you know.”
“Should make for an interesting autumn,” I told him. “How are you doing with that identification? Getting anywhere?”
Just shy of a month ago, a hit-and-run driver had killed a customer strolling away from this newsstand. Billy was the only witness who got a good look at the driver.
Billy shrugged, shaking his head, unconcerned. “My eyes are shot from goin’ through mug books lookin’ at ugly faces. Twice last week they took me downtown for a line-up, but it didn’t do no good. The guy I saw wasn’t one of those slobs. I keep tellin’ ’em. He was class, I could see that easy.”
“Too bad nobody got the license plate. That the victim was a regular of yours makes it personal, I bet.”
“Oh yeah, and it’s a damn shame. Dick Blazen. Did you know him, Mike?”
“Naw. Papers said he was some kind of freelance PR guy.”
Billy nodded. “Been around forever. Retired last year. Then retired into that gutter over there and after that a box in the ground. How I would love to help nail the bastard who made road refuse outa that sweet old bird.”
I lifted a shoulder and put it back down. “The cops do all right on that kind of thing. They’ll come up with the right guy for you to ID yet.”
“Hope so.” He passed out a couple more papers, taking correct change, then asked, “What’s up for tonight? Got a hot date with that doll of yours?”
I shrugged. “Not exactly a date. Velda and I are going to put our heads together over dinner. See if we can come up with somebody who doesn’t love me.”
“That’ll be swell for your appetites.” He pointed a stubby finger at me. “You just keep that chick out of the line of fire, Mike. Hear me?”
I stuck my paper under my arm and winked. “I try, kid, I try. But she’s damn near as trigger-happy as I am.”
That got a smile out of the crinkly face, and he waved as I walked off.
When I finished getting dressed, I popped open a cold can of beer and pulled the duplicate hot file out of the closet’s top shelf, stuck behind hats and gloves and scarves.
It was something an old cop had started me doing a long time ago, keeping track of anyone and anything that might want to come back on me, and to do so in duplicate — a set for the office, another at home. The little metal file held my history in the P.I. racket, and a blood-drenched history it was.
Sending me to the boneyard had been tried before and never worked, because each time had been a personal effort and I had been a little smarter and a lot faster and death cures any further trying.
But this time a third party had been involved. A professional killer. That made it a different kind of game, a big all-star game and the other side had the advantage of invisibility, and nobody would be calling foul.
Twice, I went through the card file, going back a full five years; but the only ones who could have had a grudge big enough to kill me over had been dead a long time, or were serving life sentences with no parole. Finally I yanked out two of the cards, copied the information down on my notepad, then slipped the cards back in place. There was always the possibility of a late blooming vendetta, and if one had blossomed, it might well have come from the family or friends of the pair I had selected. It wouldn’t take long to check out.
Before I left I reloaded the .45 with high velocity hollow points and slid it into the shoulder harness. It made one hell of a mean weapon, but if anybody was going to come up against me, I wanted all the odds I could get going my way. Just being tipped by one of those slugs could spin a damn horse around, and a full center shot would make a pretty disgusting picture.
Like the one friend Woodcock left behind him on my office wall.
I caught myself in the mirror just before I left. Other than my morning shave, looking at my reflection was something I didn’t do much any more, because I didn’t like what was there. I’d always been ugly but now I was getting older, and it didn’t help. You start counting all the times you’ve been to the well and know that it had to stop sometime. Time has a way of slowing you down, and making you careless, and when you look at your own face, knowing what it has seen, you wonder how you even have the ability to smile at all any more.
Then I remembered Woodcock in my office and the mechanics of every calculated, seemingly casual move I had made to finally put him down, and let a cold grin split my lips, because expertise and a high survival factor still had the edge on time.
I jammed on my hat, climbed inside my trench-style raincoat and let myself out the door, my hand tucked inside my coat and suit jacket like I was doing a Napoleon routine. The hallway was empty.
The elevator took me down to the basement and I went out the back door and picked up a cab on the street behind the building. It had been a long time since I had to pull any of this garbage, but it had been a long time since anybody had tried to rub me out, too.
The archaic sound of that made me remember just how long I had been around and that such things had been going on around me.
Somehow, I didn’t get the charge out of it that I used to. But I would need to get my head in the game or have it get blown the hell off.
At the venerable Blue Ribbon Restaurant on West Forty-fourth, Velda and I sat in the bar at our usual corner table in a niche overseen by celebrity photos, a good number of whom seemed to be eavesdropping. I’d had the knockwurst plate, Velda a big shrimp salad, and now she was having a Manhattan while I took care of a Four Roses and ginger. She seemed so very businesslike in her gray tailored suit, yet still made every other female in the place look sick.
We’d skipped the business talk during the meal, but now I handed her the two slips of paper with the hot-file leads.
“I’ll look into them,” she said, giving the notes a quick advance scan before slipping them into her purse.
I frowned at her little black leather shoulder-strap number. “Are you packing the .32?”
The big brown eyes met my concerned stare coolly. “What do you think? If the next guy that tries for you isn’t a sharp shooter, I could take the slug. If you’ll excuse me sounding so sentimental.”
I didn’t like having her in this at all, but I knew better than suggesting she get out.
“We’ve had it quiet for a few years,” I said. “The mob guys are mostly new faces, and some of them are grateful to me for getting rid of their old bosses and giving them a path to the good life.”
She was nodding. “I agree. Everybody’s first thought is that the list of those who want rid of Mike Hammer has to be a long one. But between the dead and the incarcerated, you don’t have that many enemies walking around at the moment.”
“Those two leads I gave you are family members who just might be rough enough to go for the revenge angle. Listen, besides the one in your purse, how about re-upping the old blade in the thigh-sheath gimmick?”
“And ruin my fashionable lines? Not on your life. If you’ll excuse the expression.”
I sipped my drink. I knew this was a hopeless fight.
I said, “You have a chance to look into our prospective client?”
“Leif Borensen? No. But I did better than that.” She looked past me with a smile, and pointed a red-nailed finger. “I arranged for somebody in the know to drop by after dinner.”