The Big Bang

"How about your not immediate associates?"

He shrugged with his eyebrows, sucked on his little brown cigarette or cigar or whatever-the-hell, then asked, "Aren't my connections, nationally and internationally, extensive enough to secure gunmen who would not be so immediately traceable to me?"

"Are you suggesting somebody wanted me to make that jump? Knowing my history with the Evello Family?"

He turned a hand over. "Isn't that more likely? More logical?"

"Who?"

He sipped his water. Smiled again, but there was no amusement in the tiny hard eyes. "You've been nosing around, Mr. Hammer, as is your wont. You have a rather well-known nose."

"When something stinks, I know it."

"Admirable. You recently came to the aid of a young man who was set upon by two of Jay Wren's people—the Snowbird?"

"That's right. Billy Blue. You know Billy, Carlo. He mailed a letter for you once."

"Did he?"

I sat forward. "If that's what this is about—if you think that kid saw something he shouldn't have, remembered a name he shouldn't have—then here's your one warning: Back the hell off. I talked to that kid, and he doesn't remember a damn thing about—"

Through most of that he'd been shaking his head, and now the surrender palms were up again. "Mr. Hammer, Mr. Hammer—I swear on my mother's grave that I have no memory of what that letter was. He's a nice boy. He ran some harmless errands for me—nothing sinister—while I was hospitalized."

I settled back. Had a sip of beer. "I spoke to the Brix kid—one of the two attackers—today, at Bellevue. He swears they jumped Billy just because he turned them down on some petty drug-pilfering scheme at Saxony."

He let smoke out, lifted a shoulder. "That sounds credible to me."

"What you said before—about no 'immediate' associates. Would that include the Snowbird? Where does Jay Wren rate with you?"

One of the black eyebrows rose. "He is an ambitious young man who has done an excellent job for me. But, as you well know, Mr. Hammer—ambition has its pitfalls."

"You're suggesting the Snowbird hired those two St. Louis torpedoes."

His faint smile spoke volumes.

"And that Wren did so," I went on, "intending to leave a trail to you?"

He sighed. Sipped his water again. "Mr. Hammer, Jay Wren has, for reasons unknown to me, apparently singled you out as a threat to him. Perhaps he envisions a scenario in which you and I take each other out of the picture. Who can say?"

"But he's just a glorified dealer, right? An underling."

"From time immemorial," he said, "underlings have had a way of ... getting ideas."

I wasn't buying it. "And he did all this from Miami, I suppose?"

The tiny eyes under the dark slashes of brow blinked a couple times, then he said, "I don't believe so. Wren has been back in town for several days. Since before this incident with the Blue boy even went down."

"I had police information otherwise."

That got more than a chuckle out of him. "Yes, well, Mr. Hammer ... we all know how reliable police intelligence is."

I grinned at him. "Police intel says a big shipment of H is coming in. How reliable is that, Carlo? A shipment that will turn this dry spell into streets awash with junk."

No smile, now. Just eyes as dead as his Uncle Carl's, if not bulging. "I don't think that's an area we should get into. You are, Mr. Hammer, in your unique way, a policeman yourself. You may or may not have killed my uncle, all those years ago, but you definitely cost him, and my family, a rather major shipment of a certain commodity. And I have no reason to think that your ... unique views on how to solve what the do-gooders call 'the narcotics problem' have radically changed over those years."

"What do you call it, if it's not a problem?"

The brown cigarillo was between the fingers of the hand he waved, and it made little gray-blue trails. "It's a personal choice, Mr. Hammer. We are in an era of young people who are expanding their reach, their minds, who seek entertainment in ways forbidden to our more stodgy generation. I'm a capitalist in this Marxist world, and am happy to supply freethinkers of all ages with their entertainment needs."

"What a load of horseshit," I said.

And what a load of horse.

Then something came together in my mind. I sat forward again. "This super shipment, should it exist—are you implying the Snowbird has his eye on it? That he might try to hijack it, steal it from you, and set out on his own?"

Evello let out an appreciative grunt. Then he took a small pillbox from his pocket and selected two capsules and popped them with his water. "Goddamned ulcer—we all have our drugs, don't we, Mr. Hammer?"

"Yeah." I finished the beer. "I suppose we do. Thanks for the talk. You were frank, and you get brownie points for that."

"Thank you."

"But don't get confused. We're not on the same side. Not even close. No matter how the Snowbird tries to stage-manage this little show. The shit you deal in, it's the plague, Carlo. And the best way to deal with a plague is to wipe out as many rats as possible."

This seemed to amuse him, dryly. "Understood."

I got up, put on my hat, then turned back to him. "Oh, I almost forgot. This Dr. Harrin, who took care of you at Saxony. What's your take on the guy?"

"Why, he's a brilliant man. He's treated rare diseases with such boldness and inspired thinking that you can't help but admire him. And he was very kind to me, very generous with his time and his talent."

"He does seem like a good man."

I nodded to Evello, smirked at his boys, got my trench coat, and went on outside. The rain had finally let up, delivering on its promise of a slate sky, leaving a damp chill to remember it by.

As I flagged down a cab, I was thinking ... Was I imagining it, or did Evello's little speech about Dr. Harrin sound rehearsed?

And why the hell would he do that?

Chapter Nine

THE RAIN HAD SCOOTED, and morning sun was slanting in the side window of my inner office through blinds that were half shut.

Pat tossed a manila envelope onto my desk and it landed with a clunk. Hat pushed back, he hadn't sat down yet, and was looking at me with a narrow-eyed skepticism I knew all too well.

"There's your latest favor," he said.

I didn't have to open the envelope to feel the spool of tape within. "Thanks, buddy."

"Never mind the soft soap. Now I want some information."

I gestured to the client's chair. I realized he preferred to tower over me and do his cop intimidation number—like that would work with me. He made a sour face and tossed his hat on the desk and plopped down.

"What do you want to know, Pat?"

He sat forward, eyes hard and sparking. "What the hell were you doing going around to Little Italy yesterday and confronting Junior Evello?"

So the feds and the NYPD were cooperating today.

I said, "Who says I confronted him? Salvatore's is a public place. A restaurant open for business."

"Can it, Mike. What went down?"

I shrugged. "We had a polite chat. No guns were drawn, no saps or brass knuckles came into play. Just a quiet little powwow between two factions."

"What do you mean, two factions?"

"Good and evil, buddy. Aren't you paying attention?"

He smirked. "Yeah, which are you?"

I ignored that crack and filled him in, telling him about Evello denying any part in the attacks on me or Billy Blue, and how the mobster all but confirmed that a big shipment of H really was due any day now.

Pat was frowning. "Tell me something I don't know."

"Okay. The Snowbird is back in town. Has been for some time."

He shifted in the chair, vaguely embarrassed. "Well, I knew that ... but I admit I just found it out. The feds down Miami way say he slipped out by private plane maybe a week ago. I don't see how that's pertinent."