"Appreciate it," I said.
"Any other information I can provide?"
"Nope."
But she gave me more info just the same, by way of her phone number.
I took the slip of paper and thanked her for it, but I'd pitch it. Not that a redhead like her couldn't soothe my pains, but if Velda ran across that scrap of paper, I'd need a doctor not a nurse.
Up in the cafeteria, a gnome-ish waitress in a hairnet who didn't exactly spark my appetite pointed out Dr. David Harrin. Though he sat hunched over a coffee by a window, he was clearly a tall man. He had a distinguished air and a bony, Lincolnesque physique. At the moment, he was studiously going over some handwritten notes in a spiral pad.
When I approached, the white-haired, bespectacled physician looked up and I knew at once that he, too, wasn't the kind you could fake out with a state license and a metal badge. His eyes were a washed-out blue, set in a firm, friendly face that had looked upon life and death a thousand times, searching for answers to ten thousand baffling questions.
"Dr. Harrin?"
"Yes?"
"I'm Mike Hammer."
He stood up and held out his hand, and I took it—there was a secure, tensile strength in his grip.
His smile was quick and genuine. "Ah, yes. The celebrated Mr. Hammer. Hero of the hour, and star of a dozen tabloid tales."
That was delivered in good humor, so I just said, "Guilty as charged."
"Sit down, Mr. Hammer, please. Coffee?"
Before I could answer, he signaled to a perky little waitress who was filling coffee cups and water glasses, and she nodded and went off to do his bidding.
Then he pulled his chair around so he could face me.
"I'm very happy you dropped by," he said. "It's a pleasure and a privilege to have you where I can thank you in person for helping Billy out of that jam."
"No trouble."
"I would think a world of trouble. Society has a way of punishing good Samaritans."
I'd been called a lot of things in my time, but good Samaritan wasn't one of them.
The doc was saying, "I hope you won't be having any difficulty yourself, with the, uh, messy aftermath."
"No," I assured him, "I'm clear. There were too many witnesses and, anyway, those punks had plenty of strikes against them already. How's Billy?"
His smile was one of relief. "Strictly bruises, lacerations, and a badly sprained ankle from that fall he took when the car swiped him. I'm making him stay at Saxony another couple of days—he doesn't relish the idea, but doctor's orders are, as they say, doctor's orders."
"Rank's got its privileges, all right."
The coffee came and we both thanked the perky little gal. This one was cute enough that the hairnet didn't defeat her.
As I stirred some cream and sugar in, I said offhandedly, "Billy mention why those clowns went after him?"
He looked up with a thoughtful squint. He reminded me of somebody—the actor John Carradine, maybe?
"Mr. Hammer, I'd say they were after his money. He'd just been paid, you know. Must it be anything more sinister than that?"
"No. That's sinister enough."
His eyebrows, which were as black as his hair was white, rose high. "The same thing happened twice last month to an orderly and a nurse. Open, daylight muggings by apparent narcotics addicts."
"What does Billy have to say on the subject?"
"He doesn't. He couldn't give any reason for the attack at all." Harrin made a wry gesture that was matched by his facial expression and said, "It doesn't matter much now, does it? That is, thanks to your quick action, Mr. Hammer. Two are dead and the other one is under arrest, and in critical condition."
"There are plenty more shitheels where they came from."
His look turned grave. "And we get them at Saxony, poor wretches."
"You feel sorry for them?"
"Not for them. For the human beings they once were."
"You know kids—they think they're going to live forever."
He said nothing, and I realized what I'd said.
"Sorry, Doctor. I know you lost your son. That's a hurt that doesn't go away. Sometimes I'm a tactless bastard."
He hardly seemed to be listening. But then he said, "Mr. Hammer, it's these times, these changing times. There are things about them that are positive—freedom of expression, that's a good thing. Certain shackles of society need to fall away."
"I kind of dig this sexual revolution myself."
"I would imagine. From what I understand, Mr. Hammer, you may have fired the first shot."
We both smiled at that, but then the doc said, "It's these narcotics that are the most troubling. A kid smokes a little marijuana, and really what's the harm? Jazz musicians have been doing it for years."
Couldn't argue with that.
"But it's a minor high, Mr. Hammer. Don't believe this nonsense about 'gateway' drugs. It's not the drug that intrinsically leads to harder stuff. It's the urge, perhaps a natural one in a young person, to experiment, to seek a, well, higher high. And now we're finding teenagers, teenagers, Mr. Hammer, addicted to heroin."
"Thanks to the bastards who sell them the stuff."
His shrug was eloquent in its sorrowful resignation. "I'm afraid it's a vicious circle almost impossible to break. Nothing seems to deter this idiotic need for thrills that inexorably leads the immature to a slow and sure death. It becomes so important, the users will even kill to obtain it ... or perhaps I should say, kill while it's using them. More coffee?"
"Sure. That's my drug of choice—caffeine."
"And I would imagine beer is another one."
"Guilty again."
His smile was world-weary. "But you are an adult, Mr. Hammer. You can make these choices. Our children can't."
I cut my sigh off with a grunt. "Too bad somebody doesn't wipe out all the dealers and the traffickers, way on up the ladder. But even I only have so many bullets."
He laughed at my kidding-on-the-square, and said, "You know, Mr. Hammer..."
"Mike."
"Of course ... Mike, you did a bigger service than you knew when you stopped that attack. Greater than just removing a couple of minor drug dealers."
"How's that?"
"The antibiotic Billy was delivering was something we had just developed. The police car that got it to the clinic arrived with about ten minutes' grace to save a woman's life."
"How did the cops know to deliver the stuff?"
"Billy remembered it when he gained consciousness in the emergency room."
I shook my head. "He's in a world of hurt, and his first thought is that? This is a kid I'd like to meet. I could use a boost in my opinion of the human race about now."
His smile was wide but thin. "Good. I know Billy would like to thank you personally." His eyes went up to the wall clock. "You know, I'm about to go over there myself, if you'd care to join me. It's only a two-block walk to the hospital."
"Fine."
He rose. "Then let's go up to my office so I can change."
We took the service elevator to the fourth floor of the east wing, where Dr. Harrin showed me into his modest office. He smiled when he saw me surveying the simple layout—a desk, two chairs, filing cabinet, and washstand. The only wall hangings were framed parchment scrolls, each with a one- or two-line quotation, from Admiral Dewey's " Keep Cool and Obey Orders" to Marie Antoinette's "Let Them Eat Cake." A couple were in Latin, which I flunked, but another said, "The king can do no wrong," coined by somebody who never heard of Lyndon Johnson.
"Not a very pretentious place," the doctor told me. "Here, space is too valuable to waste on large, lavish offices. This is where I hang my hat, and do a little paperwork. If we had time, I'd give you the grand tour."