Shortly before his death, Mike Hammer�s creator Mickey Spillane paid me an incredible honor. He asked me to complete the Hammer novel that he currently had in progress � The Goliath Bone � and then told his wife Jane to gather all of the other unfinished, unpublished material and give it to me: �Max will know what to do.�

These manuscripts, surprising in number, spanned Mickey�s entire career from the late �40s until his passing in 2006. Six manuscripts were substantial, usually 100 pages or more, with plot and character notes and sometimes roughed-out final chapters. Most of the books had been announced by Mickey�s publisher at various times from the 1950s through the �90s. As a Spillane/Hammer fan since my early teens, I am delighted to finally see these long-promised books lined up on a shelf next to the thirteen Hammer novels published by Mickey in his lifetime.

In addition to the substantial novel manuscripts mentioned above, a number of shorter Mike Hammer manuscripts were uncovered in the treasure hunt conducted by Jane Spillane, my wife Barb and me, ranging over three offices in Mickey�s South Carolina home. Some of these were fragments of a few pages, primarily the openings of never-written novels or stories; these I have been gradually turning into short stories with an eventual collection in mind. Others were more substantial if less so than the six novel manuscripts, and � although they vary in particulars � these shorter manuscripts represent significant unfinished entries in the most popular American mystery series of the twentieth century.

I am now in the process of completing at least three of these shorter Hammer novels-in-progress; Murder Never Knocks is the second of these (the first, Kill Me, Darling, appeared in 2015). Mickey had completed several chapters but also left behind extensive plot and character notes, as well as a draft of the novel�s ending. Mike Hammer�s creator often said that he wrote the ending first. Of the unfinished manuscripts in Mickey�s files, Murder Never Knocks is one of the few that back up that assertion.

The alternate title, Don�t Look Behind You, is partly a tribute by Mickey to his favorite mystery writer, Fredric Brown, who wrote a famous short story of that name. Mickey�s other alternate titles were The Controlled Kill and The Controller.

Internal evidence in the narrative indicates Mickey began this novel in 1966 or 1967, before or after The Body Lovers (1967), and that is the time frame I�ve employed.

M.A.C.

He just stood there looking at me, the silenced, foreign-made automatic pointed at my chest, the key he had used in the door still in the fingers of his left hand until he gently dropped it in his pocket. I hadn�t heard him at all. He was already framed in the doorway when I noticed him. But then, he was the kind you didn�t notice.

Eight stories down, on the streets of New York, there were thousands like him, quiet people, utterly uncommanding souls who could pass unnoticed anywhere. They could be next to you on the sidewalk, or maybe behind you, without being seen, and speaking without being heard. Their faces and their actions would never be remembered except vaguely at best. Just part of the crowd.

That made him anonymous. It also pegged him a pro. Because such unremarkable people make the best killers.

This one might have been a lower level drone from Wall Street � nice gray topcoat but off the rack, a darker gray trilby hat, gray complexion, too. The only thing that stood out were the black-rimmed glasses on his narrow soft-jawed face, and the eyes behind them were gray, too.

His voice was a soft monotone, but there was something off in it. �Mike Hammer. In person. In the flesh. Hard to believe.�

What was that something in his voice? Sarcasm? No. Respect? Or... awe? It was like he�d spotted his favorite movie star across a room, or was taking in the Grand Canyon or maybe Mount Rushmore.

He did have a tinge of surprise tightening his eyes. That was probably because he hadn�t expected to find me in the outer office, right there in front of him, big as life, ready for death. Velda, who wasn�t just my secretary but the other licensed P.I. at Michael Hammer Investigations, had left just before five for an urgent appointment.

I�d hung around to take a phone call from the West Coast, and was on my way out when I noticed a stack of afternoon mail on her desk. I perched on the edge of it, lit up a Lucky, and started thumbing through the envelopes. He�d come in and found me like that.

Casual as hell, I tossed the mail on the blotter and half-turned on my roost, took a drag from the butt and put it down in the ashtray. I gave him an easy grin, nothing nasty in it at all.

�Why hard to believe?� I asked. �I�m not tough to find.�

A tiny smile. Damn, the teeth were gray, too.

�You�re a tough man to find alone, Mr. Hammer. And when you are, you�re on the move.� The gun was steady as he shook his head, his smile slight but regretful. �Pity it has to be like this.�

�To what do I owe this honor?�

�I have no idea why.�

�You have an idea who, then? Anybody I know?�

He shook his head, his eyes never leaving mine. The automatic snout with its silencer, either. �Nobody I even know.�

�So it�s a contract job.�

He nodded once. �A very lucrative one, Mr. Hammer. Not just anyone was deemed up to it. But I have to admit, I almost regret having to fulfill it.�

�And why is that?�

His eyebrows went up a touch. �You may find this hard to believe, but some people on my side of this business... well, a good number of us look up to you. How many kills have you racked up by now, Mr. Hammer?�

�Who�s counting?�

The unremarkable face gave up a whole gray smile now. �And to think I won�t even get any credit for it.� His shrug was barely perceptible. �Nature of the business. Back in the day, take out the likes of Mike Hammer, you�d be a big man. Imagine taking out Billy the Kid or Jesse James, and no one ever knew? But the world operates differently now, doesn�t it?�

I picked up the butt, took another deep drag, and put it back in the tray again. �You�re being pretty careless about this thing, aren�t you? Shouldn�t I be dead by now?�

The smile lingered. �You�re not going anywhere. Would you like to know how I managed this?�

�Sure.�

�I rented an office down the hall a month ago. That gave me freedom of the building. I wanted to observe your, ah... routine. Your habits. Your patterns.� He saw my eyes touch his pocket. �The key is a copy of the superintendent�s master. Tonight was the first time your secretary didn�t double-lock your door when she left, you know.�

I shrugged. �Guess she was in a hurry. Everybody screws up now and then.�

This time there was a touch of pathos in the smile. �With all due respect, Mr. Hammer, some of us don�t.�

My hand drifted toward the cigarette in the ashtray, but the cig went flying in a shower of sparks when I flung the glass object at him with a sharpness that sent it sailing edge first right into his forehead, stunning him just as his finger was tightening on the trigger. In that same second, my right hand was drawing the .45 from its shoulder holster and firing back at him as I hit the deck, his bullet kissing a pock in the plaster behind and above me. His shot and mine were so close together, they might been one report.

But there�d be no more gunfire from my caller.

I got to my feet and had a look at him. The .45 slug had gone in clean mid-chest but delivered a fat sloppy wad of the gray man�s colorful insides to splash and glop and slide bloodily down the wall behind where he lay crumpled under it, just inside the door. He looked up at me, eyes trying to blink death away. But that wasn�t going to happen � not with his chest a tired beach ball, slowly deflating.

The glaze hadn�t reached his eyes yet, so I�m pretty sure he could still hear me.

�I told you, buddy,� I said. �Sooner or later, everybody screws up.�

Hell, when was the war?

How many years ago?

You lay in the mud waiting to shoot and get shot at, and you wind up shooting a lot of people you never saw or knew and when you did a really good job of killing, you got a medal or two that you could stick in your desk drawer and look at, whenever the scarred tissue in your body told you it was going to rain. They didn�t always get the little shrapnel pieces out in those field hospitals and you never really had time to deal with it after you got home. So when it rained, you remembered, and if you were me, you wondered why it was they didn�t give you medals any more for killing guys who needed it.

The closest thing, over the years, had been the headlines, but that was a mixed bag. Good for business in its way, but turning you into some kind of cockeyed celebrity. To this paper you were a hero, to that one a villain or maybe even �a psychopathic menace to society.� That one popped into my mind a lot, sometimes making me grin and sometimes not.

Of course, the power that was the press had been chopped down by the demands of supposedly honestly elected crooks who seemed curiously inspired to curtail the news and events from the biggest city of them all and divert them into preselected channels that didn�t need direction to be cautiously liberal to the point of fear, or consciously radical enough to be dangerous.

The World Telegram was dead, the Journal-American gone and the Herald Tribune buried, and with them the reporters and columnists, like my pal Hy Gardner, who could have laid on a rebuttal to the two papers that chewed me up without having all the facts. Somebody at the News had gotten the word, though, and the story was minimized and presented as an attempted murder and my action as justifiable homicide. Nobody played it up really big. Luckily, the Mid-Eastern thing was still a hot issue in the UN, so there wasn�t enough space to bear down really hard.

I tossed the papers in the receptacle outside the elevator, then walked down the corridor of the old Hackard Building to my office, and opened the door.

No day can be all bad. This one blossomed like a rose in sunlight because Velda was bent over filing papers in the lower drawer of a file cabinet with her back toward me, standing with that stiff-kneed dancer�s stance, feet together, and no woman in the world has legs like she has. Those calves and thighs, and the lush globes they led to, came from an era when women were fully-fleshed and the posture she was maintaining would be damn near obscene if it weren�t unintentional. And what this big luscious brunette could do to a simple white silk blouse, a black pencil skirt and nylons was sheer sexual alchemy.

She heard me, glanced around and stood up quickly, almost having the decency to blush. Almost.

I said, �Didn�t anybody ever warn you about picking up the soap in the shower, doll?�

�A guy could knock,� she said.

�And then a guy would miss the sweetest surprises.� I pushed the door shut. �Besides, I�m a true connoisseur of the female form.�

�I noticed.�

�I think of it as living erotic art.�

Her mouth pursed into an amused kiss. �Do you now?�

I tossed my hat on her desk, slung my hip on the edge and picked up my mail. �Anything come in?�

Velda tugged her skirt down, got back behind her desk and said, �A couple of bills, two checks and a referral from the Smith-Torrence Agency.�

�Referral, huh?�

�It�s in that stack there.�

I sorted the envelopes and fingered out the agency one. �What�s with Smitty, anyway, calling me in? He knows I don�t handle auditing cases.�

�Well, read it and see.�

I yanked out the letter and glanced at it. �Hell, it�s six pages long and starts with his latest fishing trip. I wouldn�t want to read about my own fishing trip. Brief me.�

Velda reached out, took the letter and selected the last page. �Smith-Torrence has a request for the kind of thing they don�t handle. Seems one Leif Borensen has security needs.�

Sitting perched where I�d been when Woodcock came in yesterday, I glanced back at her and asked, �Where do I know that name from?�

�You got me,� she said with a shrug. �I never heard it before, and haven�t had time to run a check.�

�Don�t bother. If I decide to take this, Smitty will fill me in. Just give me the basics, baby.�

She shrugged again. �Borensen�s somebody with money who�s getting married. He wants security in attendance at his fianc�e�s bridal shower. It�s at the Waldorf.�

I made a face. �If it�s a female shindig, you should take the gig.�

Velda shrugged again. �Smitty says he needs a security man. I�d never pass the physical.�

�Truer words.�

She flipped a hand. �Anyway, if we�re talking high society, the gifts could be worth a small fortune and the gals in attendance might be swimming in jewelry, and not the paste variety. My guess is that we should both be working it.�

Like I said, Velda was no mere secretary. She was a full partner in this firm. Some day I�d make her a full partner period.

I swiftly scanned the paragraphs she indicated and let out a snort of disgust. �Why pass this on to me? If this guy Borensen wants to make a show of it, he�ll want uniformed guards. Burns or Pinkerton make those scenes. I�ll look like a damn clown in that circle.�

She shook her head and grinned at me. �Quit being touchy about your obvious lack of class. If you�d read the letter, you�d see that the client doesn�t want to be ostentatious. He just wants somebody handy to avoid pilfering by the hotel staff and in the unlikely event of a robbery. Nothing you haven�t done before.�

I said, �Back when I was scratching out a living, maybe.�

�You�re not all that rich yet.�

�Balls.�

�See what I mean about your lack of class? Anyway, Smitty�s doing you a favor.� She nodded toward the bullet hole in the wall behind her, and gestured toward the faint red smear across the way, made by Woodcock�s insides. �Your recent surge of publicity gives you a stigma that may be off-putting to a certain breed of client.�

�Where would I be,� I said, �without you to cut me down to size.�

Her smile had something impish in it. �I�m the only person in town who would have taken a bet that you could have wiped that Woodcock character out the way you did � a guy with a gun in his hand, facing you down like that.� Her eyes grew grave. �Listen, Mike, I�m sorry about...�

I swung around so I was sitting on the side edge of the desk now and rested my left hand against the top so I could lean in and face her. �Forget it, kitten.�

�I put you in that spot. I can�t believe I left that door unlocked when I left.�

�Your girl friend had a doctor�s appointment and needed your support. You were distracted, and you�re human. I said forget it and I mean forget it.�

She touched my hand. �I appreciate that, Mike. I�m supposed to be as professional as you are, and��

�Honey, stop. How did that come out, anyway? With your friend, Karen?�

Her big brown eyes were pearled with tears; her lush, red-lipsticked mouth went crinkly with a smile. �It was benign. She�s all in the clear.�

�That�s great. That�s fantastic to hear.�

The emotional moment over, Velda smirked up at me. �I don�t suppose you�re going to tell me how this played out.�

�I should be dead,� I admitted. �He was a contract man with a long list of kills. Somebody paid him to lay me out, but he got chatty and gave me a window.�

I told her the rest of the story, including what Pat had come up with on Mr. Woodcock, formerly of Chicago, formerly not shot to shit.

When I finished, her brow creased with suspicion and she said, �Mike � are you into something I don�t know about?�

I shook my head.

Her eyes narrowed. �Then... any ideas what this could be?�

�Not a one.�

�You wouldn�t kid a girl.�

�Sure I would. But I�m not.�

She gave me a humorless smile. �Well, you don�t seem very damn worked up about it.�

�That�s close to what Pat said.� I picked a loose cigarette from my coat pocket and held a match to it.

�I wish you hadn�t started that up again,� she said with a mild frown.

�What, smoking? You think this is what�s gonna kill Mike Hammer? You shouldn�t have told me I was getting a paunch. These coffin nails are my diet pills.�

�It does seem like it helped fake out that hitman. A glass ashtray in the head can daze a person.�

�Damn straight.� I blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling, then said, �A lot of guys would pay to have me dead sooner than cigs can make me that way, kiddo. Some I helped send up might be out by now and getting the loot together to pay for the job. A relative of somebody I knocked off could feel it�s his duty to take care of me before he kicked his own pail over. Maybe it�s a longtime grudge deal. Hell, I don�t know and I don�t give much of a damn. I�m no kid any more, and if there�s any survival pattern needed here, I picked up on it a long time ago. This is a pretty stinking goddamn world when you consider our end of the business, but if somebody wants to pay to bump me, then he�d better have one piss-pot of money to put on the line.�

She was slowly shaking her head. �You�re getting jaded, Mike.�

�No. Just a seasoned professional, sugar.�

�You don�t fool me.�

�What do you mean?�

She grinned at me. �You don�t give much of a damn, huh? You aren�t going to find out who hired this? You�re not going to settle the score? What great man was it that said, �Balls?�� She shook her head some more and the sleek black locks danced. �You and that damn .45 of yours.�

�Pat said something like that, too.�

�When are you going to grow up,� she asked, just a little cross, �and stop playing cops and robbers?�

�I thought it was cowboys and Indians.�

�Either way, what will you be when you finally grow up?�

�The master. And you can be the mistress.�

�I�m that already.�

�Then why do you blush when I see those legs of yours climbing all the way to heaven?�

Her chin came up. �Because �mistress� is a thankless role. Because a marriage license isn�t expensive.�

�Why buy a cow when milk�s so cheap?�

�Sweet talker. If you knew what I was saving for you, for the really big night? You wouldn�t be so damn vulgar.�

�Tell me. Maybe I�ll spring for that license.�

She rose from the chair and came up into my arms, that big, lovely woman with the startling pageboy hair that shimmered in crazy black-chestnut colors, and let me feel all of her against me and then she whispered in my ear what she had in mind for me, some day.

Some night.

I cocked my head back. �Now who�s being vulgar?�

�I am,� she said. �But it takes real bait to land a big fish.�

Then she did that thing with her mouth when she kissed me, like she was slowly, sensuously trying to twist my lips off my puss, that left me feeling turned inside out.

�Let�s go in my office,� I said.

�Dictation?�

�Something like that.�

�This time I�ll lock that door...�

A cold front was sticking its tongue out at New York, tasting the edges of it, and � not liking what it found � spitting it back in a short, chilly blast. The rush-hour crowd made shoulder-brushing two-lane traffic on the sidewalks, and the usual batch of arm-wavers were jostling each other in the streets trying to flag down cabs at the worst possible time.

I said the hell with it and crossed Sixth Avenue with the light and headed east back to my apartment, playing city safari until I got past Park Avenue. Manhattan was quite a jungle and not that different from the one in Africa. Every time one faction got out of hand and threatened to destroy the terrain, the game wardens moved in, rounded them up, and moved them to someone else�s domain. In Africa it was various species of animals. In New York it was just one lousy species � people � though with its various sub-species. For instance, now that the cops had confined the whores to the side streets, the girls were waving at you out of the windows, like Amsterdam but without the sexy mood lighting.

When I reached Lexington, I turned north to pick up an evening paper at Billy Batson�s newsstand. Billy is one of the world�s larger little people � he was the tallest of the Singer Midgets, making him easy to spot in The Wizard of Oz � and twenty years ago or so, he�d invested ten years of decent show biz money into a newsstand at a prime spot. His real last name I never knew, but since his stand had always sported the best array of funny books on any Manhattan street corner, he got tagged with the name of Captain Marvel�s alter ego, newsboy Billy Batson.

Now Captain Marvel was gone, sued out of existence by the Superman crowd, while Billy Batson was still here, and so was a colorful display of comic books dominated by newcomers like Spider-Man and The Fantastic Four. Billy was a sharp, streetwise character in a plaid golf cap, a padded quilt jacket, black flannel trousers, and Keds. He spotted me when I first turned the corner and had my paper ready.

�How you hangin�, Mike?�

�By the thumbs, like the guys on the radio say. How about you, Billy?�

He tossed a hand. �Don�t do no good complainin�. Hey, man, that was some lousy picture of you in the News this morning.�

�What can I say? My make-up man had the day off.�

He grunted a laugh, made some change for a customer and turned back to me. �That story stunk worse than the pic. A load of crap, if my sniffer�s still workin� right.�

�One man�s load of crap is another�s official police version.�

�Come off it, Mike. Who they tryin� to kid? A hold-up guy in your office building? If they said he was a sex pervert and going after Velda, I mighta gone for it. But busting into a private cop�s office, for money he wouldn�t keep there, even if he had any? Weak, man, real weak.�

�Don�t look to get original fiction out of homicide cops, Billy. They�re not trained that way, and they got limited imaginations.�

He worked the fig leaf of his coin changer for another customer. �So lay the real spiel on me, man. I ain�t the general public.�

�Simple,� I said. �The guy tried to tap me out.�

�Somebody with a grudge?�

�Somebody paid a wad of dough to have the deed done.�

Billy gave me an incredulous look that ended in a laugh. �A hitman... for Mike Hammer?�

�Why not?�

�Well, hell�s bells, Mike... it�s like tryin� to assassinate the Abominable Snowman.�

�Thanks a bunch.�

�Yeah, well, look what it got the guy. Anyway, that this-gun-for-hire stuff comes high. What did you ever do to deserve that kind of fancy treatment?�

�I wish I knew.�

He eyed me suspiciously. �You ain�t been messin� around with some other guy�s broad, have you?�

Little Billy had a big yen for Velda, and me cheating on her would just about make a hit justifiable in his mind.

�Nobody�s broad but my own,� I assured him.

�Big beautiful Velda.�

�Big beautiful Velda.�

He made change again for a customer buying two papers, something he could do in his sleep. �Maybe you�re steppin� on the wrong toes. Mob guys, maybe. I remember when you was pretty good at that.�

�I haven�t rated more than a frown from that bunch or anybody else for a good three years. Those headlines this morning were the first in a long damn time. You know that, Billy.�

His wrinkled puss wrinkled some more. �Then your past is catching up to you, my friend. Maybe somebody you goosed once upon a time finally got enough loot together to get you splashed but good.�

�Yeah? At this rate they�ll run out of money fast.�

Billy shrugged and grunted another laugh, a humorless one. �One killing does not necessarily a bankruptcy make, old buddy.�

�Sounds like you�ve been reading again,� I said. �Stick to the funny books.�

He ignored that, sold another paper, then said, �If you rated a contract, they�ll try again, you know.�

�Should make for an interesting autumn,� I told him. �How are you doing with that identification? Getting anywhere?�

Just shy of a month ago, a hit-and-run driver had killed a customer strolling away from this newsstand. Billy was the only witness who got a good look at the driver.

Billy shrugged, shaking his head, unconcerned. �My eyes are shot from goin� through mug books lookin� at ugly faces. Twice last week they took me downtown for a line-up, but it didn�t do no good. The guy I saw wasn�t one of those slobs. I keep tellin� �em. He was class, I could see that easy.�

�Too bad nobody got the license plate. That the victim was a regular of yours makes it personal, I bet.�

�Oh yeah, and it�s a damn shame. Dick Blazen. Did you know him, Mike?�

�Naw. Papers said he was some kind of freelance PR guy.�

Billy nodded. �Been around forever. Retired last year. Then retired into that gutter over there and after that a box in the ground. How I would love to help nail the bastard who made road refuse outa that sweet old bird.�

I lifted a shoulder and put it back down. �The cops do all right on that kind of thing. They�ll come up with the right guy for you to ID yet.�

�Hope so.� He passed out a couple more papers, taking correct change, then asked, �What�s up for tonight? Got a hot date with that doll of yours?�

I shrugged. �Not exactly a date. Velda and I are going to put our heads together over dinner. See if we can come up with somebody who doesn�t love me.�

�That�ll be swell for your appetites.� He pointed a stubby finger at me. �You just keep that chick out of the line of fire, Mike. Hear me?�

I stuck my paper under my arm and winked. �I try, kid, I try. But she�s damn near as trigger-happy as I am.�

That got a smile out of the crinkly face, and he waved as I walked off.

The apartment building was one of those old stately places on Park Avenue in the East Sixties. Central Park nestled outside of it like a huge countryside estate behind its endless stone fence. From the rows of windows, the park�s rolling slopes would make a pretty sight sometimes, traffic flowing through the greenery, people strolling the pathways. After dark it wouldn�t seem so pretty any more, but nobody in the stately building would give a damn, because they couldn�t see what went on down there anyway, among the lesser classes.

The day had a nice Indian summer feel to it and I�d left my coat and hat behind. I looked very modern, all hatless and decked out in my one Brooks Brothers suit, a nice shade of gray with black flecks.

I told the doorman Mr. Borensen was expecting me and cooled my heels while he confirmed it over the interphone, and when he told me twelve D, I said thanks and trooped across a marble-floored lobby no fancier or larger than a hotel ballroom to a bank of elevators and punched the button.

To supplement Hy filling me in last night, Velda had done a good job this morning of running a further check on our prospective client. It wasn�t a necessity, but if there was anything shaky in his background, we�d know what angles needed covering. A source at the LAPD and another at the recently formed Producers Guild of America backed up Hy�s briefing and filled in a few blanks.

Apparently the motion picture business had dominated Borensen�s time in the sunshine state, but not with the kind of success that really made you somebody in Movieland. He had stayed on the outer fringes of that money game until he lucked into his land development scheme and parlayed his modest inheritance into the kind of loot that could attract more. Add that to his upcoming nuptials to a very rich young woman, and he was ready to go into major production.

Leif Borensen was rich now and there sure as hell wasn�t anything wrong with being rich, even if it meant hiring somebody like me to keep the poor people at bay.

The elevator hissed to a stop and I stepped off into that wonderful world where money could rent digs with a huge private foyer complete with running waterfall and a hidden electronic system that announced you to a beautiful blonde who bounced out and asked, �Mr. Hammer?�

She was a stunning, lightly tanned thing in a white ribbed sleeveless sweater and cherry-red slacks with matching wide big-buckled belt and a rather silly-looking, oversize puffy cap. A little slimmer than I like them, but I understood how a guy could overlook that. And she had the kind of delicately feminine features that made Audrey Hepburn look like she just wasn�t trying.

Before I could answer, she held out her hand and her red lipsticked kiss of a mouth said, �I�m Gwen Foster, Mr. Hammer � Mr. Borensen�s fianc�e.�

I took the hand and kept it as long as I could get away with. �Nice to see you, Miss Foster. Of course, I�ve seen you before.�

Light blue, blue-eye-shadowed eyes got big and bright, framed by large individually separated lashes. �Oh?�

�On stage. Dames at Sea last year. You made quite an impression.�

Okay, it never hurts to butter up the client�s wife, even the �almost� variety.

�Very kind of you, Mr. Hammer. Please come in. Leif is waiting for you inside.�

Not right inside, though, because she walked me into and through a high-ceilinged foyer bigger than my apartment, with more marble flooring, a crystal chandelier looming, and a staircase at left sweeping up like it was on its way to have Loretta Young come down.

�We�re so pleased you�ve agreed to provide some protection at my shower,� she said, leading the way briskly. The red trousers revealed a nicely shaped, full bottom despite her slender frame. Detectives notice these things.

�I haven�t actually said yes, Miss Foster. I need to speak to your fianc� first.�

She came to an abrupt stop and I almost bumped into her, which would have been fun but embarrassing.

We were in the midst of a hallway that was like an airport runway with an Oriental carpet. Several more chandeliers hovered and the paintings around us in their gilt-edged or sometimes modern frames were an eclectic array, everything from Renoir to Picasso. The baroque furnishings hugging the walls seemed expensively antique.

She faced me and retrieved my hand and held it in two of hers. �Oh, I hope you will say yes to the job. I�m counting on it. I�d be so disappointed if you said no.�

Those blue eyes were the color of a waterfall-fed pool that I wouldn�t have minded jumping into.

�Are you expecting trouble, Miss Foster?�

Her smile made her peach-blushed apple cheeks go even bigger and her teeth were perfect and white, God and a dentist collaborating beautifully.

�No, not at all. I don�t expect a daylight robbery at the Waldorf, for pity sake. Leif seems a little paranoid about that, but... it�s just that I�ve told my girl friends you�ll be guarding the festivities, and they are very excited. Especially the older ones.�

I winced. �I was going to guess I was a little before your time. You�ve confirmed it.�

Red blush worked its way up under the peach. �No, I�m sorry, so sorry... it�s just � they told me some wild things about you. Way-out things. They said when you were a young man... younger man... you used to fill the headlines with the most outrageous escapades. Like something out of an old Bogart movie.�

I smiled. �All Bogart movies are old, Miss Foster.�

Still, that was a kind of nice compliment, a little left-handed but nice. Of course, Bogart never racked up my body count.

She deposited me at a doorway. She had never let go of my hand. Her touch was the damnedest thing � warm and cool at once.

�Leif�s just inside,� she said.

�Are you joining us?�

�No. I�m a modern girl, but I know when it�s man-talk time.�

Maybe there was hope for this new generation after all.

But I pressed: �I�m a little surprised you�re not going to be part of the meeting, Gwen. And it�s Mike.�

�Hi Mike. Why�s that?�

�Well, why meet at your place, if you�re not going to be part of the discussion?�

�Oh. I see. I hope you won�t be shocked, but after Daddy�s death, I asked Leif to move in here with me, and he said yes.�

If she got to know me better, she�d learn I didn�t shock quite so easily.

�You know, I knew your father,� I said.

The eyes widened again. Were those spaced-apart lashes fake? I didn�t care. They made blue sunflowers out of those eyes.

Very interested, she asked, �Were you friends with Daddy?�

�That overstates it. Friendly acquaintances even overstates it. But we each knew who the other was, and if we were in the same place would at least say hello and sometimes chat. Very charming guy. I admire his success. Nice man.�

She gave me half a smirk. �Not everyone who did business with Daddy would agree. He gave his stars fits, directors, too. Do you know what Anthony Newley said about Daddy?�

�No.�

��Will Rogers said he never met a man he didn�t like. Well, Will Rogers never met Martin Foster.��

We both laughed a little at that.

�I miss him,� she said, letting the sadness show in that lovely face. �At first I was so... so mad at him. But he must have been in a lot of pain.�

There was nothing to say to that, but, �How are you holding up, Gwen?�

�All I can say is, Leif�s been a real boon in all this. I don�t know where I�d be, or how I�d have begun to deal with this thing, without him.� She gave my hand a final little squeeze. �Now, go on in there, Mike.�

She bounced off, the cute red-clad bottom bidding me a friendly goodbye. Half-way down the cavernous hall, she looked back and called out, echoing a little, �Don�t worry about getting lost. I�ll be back to collect you!�

I went on through into a two-story study, dominated by dark masculine woods, the kind of book-lined affair that needs library ladders on both its floors. One wall was plaster and bookless, though, reserved for a fireplace and framed photos of stage and screen stars and the occasional celebrity politician, all featuring the late Martin Foster in handshake or arm-around-the-shoulder pose. In the midst of this was a big framed Hirschfeld caricature of the departed producer � damn near the size of a movie poster.

The floor was parquet but a good deal of it was taken up by another Oriental carpet, on which perched half a dozen brown-leather easy chairs surrounding a glass-topped coffee table, fairly massive, Playbill programs of Foster�s many theatrical productions spread out on display within.

But the most impressive thing in the room was a man who had to be Leif Borensen, a big, grinning blond guy looking for all the world as if he had just stepped ashore from a Viking longboat � if Vikings wore camel-colored cardigans, light pink shirts, gray slacks, and Rolex watches.

He�d heard me come in and left his easy chair by the coffee table to approach with a smile and an outstretched paw. We shook, and neither of us showed off, and he introduced himself and gestured me to one of the easy chairs.

�Can I get you something to drink, Mr. Hammer?�

�I wouldn�t turn my nose up at a rye and ginger.�

�Rocks?�

�Why not?�

At a nearby bar cart, he built that and something for himself as well, and sat across from me, that glassed-in array of his late father-in-law�s theatrical triumphs between us.

�You live up to your billing, Mr. Hammer.�

�Do I?�

He gestured with his tumbler of what appeared to be Scotch. �You�re big and look mean as hell. I�d cast you in one of my TV shows if I didn�t think you�d scare the women and children.�

I smiled at that. �Call me if a bad guy role opens up. Now what�s this about a thousand dollars?�

He sipped the apparent Scotch. Single malt, no doubt. I wondered if it was older than his fianc�e. He certainly was � fifty, easily, though his face wasn�t as lined as you�d think. Plastic surgery perhaps, or maybe he didn�t use his face much.

�I have to admit,� he said, smiling mostly with his eyes and confirming my latter notion, �that I was tickled when Smith-Torrence suggested you as a referral.�

�Oh?�

He nodded and set the drink down on a coaster on a little mahogany table between him and the next chair. �I admit to being a fan. You may not know this, but I was a working actor... or anyway, I worked occasionally... back in your heyday in the early �50s.�

�Is that right?�

�Am I irritating you?�

�No. I always look and sound like this.�

He shook his head, chuckled. �Well, I used to get a real kick out of it. Years later, I would tell the writers on my private eye shows, �Do a little research on that Mike Hammer in New York. Then you�ll know what a real tough private eye is really like.��

�Nobody ever accused me of that before.�

He sipped Scotch, then gave me a concerned look. �What about this recent incident? Killing a burglar in your building?�

�Just looking after my interests,� I said with a shrug.

Everybody didn�t need to know a hitman was gunning for me. That might discourage business.

�So,� I said, changing the subject, �I�m who you think is right for a bridal shower security job? Sounds a little like overkill to me.�

He waved a hand like a bored magician. �I�ll understand if you want to take a pass, Mr. Hammer. This might be beneath you.�

�Yeah, it might be,� I said, �but that grand you mentioned to Smitty is just about eye level.�

He grinned with his whole face this time, and some lines came out of hiding. �It�ll be an afternoon affair, starting at four and going till six-thirty, this coming Friday.�

This was Tuesday. �I was going to ask you about that. Why such short notice?�

�The invites have been out for two weeks, but it was only after I got to thinking that I realized having some security makes a lot of sense. You see, we�re getting married in Hawaii at the end of the month, no family, with just a handful of friends we�re flying out with us. Just a romantic beach-side ceremony with lots of flowers and a luau after.�

I was ahead of him. �So this shower takes the place of a wedding reception.�

�Right. I have almost no friends in Manhattan any more, but of course Gwen does, and that means the gift table will be piled with treasures.�

�Understood.�

�I�d want you there at three, Mr. Hammer, just to get a handle on things. It�s at the Waldorf. I forget the suite number � I�ll get it to you.�

�How many guests?�

�Fifty very wealthy women. We�ll have some high-end entertainment, too. It�s essentially a cocktail party.�

�Do you expect trouble?�

�Not at all. But between the gifts and what those women will drape themselves with... could make a thief�s haul worth a couple of hundred thousand.�

I worked up a whistle.

�And a hold-up man with a gun,� Borensen said, eyebrows raised, �wouldn�t have much trouble intimidating a room full of females.�

Maybe, but not all females were alike.

I said, �I�m bringing my second-in-command along.�

�Miss Sterling? Velda?�

�That�s right. You�ve done your research.�

He smiled, shrugged. �She used to make the papers, too. Yes, I think that would be fine. I can bump the fee to $1500, if you like.�

�Bump away.�

He wrote me out a $750 check on the spot as a retainer.

I held the check in my fingertips and let the ink dry. �Do I need to rent a tux?�

�No. Just your best business suit.�

I gestured to myself. �This is it. Suitable?�

�A suitable suit, Mr. Hammer. Not to worry.�

He rose. I was in the process of being dismissed.

I got up, glancing around. �Cozy little place you have here.�

He laughed sadly as he came around to walk me out. �Yes, Martin was a hell of a showman. And he didn�t live small. He was only married once, though � did you know that?�

�I guess I didn�t.�

�Kind of remarkable, considering the, uh, opportunities a man like him would have. Gwen�s mother was in the chorus line of one of Martin�s first musicals. She had Gwen�s looks but not her talent. Still, she grew into the role of a society woman, as the Foster fame grew.�

The Foster bankroll, too.

�I heard you were in the process of mounting a new musical yourself,� I said, �when Foster took his life.�

He visibly paled. �Terrible thing. Awful tragedy. I had no idea Martin was in such... misery. He�d kept his cancer from us entirely. I haven�t smoked for years, and I�m glad of it.�

�Me, too, only recently I picked it back up again.�

�Well, stop, Mr. Hammer, if you don�t mind a little friendly advice. And, yes, I returned to the scene of my initial failure in show business in search of the redemption that can only be brought by success.�

That had come out of nowhere, and sounded like a line he�d worked up for the newspapers.

I asked, �Is it shelved now, the project?�

�Temporarily. But I have Johnny Mercer on board for the music, and I�ve got Larry Gelbart on the hook for the book � he wrote A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum.�

�I saw that. Some good laughs. Lots of pretty girls. Do that again.�

He chuckled. �I�ll try. I can guarantee you one thing.�

�Which is?�

He sipped his Scotch. �We�ll have a hell of a fantastic leading lady.�

As promised, Gwen was there in her silly red puffy hat and nicely snug jeans, waiting to see me back out. She and Borensen shared a quick kiss before he disappeared back into the study. Then she batted the big blue eyes at me as she took my arm.

�So, Mike. What do you think of my man?�

�He�s well-preserved.�

She smiled smirkily. �You don�t approve of a girl in her twenties marrying a man in his fifties?�

�Maybe you should consider a younger man. I�m in my thirties, for example. And will be for another month.�

That got a musical laugh from her.

Soon we were down the wide endless corridor and through the marble-floored foyer and at the door.

�Seriously,� she said, �what�s your impression of Leif? I imagine, in your business, you have to be a really good judge of character.�

�I liked him fine,� I said. �And I just love his retainer.�

I got to the office at eight the next morning and found Velda already there, with the coffee going and some Danish waiting. She was in a pale yellow silk blouse and a brown skirt whose above-the-knee length was her only concession to changing fashions. She didn�t work in heels � she was damn near as tall as me without them.

I�d never made it to my meeting with Hy Gardner and Velda at the Blue Ribbon yesterday afternoon, and had to phone there to call it off from the lobby of Gwen Foster�s apartment building. The doorman had let me use the lobby restroom as well, to wash the cabbie�s blood off my face.

Wordlessly Velda and I got ourselves cups of coffee and paper napkins for our pastry and went to her desk, where she got behind and sat, and I sat opposite, like a client.

�You�ve seen the papers,� she said.

�Yup.�

�They�re onto you.�

�Yup.�

She picked up the News from her blotter. ��PRIVATE EYE IS PUBLIC TARGET.� �Who�s out to get the infamous Mike Hammer?��

I was half-way through my Danish. �What�s the difference between �infamous� and �famous,� anyway?�

�You are.� She folded the tabloid in half and dumped it with a thunk into the wastebasket by her desk. �And that�s the friendly paper. The rest dredged up your every kill and self-defense plea going back to the Jack Williams case.�

�What can we do about it?� I sipped coffee. I may be tough but I take it with milk and sugar. �Anyway, it might drum up business.�

Her eyelids were at half-mast. �Sure. Who doesn�t want to do business with a guy with a bull�s-eye on his back?�

I shrugged. �Borensen didn�t take us off that bridal shower. Did I tell you on the phone last night about both him and Gwen coming over to the park, after they heard what was going on?�

�No, you left that out.�

�Well, they did, and backed up my story that I�d had a business meeting with them before taking my innocent leave.�

She almost choked on her coffee. She takes it black. �I hope you didn�t use the word �innocent� when Pat showed up. He�d laugh your tail into jail.�

�Very poetic, but I told you already. Captain Chambers was fine at the scene. He�s concerned about his old pal. Even called me at home last night, after you and I talked.�

�Oh?�

I nodded. �It was going on midnight. He�d had a busy evening. Him and maybe twenty other plainclothes cops � looking for witnesses in the park, and talking to tenants in that fancy apartment house with its expensive view on the park.�

�What did they get?�

�Bupkus.�

�Any evidence in the park?�

�Just the son of a bitch I shot, his rifle and a couple spent shells, one of them mine. I was in the clear from the starting gun.�

�Which you fired, of course.� The phone on Velda�s desk rang and she answered: �Michael Hammer Investigations... Yeah, he just got here.� She covered the receiver and said, �Pat. His ears must�ve been burning.�

I got up, tossing my empty coffee cup and wadded napkin down the funnel the News made in her wastebasket. �I�ll take it in there.�

She nodded as I headed into my inner sanctum. I left the door open, though � no secrets between Velda and me. No office secrets, anyway.

�Morning, Pat,� I said into the phone, getting behind my desk. �Anything on our dead shooter?�

�That�s why I�m calling,� his voice said. �Charles Maxwell, thirty-eight, unmarried, former military, and until about three months ago he had a little insurance agency in Baltimore. Sound familiar?�

�It does if the Baltimore PD suspects his agency was a front for a professional killer, though he�d never been charged. Seems to me I�ve heard that song before.�

�Yeah, I thought it was real damn familiar tune, too. I�m having a screwy thought, Mike, and I�m guessing you�re having it, too.�

�Like someone local recruited Woodcock and Maxwell, bringing them in from cities where their cover was all but blown, offering a fresh start in the same field? And I don�t mean insurance.�

Pat�s sigh spoke volumes. �Yeah. And the question is, how many more imported Woodcocks and Maxwells are out there? Maybe this is a syndicate of hired guns, a new Murder Incorporated, and these relocated hitmen weren�t tapped to kill you... their boss got the contract.�

I grunted a laugh. �I was just an assignment that both assholes blew.�

�Elegantly put. Mike, why don�t you be reasonable for a change, and keep a low profile until my office can clear this thing up.�

�Maybe leave town, you think? Or you could provide me with police protection?�

�Right!�

I hung up on him.

Velda made her liquid way into my office, her pretty mouth twitching with amusement. �You just hung up on the Captain of Homicide.�

�Yeah, I�m out of control.�

She sat opposite me, no amusement on her face now. �That cabbie�s name, according to the papers, was Ernie Jackson. He has a wife and three kids in Harlem. A deacon of his church. A man who welcomed fares into his cab like old friends.�

My fists balled of their own volition. �I know. Somebody�s going to die for that.�

�That�s swell, but his family has to live.� Her face was smooth, no wrinkles at all, and yet she was frowning at me. �Ernie Jackson got it because he was unlucky enough to have you as a potential passenger.�

I frowned back at her, but with every wrinkle my face had to offer. �Think I don�t know that? Send them five grand out of our off-the-books stash.�

Now the smooth face was somehow smiling. �You want to write a note to go with it? Or I can.�

I shook my head. �No. Anonymous. And flowers to the funeral parlor. Nice and big, like he was a horse that won a race. That you can sign.�

She nodded. �By the way, you look like something the cat dragged in. All those nicks on your face.�

�Gives me character.�

�I was thinking maybe we should dump the Borensen bridal shower, even if they aren�t smart enough to cancel us themselves. We know people who could handle that, and even get a referral fee of our own. I mean, how can you manage it? Your best suit got ruined.�

�Good idea.� I reached for the phone.

She was really smiling now and rose to go out when she heard me talking with my tailor at Brooks Brothers, telling him I needed another suit with the same specs as last time, and a rush job. Not all Brooks Brothers jobs are cut to conceal a .45 in a shoulder sling.

And when she went out, she wasn�t smiling at all.

I called headquarters from the suite�s bedroom and Pat said he�d be over with a team straightaway. Then I phoned down to Merle Allison�s office. The line was busy and I had to try the front desk to have them send somebody over to the security office and tell Merle there had been a shooting in Suite 2757.

When the well-dressed stocky house dick arrived, not quite five minutes later, he told me he�d missed my call because he was on the phone dealing with guests on the twenty-seventh floor asking about gunshots.

�Velda has rounded up the guests and the hostess in the dining room,� I said. �The wait staff and the two cooks, too. Would you keep an eye on them till Captain Chambers gets here?�

Merle was feeling territorial again. �Who put you in charge, Hammer?�

�The guy who came here to shoot me.�

�I thought it was a heist.�

Maybe Merle was a detective � he�d put his finger on the crux of it, hadn�t he?

�Would you rather stand guard over a corpse,� I asked him, �or ride herd on a bunch of young lookers?�

The round face thought about that for about half a second, then spelled Velda in the dining room.

She joined me where I was kneeling over the dead fake waiter.

�He�s in his thirties, I�d say,� she said, crouching down in her cocktail dress, its full skirt making that easy. �Very average-looking. I don�t suppose he�s got a wallet on him.�

�I checked. No, and of course that�s no surprise. The gun is a Browning nine millimeter. What do you make of that?�

I pointed to a square of folded white cloth stuffed in his waistband, like a big hanky.

�Laundry bag,� she said. �For the take.�

I got to my feet. She did the same. We went over and took one of the coral couches in front of the marble fireplace. The murmur of the girls in the next room was like an engine purring.

I said, �He figured to stuff all that sterling silver from the other room in a laundry bag?�

�Maybe he was just after the jewels.�

I grinned at her. �Is that what you really think, doll?�

Her smile was more subtle. �Of course not. He was here to kill you. The robbery is just a cover. He may have gone ahead and carried it out... but taking you down was the idea.�

I tossed an upraised palm. �But why bother? Did Woodcock bother with a cover when he invaded our office? Did the guy who killed that poor cabbie do anything but start blasting in broad daylight from a city park?�

She was slowly shaking her head. �Doesn�t make a bit of sense to me, Mike.�

But I was thinking. �It might to me, only it�ll take some digging.�

�Well, that�s what we do.�

�Right. Let me handle Pat.�

She clutched my sleeve. �Mike... you didn�t kill that intruder. I did.�

I patted her hand. �I know. So give him a brief statement and then say you�re way too upset over killing a guy to do any more talking.�

The brown eyes narrowed. �And Pat will buy that?�

�Sure. You�re his weakness. You are okay?�

A smirk. �What do you think?�

Pat arrived with a small army of plainclothes men and lab guys including a photographer. He never took off his fedora and trenchcoat the whole time he was there, maybe to remind everybody he was a cop. I gave him a quick rundown, and, skirting the corpse, showed him the hall door in the bedroom that the guy had come in. The bed was still piled with the coats of the female attendees, lots of dead minks trying to mate.

Back in the living room, I kept my distance as he sat with Velda on the coral couch and got a preliminary statement out of her.

Then she said, �Is that enough for now? I�m really beside myself about this.�

Pat�s gray-blue eyes studied her like a forensics exhibit. Then, finally, he said, �Did Mike tell you to say that?�

�What do you mean?�

�I mean, Velda � you�ve killed guys before.�

�Not as many as Mike.�

�Who has?�

But he just waved a hand, dismissing her, and she found a chair in a quiet corner of the living room, where she pretended to be freaked out while she kept an eye on what the team of technicians were up to, and what they were finding.

Now I sat with Pat, only I took one couch and he took the other, facing each other over the low-slung coffee table.

�So what do you make of this, Mike?�

�Looks like a robbery. My client was afraid somebody might try something. That�s why Velda and I were here, you know.�

He gave me half a smile. �I don�t want to tax your memory, chum, but this is the third time this week somebody tried to kill you.�

�This prick didn�t try to kill me. He came in that door with a gun in his hand, with all that swag in mind, and I just happened to be in the room he entered into. I didn�t shoot him, remember.�

�Velda shot him.� He sucked in breath. �It stinks.�

�Why, what do you think this is?�

�It�s the third damn time somebody�s targeted you. And this is getting out of hand. What I should do is take you into protective custody.�

�Why? I�m not a witness.�

His eyes blazed. �The hell you aren�t! You were right here when the guy came in!�

�But he�s dead.� I kept it low-key. Nice and innocent. �Do you suspect an accomplice among those girls in the next room?�

He was frowning. �It�s possible, isn�t it? And there�s wait staff. How many?�

�Ten. Five of each sex, and two cooks.�

�And if any one of them went off to use the john, she or he could have let that bogus waiter in through the bedroom door.�

�Possible. As I see it, you�ve got sixty-two people to question, plus various staff members here at the Waldorf. You should probably get started.�

He frowned. �My boys are already on that.�

�Sure, and they�ll take names and numbers and addresses, and that�s all, for now. You�ll look into them individually and that�ll take weeks. Like I said, maybe you should get started.�

Pat sighed. His hands were on his knees. �Mike � who�s trying to kill you?�

�I don�t know, Pat. Really don�t. I haven�t even looked into it yet. I mean, you said you were investigating. I�ve just been waiting by the phone for you to call.�

�Screw you, buddy.� He threw up his hands. �You�ve got Velda caught up in this now! Do the right thing. Cooperate.�

My palms patted the air. �Okay, okay. Let�s, for the sake of argument, say you�re right. This is a robbery that was a sham, and it was really all about me. But why bother with this elaborate set-up? The first two attempts made no such pretense.�

�Maybe not the second, outside of Borensen�s apartment house. But the first one, the guy might have intended to stage a burglary after he took you down. Hell, that�s how the newspapers handled it.�

�Because your public affairs office handed out a bullshit story. Be fun to see how those flacks handle this one.�

From behind Pat, one of the techs called out: �Captain! Come take a look.�

He got up and went over. I lighted up a Lucky and put my feet on the coffee table. I blew smoke rings. He wasn�t gone long.

Settling back down, he said, �Probably no accomplice. He had a hotel passkey in his pocket.�

�So the girls are in the clear.�

He nodded. �But maybe not the wait staff. They�re hotel employees, after all. And that passkey came from somewhere on site.�

�Right. They got about fifteen hundred employees here. You should talk to all of them. Better get going.�

He suddenly looked very tired.

�Mike,� he said, �I�m just trying to keep you alive.�

�I appreciate that, buddy. I really do. But that�s my job.�

He shook his head, slowly. �No, actually, it�s mine. And I want to know why anybody would go to the trouble of setting up a fake robbery so you could be a casualty. Any thoughts on that subject?�

�Not yet.�

�That sounds like you do have something cooking in that skull of yours.�

�Cooking. Not done. Not ready for consumption.�

He accepted that � not that he had much choice.

I said, �Not to tell you your business, but you should start by talking to the hostess � my client�s bride-to-be, Gwen Foster. I�ll introduce you, if you like.�

He nodded again, too distracted and tied up in mental knots to realize I was just trying to horn in on the interview. He got up and I put out the smoke and walked with him into the dining room where all the guests and staffers remained corralled, the former at their tables, the latter along the back wall, like a line-up at headquarters.

I introduced Pat to Gwen and said he was a good guy and that she should be frank with him. (Since I wasn�t going to be, somebody ought to.) I suggested the little kitchen and Pat thought that was a good idea.

We sat at a table for four. The tabletop was clear, all of the trays and food preparation items either on the counters or the stove. A coffee urn allowed me to provide cups for all three of us. And there was milk and sugar for me.

Pat asked Gwen who knew about today�s bridal shower besides the invited guests. She didn�t really know offhand, but did say she�d made no secret of it. He requested a list of anybody who�d been invited but declined or just didn�t show, and she said she could put that together.

She always looked young to me, but right now she was like a wounded baby bird. A wounded baby bird in a bright yellow dress. Her blonde hair was askew and the big blue eyes were dazed. But she did all right with the questions.

�From where I stood,� she said, looking into nothing, not unlike the way the dead intruder had stared at the floor, �I saw everything. I saw the man come in with a gun, I saw him aim it toward Mr. Hammer�s back, I saw Miss Sterling react and heard her shout a warning and Mr. Hammer went down fast, and then... I saw the rest, too. Terrible. Horrible.�

I thought she might cry, so I had a napkin ready for her to do that into. Which she did.

But Pat was looking at me. �Miss Foster says the guy was pointing his gun at you. At your back. Velda just said he had a gun in his hand.�

I shrugged. �He was pointing it toward those open French doors, where all the people and the loot was. I was just between him and it. Not unnatural for an armed robber to realize a security guy is in the way, and do something about it.�

Somebody came in and it was Borensen, still in the sweater and slacks. Worry had lengthened his face into a woeful mask.

He went to where Gwen sat and stood there with a hand on her shoulder. �Darling, are you...?�

She flew to her feet and into his arms. He comforted her and I gave Pat a look and we both went out, giving them some privacy.

�That�s your client,� Pat said. �Borensen.�

�That�s my client. Borensen.�

�How about him?�

�How about him.�

�I mean... does he have a reason to want you dead?�

�I just met him, Pat. He�s been living in California for twenty years.�

�But he used to be in New York. Maybe you had a run-in back then, something that�s slipped your mind � maybe back in your drinking days, and��

�Pat, I said I just met him. And he didn�t even come to me first � he went to the Smith-Torrence boys. This is a damn referral! Anyway, why the hell would he disrupt his fianc�e�s bridal shower to stage a fake robbery and a real killing?�

�I don�t know. I was hoping maybe you would.�

Borensen came out of the kitchen, alone. He worked up a brave smile. �She�s doing all right. She�s doing better. You�re Captain Chambers?�

�That�s right.�

�I�m sure you have some questions.�

Pat nodded and walked him out through the dining room where his plainclothes guys were going from table to table, writing down information, taking their time. Some of these guys would never get closer to a beautiful woman.

I followed the homicide captain and my client into the living room, where Pat turned to me, with a mild frown. Over by the door, lab boys were still working on the dead guy, who was currently posing for pictures.

�Mike, do you mind?� Pat said. �I�ll just have a private word or two with Mr. Borensen.�

�Sure.�

I found my way to Velda�s quiet corner. I knelt by her chair. �Anything interesting?�

�That was a laundry bag in his waistband, all right. Also, he had a spare nine mil magazine in his vest pocket.�

�Was he expecting a gun fight?�

�If he was taking on Mike Hammer, would that be so crazy?�

She had me there.

When Pat was done with him, Borensen came over to me, shaking his head glumly.

�Nobody is more shocked than I am, Mr. Hammer, that I was right about this. That there was a genuine possibility of a robbery attempt.�

I shrugged. �With over two hundred grand in jewels and gifts on dock, you were right to hire security. You�d have been negligent not to. And in a public place, like a hotel, well...�

His handsome features clenched with concern. �Could this have anything to do with the attempts on your life? Could this be another such attempt, and not really a robbery try at all?�

�It�s possible, Mr. Borensen. And I�m going to find out. And if that�s what this is � an attempt on my life, using the bridal shower as a cover � I will promise you one thing.�

�Yes?�

�You�re getting a refund.�

At P.J. Moriarty�s steak and chop house on Sixth and Fifty-second, Velda and I sat in the bar across from Hy Gardner in a booth we were lucky to have. Mid-evening, the endless line of stools was full and the restaurant beyond was hopping, producing a drone of conversation punctuated by clinking glass and an occasional dropped dish, making for real privacy.

We ate first and talked no business. My kind of business, like what had happened yesterday afternoon in an elegant suite at the Waldorf-Astoria, did not make for polite table talk, even in my circles.

Then we settled in for drinks and the real reason I�d called this meeting. And I didn�t even have to call it to order.

�I made a few more inquiries,� Hy said, a tumbler of bourbon in one hand, a plump cigar in the other. The way he was peering at me over the glasses said he�d really come up with something.

I�d already filled him in on the phone about the party crasher at the bridal shower, giving him more than the papers had.

The columnist�s blue suit and darker blue tie were typically crisp, but his face sagged from a long day. In addition to making long-distance calls for me, he�d been in his suite at the Plaza since breakfast, interviewing Broadway actors and directors about their upcoming productions.

�Your client Leif Borensen has what we call in the newspaper trade �hidden levels,�� he said. �And I�m not talking about depth of character. More like the show business equivalent of cover stories.�

�Like the starlet who was a straight-A schoolgirl from Topeka,� I said, �but really a B-girl from Boston. That kind of level?�

He nodded, tamped cigar ash into a PJM glass tray. �Only in this case we�re talking about a rich aunt who died but was never alive in the first place.�

The rich aunt bit had always seemed too convenient to me.

�If a windfall inheritance didn�t fund his real estate schemes,� Velda said, leaning forward, �who did back Borensen?�

�Before I deal with that,� Hy said, exhaling smoke that had been in Havana before it made it to his lungs, �let me ask you both a question. How hard is it to raise money for independent movie productions?�

�Plenty hard,� I said. �And a pain in the tail. You have to go around begging nickels and dimes from dentists and doctors or maybe actual rich relatives.�

Velda put in, �Or if you already have a track record, you might scrounge up some advance sales from distributors based on a scary, sexy poster for a picture that hasn�t rolled film yet.�

�There�s another way,� Hy said, and a smile curled on that glum, anteater mug of his. �We have a group of individuals right here in Manhattan who often invest in motion pictures, particularly independent ones.�

And I got it right away. �Mob money.�

Velda got it, too, and snapped her fingers. �Borensen was a money laundry!�

Hy nodded sagely. �That�s the word I get. And he still is, as far as I can tell. The handy thing about the movie business, and television syndication as well, is that you can exaggerate the money you lose, or inflate the money you make, according to which way the wind is blowing.�

�Ideal set-up,� I said.

Hy went on: �And Borensen did a lot of his own distribution, to drive-ins with the flicks, and to local TV stations with his syndicated shows. Even a correspondence school accountant would find cooking those kind of books about as tricky as boiling water.�

I asked, �How did a smalltime New York actor get in bed with the lasagna lads in the first place?�

Hy sipped some bourbon before answering. �Well, as we know, back when he was starting out, Borensen was not exactly giving Brando and James Dean much competition. But he worked steady enough, and had access enough, on both stage and small screen... and a lot of TV was in New York back then, remember... to support himself with a profitable sideline.�

�Drug dealer,� I said.

Hy smiled a little, impressed by my perspicacity. He said, �Like the old ladies down in Florida say, bingo. Grass and pills and, who knows, maybe coke and heroin. My info isn�t that specific on that particular, uh, score.�

Frowning, Velda asked, �Is this theory or fact?�

�I have it on good authority it�s fact,� Hy said. �But I had to dig for it and call in some markers. This is anything but public knowledge back in L.A. And those in the know usually keep such things to themselves, or at most refer to them vaguely.�

�Show business has a long history,� I said, �of looking the other way where mob funding is concerned.�

Velda smirked. �Just ask the headliners in Vegas.�

They were piping in Sinatra right now.

Hy said, �Borensen�s move back to New York may mean he�s splitting from the boys, and going legit. Or he could be expanding operations for them. Either way you slice it, hooking up with Martin Foster, and now tying the knot with the late Foster�s successful actress of a daughter? That�s a big, a very big, step up for our golden boy in the producing game.�

�If I�d been butting heads with the Mulberry Street crowd lately,� I said, �I�d think Borensen�s been setting me up for them.�

Velda said, �Our man Leif was certainly in a position to do that. In these most recent two instances, he knew right where you�d be, Mike � first with the meeting at his apartment house, then with the bridal shower.�

Hy was staring me down. �Mike � is there something you�re not thinking of? Something involving the mob that might prompt them to use Borensen to tee you up for a hole in one?�

I shrugged. �I don�t see what. These days I�m strictly a working P.I., pursuing no grudges and not generating any, either.�

Velda said, �There must be something.�

I shrugged again and looked across the booth at my old friend.

�Well...� Hy started. He paused and stared into his thoughts, flicking off further expensive, illegal ash from his cigar. �...it�s a little thing, but there might be one item of interest. Of possible pertinence. But I don�t see the connection to you, Mike.�

�Let me be the judge,� I said.

The columnist grunted a laugh. �Why not? You�ve been the jury often enough.�

That made Velda smile.

He sipped a little bourbon. �I know this oldtime PR guy... well, knew him, he�s dead now... who was working on the story of his life. We went way back, and he used to feed me items, so... Anyway, last year, before the Trib closed its doors, he called wanting to have lunch with me. I said great, love to, talk old times and so on. In a way I hated it, though, because I�d have to lie to him about what a fine idea writing a book on his life story was. Either that, or break it to him that he was just another nobody who nobody heard of, who thinks his life mattered. I mean, how do you break it to a guy who fought his way across Europe that Audie Murphy beat him to it? Like people were out there just waiting with bated breath to read the life story of somebody they never heard of.�

As Hy paused for another sip of bourbon, Velda asked, �And was that the case with your old friend?�

He shook his head. �Not at all. I couldn�t have been wronger. This was a guy who spent forty years in the trenches of the New York show business scene, and he knew where all the bodies were buried, and who put them there. Everything from abortions to homosexuality to... mob ties. I warned him there could be legal repercussions, or worse... but he said at his age, he didn�t give a damn. Anyway, he was going to back up his memories with some hard research, to make sure the lawyers wouldn�t be scared off and a publisher would take it on.�

I asked, �Did he know Borensen back when?�

Hy shrugged, made a face, tamped more ash. �That�s what makes this a little thin, Mike. I don�t know for sure, but he would almost have to have known Borensen, and certainly knew of him. And with something as damning as drug dealing in his past, and mob money laundering ever since, Borensen would flip if he found out Dick was writing a tell-all.�

I leaned forward. �Dick? That wouldn�t be Dick Blazen, would it?�

�Right. Did you know the guy, Mike?�

I put out my Lucky. �No, but a friend of mine did.�

Velda asked, ��Did�? Past tense?�

�Very damn past,� I said to her. �That�s the regular customer who got run down in front of Billy Batson�s newsstand last month.�

I filled in some blanks for him on the incident � all Hy knew was that Blazen had been hit by a car � including Billy getting a good look at the driver but having no success identifying him, despite numerous line-ups at HQ and going through countless mug books.

Hy rested his cigar in the ashtray and leaned on an elbow. He was peering over the glasses again. �Are you thinking Borensen may have hired a contract killer to remove Dick Blazen? A hit-and-run for hire?�

�Why not?�

My phone caller of the night before had made a point of saying many of his contract kills had been passed off as accidents.

I continued, �On the other hand, maybe Borensen pulled that one off himself.�

�If so,� Velda said, �all we have to do is show Billy a picture of our client.�

Hy said, �Easier said than done. One of the things Dick asked me to help him with was finding pics of various lesser-known but key people he was mentioning in his book. He already had art on many of them, but Borensen was on a short list that Dick needed help with. I checked the Trib photo morgue and came up a goose egg. I called around to the other papers and nobody else had anything on the guy either.�

Velda asked, �Isn�t that unusual? Borensen was an actor on stage and television � several decades ago admittedly � but he�s a well-known producer today.�

�He was a minor actor in his early days,� Hy said, �and a schlock producer now. Some of his productions have generated good ink, but the werewolves and sweater babes got the press photos, not him.�

�Then,� I said to Velda, climbing out of the booth, �we�ll haul Billy�s behind over to Borensen�s apartment right now, for a personal appearance from our client.�

Velda was at my side in an eye blink.

�Hold up,� Hy said. �Did it ever occur to you that this Billy character might have been paid off?�

�No way,� Velda said.

�Billy�s okay,� I said. �He�s Captain Marvel in disguise, you know.�

That got a head shake and a laugh out of my cynical pal.

�Good luck, you two,� Hy said. �Call me at the Plaza if you get anything newsworthy.�

I said, �You�re sitting this one out?�

His smile was a friendly fold in a well-used face. �I�m a little long in the tooth to be going down bullet alley any more. But I�ll do what I can from the sidelines, starting with taking care of the check.�

I gave him a grin of thanks and took Velda by the elbow, heading out.

Velda�s scream trailed into the night as she quickly pulled herself together and joined me, bending over the fallen little man. I peeled the stack of papers away and three slugs stuck out of Billy�s heavy padded jacket like misplaced metallic buttons. Just as the cabbie�s skull had caused a sniper�s bullet to thump me harmlessly in the chest, the thickness of all that newsprint had slowed this deadly trio way down.

But Billy was unconscious and breathing ragged, hit hard by the rounds even if they had stopped short of his body.

�They didn�t penetrate,� she said, relieved and a little astounded. Her face was moist with mist. �Is he all right?�

I plucked the slugs out, dropped them in my trenchcoat pocket. �He�s alive, but he may have broken bones or internal bleeding. We need to get him help.�

�When the police get here,� she said, a little confused as she stated the obvious, �they�ll call an ambulance.�

I looked across my fallen friend at Velda and put a hand on her shoulder. �We�re going to call one first.�

�What?�

�That all-night drugstore on Forty-ninth. Get over there and use the phone and call the ambulance service we use. You know the one. Get a wagon over here right now. We�re taking over.�

I saw the doubt flicker on her face, but then she just nodded, her gypsy ringlets flicking moisture at me, and rose and went off at a brisk pace.

I called out, �Tell them to take Billy to our favorite private hospital! The one outside Newburgh!�

�Figured that,� she called, her back to me, and I watched till she was swallowed by the night and the mist.

I got up and went to the little stool Billy used and took the seat cushion off and rested it under his head. Then I sat on the cushion-less stool and lit up a Lucky and thought about killing some people.

The black-and-green-and-white patrol car streaked up the slick street with its siren playing banshee till it rolled to a stop. Two uniforms, one tall and young, the other medium-size but heavy-set and around my age, rolled out.

I gave them a quick report and said, �I already called for the ambulance.�

This seemed to satisfy them, but when the heavy-set cop asked for my identification and I handed over my open wallet, his eyes went big, taking in my P.I. badge and ticket.

�Mike Hammer,� he said, the way most people say �goddamnit.�

�You may want to inform my friend Captain Chambers directly about this,� I said, hoping to head off any unpleasantness.

He had a voice like tearing cardboard. �How the hell many shooting incidents have you been in this week anyway, buddy?�

I shrugged, as I took back the wallet. �Depends on how you�re counting. It�s technically four, but I only returned fire in two.� I blew out smoke but resisted the temptation to do it in his face. �Why don�t you call it in to Pat Chambers before this gets disagreeable?�

The younger guy, kneeling over Billy, said, �He�s alive and there aren�t wounds that I can see.�

�Like I said,� I said, �that stack of newspapers saved him.�

�And he�s out like a light, breathing heavy,� the young cop continued. �Don�t see any spent slugs. Holes in his jacket where maybe they hit.�

His older partner noted all that but kept his eyes on me. �You were the target here, Hammer?�

�Ask the shooter. Or better still, turn this over to somebody in plainclothes.� This time I did let him have the smoke in the pan, but inconspicuously, like maybe it was an accident. �Call Pat Chambers, for instance. Or did I say that already?�

Finally he trundled over to the patrol car and radioed it in to Chambers.

I told the young cop, �There�s a kid who fills in for Billy sometimes called Duck-Duck Jones. He also works as a swamper at a dive called the Clover Bar.�

�I know of it. What the heck kind of handle is �Duck-Duck?��

�I�m going to go out on a limb and say it�s a nickname, particularly since his upper teeth stick out to here. I�d advise getting hold of the kid and having him get over here to lock the stand up and be ready to fill in for Billy, if he�s hospitalized for a while.�

The young cop was nodding. �Good idea... Jeez.�

�Jeez what?�

�Will you look at the dish walking down the street? Pretty girl like that shouldn�t be out alone, though.�

I looked behind me and Velda was on her way back, closing an already short distance. �This one can take care of herself. She�s my secretary. I sent her off to call it in.�

�I didn�t figure she was a streetwalker,� he allowed. �Too classy looking.�

�I�ll tell her that. She�ll be highly complimented.�

I left the callow cop to figure that one out and went over to meet Velda far enough away that we could talk freely.

�Okay, Mike,� she said, almost whispering. �Ambulance should be here any time. Why did I send for it? I mean, I assume you mean to whisk Billy away and keep him out of Pat�s hands. Why?�

�Who do you think those bullets were for?�

�Well, you of course.�

�Wrong. These pro shooters are generally right on target. If that cabbie the other day hadn�t stuck his head between me and that bullet, you�d be at a funeral-home visitation about now. No, honey, the guy in that Lincoln shot exactly who he meant to shoot. He just wasn�t counting on Billy having that fat stack of papers to slow the slugs.�

Her mouth made a scarlet O. �Billy!.. You mean, because he witnessed that...�

�I knew you�d catch up, sugar.�

She was frowning at me, not angry, but her mind working fast. �Are you saying Leif Borensen hired your murder, and Billy�s? What�s the connection?�

�We are. Think about it.�

She didn�t have to think long, not with those wheels turning like they were. �My God, Mike � your reputation! Your well-deserved, well-known reputation for getting even. Billy�s your friend, our friend. If somebody took Billy out, you�d be all over it.�

�That�s right. Hitting me first, or trying to, was a preemptive attack.�

But she was shaking her head, having trouble making some of the pieces fit together. �Mike, why didn�t that contract killer shoot you tonight as well as Billy? And why not take me down as well?�

I flipped a hand. �Could be a couple of reasons. Maybe it was just a coincidence I happened to be around when the hit on Billy went down, and the shooter knew only that his target was our friend at the newsstand. Or... it could be something even more sinister.�

Her eyebrows took a hike. �More sinister than that?�

�Yup. Keep in mind our friend on the phone last night. He�s been having bad luck with the hired help, in addition to which he�s now deemed me worthy of his personal attention. That may have been him tonight.�

�But he could have killed you, Mike!�

�No. This is a game to him. A challenge. He�s playing with me, Velda. Cat and mouse, and he thinks I�m the mouse. Only he�s got a sewer rat by the tail. He figures he can get to me psychologically. Better men, and women, have tried. I have the same psychology as the .45 in my pocket � set me in motion and I go off.�

The ambulance came screaming up. It was similar enough to the city variety that the two cops thought nothing of it when a pair of attendants in white brought a stretcher out and strapped Billy on and hauled him up and into the back of their vehicle. They�d done enough jobs like this for me, and select others, to know to move fast and give any questions from the cops the most perfunctory answers.

But these cops accepted the ambulance at face value, assuming it was from a nearby hospital. They didn�t notice the upstate plates, or the lack of certain designations on the side panels. Just not plainclothes material.

�Velda,� I said softly, �go home, pack a bag, and drive up to that hospital right now. Get there ASAP, deal with the docs, and camp out in Billy�s room. He may still be on the firing line and will need protection. I�ll see you later tonight or in the morning, after I�ve dealt with Pat.�

Her eyebrows went up again. �You�ve been pushing that friendship to the breaking point.�

I nodded. �It may take some fancy footwork to stay out of stir this time. I really am a material witness on this one.�

She nodded, sucked in damp air, and gave me a kiss on the mouth before heading off to catch a cab.

�Where�s she going?� the fat cop asked.

�Home.�

�You said she witnessed this, too!�

�She did. Why, did you want to talk to her? Oh... well, there�s a Yellow. Guess she�s on her way. Sorry. My oversight.�

�Is that what it is. I wonder if Captain Chambers will see it that way, smart-ass?�

As I rolled down the hill in my black Ford, the trio of three-story white-washed stucco buildings, as alike as Monopoly houses, seemed to give off a ghostly glow. Some of that came from security lighting, the rest from moonlight making its way through the misty night.

Valley Vista Sanitarium dominated a dip between rolling hills a few miles south of Newburgh. You had to catch a look at the complex coming down, as the private facility had a seven-foot brick wall and a big wooden gate. The well-spaced-out cluster of buildings on tree-dotted grounds worthy of a country club perched on the Hudson River side, providing patients with a nice view and the hospital with another discreet method for patient arrival and admittance. The river was just a black ribbon with shimmering ivory highlights.

I�d left Pat�s office around two a.m. and by three-fifteen was pulling into the short drive up to the imposing Valley Vista gates with their welcoming signs: PRIVATE � KEEP OUT. I got out, 45 in hand, tugged down my hat brim and, leaving the car running, crouched on the driver�s side. I was waiting to see if I�d been right that I hadn�t been followed here. For a full five minutes, nobody came in either direction, indicating my abilities to spot a tail remained undiminished by time.

So I put the big gun back in the shoulder rig and went over to use the intercom and announce myself. I�d called ahead and was expected. As the mist�s ambitions rose into a light rain, I waited some more, until a beefy orderly in white walked down the much longer, slightly sloping drive to open the gates for me.

The Valley Vista was generally known as a sanitarium for the mentally ill. The middle building was for patients who were receiving therapy after being committed and who would, in time, be released. The building at left was for seriously chronically deranged souls who were humanely store-housed here and would likely never see sunshine on the other side of the brick wall.

The third identical building, at right, was something else again. This was a hospital where patients who needed discreet care could come, and that included the occasional movie star recovering from plastic surgery, a politician drying out, or unsavory types who needed a bullet wound or other illegal-work-related injury tended to without the notification of the authorities.

Only a select few among the citizenry were in the know about the services that third building offered � that it was a cross between Switzerland and a fortress. The orderlies were bruisers and the security team consisted of former Green Berets and other Special Forces types. In its thirty years of existence, Valley Vista had served as neutral territory. Rival gangland bosses were safe here. And it was the one place in this state where Mike Hammer would not kick down a door to get at some mob slob who needed killing. Or anyway the need for that had never come. Valley Vista stopped short of hiding out wanted men, after all, and had made a very handy resource for Michael Hammer Investigations, from time to time. I�d been here twice recuperating from gunshot wounds that back in the real world would have made me vulnerable. And in my business you sometimes had to hide a witness from the bad guys. Or the cops.

At reception the nurse was giving my ID the onceover twice when Dr. Benson came out from his office and granted me his benediction. Also, his permission not to check my weapon, though I did hang up my raincoat and hat. They could use drying off.

Billy was on the third floor, the doc said, and gave me the room number.

�How serious?� I asked him.

Benson was in his fifties, and had been a medic in the Korean hostilities. He was an average-looking face-in-the-crowd guy except for his prematurely white hair and very light-blue eyes.

�Mr. Batson broke two of his ribs,� the doc said. �No sign of internal hemorrhage. When I last looked in, he was still unconscious, but not in a coma. Still, there are often special medical considerations with these little people, and I�d like to keep him here for at least a few days.�

I told him that it might be longer. That my friend could be a target for a dangerous but as yet unidentified assassin, and he thanked me for the information. I might have told him someone left their car lights on in the parking lot.

A hospital at night is an eerie place � the beeps and boops of monitoring equipment, the low-key lighting, the nurses floating down corridors like occasional ghosts, plus the usual antiseptic smells. The place was asleep, but fitfully.

In this unique hospital, certain floors had armed guards seated outside doors, big men in light blue uniforms with big revolvers on their hips. Their only concession to the time of night was to sit in wooden chairs as old as the building, and nobody was reading or snacking much less napping. These were men trained in jungles to stay alert in darkness waiting for any snap of a twig to signal an approaching enemy capable of exploding the night into a daylight of orange muzzle discharge and the silence into a symphony of screams and gunfire.

The guard on the door was already on his feet when I turned down the corridor. Just outside the room, he looked me over, but his walkie had already told him to expect me.

He had a naturally sleepy-eyed look, like Robert Mitchum, but he was as alert as hell. Very softly he said, �I believe they�re both sleeping, Mr. Hammer.�

�Thanks,� I said, but I�d have to wake Velda if necessary.

But it wasn�t. She was leaned back in a recliner, resting, with the .32 automatic on her lap, but very much awake. Across from her, a light on in the john, its door cracked, provided just enough illumination not to disturb the patient. She had changed into a black jumpsuit � I could see her overnight bag peeking out from behind the chair � and looked like a commando, although I never saw a commando built like that.

Billy, seeming very small, lay on his back in the hospital bed, asleep, breathing hard but not snoring and in no apparent discomfort. They had an IV going.

As soon as I came in, Velda sat up, put the .32 on the table by the recliner, and got to her feet. With a wide smile, she came over into my arms and punched me in the mouth with those pillowy lips of hers.

Then, still in each other�s arms, we stared at each other, as if making sure we were both real and not just wishful thinking.

�I�ve been so worried,� she whispered.

Quietly, with a nod toward Billy, I said, �He hasn�t woken up yet?�

�No. They�ve got a morphine drip going, and that may keep him out a while.�

I tipped my head toward the door. �We need to talk, kitten.�

She nodded.

We made our way to a little waiting area with a couple of chairs and a couch and a low-slung table with the same magazines as the last time I was here, six months ago. Not even the best hospital has a cure for that condition.

I sat in a chair and she sat nearby on the couch. They let you smoke down here and I did. I told Velda I�d filled Pat in and that, after some pissing and moaning, he was onboard with our investigation. Then I got a folded manila envelope out of my inside suit coat pocket.

�Pat rounded up some very interesting art studies for us,� I said.

I handed her two crime scene photos from the aftermath of the bridal-shower shooting that clearly showed Borensen talking to Pat in the background.

�The elusive Leif,� she said with a smile.

�You keep those for when Billy wakes up.�

She shook her head and all that raven hair danced. �I can�t believe it�s so damn tough to find photos of Borensen.�

I shrugged. �I don�t think the lack of photos was on purpose. He just wasn�t somebody who, despite working in show business, generated much press, or anyway pics. But he knew that marrying Gwen Foster meant wedding photos in the papers, even though the nuptials were going to take place in Hawaii.�

�The specialness of that,� Velda said, �means even bigger coverage. Anyway, he�s poised to go on to bigger things. As the producer, and husband of the star, of a new Broadway musical, he�ll be a celebrity himself.�

I nodded. �And he couldn�t risk Billy seeing any of that splashed all over the papers and other media.�

I took out three more photos and handed them to her. Each was an angle on a man slumped over a desktop with a hole in his right temple. His right arm was flung on the desk, his hand palm up, and nearby was a little automatic.

�Smith and Wesson Escort,� Velda said. �A .22.�

�Small but it did the job. The dead guy is Martin Foster.�

�I figured as much. Is that his gun?�

I nodded again. �Registered to him, yes. I�m going to guess he carried it with him for protection in the theater district. He was a well-known, successful man, and a strong personality who wouldn�t put up with a mugging or robbery without a fight.�

�A strong personality,� Velda said, �who killed himself.�

�He had lung cancer, and he knew it.�

�Leave any note?�

�No.�

�No note to his daughter?�

�No. You see any red flags?�

She looked from photo to photo. �I don�t think so. Do you, Mike?�

�Not a red flag maybe, but... the fatal wound is side to side, entry wound in one temple, with the expected powder burns and stippling, exit wound through the other temple. To do that, Foster would have to sit down, raise his arm straight, with the elbow out, and fire. A ninety-degree angle.�

�That�s not impossible.�

�Not impossible,� I granted. �It might reflect a kind of firing squad mentality. But it�s more common, when a suicide sits at a table or desk, for the arm to be at a forty-five degree angle, with the exit wound out the top of the head on the opposite side. Some lean on their elbow and do it.�

She shook her head, just a little. �That�s not enough to make anything out of, Mike. Nothing says a man like Foster, taking his own life, might not hold his arm straight out. And with his arm on the desk, on its elbow, if he leaned his head against the snout, you�d get the same temple-to-temple effect.�

�I know. But it might still be enough to get Pat to look into this deeper. You notice Foster was in his pajamas, and his body wasn�t found till the next morning, when Gwen showed up at their beach house.�

�I�m not sure I see the significance.�

�Well, did he wake up in the middle of the night and kill himself?�

�I�m sure it happens.�

�Velda, most depressed types who resort to the Dutch act are well-dressed, almost anticipating their next stop is an open coffin. And Foster doted on his daughter. Would he do this, knowing that she almost had to be the one who found him? Would he do that leaving no farewell message? Particularly if the act was due to ill health, not standard despondence.�

Velda�s narrow-eyed expression said she was buying in. She shook the photos. �So this is Borensen�s work?�

�Yes. Dick Blazen let Martin Foster know all about Borensen�s seedy side, and Foster confronted Borensen. The result is a faked suicide, and a hit-and-run death for Blazen... with the need to get rid of Billy as the only witness capable of identifying him.�

�You think Borensen hired that hit-and-run?�

�No. That was Leif himself, all right.�

�But, Mike � if our scary friend on the phone the other night was the driver of that hit-and-run vehicle, he could be the one who needed Billy dead. After all, he, or one of his people, threw those slugs at Billy tonight, right?�

�Right. But I think Borensen didn�t go the hitman route until he figured that I needed to be handled. That would take a pro. No more do-it-yourself murder. In fact, I�d bet you a marriage license to a buck that this �suicide� is the work of a professional. The professional who�s been sending his minions my way, and who either shot at Billy tonight or had it done.�

�No bet,� Velda said. �I think you�re right. I think Borensen handled Blazen himself, then the fallout was something he couldn�t handle. Possibly his mob friends stepped in and ordered him to go with a professional, here on out.�

I grinned at my smart cookie of a partner. �Velda, that�s a very good read. I should have thought of that.�

Her expression melted and she reached out and touched my unshaven face. �Mike... you look beat, darling. You have to get some sleep. You want to camp out in Billy�s room? We�ll have a rollaway sent up.�

I stretched. �No, I better get back to the city. I�ll grab some sleep and get back at it.�

I looked in on Billy and he was still off in a drug-induced Happy Land.

�You call me when he�s had a look at those crime scene photos,� I whispered, as I walked her back to the recliner. �With Billy�s ID, Pat may be able to move on Borensen.�

�What�s your next move?�

�Getting to Borensen before Pat does.�

She shook her head. �And what? Kill him?�

�No,� I said. �At least not until I beat the name of his hitman out of him.�

�Leif�s a big guy, Mike.�

�Bigger they are, the harder��

�They fall, yes,� she said with a smirk, �I know, everybody knows.�

Half-way out the door I said, �I was going to say, the harder I kick their teeth in.�

Pat stood with his hands on his hips and surveyed the death scene, close enough to tap Borensen on his shoulder. I was sitting across the big book-lined room on one of the comfortable brown-leather chairs where I�d first spoken with my late client. I had an ankle on a knee and was smoking a cigarette. I�d already had my own good close look, waiting for Pat to get here.

I figured correctly that he�d be home by now, so the way I called the crime in was to phone him at his apartment. I knew he wouldn�t want any other homicide dick catching this one. As it was, he�d beat everybody else here, but now a small army of NYPD lab boys awaited access in the vast hallway, as well as a photographer and three plainclothes guys from the Homicide Division. Uniforms were here and there, standing just outside the study and posted variously, in the waterfall entry area by the elevators for example, and downstairs keeping the liveried doorman company. A policewoman, plainclothes, was sitting with the distraught Gwen in the kitchen.

Pat turned and frowned at me. �Bored, Mike?�

For a guy who�d probably collapsed on his couch a few hours ago after one of his longer days, he looked pretty fresh. Crisp blue suit and blue-and-red tie, freshly shaved, hair brushed back. And from where I sat, you couldn�t see his bloodshot eyes.

�No,� I said. �I just know when somebody is telling me to go screw myself.�

He frowned at that and walked over to the central area of chairs on the Oriental rug. �You shouldn�t smoke.�

�Yeah, that�s what Velda says.�

�No, I mean at a crime scene. Put it out.�

I put it out on an ashtray on the glass-topped coffee table that displayed Playbills from various Martin Foster productions. Pat sat opposite me with that coffee table between us. He was frowning, staring at me with his gray-blue eyes. Bloodshot gray-blue eyes.

�Mind explaining,� he said, �why you think someone is telling you to go screw yourself?�

I shrugged. I felt nicely comfortable in the over-stuffed chair. �It�s not just me being told that. You�re getting the big �up yours,� too.�

�Tell me.�

�You want me to spell it out?�

�Yes.�

�That�s no suicide.�

�You make it as phony.�

�And so do you, Pat.�

�So what is it, then?�

�Well, it�s homicide, of course. But a cute one � a replication of another phony suicide. The killer staged this not in order to fool anybody, but to laugh his ass off at us. The body is positioned just like Foster�s. The wound is identical � that same ninety-degree angle that has the bullet going straight through one temple and out the other. The weapon is not only the same caliber but the identical make and model. No suicide note. Informal attire, in Foster�s case pajamas, in Borensen�s a bathrobe. He isn�t even wearing slippers.�

�Why would a killer do this?�

Some edge colored my tone. �You aren�t listening, Pat. Maybe you hear me, but you are not goddamn listening. The killer is thumbing his nose at us.�

His voice had grown very quiet. �And you know who that killer is?�

�I do. I can�t give you his name and his address or even his description, but I know who and what we�re dealing with here.�

He shifted in his comfy chair. �Are you trying to tell me we�ve been looking at the wrong suspect? That Borensen didn�t drive that hit-and-run vehicle? That he didn�t hire your contract killing?�

I shook my head. �You shouldn�t work such long hours, buddy. It�s softening your skull. Borensen was guilty of all those things, and Foster�s rigged suicide. There�s some question as to whether he did the latter himself or hired it done, but otherwise... Pat, I can�t do any more of your thinking for you on this unless you�re prepared to put me on the city payroll.�

He put an elbow on a knee and ran a hand over his face. The poor bastard was exhausted. He was caught up in a case so confusing and convoluted, it was getting to him. All the way.

Then his hand dropped away and his expression said he got the drift. Belatedly, but I knew that detective�s mind of his was in there somewhere.

�This is your late-night caller,� he said, eyes wide, a fist chest high. �This is the work of the hitman Borensen hired, only now that we�re really digging into the case, he�s tying off loose ends.�

�Give the man a cigar,� I said. �Of course, it�s tough to go after a contract killer when the brains of the guy who hired him are splattered on a desk.�

�It�s more than tying off loose ends, though.� Pat�s eyes may have been bloodshot, but they were alive with thought now. �This is part of his crazy desire to pit himself against you, Mike. It�s his sick game, a contest, killer against killer. And going to the trouble of handling Borensen�s �suicide� in a way that shouts that it�s been staged is... man, it�s crazy.�

�But with method in the madness,� I said.

Pat sat forward and the eyes were cold now, hard. �And you�re right, Mike, he�s telling us both to go screw ourselves. I�m sure you�ll deal with it in some colorful and quasi-legal fashion, but me? I�m treating this as a homicide scene. Our big shot assassin will have screwed up somewhere, and we�ll nail him.�

I got to my feet. Shortly I would not be wanted here.

�I�m not so sure he screwed up anywhere, old buddy,� I told him. �This one is a pro among pros � a bat-shit crazy one, maybe, but a pro.�

And as for nailing him, that was Hammer�s job.

An hour and a half north of Manhattan, Cold Spring was a hamlet of maybe fifteen hundred at the deepest point of the Hudson, a step into the past with its idyllic setting and downtown of well-preserved nineteenth-century buildings, well-served by a sunny Indian summer day. They made rifles and cannons here, a century ago, but now a battery factory kept the place afloat.

At odds with the old-timey nature of the village, the Institute for Neurological Disease � just outside Cold Spring � was a modern, low-slung glass-and-brick sprawl that might have been a grade school or a power-and-water facility. Somehow it seemed a misnomer against the majesty of nearby Storm King Mountain.

I hadn�t called ahead. Phoning the information desk at the New York Public Library got me everything I needed, including the name of the Institute�s founder � Dr. Clayton R. Beech.

I pulled the Ford into a parking lot with perhaps fifty other cars, and strolled into a doctor�s waiting room of a lobby and directly to the nurse/receptionist�s desk. The nurse was a pleasant-featured Nordic type in her fifties who still looked like a good time. She gave me a professionally polite smile that took the edge off the obvious confusion of someone who rarely dealt with walk-ins.

I took off my hat and gave her my own polite smile. �I wonder if Dr. Beech might be in. I�d like to see him.�

That seemed to amuse her, but she tried not to show it. Very blue eyes on this matronly gal.

�Sir, Dr. Beech seldom sees anyone � he�s extremely hands-on in our research here � and when he does see someone, it�s by appointment only, usually months in advance. If you could tell me the nature of your call, we might be able to arrange something early next year.�

I put on an unhappy face. �That�s disappointing.� I sighed dramatically.

�Well, I�m sorry, sir.�

�It�s just that I was here about a fifty-thousand dollar donation.�

She reached for the phone.

In five minutes, my hat in my lap, I was seated in an office of modest size, decorated only with diplomas and a calendar with flying-geese artwork. The furnishings, including a wall of filing cabinets lined up behind me like a row of soldiers, were coldly modern, like the facility.

But Dr. Beech exuded a warmth that came across immediately, unless that was something he worked up for prospective donors.

Around five ten, in his mid-sixties, bald up top but with black-and-gray sideburns that developed into a well-trimmed beard, the doctor stopped to shake my hand � and get my name � before settling in behind his desk. In the expected white smock with a dark blue bow tie, he had the build of a linebacker, gone slump-shouldered, and the wire-framed glasses of a professor, bifocals.

At his back, and the only impressive thing about this space, was a picture window on to a gymnasium-size laboratory where dozens of other white-smocked professionals were seated and sometimes standing at a row of vertically arranged benches arrayed with test tubes, beakers, flasks, Bunsen burners, heavy-duty microscopes, and sophisticated gizmos beyond my recognition.

Dr. Beech noticed I was looking past him and smiled, tenting his fingers, elbows leaned on a desk where everything was tidy, all papers stacked, even framed family photos arranged symmetrically.

�It�s one-way glass,� he said, in a bland mid-range voice. �They never know when I�m watching.�

I grinned. �At least it�s not constant, like Big Brother.�

He might have been offended by that crack, but he wasn�t. Or, again, maybe he cut potential big-money donors some slack.

�Michael Hammer,� he said, tasting the words, eyes narrowing behind the round lenses of his glasses. �I�ve heard that name but I�m afraid I can�t place it.�

�I have a rather successful private investigation agency in Manhattan. There�s been media coverage now and then.�

Now he was nodding, and smiling. �Ah, yes. You�re a well-known figure, considered notorious in some circles. I believe you�ve been in some rather hair-raising scrapes over the years.�

�Scrapes and escapes, yes.�

He was trying to process that. I was well-known, so did that mean I had money? That I was a success? I was famous � okay, infamous � as someone who had killed but stayed within the limits of the law. Did that mean I felt guilty, and wanted to kick some dough in to a good cause? Help some people live, instead of die?

�I know you�re a busy man, Doctor. But I only know very generally what you do here. Could you explain it in more detail, but still keep it in layman�s terms?�

The smile blossomed wide in the black-and-gray beard. �Certainly, Mr. Hammer. We have been working on cures and vaccines for numerous neurological conditions and disorders. We�ve enjoyed great success, virtually wiping out several such diseases in the thirty years this institute has been in existence.�

�That�s wonderful. Very admirable, sir.�

He nodded, proud but not smug. �For several years we�ve put the lion�s share of our focus on a rare but debilitating disease called Phasger�s Syndrome, named for the first known patient to display the symptoms. That was in 1918.�

�What are the symptoms, Doctor?�

He flipped a hand. �They are actually quite mild, Mr. Hammer, initially. So mild that those who�ve contracted the disease often don�t know it until it�s too late. The victim has a strong sensation of a bitter taste, and the constant scent of ashes, followed by mild muscular aches not unlike the flu. In these early stages, we can already cure Phasger�s, and we are frankly on the brink of a total cure.�

The quiet pride in his voice said he could picture the Nobel Prize for Medicine on his wall right now, between the diplomas and the ducks.

�When you say �brink,� Doctor � how close are you?�

The linebacker shoulders shrugged. �Five years. A year? It�s impossible to say, as a breakthrough at any given time can change everything. But I�m confident that ten years from now, Phasger�s Syndrome will be a remnant of the past, like polio.�

�Impressive.� I gestured toward the small army of research scientists. �How do you manage such feats? I would imagine the costs are staggering.�

�They are,� he said, �yet we get no government funding, and are wholly independent in that fashion. We survive on grants and gifts from corporations, charitable groups, and of course...� He gestured toward me with a smile. �...individuals.�

I smiled back at him. �The kindness of strangers, somebody said. You mentioned the early symptoms, Doctor. What does full-blown Phasger�s Syndrome develop into?�

His expression turned grave. �Something quite terrible. Every facet of the nervous system attacks the patient. The pain is excruciating and constant. It is resistant to the most potent pain medications. Something like morphine, in this context, is akin to giving aspirin to a migraine sufferer. Within a year a patient is bedridden, and must be fed intravenously. Speech is distorted to the eventual point of incomprehensibility. There is frequent bleeding from every orifice, requiring regular transfusions. The gums decay, and the teeth rot and fall out. Blindness gradually occurs within the first six months. These poor wretches... excuse my melodramatic phrasing... are prisoners in their own bodies, bodies that are declaring war on themselves.�

�Damn.�

He flipped the other hand. �So you can see why we work so diligently, around the clock, to eradicate this cruel killer. And you can see why we are so grateful to those, like yourself, who are willing to step up and contribute to this important work.�

�I�m sure you are.�

The smile blossomed even bigger. �And I must say, Mr. Hammer, that the figure you mentioned to my nurse is an impressive one. From a private individual, particularly one with no history of Phasger�s in the family, such a donation is rare indeed. Fifty thousand dollars will go a very long way in this research.�

�I�m afraid your nurse misunderstood, Doctor.�

�Oh?�

�As you know, I�m a private investigator. And I�m here to ask about a fifty-thousand dollar contribution someone made to your institute. Actually, two twenty-five-thousand dollar contributions.�

He drew back in his chair, sucking in breath, agape. Well, why not? Hadn�t I sucker-punched him?

From my inside suit coat pocket, I withdrew the two cancelled checks and I put them in front of him. �Leif Borensen made these generous donations, both in recent months. Take a look.�

Frowning, he did so, without touching them. Maybe he was afraid of catching something. �I do remember these.�

�What do you remember about Leif Borensen?�

�Why, nothing.�

�He wasn�t a patient? Or don�t you have patients here?�

His eyes and nostrils flared. �Do I have to tell you, Mr. Hammer, that patient confidentiality��

So they did treat sufferers, or experiment on them.

�Doc, you already said you didn�t remember anything about Borensen. Can you confirm he wasn�t a patient?�

He thought about that so long, I thought his beard might grow. But finally he nodded.

�Is there anyone close to him that you know of,� I said, �a friend or relative who may have contracted Phasger�s, perhaps suffering now or possibly already dead from it, that might inspire Mr. Borensen to make such a generous contribution?�

Another sigh. �Frankly, no.�

�Well, isn�t this kind of contribution unusual?�

�It is.� Something about the contribution did seem to bother him. �Mr. Hammer, there is generally paperwork we must provide to the effect that our institute is an organization funded by charity, giving the donor a tax benefit. Mr. Borensen did not pursue that avenue. My sole contact with him were these two checks.�

I thought about that.

Then I asked, �Doctor, have you received any similar contributions, from donors otherwise unknown to you, over the past, say, five years?�

Impatience was tightening his face. �I don�t know that I want to answer that, Mr. Hammer. I am willing to respond to you on the basis of the cancelled checks you presented me... and, frankly, I read the newspapers, and know that Mr. Borensen died a suicide recently... but I see no reason for our conversation to go further...� He rose. �Now, if you�ll excuse me, I have rather important work to get back to.�

He came around his desk and I got up and faced him, blocking the way. Not threateningly, just blocking it.

�I have important work to do, too, Doc. You�re chasing a killer called Phasger�s Syndrome. I�m chasing down a killer who doesn�t have a name yet, but he�s killed many times, and will continue doing so until I eradicate this human disease.�

He studied my face. �Mr. Hammer, have you ever seen a psychiatrist?�

�Once,� I said. �Didn�t work out. Answer my question, Doctor � have you received similar contributions in recent years, possibly not always twenty-five thousand but certainly in that vicinity?�

�...Yes.�

�Any repeat contributions from any of those donors?�

�Occasionally, as with Mr. Borensen, there have been several donations of that size. But nothing regular. And no personal contact.�

�None of them wanting help claiming a fat tax deduction?�

This was something that clearly had bothered him. He said, �No, sir. Not one. Do you... do you have an idea why they might do that?�

�Yes. These people wanted to attract a minimum amount of attention. They paid their money and disappeared.�

�Paid...?�

�Just a theory I�m working on, Doc. Would you be willing to provide a list of names and addresses for these other big donors?�

His chin came up. �Well, no. Why should you expect me to? You�re just a private investigator, Mr. Hammer.�

�That makes me an officer of the court.�

�Be that as it may � no.� He was firm. �Bring me a court order, however, and I�ll provide that list.�

I moved away from him, easing toward the door. �Fair enough. You�ll be hearing from Patrick Chambers, Captain of Homicide, NYPD. When exactly, I can�t say. But I would go ahead and get that list together. And might I make another suggestion?�

A bitter little smile formed. �I�m quite sure I can�t stop you, Mr. Hammer.�

�Take on some security. Twenty-four hour security.�

�We have a security man who...�

�Not �man.� Men. With guns and military experience. I can give you the name of a good agency out of Manhattan � I�m part of only a two-person operation and couldn�t handle it for you.�

He was shaking his head. �This is incredible... Why on earth��

�The human disease I mentioned might consider you a loose end and come looking for you. You could get infected. It wouldn�t hurt like Phasger�s, Doc, but I promise you, it�ll be just as fatal.�

He took the name.

The state of mind that was Greenwich Village was changing, beatnik black giving way to rainbow tie-dye, finger-snapping egocentric poetry getting drowned out by clap-along protest folk songs. Other things stayed the same, like the zigzag streets, art-gallery sidewalks, espresso joints, intimate jazz clubs, and theater ranging from Circle in the Square respectability to strip-joint sleaze.

There was also no shortage of bookshops, running mostly to secondhand, and that�s where I asked about a girl called Marcy with short black hair and glasses, who might be doing research on the history of show business in the city. I got nowhere on this sunny but cool afternoon until I tried the Paper Book Gallery on the corner of Sullivan and West Third, a Beat Generation landmark still advertising poetry readings even though the kid at the register had long hippie hair and little square-lensed glasses.

�You might mean Marcy Bloom,� the kid said. He wore a black vest over a paisley shirt. �That sounds like the project she�s been working on. I delivered her some old magazines she ordered, like a couple of weeks ago.�

�Then you know where she lives,� I said. Not a question.

He frowned. �I can�t give out a customer�s address, if that�s what you�re after. Would you want me giving out your address, mister?�

I dug out my wallet and he was shaking his head.

�Save your bread, man. I�m no sell-out.�

But he was a weed smoker, judging by his dreamy eyes and the pungent scent clinging to his clothes.

I flipped the wallet open and shut, just long enough for him to glimpse the badge there. That it went with my P.I. ticket and not a job on the PD was a distinction I didn�t figure he would make.

He had to look it up in a card file, but he got me the address. He was shaking and afraid.

�She�s not in any trouble, son,� I told him, taking the scribbled-on slip of paper he handed me. �And neither are you. Appreciate the help.�

He nodded and started working up his story for his pals about how he�d been hassled by the man.

Marcy Bloom�s building was a white-washed brick three-story that looked like a strong wind might crumble it. Green shutters and black ironwork dressed it up, and some of the city�s few remaining gas lamps lent a certain charm. But I wondered how long the quaint buildings on these cobblestone side streets could stand up against the intrusion of the world of commerce.

On the second floor landing, I knocked at 2B. As I waited, the door across the way opened, and I turned. In the half-opened doorway, a skinny guy with a shoulder-length pile of curly brown hair was giving me a what-the-hell-are-you-doing-here look. In his mid-twenties or so, he wore a faded maroon T-shirt with a cracked white peace symbol, and his jeans looked older than he did.

I gave him a smile that wasn�t pleasant. �Something I can do for you, man?�

He retreated and shut the door, hard.

I shrugged to nobody, turned back and knocked again on the paint-blistered door. I was just getting ready to knock a third time when a girl answered so suddenly I almost jumped back.

�Sorry,� she said chirpily, as if we were old friends, �I had to throw something on.�

She was petite but curvy, with boyishly short dark hair and big dark blue eyes that the black-framed, big-lensed glasses perched on her pert nose could hardly contain. She had a brightness and energy about her that came across right now, and was at least as cute as her navy white-polka-dotted mini-dress. She was maybe twenty-three and made me wish I was.

�Say,� she said. �You�re Mike Hammer!�

Surprised to be recognized, particularly by someone her age, I admitted it nonetheless. Was she Marcy Bloom? She was. She seemed not at all surprised I�d come calling.

Looking past me, her cuteness took on sharp edges, and she said, �Shack! Quit that! Be good!�

I glanced behind me just in time to see that door across the way slam again.

�Don�t mind Shack,� she said, her smile dimpling one side of the adorable face. �He�s harmless. Poor puppy dog�s just in love with me.�

�But is he house-broken?�

She smiled at that and took me by the elbow like I was her father giving her away at a wedding. She ushered me not down the aisle but into her apartment.

�You saved me a trip,� she said.

�How did I do that?�

She asked for my hat and coat, which she promptly dropped onto a chair. Then she led me past an odd work area on a braided throw rug in the center of the living room, with a table whose legs had been sawed off to put it a foot-and-a-half off the floor, a typewriter on it, and a throw pillow for a chair. The table had stacks of manuscript paper and various research materials, books, magazines, notebooks, all in cheerful disarray.

My hostess deposited me on a threadbare couch while she sat on the floor like an Indian, giving me a glimpse of white inner thighs and dark panties. Well, more than a glimpse.

She looked up at me like I was a guru and she was ready to learn the meaning of life. The way she was sitting, I could have told her.

�I�ve been trying to get the nerve up,� she said, �to come see you at your office.�

The couch, like the other furnishings in the Early Salvation Army decor, sat well out from the wall, which like the others was consumed by bookcases. Some were homemade concrete-block affairs, plus thrift-shop shelving she�d scrounged. She had built an enviable library, no doubt as secondhand as the furniture, the fiction running from Pride and Prejudice to Peyton Place, the nonfiction heavy on journalism and film and theater criticism.

She said, �What brings you around to see me, Mr. Hammer?�

�Maybe we should start,� I replied, �with why you were thinking of coming to see me?�

Hands on her bare knees, she rocked back and forth a little on her crossed legs. As the original Billy Batson said, Holy moly.

�Okay, I�ll start,� she said. The big eyes grew bigger. �I�ve been following this crazy thing in the papers and on TV. Do you know, when your name first turned up, I�d never heard of you? I�m from Ohio, which is my excuse. But from snippets in the newspaper stories, I got the picture � you�re a real character.�

�I get that sometimes,� I admitted.

She smiled and rocked. �So I did some research on you. Mostly at the library, but also some old magazines at a bookstore I frequent.�

�The Paper Book Galley,� I said.

Her eyes got wide again, like I�d pulled a rabbit out of a hat. Or somewhere. �You are a detective!�

�That�s the rumor. So you researched me. What did that tell you?�

�That some of what the papers have been saying is b.s.�� like the supposed robbery attempt at your office, and how the police were looking into that cabbie�s life to see why someone would want to take it, and how that high-society bridal shower got interrupted by an armed robber. And, of course, how you just happened to be there for all three. Killing the first two bad guys, and your secretary taking down the third.�

�You left out the newsstand shooting.�

She nodded, out of rhythm with her rocking. �I was saving that for last, because that was what made me start really, seriously thinking about approaching you directly. Did you know I spoke to Billy, that little person who runs the newsstand, several times?�

I nodded back. �I did know. He told me you had, which is why and how I tracked you down.�

�So then you know I was Richard Blazen�s legman?�

�Yeah.� I gave all that exposed skin an unabashed look. �Coincidentally, I�m a leg man myself.�

That only made her laugh. I�d thought maybe it would embarrass her into covering up a little. I�ve always been big on decorum.

�When I was running through that list of fatalities,� she said, �I left the most recent one out. The most significant one.�

�Leif Borensen,� I said.

She nodded. �Was that really suicide, like the papers say?�

�No.�

�Didn�t think so. But it confuses me. I figured he was the party responsible for all this mayhem. He ran down Mr. Blazen in a car, and tried to have you killed several times before going after the little newsstand fella. Am I right?�

I answered with my own question: �Why do you figure Borensen was responsible for the attempts on my life?�

She shrugged. �I told you I researched you. I�m a ferocious researcher, Mike. I�ll call you �Mike� and you call me �Marcy.� Kind of a nice ring to it, Mike and Marcy. Anyway, you�re known to go on the hunt for anybody who hurts or... or especially kills... your friends. You�re famous for it.�

�That�s �infamous,�� I said.

Her smile was barely there. �That would depend on whether someone thought you were a bad person. I mean by that, someone who thinks it�s wrong of you to go out and, well, try to get even.�

�I don�t just try, Marcy.�

Her eyebrows went up and down. �I know. And I may live in Greenwich Village and write articles for the Voice, but I am an old-fashioned Midwestern girl at heart. I like to see scores settled. So, me? I think you�re a good person.�

She seemed at once ten years old and forty-five.

�Nice to know, Marcy.� I leaned forward and said, �You say you were Blazen�s �legman,� but really you were a lot more than that... right? I figure you were the one doing the writing. An old PR guy may know how to put together a press release, but not a whole book.�

She was nodding, rocking a little while I talked, stopping when she talked.

�You�re right, Mike. Richard Blazen knew everybody in local theater, going back to the 1930s, and in TV production back to the late �40s. He had stories like you couldn�t imagine � the backstabbing by much admired stars, who was gay and who wasn�t, producers screwing over their backers, producers screwing over their stars, the sleeping around by just about everybody, the gangsters who backed productions to give their mistresses roles in shows, and drugs, drugs, drugs. Some of the show biz types who are so critical of my pot-smoking generation were outrageous hypocrites, snorting coke and shooting up H. Mr. Blazen knew it all.� She grinned and rocked again. �It�s going to be a fabulous book.�

That stopped me for a moment. �You�re going on with the project?�

�Oh yes. I have all the material here. It�s still a big job. I have to fact-check, when the people he talks about are still alive. It�s a legal thing.�

�You say �talks� like he�s still around.�

�That�s how it feels sometimes. See, here�s how we went about it � I�d interview him on a tape recorder, and then we�d have the tapes transcribed. I have pages and pages of the stuff.�

�So it really is a big job.�

�Enormous! But it�ll make me. Put me on the map, as the clich� goes.� Gently, she pointed a finger at me. �The reason I wanted to see you, Mike, was to find out what you knew about this awful Borensen person. To see if you�d go on the record that he was the one who ran down Mr. Blazen.�

�I can do that.� I sat forward, springs in the couch cushion whining under my tail. �But first I want to know what you know, Marcy... about your Mr. Blazen and Leif Borensen.�

�You bet.� She bounded up and sat next to me on the couch, with a leg tucked under her, giving me a new angle on how artistically black silk panties could contrast with white creamy thighs.

Hammer, a voice said, she�s young enough to be your daughter.

Another voice said, But she isn�t your daughter.

�Mr. Blazen knew Martin Foster for a very long time,� Marcy said. �Did PR work for him in the early days, and off-and-on in later years, too... and always respected and admired the man. Mr. Blazen said Martin Foster was a rare class act in an often no-class business.�

�I knew Foster a little,� I said. �I�d agree.�

She continued: �So when it became known that Martin Foster was planning to bring this Leif Borensen in as his co-producer, Mr. Blazen went to see his old friend, and warned him that this Hollywood pretender was no one to get involved with. That the man had been in league with mobsters since his unsuccessful stint as an actor.�

�Borensen was still mobbed up,� I said. �Right to the end. He�s been a major West Coast money laundry for the boys for decades.�

�Yes, Mr. Blazen knew that, too, or at least had come to that conclusion. And he was appalled to find out that Borensen was dating Foster�s daughter, Gwen.�

�Worming his way in,� I said.

She leaned forward, the cute face painfully earnest. �But, Mr. Hammer, isn�t this sorry, sordid affair now at an end? After the suicide of Leif Borensen? Only you say it was not suicide. Which makes it murder.�

�It�s murder, all right.�

�You didn�t do it, did you?�

The casualness of that caught me off guard.

I said, �Hell, no. Marcy, consider the three attempts on my life. You said it yourself � Borensen tried to have me killed. He didn�t have the balls to try to do it himself.�

And I told her that the bastard had been dealing with a top-dollar contract killer, with a stable of hitmen, and was now tying off loose ends. Including Leif himself.

�So this big-league professional assassin,� she said, �is who you�re looking for.�

�Yes. Would you like to help?�

�Just tell me how.�

I put a hand on her shoulder. �What I need from you is a specific piece of information that might well lead me to this killer.�

�If I have that information, it�s yours. But what exactly do you need to know?�

I leaned back and a couch spring played stick-�em-up in my spine. �Maybe you�re still too much of an Ohio girl to know, Marcy, but there are five major crime families in New York. I am assuming Leif Borensen was aligned with one of them, going back to his drug-peddling days.�

�You think he�s been in with the same mob all these years?�

�Very likely. Those kind of people get their hooks in, and they stay in. Now, I�m known to all of these families, and they�re known to me. If you... or rather the late Richard Blazen... can point me to the right crime family, I may be able to ascertain the name of this contract killer.�

She nodded slowly. �That does make sense. They�re who Leif Borensen would have gone to, to obtain a professional killer.�

I grinned at her. �You�re right on the beam, kid.�

The earnest look returned, with some confusion mixed in. �You�re thinking maybe I know a name, or the name of the Mafia family... but I don�t, really.�

�It should have come up in research, and in the taped interviews.�

She shook her head, frustrated. �Well, I�m sure that name is something I saw or heard out of Mr. Blazen. But it wouldn�t mean anything to me. I have a vague memory that some Italian names came up in this context, which is probably no surprise.�

�No, no surprise. But the name of the crime family, or a member of it, would almost have to be in your notes or those transcripts, right?�

�Right.� She rose. An air of determination accompanied her. �We have a big job in front of us, Mike. Maybe you�d like some coffee?�

�I would. Milk and sugar.�

I thought she was going to go off to a kitchenette and make some, but she went to her door, opened it and crossed to knock at her horny neighbor�s.

The kid answered, more hangdog than puppy dog, as if maybe she was going to paddle him with a rolled-up paper.

�Shack, would you be a dear and run down and get us some coffee at the deli? Maybe some sandwiches.� She called across to me. �Sandwich, Mike?�

�Sure! Corned beef and Swiss, cold, plenty of hot mustard.�

She told him, �I�ll have the usual.�

�Bacon, lettuce, tomato, mayo?� he asked.

�Hold the mayo,� she said, almost testily. �That�s the usual. You need money?�

�No. You can pay me later.�

�Get yourself something, too. I�m going to have you join us, if you�re not doing anything.�

That brightened him. �Yeah? Sure, I�m available. You need help, Marcy?�

She was still in her doorway, he in his.

�We�re going to be sorting through some of the interview transcripts,� she said. �We can use your sharp eyes. You up for that, sweetie?�

�You bet!�

�Great. But before you go down to the deli, could you come over and carry the manuscript boxes in from my bedroom?�

�Glad to!�

From the sound of his voice, I could tell her bedroom was a place he would very much like to visit.

She came bouncing back to me, her full breasts making the white dots on the dark mini-dress dance. When Good Neighbor Shack was back in his own apartment, that bedroom was somewhere I would very much like to visit myself.

Don�t do this to Velda, a voice said.

Velda who? another voice said.

When Shack came in with three storage-file boxes stacked in his arms, and then plopped them down on the floor near Marcy�s low-lying work station, I said to her, �Brother. You weren�t kidding.�

�He was a talker,� she said, �my Mr. Blazen.�

Shack trotted off toward the bedroom again, and I asked her, �There�s more?�

�There�s more. Maybe you should help him.�

Nine boxes in all.

Not all of it was transcripts, but each box had its share. Included were newspaper clippings and photo files, plus Blazen�s early attempts in longhand at writing the book himself, before wising up that he needed a ghost.

After Shack got back with the deli food, which we ate as we worked, he sat on the couch next to me � well, putting a cushion between us, which became a shared desk. Marcy returned to the floor and her chopped-off table. She continued to sit cross-legged, angled toward us, and at one point Shack and I caught ourselves both looking at the same time. We just rolled our eyes at each other, forming a bond in our mutual lechery.

The three of us couldn�t read all that stuff, not in detail. Transcript is hard to read anyway, with its lack of paragraphs and occasional misrecorded words and phrases. The idea was to skim and scan and try to catch any mention of Borensen and his mob ties, as well as any Italian name that might turn up.

Finally, almost three hours in, Marcy blurted in mock-My Fair Lady fashion, �By George, I think I�ve got it!.. Do you know a gangster called Joey Pep, Mike?�

�Joey Pepitone,� I said, frowning. A longtime capo in the Bonetti mob family. �I know him, all right.�

�Could he be our man?�

I was nodding. �He could. He sure could. And I can check that out right away. Shack, much appreciated. Marcy, you have a phone?�

She did, in her bedroom � which was a mattress on the floor surrounded by more walls of books � and I used it and her Manhattan phonebook.

A maid or anyway somebody on the household staff answered, and I gave my name and asked for Gwen.

�Mike, it�s nice to hear your voice.�

But I wasn�t sure it really was. We�d been ships who passed in the night, and maybe I shouldn�t be pulling back into port.

�Honey, did you ever see Leif mingling or talking with anybody who struck you as... disreputable? Any associate who struck you as shady? I know that�s vague, but��

�Actually, yes,� she said quickly. �I was going to call and say something to you, Mike, because I�ve been thinking, going over so much in my mind, so many things. I don�t know the man�s name, but there was a slick, nasty-looking character who Leif would treat with... well, undue respect.�

�Did he ever drop by your apartment, this guy?�

�Not that I know of. But if Leif and I were at 21 or the Stork, this well-dressed creepy character might turn up in a booth with one or two flashy women. Leif would excuse himself, and go talk to him, just briefly. Like he was... paying his respects. Is that anything, Mike?�

�Are you doing anything tonight?�

My shift of gears threw her a little. �Not really. I�ve had a tough day. Among other things, I made arrangements to ship Leif�s body back to Hollywood. Let them bury the bum.�

That made me grin, but of course I have a sick sense of humor. �What would you say if I asked you to go out dancing with me?�

�Well... what?�

�Sounds a little inappropriate, or at least it might look that way. But I have a real good reason. I want to give you a chance to identify that �creepy character.��

I filled her in and said I�d come by in a cab and pick her up in half an hour or so.

When I returned to the living room, Marcy was walking Shack out, her arm in his as it had been in mine earlier. �Thank you, Shack. You�re such a dear. Such a wonderful friend.�

His hangdog puss got longer. �Oh, Marcy. No guy wants to hear that. The friend bit.�

�Now, you know that�s how it has to be.�

He was stumbling out toward 2B, as if the few steps were a thousand miles, when she shut her door.

�You�re pretty rough on the kid,� I said, reaching for my hat and raincoat on the chair where she�d tossed them.

�Oh, Shack should know better. Are you leaving, Mike?�

�I am. Here�s my card. I�ve written my home phone on it, too. Anything occurs to you, any hour of the day or night, let me know.�

�Well, you�re welcome here any time, Mike.�

My God, what an invitation. A stunning little Love Child was ready to corrupt an old rake.

Just as I was going, I said, �What do you mean, Shack should know better?�

�Well, Mike,� she said, with a big beautiful smile. �I am a lesbian, after all.�

Not so long ago, when you got within a few blocks of the place, a riot might have been going on, judging by the backed-up traffic, night-piercing floodlights and crowd noise spilling down the skyscraper canyon. You�d have to hoof it the rest of the way because even if your car or cab got through, a police barricade would be waiting, and mounted cops would be herding an excited throng of kids who looked like refugees from American Bandstand mixed with swells in gowns and tuxes, swarming the sidewalk all the way to Broadway at least. Only a few limos conveying celebrities to the hottest night spot in town got squeezed through the sawhorses, because a whisper of fame and money could out-yell any crowd.

But four years later, on a week night, the Peppermint Lounge on West Forty-fifth didn�t even have a doorman when the cab dropped Gwen and me off. A few patrons, couples mostly, were coming in and out, in no hurry, and lackluster rock �n� roll bled out, blaring when a door opened, muffling when it closed.

�My,� Gwen said, on my arm. �What a difference from the last time I was here!�

Her blonde hair ponytailed back, she wore a white mini-dress, matching go-go boots, and a knee-length camel coat with a white mink collar. I let my porkpie hat and trenchcoat make my fashion statement.

I said, �When was that?�

�Oh, �61, �62.�

Now the place was a shadow of its former faddish self. The candy-striped canopy drooped under red letters spelling out the club�s name on a cracked white facade. A window display of photos of yesterday�s celebrities reminded today�s visitors that the joint was �World Famous� � and of course when you have to post reminders, you aren�t world famous any more.

We checked our coats and moved through the bar into the shabby L-shaped club, met by a short, hawk-faced ma�tre d�, who seemed depressed he wasn�t getting the big tips any more. He showed us to a table up front in the sparsely lighted, low-ceilinged, under-populated showroom, though mirrors surrounding the elevated dance floor were doing their best to make it seem bigger. A four-piece combo on stage was dragging its ass through �The Peppermint Twist.� Only half a dozen dancers were out there, college kids doing the Watusi and adult tourists feeling obligated to do the dance the house helped popularize.

In their white tops and red ski pants, all the waitresses were cute, since they doubled as on-stage dancers, and our redheaded one was no exception. She had to work at being bubbly, though. She wouldn�t make enough tips tonight to cover carfare.

Looking around at the half-filled place, Gwen said, �The last time I was here, you know who was on that dance floor? Greta Garbo!�

�She should have come tonight,� I said, �if she wanted to be alone.�

�It does seem more a museum exhibit than a nightclub,� she said, with something of a shudder. Then she beamed at me, clutched my hand. �Mike, it was nice to hear from you. As you can imagine, it�s been a real drag since, well, since that son-of-a-bitch fianc� of mine got himself killed.�

Appeared she was doing well getting over Borensen�s passing. Not all mourners could carry off white like she did.

�You may not give a damn who killed Leif,� I said. �I mean, after all � somebody did you a kind of favor. But keep in mind � the same somebody killed your father.�

�Leif killed my father.�

�Had him killed.� I squeezed her hand. �I asked you out tonight, honey, not to cheer you up but to see if you can identify that creep you saw your late unlamented Leif sucking up to.�

�The creep�s the one who...?�

�No. But he can lead me to the assassin. If this place were busier, it wouldn�t be so tricky. But when our drinks come, take a sip and glance around like you�re taking in the whole place... but glom the guy sitting in back at a table in the corner, on your side.�

�It�s awfully dark, Mike.�

The ceiling spotlights aimed at the stage were about it for illumination.

�I know,� I said, �but do your best. Tell me if there�s at least a possibility it�s the creep in question.�

The waitress brought my Four Roses and ginger, and Gwen�s peppermint schnapps. When I handed the redhead a twenty and said keep the change, I made a friend for life, or at least the rest of the evening. Meanwhile, Gwen sipped the sweet liqueur and glanced casually around.

She didn�t say anything till the band was between numbers. With a sweet feminine smile that might have accompanied almost anything, she leaned in to say something that it didn�t.

�Mike, that�s definitely the scumball whose ass Leif used to kiss.�

I sipped my highball and smiled back at her. �I�m going to go back there and just say hello. Listen, if things should get lively, just sit tight. Like the man said, I will return... unless I get killed or something.�

Her facial expression stayed casual and even amused, but her hand gripping my sleeve wasn�t. �Mike, you�re scaring me.�

�Not a bad thing to be, considering.�

Because this was a no-cover-charge joint, the path to the bar was kept clear. When I was almost there, I veered off the central aisle and wove through the tight-packed but mostly empty tables and chairs, coming to a stop at the table for four where one man sat. Where he always sat.

Small but compactly muscular, Joey Pepitone wore a dark gray sharkskin suit with white silk shirt and black silk tie. Diamonds winked off tie-pin and cufflinks, and gold rings winked back from slender fingers that had never seen a real day�s work. He was a slimily handsome hoodlum whose most distinctive features were his sleepy eyes, constant faint sneer, heavy dark eyebrows and prematurely gray hair. He�d be a living, breathing clich�, if he and his ilk weren�t where the clich� came from.

�Mike Hammer,� he said looking up at me. His voice was a smooth tenor. �I never took you for a rock �n� roll fan.�

I pulled out a chair and sat across from him, leaning back with my arms folded. �Nah, I�m more a classical guy. Give me the old masters. And I don�t mean Joey Dee and the Starliters.�

He smiled, just a little. He had an iceless tumbler of dark liquid in front of him and a cigarette going, waiting in an ashtray for his attention.

�Pretty girl you got with you tonight,� he said off-handedly, nodding toward Gwen at our table up front. He had a decent look at her in profile, since her chair was angled toward the stage.

�Would you believe it? She�s grieving over her fianc�s death. Kind of an almost widow.�

He pretended that didn�t mean anything to him. �Well, I hope she�s wearing black undies. Otherwise, she seems a little disrespectful.�

I let that pass. �Business always this shitty, Joe? Nothing like being yesterday�s big thing, huh?�

�We do all right on the weekends,� he said. �And the tourists keep us going in between.�

The success of the Peppermint Lounge had been a fluke. It had been a gay bar Joey Pep took over from a pal of his who had to lam it out of town. Once he took over the joint, Joey worked out of the back room, where he gave the Bonetti family�s blessing (for a piece of the action) to various illegal activities � loan-sharking, fencing, bookmaking.

Then the hot band he hired, just for show, started pulling in the kids, and the Twist craze took off, and suddenly a mob front was a legitimate goldmine. But right now, that goldmine seemed tapped out.

�Did you come here to depress me, Hammer, or do you just like to watch young stuff shake it on a dance floor?�

I grinned at him. �I can do both at the same time, Joey. I can include chewing bubble gum if you like.�

He smiled back, but of course the sneer was in it. �Well, thanks for stopping by, Hammer. Always good to renew an acquaintance. You need a cab? I�ll have one called for you.�

�Joey, I just got here. I�m trying to show the little lady a good time.�

�Is that what you�re doing.� He picked up the cigarette, drew in smoke, then sent it my way. �Blow, why don�t you? You�re very old news.�

I looked around us. �Then I�d seem to be in the right place. Why don�t we keep it friendly, Joey? I just stopped by to see how you�re doing, after your tragic loss.�

�What tragic loss would that be?�

I nodded toward Gwen, sipping her schnapps. �The loss of a longtime, valued business associate.�

�Maybe you know what you�re talking about, Hammer, but I don�t.�

I uncrossed my arms and met his sneer with my own. �Don�t be coy, Joey � Leif Borensen goes way back with the Bonettis, and I hear you were his contact man. He was a kind of one-man Peppermint Lounge himself, wasn�t he? A guy who could provide a front and be a cash laundry when needed, and other times a cash cow, pulling down some real Hollywood bucks.�

He looked past me and nodded. I glanced back and saw two big men in skinny ties coming my way. Their dark suits looked sewn on. But their bulges seemed to be muscle and some occasional fat, so at least they weren�t packing.

�Lenny, Turk,� he said to them.

One was on either side of me. They were tall and they were wide, and the fists hanging at their side were like hams.

Pepitone looked up and gave them the sneer-smile. �You remember Mike Hammer, don�t you, fellas? He used to be a big deal, a long, long time ago.� He lowered his eyes to meet mine and gave me the same nasty smile. �Lenny and Turk here, they were big deals, too, not so long ago. Pro wrestlers. All my bouncers are ex-wrestlers, Hammer. One look at them and most smart-asses piss themselves.�

�I don�t have to go,� I said.

�Oh yes you do... Put Mr. Hammer in a cab.�

A big hand latched onto my left elbow, and another one latched onto my right.

�Don�t worry about Miss Foster,� Pepitone said as I was hauled up and out of the chair. �I�ll see she gets home safely.�

Right now she was on the dance floor with a college kid, doing the frug. She didn�t notice the bum�s rush I was getting, and that was all right. I wanted her kept out of it.

The boys lifted me up and walked me, if walked is the right word when your feet aren�t touching the ground, through the tables and chairs and out into the bar and through the front door, where we paused under the canopy. Turk, shaved bald with dark eyebrows on a shelf of forehead, a handlebar mustache over thick lips, slipped behind me, took both my arms and yanked my elbows behind my back, making the upper half of me lean forward, while Beatle-haired Lenny, with beady black eyes crowding what must once have been a nose, lumbered to the curb to flag a cab that was a good half-block down.

Lenny was doing that when I rammed my head up under Turk�s chin and as his neck snapped back and his grip loosened on my arms, I pulled away and swung around behind him and kicked him with the flat of a gum-soled foot behind the knee, one of the few places he wasn�t muscle-bound. Turk went down on the other knee, like he was waiting for a king to knight him, but I crowned him instead, with two fists coming down like sledges on the back of his bald skull. He belly-flopped onto the cement, by which time Lenny, wide-eyed, wild-eyed, was charging at me like a bull. When he was almost on me, I swung my leg around and let his ugly face taste the gum sole. He staggered back, spitting teeth like bloody Chiclets, and then I shoved my left forearm into what little neck he had and he started coughing and gargling the foamy blood in his mouth. To one side, Turk was getting up, and I grabbed onto him by the tie and a fistful of too-tight suit and flung him into Lenny, sending them both down in a pile. I let them wrestle for a few seconds, catching my breath, then went over and started kicking the shit out of them. Muscles or not, they had ribs and they hadn�t been in the ring for a while, so their stomachs had some flab going, and I kicked them there, too, just till they puked all over each other. Somehow they managed to get to their feet, so I got out the .45 and let them see where bullets blossom. That froze them, and I slapped them with the side of the barrel, in one swift hard continuous move, like Moe slapping Larry and Curly in one hilarious swing, only seeing those guys tumble to the cement unconscious was a hell of a lot funnier.

The cab had pulled up by now, and the cabbie was looking out at the two fallen, bleeding, vomit-spattered human wrecks like he was having an hallucination. He was a mick who�d been around, probably in his fifties, and looked like he was about to take off, when I waved at him with the .45, not meaning to threaten him exactly. The gun just happened to be there.

�Give me a hand with these clowns,� I said.

Leaving the cab running, he came around and helped me lug the two bouncers, one at a time, into his backseat. It was like hauling beef carcasses at a slaughter house. They filled that back nicely, sprawled on top of each other like teenagers at Lover�s Lane.

The cabbie was breathing hard. �God, they smell.�

�Well, they�re covered in puke.�

�What do you want me to do with them?�

I got in my pocket and fished out some dough. �What do you think? Take �em to the nearest emergency room.�

He had the expression of a guy who couldn�t decide whether to shit or go blind, but when I gave him the fifty, he saw that just fine.

As he rolled off, I smoothed myself out � neither one of the slobs had laid a glove on me � and then I went back inside the lounge and wove through the tables and chairs over to Joey Pep�s table. He was goggling at me with his tongue showing, like I was a naked babe in a window.

I sat down. �Where were we?�

A guy like Joey Pep has seen a lot of things. Such people don�t impress easily at all. But right now he seemed to be.

�Damnit, Hammer � where are Turk and Lenny?�

�On their way to the hospital. That cab came in handy.�

He didn�t know what to say. His hands were shaking and the cigarette had fallen out of his mouth onto the floor.

I patted his shoulder and grinned in his face. �Joey, ease up. Don�t you know those wrestlers need a script to pull anything off? Me, I like to improvise.�

�What... what kind of shape are they in?�

�Serious but stable, I�d say.� I shifted in my chair. �Joey, here�s the thing. Don�t go hiring ex-wrestlers. Get guys who are wrestling now, and haven�t gone to fat yet.�

The redheaded waitress came over to see if we needed anything. I asked for another Four Roses and ginger, and Pepitone another bourbon.

�So, anyway, Leif Borensen,� I said, sitting back.

He was lighting up a cigarette, hands steadier but not entirely recovered. �Yeah, he was ours, for a long time. What about it?�

�Had Leif broken loose from you boys, to pursue his Broadway producer ambition? Was he going straight, I mean?�

The little mobster shook his head, sighing smoke. �No, that was strictly an ego deal. But he was staying in the movie business, maybe expanding if he got a Broadway hit he could get a film out of. Come on, Hammer, you know we don�t let people out till they hit retirement age.�

Retirement age tended to be however old you were when you wound up in the trunk of a stolen car with your throat slashed and your nuts in your mouth. Gold watch not included.

I said, �So Borensen was still your guy?�

�Still our guy.�

�Which is why he came to you, a few months ago, to get put in touch with a professional who could remove a problem he had. A problem called Martin Foster. His prospective father-in-law, no less.�

Pepitone took smoke in and let it out. Quietly he said, �When you�re in business with somebody, you do them favors. We had nothing against Foster and had nothing to do with his removal, either. Sometimes these business associates ask for a... referral. You know, like a doctor.�

�And Borensen wanted a specialist.�

He nodded, once. �He wanted a specialist.�

�This is somebody you�ve used.�

�I don�t see that that�s pertinent to your line of inquiry.�

�Maybe not.�

The redhead brought our drinks. I sipped mine. Pepitone sipped his.

I asked, �If Borensen had access to a �specialist,� why did he pull that hit-and-run kill himself?�

He laughed and smoke came out of his nose, like a dragon. �For a stupid reason. A very stupid damn reason.�

�Which was?�

He sighed. No smoke this time. �The specialist I refer to is very expensive. You don�t go to a specialist for just any operation, right? When it�s something really serious, you go to the best. And the best is who I sent Borensen to. And that was pricey.�

�Twenty-five grand.�

That I knew this surprised him, and his nostrils flared, like a horse rearing. �You do get around, Hammer. You�ve always had a goddamn nose. Yes. You have the figure exactly right.�

I sat forward. �Are you saying Borensen ran down Dick Blazen himself because he was too cheap to have it done?�

He gave me a one-shoulder shrug. �Draw your own conclusions. Certainly he could have afforded another twenty-five. But some of the richest people on the planet are the tightest damn wads around. After the fact, I told him so. Said when you�re dealing in matters like this, you can�t treat it like one of your goddamn B-movies where you pinch every goddamn penny.� He shrugged. �Of course, our friend learned his lesson, when he came to the rather obvious conclusion that running some prick down can leave witnesses.�

�You mean, when he decided to have me killed, he gave up do-it-yourself, and went back to the specialist, and paid the freight.�

He gave me a slow-motion shrug. �I wouldn�t know, Hammer. I wasn�t part of it. I just made the original referral.�

I grinned at him. �You must be wishing you hadn�t, about now. Because your specialist is getting way out of hand, Joey. He killed Borensen and � what you may not know since it was withheld from the papers � he staged it as a suicide that exactly mirrored the Foster one, right down to the specific type of rod.�

�What? Why the hell would he do that?�

�Because your specialist has a screw loose. He wanted to tell me and the cops to go screw ourselves. He wanted to have a big old belly laugh on us.�

He reached for the glass of bourbon and finished it.

Then he said: �To be honest with you, Hammer... we decided to drop our... specialist... when we saw that he was going after you, in such a reckless, foolhardy manner. Sending second-raters to take you on, instead of tending to business himself. No, we�re done with him.�

�Would you like to know why he did that?�

�Why, do you?�

�Oh yeah.�

I told the Bonetti capo about the late-night phone call, and the killer�s desire to challenge me, to take me on. To see which of us was the real killer among killers.

�He�s gone off the deep end,� Pepitone said, shaking his head. �Son of a bitch is screwier than an outhouse rat.�

�Doesn�t that worry you, Joey? This loose cannon knows where the bodies are buried, because he buried them... for you.�

Pepitone waved that off with a gold-ring-laden hand. �Oh, he won�t talk. That�s not a problem. Anyway, he�ll be out of the picture soon.�

�Because you�re removing his ass from Planet Earth?�

His smile was sly. �No. Something�s doing it for us.�

Not somebody � something.

I lighted up a smoke and smiled around it, as I got it going. �You wouldn�t be referring to Phasger�s Syndrome, would you?�

He grunted a laugh. �Damnit, Hammer. You have a nose. You do have a nose. Where... how... did you...? Hell with it. I don�t care. As I get it, the specialist�s maybe two weeks away from that disease kicking in and blotting him out, nice and slow. He thinks he�s a killer? That shit has it all over him.�

�He wants to shoot it out with me first.�

�Some advice, Hammer? Don�t do it. Don�t go looking for him. If you kill him, you�ll be doing him a favor. Wouldn�t you rather have the bastard suffer? I would.�

�So if I asked you for his name, or his address, you wouldn�t give it?�

�You�d have to haul me off and beat it out of me. And you could do that. We both know you could. But then you�d have a real problem, bigger than this asshole. You�d have to take on the Bonetti family, all their soldiers, all their guns. Is it worth it, just to have the pleasure of shooting this killer in the guts? You need to weigh the thing in your mind, Hammer. A sadistic prick like you should want to let that foul disease have him.�

He had a point.

�Or maybe he�ll track you down,� he said with a shrug. �If so, maybe you�ll kill his ass.�

�Or he�ll kill mine.�

He sneer-grinned, blew out smoke. �Either way, it�s a winner from where I�m sitting... Stay as long as you like, Hammer. Run a tab on the house. Take that pretty girl out on the dance floor. I�ll have those long-haired dipshits play a slow tune, so an old warrior like you can keep up.�

Indian summer had been replaced by a damp chill under a sky gone as gray as wet newspaper. A squad car was parked in the cobblestone street, half on the sidewalk, but still leaving barely enough room for the cab to pass after it dropped me. I saw Pat�s unmarked car just down the block. Took a real detective to find a parking space on this street before nine a.m.

His call had come in just after eight. I was already up and showered and shaved, sitting in the kitchenette in my underwear, eating the eggs and bacon I�d cooked up, drinking the coffee I�d brewed, as I read the News. Slow news day � neither the killer nor myself had killed anybody.

�Need to see you now,� the Captain of Homicide said. Nothing friendly in his voice, but nothing unfriendly either. Strictly business.

�At your office?�

�No,� he said, and gave me an address that I recognized at once. A chill worse than the one waiting outside for me crawled up my back like a stampede of spiders.

�Tell me,� I said.

�No. You come see for yourself. I want you here ASAP, Mike.�

�Okay,� I said.

Well, now I was here. In front of the white-washed building with the green shutters and black ironwork. The two cops on the sidewalk were in rain slickers, ready for what was coming. I was in my trenchcoat and hat, but not ready for what waited for me up a flight of stairs. The cops were expecting me and waved me inside, and I went up.

The kid across the shared landing, Shack, in T-shirt and jeans, was sitting against the closed door of his own apartment with his legs hugged to himself, his head with its nest of curls angled down. He was sobbing, the tears making melting-wax trails on his bony face. He was curled up, as if trying to retreat inside himself, his position nearly fetal. He didn�t seem to notice me.

A veteran harness bull stood guard next to the door opposite. He nodded and jerked his head for me to go on in. The door was ajar.

Pat met me, but left room to see past him. When I�d had a look, he held up the MICHAEL HAMMER INVESTIGATIONS business card and said, �Tell me why she had this, Mike.�

I brushed by him and went over to the little work area on the braided rug. The lab boys weren�t here yet, so she was all alone, just her and all those books surrounding her. In an oversize man�s T-shirt turned into a petite girl�s mini-length sleep apparel, she was seated Indian-style on the pillow and slumped onto the sawed-off table, head next to the typewriter, a small black powder-burned entry wound in her right temple. No exit wound visible, her head obviously resting on it.

Pat materialized next to me. �Bullet went in one temple and out the other. Ninety-degree angle again.�

By the open fingers of her right hand, its palm up, was a .22 Smith and Wesson Escort.

Bitterly, Pat said, �Does he get a discount, you think, buying so many of the goddamn things?�

I wanted to drop down there and take her into my arms and stroke her hair and soothe her, there there, there there, but it wouldn�t do her any good, would it? The only thing I could do for her now was to stop the madman who�d done this evil thing, and much as I would have liked him to suffer the months of agony of the disease that was eating him and turning him ever more insane, I knew that his end had to come soon, very soon, before he took any more lives in what was clearly a psycho�s game, now.

But silently I promised this girl something, this sweet smart kid with brains deserving of so much more than a bullet, who�d had all of her life ahead of her when I last saw her, only neither of us knew that span could be measured in hours. Marcy Bloom would never get the chance to really bloom, would she? So I promised her he would suffer, and that it wouldn�t be quick.

We looked down at the girl, so young, so dead.

My lips were back over my teeth but it wasn�t really a smile. �He�s sticking it in our ass, Pat. Telling us to go screw ourselves royal. The Borensen kill might have passed for somebody really blotting himself out, the similarities between his death and Foster�s just coincidental, or maybe an admission of guilt by Leif that he murdered his future father-in-law. But this time, the killer�s staged a suicide for no reason other than to tell us it isn�t a suicide.�

�What this is,� Pat said, �is a signature.�

�Oh yeah. He signed this one all right, autographed the goddamn thing, and he�s somewhere laughing himself silly at us. The kind of laughter you don�t hear outside a madhouse.�

Pat was nodding. �So he�s gone way over the edge, our hitman�s hitman. Gone from professional to amateur.�

�That�s one way to look at it. But he�s a kill-crazy amateur with cool professional skills. That makes him all kinds of dangerous.�

�No argument, chum.� He held up the little white card with the little black letters again. �Now, what was Marcy Bloom doing with your business card?�

�I was here yesterday evening.�

�Kind of young for you.�

I gave him a look. �I wasn�t her type, Pat. She was Richard Blazen�s co-author on that tell-all memoir he was writing. I spent several hours with her going over reams of transcripts and notes, looking for the name of Borensen�s mob connection.�

His eyes briefly flared. �And did you find it?�

I told him I had, and that I�d confronted Joey Pep at the Peppermint Lounge after leaving here last night. I said that Pepitone admitted that Borensen had been in the Bonetti family�s pocket since the then-actor was peddling drugs among the Broadway crowd. I kept the talk about the family�s contract-killer �specialist� to myself. Not ready to show Pat all my cards just yet.

�The Borensen/Bonetti connection could be useful,� Pat said, �in a tangential way.�

�You mean, in taking down the Bonettis.�

�Yeah. And Joey has problems of his own. That famous club of his is on the verge of getting shuttered � losing its liquor license. They had an incident that won�t help last night.�

�Oh?�

He nodded. �Somebody driving by called it in. Nasty brouhaha between some guys out in front of the place. Two Peppermint Lounge bouncers got bounced to the hospital. They�re still there, but they aren�t talking.� He gave me a sly smile. �That must have gone down after you left, huh, Mike?�

�Must have.�

He pushed his hat back on his head. �The Bonettis catching flak is all well and good, but it doesn�t get us any closer to your middle-of-the-night caller.�

That gave me an opening to reveal some other cards to Pat. Putting him on a slow but worthwhile track while I was taking a faster one was a solid way to hedge my bets in the hunt for the Specialist. Yeah, capital �S� � I had something to call the son of a bitch now, at least.

So I told Pat about Dr. Beech and the disease that was taking down our killer in its own good time.

�Phasger�s Syndrome?� he said, frowning. �Never heard of it... but it sure sounds like hell on earth.�

�Even that�s too good for this prick. But with a court order, you can get that list out of Dr. Beech, of the others who�ve made twenty-five-grand �contributions.� They�re all pay-offs for contract killings, of course. You can clear a slew of cases out of your unsolved homicides file, and maybe get a line on our psychotic hitman.�

Head cocked, Pat was giving me a narrow-eyed look I knew too well. �How long have you been sitting on this information, Mike?�

�Since yesterday is all. I wasn�t holding it back, buddy. Just hadn�t got around to telling you yet.�

His hands were on his hips. �Well, that�s swell, Mike. �Cause I would hate to have to haul you in on obstruction of justice charges.�

�If you think I don�t want this bastard found, Pat, you�re crazier than he is.�

�Well, one of us is. I�ve seen that look on your face before, Mike. Too many times. You want him for yourself. You want him in front of your .45, primed for one of your fancy self-defense pleas. Not this time. You can help us, and we�ll be glad to have you � I for one appreciate your skills and acumen. But we�re talking about a killer that could potentially lead us to taking down one of this city�s five major crime families. If that happens, the death of this girl can maybe mean something, that something good will come of it. No, Mike, this time it�s got to be by the book.�

�No problems, old buddy. Strictly by the book.�

The Old Testament.

�Listen, Pat,� I said, �I don�t see any of the Bloom girl�s boxes of research materials. You want to build a case against the killer and/or the Bonettis, you�ll want those. They turned out to be Marcy Bloom�s life�s work. Were they in the bedroom?�

He shook his head; this was all news to him. �No. The only materials are those few scattered things on that makeshift desk of hers.�

I thumped his chest with a forefinger, just hard enough for some emphasis. �You need to canvass this building and at least the adjacent two, and the ones right across the street. When you have a time of death from the M.E., that�ll help narrow it. But there were nine full boxes of those transcripts, and somebody had to carry them out of here, and down two flights out to the street. Load them in a car or whatever. By now those boxes and their contents will be destroyed, but you may get yourself a description of the killer.�

�We already have that.�

I blinked at him. �What?�

�I will put that canvass in motion, Mike, that makes a lot of sense. But that kid across the way saw the guy.�

The lab boys and photographer were coming in, and we headed past them, to talk to Shack.

�This boy found the body,� Pat said, just before we moved onto the landing, �shortly before seven. He often went in early and made coffee and sometimes breakfast for the girl. She�d leave the door unlocked for him.�

The young man wasn�t crying now, but he looked as dejected as a dog left along a roadside by a family moving on without him. The little landing was getting crowded, so Pat sent the uniformed man inside for now.

�Stand up, son,� Pat said.

The kid struggled to his feet, each limb of his bony frame moving a little slower than the last. He was still in the peace symbol T-shirt and ancient jeans, his feet bare.

�This is Michael Hammer,� Pat said, gesturing my way. �He�s an investigator helping us��

I said, �We�ve met. Shack helped Miss Bloom and me go through all those research materials.�

�Ah,� Pat said.

A sudden thought gripped me and I leaned near my friend, whispering, �Shack here might be able to testify to what we discovered in those transcripts.�

Pat gave me a knowing nod, then turned back to the kid.

�Son, would you tell Mr. Hammer what you saw last night?�

�Can I trust him?� the kid blurted, flashing me a wary look.

What was that about?

�You can,� Pat assured him. �Just go over it again, please.�

�Sure.� He turned his narrow, angular face toward me; his eyes were bloodshot. �Around one a.m. last night, I heard knocking. Loud knocking. I, uh, cracked the door to see what was going on.�

I said to Pat, �He does that.� Then to Shack, I said, �Stop for a moment and describe him.�

He nodded. �Okay. About five ten, eleven. Big but no giant. Kind of a Mr. Businessman type � dark suit, tie, hat. Hardly anybody wears a hat any more.�

He was saying this to two guys in hats.

Pat asked, �Can you give me any more of a description than that?�

�Yes, sir. I got a real good look at him. Oval face, kind of a pug nose, wide-set dark eyes, small mouth. Short dark hair. Glasses, heavy plastic frames. Pale. Definitely not a guy who gets much sun, y�know?�

�All right,� I said. �Get back to your story.�

�Right. So, the guy was knocking for the umpteenth time, and I was about to go out there and tell him he�d better leave before he got himself in trouble... but then Marcy was there, in the doorway. She was trusting like that. Very open girl. Of course, that�s the vibe down here. It�s not like anywhere else in the city, the Village, you know?�

�We know,� Pat said. �Go on.�

�Well, this guy says to her, �I�m sorry to bother you so late, Miss Bloom, but Mr. Hammer asked me to pick up some materials that you and he worked with this evening.� There was some more talk that I didn�t get, but finally she nodded and let him in. Shut the door, and I shut mine.�

So that was why the kid didn�t know whether or not to trust me � the killer had posed as my representative.

I asked, �Did you hear anything else last night? Like the guy leaving? Or maybe going up and down the stairs? Or most importantly � something that might have been a gunshot?�

He shook his head through all of that.

�You hear a lot of noises in the city,� Shack said, shrugging. �Even in the Village. I guess... I guess not all the vibes down here are good.�

�I guess not,� I said.

�Son,� Pat said, �would you be willing to come to my office and take a look through some mug books? We can start with individuals who we already suspect may be working as professional killers.�

The bloodshot eyes grew wide. �Is that who killed Marcy? Some kind of... hitman?�

�It�s too early for speculation,� Pat said, which was a lie obviously. �We can give you a ride to and from. Could you be ready in half an hour?�

�Sure. Anything to get the freak that did this.�

�If need be,� Pat offered, �I can talk to your boss where you work, so you don�t get in trouble.�

�Oh, I don�t work anywhere. I�m a painter. Like Jackson Pollock. I�ll have a gallery show one of these days. Till then Mom and Dad kind of... underwrite me.�

�It�s an investment,� I said.

�I think so,� Shack said, a little defensively.

Then he disappeared into his apartment.

�What�s going to become of these hippie kids?� Pat wondered aloud.

�Well, it�s official.�

�What is?�

�You�re an old fart.�

We grinned at each other. We could use it.

�Did that boy love her, Mike?�

�He had a terrible crush on her, even though it was misplaced.�

�She wouldn�t have anything to do with him?�

�Oh, no, she was friendly with him. Took advantage a little, knowing he was sweet on her.�

�Now who sounds like an old fart?�

I laughed. �Thing is, she was gay. Or did you know that already?�

His eyes flared momentarily. �No. We should probably ask around and look into her girl friends or girl friend. They might know something.�

I gave a fatalistic shrug. �I doubt it. Marcy didn�t know her killer. But there�ll be some sad gals in the Village tonight.� I tugged my hat brim down for the coming rain. �You need me any longer, Pat?�

He shook his head. �No. But I would like to know, Mike � are you going to work with me on this? How about it? Can we do this one together? Or does it have to be a damn race again?�

I let him have half a grin. �Come on, buddy, you know I�m a solo act.�

�Yeah? Tell that to Velda.�

�Okay, so I sometimes work with a beautiful doll. You couldn�t pass the physical. Hey, I gave you the Dr. Beech lead, which you and your army of brilliant scientific types can handle much quicker and faster than an old-time flatfoot like me ever could. You�re welcome, by the way, for all the cases you�ll close.�

His gaze dripped of suspicion. �What are you going to be doing?�

�Trying another route. A shorter one.� I put a hand on his shoulder. �But if I don�t make it, buddy � if our killer turns out to be a badder ass than yours truly � promise me you�ll find this bastard. But it�ll take a hell of a lot of digging.�

�That�s our specialty,� Pat said. His smile wasn�t big, but it had plenty of friendship in it. �But don�t die on me just yet, you big slob.�

�I�ll see what I can do.�

I started heading down the stairs.

He called after me: �What are you going to do, Mike? What have you got in mind, to beat me and the NYPD to this guy?�

�Nothing much,� I said up to him. �Just giving the bastard some bait.�

�What kind of bait?�

�Me.�

I figured my next move was to corner Joey Pep again, and tell him his high-priced hitman had knocked off an innocent girl last night. Make him see that his so-called Specialist had gone off the rails and needed stopping, right now. Maybe Pepitone would see the wisdom of that and lead me to the bastard. Or maybe I�d have to give Joey a taste of what his bouncers got.

So what if the Bonettis got pissed at me over it? I�d had mob trash pissed at me before. Sure, they knew where to find me. But I knew where to find them.

If memory served, the Peppermint Lounge opened at eleven a.m., typical for a Manhattan bar, but also to accommodate the tourist crowd who hadn�t heard the twist craze was over. Pepitone still had his office in the backroom, so from my desk phone I called over there and asked for him. He wasn�t in yet. Usually showed around one. You wanna leave a message? I said no thanks, and I didn�t leave a name, either.

I�d barely hung up when the phone rang. I answered and heard Pat�s voice, hushed yet anxious.

�Mike, can you get over here?�

There was nothing official in his tone.

�What is it now?� I asked. �Did that kid find somebody in a mug book?�

�Just get over here, Mike. Please.�

Please, yet!

�Okay,� I said, hung up, grabbed my hat and trenchcoat and headed out into an afternoon where the sky had deepened from gray to black, like God was in a bad mood. Maybe He was hungry, too, because it sure as hell sounded like His stomach was growling.

Pat�s office door was open. He was in his shirtsleeves and a loosened tie behind his desk, and he looked haggard. He waved me in and said, �Shut it.�

I did, then went over, tossed my hat on his desk, and slung myself into the chair opposite him. He already had coffee waiting. I sipped mine. Milk and sugar. Perfect.

�What can I do for you, Captain?�

�I�d like your help.�

�Any time, buddy.�

He sat forward, his voice soft yet with an underlying edge. �I need you to back me up on something. Something that�s a little... dicey. Something more along, you know � your lines.�

I was interested, but couldn�t resist needling him a little. �What happened to �by the book?��

His smile was rumpled and maybe a shade embarrassed. �We�ll leave it open on my desk. Face down.�

I nodded. �So spill.�

His eyes narrowed. �We had that kid in here for an hour. Looking at mug books. He came up with nothing. I was grasping at straws, I admit. So I showed him a wire photo the LAPD sent me just two hours ago.�

�Why did the LAPD do that?�

He leaned back in his swivel chair, the gray-blue eyes troubled but steady. �You know, Mike, you�re not the only detective in this town.�

�Well, it�s a big town.� I was lighting up a Lucky. �Bound to be a few. Maybe even some on this department.�

�Generous of you to admit.�

I waved out the match. �Let me guess. You�ve been contacting big city police departments, chatting up friends working homicide, guys you met at police conventions maybe. And you ran the profile past them.�

Something flashed in his eyes. �What profile would that be?�

I blew a smoke ring, feeling cocky. �Guys who had small, seemingly legit businesses, like one-man insurance agencies or travel agent set-ups or maybe accountants, who got pulled in on suspicion of a killing, but walked. Guys whose businesses were legit but barely making it, and that just might be fronts for contract killers to hide behind between jobs. Guys who, finally, booked it out of town when the cops were getting on to them.�

He gave me half a smile and a whole laugh. �Okay, so I�m not the only detective in town, either. You�re right, Mike. I wanted to see who else our hitman�s hitman might have brought in to join his stable of hired guns.�

�And you found a possible. Or rather the LAPD did.�

He nodded emphatically. �But we may have caught a bigger fish than I figured.�

The wire photo he handed over to me showed, in typical front and side views, a blank-eyed, square-faced guy with short dark hair and regular features. Name: Dennis Clark, thirty-five, six one, two hundred pounds. He had the bland, clean-cut good looks of a Madison Avenue ad man. Native of Southern California.

�This goes back five years,� I said.

Pat nodded again. �The profile is the same, but Dennis Clark has been in Manhattan, running a small insurance agency, for just that long.�

�Not a recent import.�

�Not at all. And if he�s hiding, it�s in plain sight. Took me about three minutes to get his home address.�

I sat forward. �So maybe this is our man. The top of the food chain.�

An eyebrow went up. �I think he is. And there�s more than just theory behind that.�

I tossed him back the wire photo. �You mean, that kid Shack identified him?�

�Well... yes and no.�

�You might want to break that down.�

Pat sipped some coffee, shrugged. �It was �yes� at first. Kid made the guy. He had to study it a while, and of course that wire photo like all wire photos is crappy quality. But then he started nodding and tapped it with his finger and said it was the man he saw go into the girl�s apartment. He was sure it was him.�

�So why aren�t you out there picking Dennis Clark up?�

His smile had a bitter twist. �Because when I told that kid that we�d be bringing Clark in for a show-up, he got nervous. Started asking questions, like, �Will he know that I identified him?� And I had to tell him, yes, eventually, if this made it to trial, he would have to testify. He�d have to point Clark out in the courtroom as the man he saw go into Marcy Bloom�s last night. That is, if Clark indeed was who the kid saw. We hadn�t even had a show-up yet.�

I was ahead of him. �And that�s where the �no� half of �yes and no� comes in. The kid suddenly didn�t recognize the suspect. Got unsure of himself, then finally said, �I don�t think that�s the guy,� or words to that effect. And hustled his skinny scared ass out of here.�

�Like they say in the Village,� Pat commented bitterly, �it�s a bummer.�

�It�s a bummer, all right. The kid was nuts about that girl, but it�s not hard to rationalize saving your own skin. Helping haul her killer to justice doesn�t bring the girl back.�

Pat pounded a fist on his desk. �If that hippie hadn�t retracted his ID, I�d be over at Clark�s apartment house right now, with men on the street and all over that building. And I�d be going in there heavy and taking him down. Personally.�

�Arresting him, you mean.�

Pat frowned at me. �If he cooperates. If he doesn�t... he goes down all the way. He goes down hard.�

�Now you�re talking.�

He sat forward, frustration tightening his face. �Only, Mike � I can�t do that. I don�t even have enough to bring the S.O.B. in for questioning. All I have is a wire photo from L.A. that might back up a theory I have that could just be a wild hair up my ass. I have a witness ID that�s been withdrawn, worthless. What if I go there, and bring Dennis Clark in, and I�m wrong? Well, I�m getting a little old to pound a beat on Staten Island, and too young for early retirement.�

My grin must have been horrible; I was glad I didn�t have to look at it. �Old buddy, you are screwed sideways. You really don�t have enough to bring him in. You don�t even have enough to talk to him. Anything that came of it would get tossed out by some holier-than-thou judge.�

�You�re wrong, Mike.�

�I am?�

�It would never make it past the D.A.� He leaned both elbows on his desk and looked right at me. �But what if I told you about all this? Off-duty. Over beers, maybe. Since we�re old friends and you�re involved in the case.�

�Stranger things have happened.�

�And you tell me you�re going over there to shake the truth out of this new suspect. I of course would tell you not to, try to stop you, and finally insist if you�re determined to talk to Mr. Clark � as a part of your private investigation into the case � that I have to come along.�

I considered it, then said, �You might get in a little hot water over that. But not boiling.�

�What do you think, Mike?�

�I think... what are we waiting for?�

Several days later, we were having coffee after lunch at the Blue Ribbon, seated at the corner table in the niche of celebrity photos � Velda and me and Hy Gardner, who was heading back to Florida later this afternoon.

�Things are pretty much back to normal,� Velda was saying to Hy. She was in a light blue silk blouse today and a dark blue pencil skirt, and looked sexier than Ann Corio at the end of her act.

The columnist looked at her skeptically over the glasses halfway down his droopy nose. ��Normal� being a relative term where Mike Hammer is concerned.�

�Normal,� I said, patting my partner�s hand, �is having Velda back at her desk, where she belongs.�

She smirked at me. �That�s your version of barefoot and pregnant, right?�

I raised my hands in surrender. Some battles just aren�t worth fighting.

�You know, Mike,� Hy said, that naturally dour puss of his at odds with the laughter in his eyes, �you�re really slipping.�

�Am I?�

Velda said, �Oh, I don�t know, Hy. If he was slipping, then the other day he�d have been splashed all over the sidewalk like our hitman friend.�

Hy sipped coffee, then said to me, �What I mean is � the biggest contract killing ring since Murder, Incorporated, and you let Pat take it to the finish line? It�s not like you, Mike.�

Velda said, �Oh, my fearless leader�s not satisfied. He�s still snooping around the edges of the case, like a dog looking for the right tree.�

�With the bad guy in the morgue?� Hy said. Right now there was something pixie-ish in the middle-aged man�s expression. �Since when did you care about loose ends, Mike?�

�This whole thing has been about loose ends,� I said. �Maybe you shouldn�t head home to the beach and the sunshine just yet. I might have a story for you that�ll put you back on the front page.�

Hy waved that away. �It�s been a long time since I worked the crime beat, Mike. Those two Broadway musicals I covered this trip were criminal enough.�

�Well,� Velda said, �maybe Gwen Foster�s new one will make your next trip worthwhile.�

�Oh?�

I said, �Yeah, she called this morning. She�s going to back the production herself that her late father and the unlamented Leif were going to mount.�

�That girl�s going places,� Hy said. He checked his watch. �And so am I. I need to get back to the Plaza to pack and check out before heading to LaGuardia.�

He grabbed the check and gave Velda a kiss on the cheek, and headed out.

She and I had another cup of coffee.

�Mike,� she said softly, �why aren�t you satisfied that this thing is over? Pat seems to be.�

�It�s those damn loose ends, kitten.�

�Too many of them.�

�No. Not enough.�

She frowned, but didn�t ask for an explanation, which was fine, because I wasn�t sure I had one.

I flagged a cab and we took a ride to a certain corner on Lexington. It wasn�t on the way to the office, but my excuse was that I wanted to pick up the magazines that Billy regularly held for me.

He was back at the old stand, literally, a small, distinctive figure in his old plaid cap and new padded jacket, replacing the one that got shot up. Colorful comic-book covers were on racks at right and left, and the best newsstand selection of papers, paperbacks, and periodicals in Manhattan was on festive display under the little roof.

The tallest Singer Midget gave me the stack of magazines with Saga on top and Playboy hidden half-way down, out of respect to Velda.

I said, �You don�t look much the worse for wear, kiddo.�

�Hey, Mike, I feel like a million bucks and change. It�s like I took a rest cure!� Billy grinned at Velda on my arm, and there was a hint of lechery in it. �And best of all, I had me a real babe of a nurse.�

She gave him a kiss on the forehead that must have made at least his day and probably his week. Then we caught another cab and headed back to our home base at the Hackard Building.

The afternoon went quickly. I had some insurance company paperwork to deal with that had piled up. Velda had stacks of mail to go through, and now and then she�d come into my office with a question or a menial task � sign this, check that.

�Hey, you got something today from that Dr. Beech,� she said, waving an envelope at me.

�Wonder what this is,� I said, taking it. �Pat should be dealing with him by now, going after those contract-kill donors. I don�t see where I�d have anything to do with Dr. Beech at this point.�

She shrugged and went out, moving in that liquid way, like her bottom was operating on pistons. I took time out to watch. Some views you can�t ever see too many times.

The letter from Beech did include a paragraph about cooperating with Pat, but mostly it was something else. Something that made me really smile. I tucked the letter away and tossed it on the desk and had a big old laugh that damn near rattled the blinds.

Velda stuck her head in. �What�s so darn funny?�

�Nothing, doll. I just have a sick sense of humor.�

She smirked. �Tell me something I don�t know.�

I reached for the phone and soon had Pat on the line.

�What is it, Mike? Kind of busy here.�

�Why, is there a line of cops going out your door wanting to pat you on the back? Or maybe you have to see the Commissioner to hear about a medal or commendation for service above the��

�Or maybe I�m just trying to live down saving Mike Hammer�s tail. You think there aren�t guys on the force who wouldn�t have liked to see you fall off that ledge? That would�ve been the splat heard round the department.�

He had a point.

�Just a couple of things I�d like to go over,� I said. �Some things aren�t tracking for me.�

�Okay.� Slight impatience in it.

�The other day, I got a look at that bank book you found. That hundred grand was deposited in a new account, just a few days before. Doesn�t that make your antennae tingle?�

There was a shrug in his voice. �Not particularly. I�m sure guys in Clark�s business move money around all the time. Is that all, Mike?�

�No. There�s the little black book you found. It only has three entries in it.�

�So what?�

�Well, start with this � what the hell kind of address book has only three names in it?�

�There�s no law that says it has to have more.�

�Hell, Pat, don�t you think it�s just a little suspicious? Kind of goddamn convenient? That it had the three names we wanted to see, and nothing or nobody else?�

�No. Those were the hitmen Clark recruited from out of town. Maybe there would have been more, eventually.�

�My middle-of-the-night caller didn�t have an �eventually.� Not a few weeks away from that Phasger�s Syndrome kicking in.�

�Well, I just don�t see any significance.�

�Think! You need to have the coroner check and see if Clark had the disease.�

�There�s already been an autopsy, which is no picnic when the deceased hit cement from eight stories up, and nothing came up. Except maybe a few lunches.�

�But was the coroner looking for Phasger�s?�

�Mike��

�I went down to Greenwich Village earlier today. Stopped by the Bloom girl�s building. Did you know that kid moved out?�

�Actually, I did.�

�And you didn�t mention it to me? Christ!�

�Mike, you aren�t on the Homicide Squad, last time I checked. But for your information, yes, our hippie pal ran out of headquarters scared shitless and skedaddled out of that apartment. Can you blame him?�

I laid on the sarcasm. �Surely he would have seen the media coverage of how a brave captain of homicide had brought the Borensen case to a successful, exciting conclusion...�

�Mike, Shack moved out that same afternoon. Before things came to a conclusion. Just kind of... disappeared. The building manager says these hippie kids are always moving suddenly. They don�t stay in one place long.�

�Ever consider that if the kid has �disappeared,� maybe he�s dead? Gone swimming, maybe � the kind where you don�t come up for air until gas bloat brings you up? Maybe Shack�s another loose end that got tied off, and if so, Clark wasn�t our man.�

�Clark wasn�t our man? Damn! What the hell are you talking about, Mike?�

�I�m saying it smells like a set-up. You were handed just the right items, Pat � the bank book, the address book, and the perfect patsy, the perfect corpse, to make this case look closed.�

�You need to tame that imagination of yours, buddy.�

�And you need to develop an imagination, Captain Chambers!�

He hung up on me.

I called out to Velda. �Damnit! He hung up on me!�

From her desk, she called back: �Imagine that.�

Because my approach to completing Mickey Spillane�s unfinished novels is to set them in the period during which he began them, I find myself working from materials that were contemporary to my famous co-author but which require me to forge a novel that is a period piece bordering on an historical novel.

In that spirit, I wish to acknowledge Peppermint Twist (2012) by John Johnson, Jr. and Joel Selvin with Dick Cami, for information about the legendary Peppermint Lounge. Although the Genovese crime family�s involvement in the club is well-known, the treatment of the mob�s role here is fictional.

I also wish to thank and acknowledge my wife Barb Collins, with whom I write a very un-Spillane-like mystery series about antiquing, who gave me two extremely important suggestions that improved this book a great deal. Thanks also to my partner Jane Spillane, Titan editor Miranda Jewess, my lost brother Nick Landau, and my friend and agent, Dominick Abel.