"You really think it's that simple, don't you?"
"I didn't say it was simple. I didn't say it wasn't tragic. But I see a vampire, buddy, I'm putting a forty-five-caliber stake through his goddamn heart."
His eyes were like quarters. "And I'm supposed to believe you're not getting involved in this?"
"I am involved! But ... I made my contribution to society for today. I took two, maybe three junkie thieves off the streets, and that's enough. For today, anyway."
He was looking at me like I was the one out of a horror show. "Then lay off, Van Helsing. You got no counts against you right now. In fact, you come up smelling of roses for performing a public service. Even that old sedan was hot. The parents of those 'scumbags' aren't preferring any charges. Hell, they're glad to get their darlings out of their hair."
"What happened to the mothers and fathers who loved them you were crowing about?"
Suddenly Pat looked very tired. "Mike—as a friend. I'm asking you—lay off."
I gave him the innocent face. "Lay off from what?"
"From what you're thinking of, damnit! You have your back up about something and I can smell it all the way across the room."
"I wish you'd tell me what it is, then."
His eyes narrowed, his expression grew grave. "Think about it a little bit. Maybe it will come to you."
"Sure. I'll do that." I reached for my hat and eased out of the chair, stretched, yawned. Little man had a busy day. "Think our budding assistant D.A. got everything he wants?"
"He'll be overjoyed, we'll all be overjoyed, if you just get your ass out of here."
"My pleasure, buddy," I told him. "Feel like hitting the Blue Ribbon for supper?"
He gave me a "you gotta be kidding" expression, but it melted, and the cop became a friend again. "What's the special tonight?"
"Beats me, but I could dig some of that crazy knockwurst."
Pat leaned back in his chair. He even found a chuckle for me. "You buying?"
"Sure."
"Then you're on."
And we went out for a late dinner, leaving our conversation behind.
Anybody who walked into my office would have a hard time figuring out who it belonged to. Back in the old Hackard Building, it had been a cluttered, lovely mess. But they were giving the old landmark a major overhaul, and I'd had to move to new digs, maybe temporarily, maybe not. Anyway, now the address was classy, the view scenic if you liked towering Manhattan tombstones, with a doorman who after six months still looked at me like I didn't belong.
Velda had added decorating to her secretarial duties, keeping the place rugged enough to maintain my occupational image without scaring off the more timid clients. The outer office was inviting, furnishings modern but not metal, nice lush dark wood and a couch with dark leather padding. Wood panels bore framed newspaper stories about her boss and various sharpshooting plaques I'd racked up, and even a couple of civic awards from groups not afraid to endorse my brand of rough justice.
She was still the teaser, though. In her own area outside my private office she had installed an antique but functional desk, at which she could be seen when my inner office door was open, so I could take in both of those lovely, disconcerting legs crossing and uncrossing down in the desk's well.
And if that wasn't enough of an invitation, she'd smile over her Smith Corona and inhale deeply so the tight jersey tops she always wore would swell out with an open challenge to give her more breathing room.
Velda.
Wide shoulders, deep, dark tresses falling in a pageboy that fashion had long since left behind, yet still the most beautiful hairstyle of all. A tall woman, with dark almond-shaped eyes, rich with mystery, and a lush red-lipsticked mouth that made a guy consider doing the kinds of things that get you arrested in some states....
Morning sun was slanting through the blinds and throwing horizontal patterns on the hardwood floor as I stepped into my new, modern suite of offices, and closed the door behind me. "Hello, kitten."
Her teeth flashed in a smile so white, the sunlight seemed to bounce off and get brighter. She stood behind her desk and reached out to take my hands in hers.
"Mike, you bastard," she said, and held her mouth up for a fiery little office kiss. Then she tugged me back to my favorite sitting spot on the edge of her desk.
"'Mike, you bastard'... what kind of welcome is that?"
Her pout was a phony. "You could have stopped by when you got back. You didn't even call me last night. You were home, weren't you?"
"Not till fairly late. I got caught up in something."
She frowned. "Yeah, I know. Pat called me. He can call me, but you couldn't take the time?"
"Listen, last night when I got back, I hit the rack and was asleep before I could turn out the light. I'm not a kid anymore, you know. You're up on what happened?"
She nodded crisply. "I read about it in the evening papers, and this morning the coverage was more detailed, but still with plenty of lines to read between...." She tucked her lower lip between her teeth, waited a moment, and said, "Pretty nasty scene?"
"Nasty enough." I shrugged. "Could have been worse."
"Oh?"
"This Billy Blue—he's apparently a nice kid, and those punks were out to tear him up."
Her head cocked in that RCA-Victor-dog fashion, only she was no dog. "What were you doing there, Mike?"
"Hey, just delivering that report to Klein. I'd just come out of his damn building. I was on my way up here."
She sighed, shook her head, and all that auburn hair shimmered. "Oh, Mike, how do you always manage to get involved in these crazy scrapes?"
"Like the man said—just lucky I guess."
Velda gave that a little laugh, which was more than it deserved, then looked into my eyes. "Good vacation?"
"Plenty of sun, caught some fish, got my paperwork done, and managed to locate Klein's missing shipment by telephone."
"The private eye's best weapon." Now her eyes got narrow. "Get laid?"
"What a question."
"So answer me."
I shifted on my desk perch. "Number one, it's none of your damn business."
"And number two?"
"Number two, let's just say I didn't have any decent offers, and number three, maybe I didn't feel like it."
"I'll ignore number two, and politely pretend number three can be taken seriously."
"Hell," I said, "I was saving it all up for you."
"That I won't ignore." She kissed me again, lightly, then ran her hand gently down my side. "How's the wound?"
"Healed, but still sore. Hurts like a son of a bitch when I sneeze."
"So don't sneeze. But I bet you feel better than the two guys who jumped you outside Dewey Wong's."
"I don't know, doll. When you're dead and buried, like those clowns, nothing much hurts. Even in a landfill."
She was stroking my hand now. "That little brannigan yesterday, that didn't do you any good either, did it?"
"I'll survive."
"That's what some people are afraid of, I think." She gave me an odd look of resignation. "Was that dustup the end of something, or the beginning?"
"You and Pat can throw a lot of curve balls, sugar. What's with you two?"
She shook her head. "We've known you too long, maybe. Way ahead of you—like a dog who brings in the newspaper before his master even realizes he wants to read it."
I said it before, but this time out loud: "Baby, you're no dog."
She smiled impishly, reached over, picked up a folder from the desk, and handed it to me.
"What's this?"
"A rundown on those kids."
I gaped at her. "You been working on this already?"
"Think of it as the newspaper you didn't realize you wanted to read yet."