"And in these cases, it wasn't."
"They were not accidents, no. But the cops accepted them as such, and more important, so did the victims, Evello and Wren."
"Who was the client?"
His eyes went wide and he shook his head. "No. That info's not available."
"You lead me to your contact, and I'll make it available."
"I know you would, Mike. But I have to protect my sources. I do a lot of insurance work. More than you. All I can do is confirm that somebody had the kind of money that could make these scammers take on the very risky job of playing hit-and-run with a goddamn Mafia boss."
I swirled my beer, looking into it like I expected tea leaves to read. "Wealthy client, then."
"Fair to say."
"Not another mob guy?"
Bud shook his head again. "I would say not. This I just gathered, Mike. More gut than intel, okay? But I would say a straight john hired this done. Somebody way out of the loop."
"And yet somebody who was somehow able to get to these scammers. Who would have that kind of inside info?"
"I don't know. An insurance investigator like me, maybe? Possibly a medic?" He gave up an eloquent shrug. "Afraid I'm going to have to charge you for this one, Mike."
"I know."
"Don't choke when you see my bill. It's gonna be over a grand."
"I'm hip. But why don't you buy the fuckin' beers, at least?"
Bud's bulldog puss split in a grin, and he said, "My treat, amigo," and stopped at the bar and paid up, on his way out.
I just sat there with my Pabst, wishing my mind weren't taking me where it was, when I looked up and two guys who were definitely not in Hawaiian shirts were standing there, looming over me, like ads in Esquire come to life.
One was tall and thin and in a dark gray tailored suit with a black necktie. The other was short and thin and in a dark gray tailored suit with a gray-and-black necktie. They had hair cut short but left long enough to run a comb through, and the kind of pale complexions you get in casinos or in a coma or maybe on surveillance.
"FBI?" I asked. "Or T-men?"
They slid in the booth opposite me, the shorter one first. The tall one, who had blue eyes as faded as the ass of an old pair of jeans, seemed to be in charge.
"Treasury," he said. His voice was baritone with no inflection to speak of. "Would you like to see ID?"
"Why not?"
They both showed me their plastic cards with photo identification. The shorter guy had brown eyes, but otherwise these two were peas in the same federal pod.
"Agent Radley," I said to the tall one. "Agent Dawson."
"Make it 'mister,' Mr. Hammer," Radley said. "We don't advertise our status as agents."
Like hell they didn't.
"I appreciate the trouble you've gone to," I said. "Normally my tax refund just comes in the mail."
Radley smiled but it was small and a real effort. "I know your reputation, Mr. Hammer. And you might be interested to know that there are those of us, in government circles, who appreciate your methods. Even ... envy them."
"Thanks. Maybe you can be a character witness the next time I'm up on charges."
He smiled again and with less effort. "Your friend Captain Chambers speaks highly of you."
Not to me, he didn't.
The smaller T-man piped in: "And he suggested that we make contact with you directly."
"Swell. What can I do you for?"
"Mr. Hammer," Radley said, "you and Captain Chambers recently discussed the rumored shipment of heroin that is, right now, about the only thing heroin-related on these streets. The notion that this so-called super shipment might be a myth or a ruse, either on our side or the ... other side? We want to disabuse you of that notion."
Dawson said, "It's very real, Mr. Hammer. Hundreds of pounds of pure heroin, about to hit these shores."
"When?" I asked.
"That," Radley said, "we do not know. We believe it to be ... imminent."
"Define 'imminent.'"
"As soon as a day or two. No longer than five or six."
"Okay. Narrowing it down like that means we're right on top of nothing at all."
Radley exchanged blank glances with Dawson. Then he said, "We're aware, of course, that you are deeply embroiled in this affair, starting with the attempted robbery of William Blue. That there have been attempts on your life, and that you have been in touch with many of the major players."
"Yeah, I know all this. I was there."
Dawson said, "Captain Chambers told us about your theory."
"What theory is that?"
"That a third party, someone new in the equation, may be attempting to take possession of this shipment ... possibly as part of an effort to overthrow Evello and Wren. That this third party may be using you to play Evello off Wren, and vice versa."
I shrugged. "Just piecing things together, boys."
"Well, it's an interesting theory, Mr. Hammer. And one we had not contemplated."
Radley asked me, "Whom do you suspect?"
"Someone inside."
"Inside the Syndicate drug operation, you mean?"
"Not Radio City Music Hall."
"Who, Mr. Hammer?"
"No idea." Actually, I was starting to have an idea, but I wasn't ready to share it.
I gave them a grin that was only a little threatening. "Fellas, I don't mean to cut in on your action. But this is personal. When people try to knife me or shoot me, I take an interest."
Radley held up a hand, a stop motion, but a gentle one. "We are not asking you to stop investigating, Mr. Hammer. Quite the opposite. You have ways and means not available to the Treasury Department. You have access to people and places that we do not, and cannot, without raising suspicion and undue questions."
"And?"
"And," Radley said, "we ask only that you keep us abreast of your efforts."
Dawson handed me a card. It had four phone numbers on it and no names and no agency designation.
"You hear anything about the shipment," Radley said, "whether solid information about the time and date and delivery, or just a rumor ... you let us know."
They gave me curt smiles and matching nods, and slid out of the booth and vanished like your money in government hands.
I finished the beer and put their card in my wallet. So—Uncle Sam was on my side.
But was that a good thing?
Chapter Ten
VELDA MET ME for lunch at the Blue Ribbon Restaurant. I got there first, and picked up a stein of Prior's dark beer at the bar and went to my table, tucked in a corner where I wouldn't be bothered. And it was my table—all it took was a phone call half an hour out to keep anybody else from claiming it, including the mayor and any of the celebrities in the framed signed photos hanging around me.
Velda was in a white cotton blouse with a little tan jacket over it—it was getting cooler—and a tight black skirt with black pumps. Simple attire on any other dame, grounds for an indecent-exposure arrest on her. She had the big black purse under her arm, big enough for all her girl garbage plus the .32 auto and anything else she might need to tuck away.
Halfway over to me, she was already getting into the bag, plucking out a fat manila folder to deposit in front of me like an oversize summons she was serving.
She took her chair, and I called, "George! Coffee regular, over here," got a nod from the headwaiter who co-owned the place, and smiled at my secretary.
"You could smuggle state secrets in that thing," I said, nodding to the big purse, which she rested on an otherwise vacant chair at our table for four.
"No secrets," she said. "Public knowledge, for anybody who wants to spend four hours traipsing through microfilm of that fascinating publication, the Weekly Home News."