I pushed her away roughly, still holding her close, and she said, "I love you, Mike, I love you, I love you, I love you."
I wanted to tell her the same thing, but she knew it was coming, and stopped me with her mouth again. She stood up then, holding out her hands so she could pull me to my feet. While I watched, she transformed the sofa into a bed and brought out a pillow from her bedroom. I kicked off my shoes and tossed my coat and tie oh a chair. "You go to bed," I said, "we'll hold the wake some other night."
"Good night, Mike." She blew a kiss. I shook my head, and she came back for a real one. I lay down on the sheets, trying to figure out whether I was a jerk, just plain reformed, too tired, or in love.
I guessed it was because I was too tired, and I fell asleep grinning.
Chapter Eleven
It was the sound of coffee bubbling and the smell of bacon and eggs sizzling in a pan that awakened me. I yawned, stretched and came alive as Lola walked in. She was just as lovely in the morning as she had been last night. She crooked her finger at me. "Breakfast is served, my lord."
As soon as she went back to the kitchen I climbed into my clothes and followed. Over the table she told me that she had already called and told her boss that she was sick and was ordered to take the day off. Several, if she needed them. "You're in solid, I guess."
She wrinkled her nose at me. "They're just being nice to a good worker. They like my modelling technique."
When we finished she went into the bedroom and changed into a suit, tucking her hair up under her hat. She deliberately left off most of the make-up, but it didn't spoil her looks any. "I'm trying to look like I can afford only to do my shopping in hock shops," she explained.
"They'll never believe it, honey."
"Stop being nice to me." She paused in front of the mirror and surveyed the effect, making last-minute adjustments here and there. "Now, what do I do and say, Mike?"
I leaned back in the chair, hooking my feet over the rungs. "Take the phone book... the classified section. Make a list of all the joints and start walking. You know the camera... it may be in the window, it may be inside. Tell the guy what you want and look them over. If you see it, buy it. Remember, what you want is the address on the ticket. You can make up your own story as you go along... just make it good, and don't appear overanxious."
I dragged out my wallet and fingered off some bills. "Here! You'll need taxi fare and grub money, plus what the guy will ask. That is, if you find it."
She tucked the bills in her pocketbook. "Frankly, what do you think of the chances, Mike?"
"Not too good. Still, it's the only out I know of. It won't be easy to run down, but it's the only lead I have right now."
"Will you be here while I'm gone?"
"I may be, I don't know." I wrote down my home and office addresses, then added Pat's number as an afterthought. "In case you find anything, call me here or at these numbers. If you're in a jam and I'm not around, call Pat. Now, have you got everything straight?"
She nodded. "I think so. Does the faithful wife off to work get a farewell kiss from her lazy spouse?"
I grabbed her arm and hauled her down to me, bruising her lips with mine, and felt the fire start all over again. I had to push her away.
"I don't want to go," she said.
"Scram!" She wrinkled her nose again and waved to me from the doorway.
As soon as she left I went over to the phone and dialed the office. Velda started with, "I'm sorry, but Mr. Hammer isn't here at the moment."
"Where is he?"
"I'm not at liberty to say. He should... Mike! Where the devil are you now? Why don't you stop in and take care of your business? I never...
"Off my back, chick. I'm tied up. Look, have I had any calls?"
"I'll say you have. So far I haven't had time to answer the mail!"
"Who called?"
"First off there was a man who wouldn't give his name. Said it was confidential and he'd call back later. Then two prospective clients called, but I told them you were engaged. Both of them thought their business was so urgent you'd drop what you were doing and go with them."
"Get their names?"
"Yes. Both were named Johnson. Mark and Joseph Johnson, neither related."
I grunted. Johnson was about the third or fourth most popular name in the phone directory. "Who else?"
"There was a guy named Cobbie Bennett. I had a hard time getting his name because he was almost hysterical. He said he had to see you right away but wouldn't say why. I told him you'd call back soon as you came, in. He wouldn't leave a number. He's called three times since."
"Cobbie! What could he want? He said nothing at all, Velda?"
"Not a thing."
"O.K., continue."
"Your client, Mr. Berin-Grotin, called. He wanted to know if his check got to the bank in time. I didn't know about it so I said you'd check with him. He said not to bother if everything was all right."
"Well, everything's not all right, but it's too late to bother about now. You hold down the phone, kiddo. Give out the same answers to whoever calls. Keep one thing in mind... you don't know where I am and you haven't heard from me since yesterday. Got it?"
"Yes, but..."
"No buts. The only one you can feel free to speak to is Pat or a girl called Lola. Take their messages. If they have anything for me try to get me at home or here." I rattled off Lola's number and waited while she wrote it down.
"Mike... what is it? Why can't you..."
I was tired of repeating it. "I'm supposed to be dead, Velda. The killer thinks he nailed me."
"Mike!"
"Oh, quit worrying. I'm 'not even scratched. The bullet hit my gun. Which reminds me... I got to get a new one. 'Bye baby. See you soon."
I stuck the phone back and sat on the edge of the chair, running my hand across my face. Cobbie Bennett. He was hysterical and he wanted to see me. He wouldn't say why. I wondered which of the Johnson boys was the killer trying to make certain I was gone from the land of the living. And who was the caller with the confidential info? At least I knew who Cobbie was.
I hoped I knew where I could find him.
My coat was wrinkled from lying across the chair, and without a rod under my arm the thing bagged like a zoot suit. The holster helped fill it out, but not enough. I closed the door behind me and walked downstairs, trying to appear like just another resident, maybe a little on the seedy side. In that neighborhood nobody gave me a tumble.
At Ninth Avenue I grabbed a cab and had him drive me over, to a gunsmith on the East Side. The guy who ran the shop might have made Daniel Boone's rifle for him, he was so old. At one time guns had been his mainstay, but since the coming of law and order he specialized in locks, even if the sign over the door didn't say so.
He didn't ask questions except to see my license, and when he had gone over it to the extent of comparing the picture with my face, he nodded and asked me what I liked. There were some new Army .45's mounted in a rack on the wall and I pointed them out. He took them down and let me try the action. When I found one that satisfied me I peeled off a bill from my roll, signed the book and took my receipt and a warning to check with the police on the change in gun numbers on my ticket.
I felt a lot better when I walked out of the place.
If the sun had been tucked in bed I would have been able to locate Cobbie in a matter of minutes. At high noon it was going to be a problem. In a cigar store on the corner I cashed in a buck for a handful of nickels and started working the phone book, calling the gin mills where he usually hung out. I got the same answer every time. Cobbie had dropped out of sight. Two wanted to know who I was, so I said a friend and hung up.