[Mike Hammer 14] - The Goliath Bone

by Mickey Spillane; Max Alan Collins

  In seconds I had my leather folder out, the one I use on rich clients, where the state license from New York was displayed over the permit to carry a concealed weapon. He didn't have to read it. Mr. Rogers knew, and a slow smile took some of the hardness out of his face. This time he held out his hand and we shook, a private cop and an old ex-city cop.

  "Why'd you want to check my ticket?" I said. "You recognized me from the start."

  "Maybe I wanted to see if you were still licensed after all this time and after everything you've pulled. Haven't seen much about you in the papers for maybe, what—ten years? Not till that subway shooting the other day, anyway."

  "Maybe you got some beer-drinking buddies you want to tell you met Mike Hammer. Be sure to let 'em know I'm even uglier in person."

  That actually got a chuckle out of him. "I retired out of the two-seven as a captain before I took this job. Heard about you, Mr. Hammer, over the years—never had a chance to meet the wild man himself before. Really did have to check your creds, though—there are a lot of look-alikes on the streets these days."

  "Nobody looks like this but me, pal."

  "Maybe not. But you'd be surprised the sophisticated stuff that's been pulled. There was a heist here just two months ago."

  "Here? No kidding."

  "Whatever it is the Hurleys are studying right now, Mr. Hammer, is only one of the many precious artifacts housed within these walls in my time on this job."

  "What got snatched?"

  "That's not for public consumption."

  "Do I look like the public?"

  His sigh was small but large with weariness. "Somebody heisted a moon-rock specimen out of here."

  "Had to be an inside job."

  "Most likely, but who do we put the finger on? Do you think the university would allow a real investigation involving their precious academics? People like the Hurleys are superstars in their fields—Nobel Prizes come cheap around here."

  "You got a suspect?"

  "Hell, I know who did it."

  "Too high up the ladder here to expose?"

  He shook his head and, in the same quiet tone, told me, "Not even a full professor. Probably wanted it for his personal collection. Intellectually brilliant and a specialist in his area, but a moral midget."

  "You'll get the rock back, then? You've let him know that you know, right?"

  "Right. I was a cop long enough to know how to play the intimidation game without going over the line. Very soon that precious chunk of green cheese will show up in an obscure place where it could just very possibly have been overlooked."

  "So he didn't have to use the hole in the wall."

  "No."

  "But somebody, someday, could."

  "Yes."

  "Can I see it?"

  "Of course," he said, and stood.

  Velda stayed with Matthew and Jenna while Mr. Rogers and I exited under a canopy and down the sidewalk out onto the street, turned right, walked to the corner, and turned right again. Trucks came in this way, and one was still at the loading dock, a pair of burly jumpsuited guys moving a series of wooden crates from the tailgate into the building.

  On each side of the dock stood a university guard in navy blue, both young, muscular-looking and armed. These were not the khaki-clad Special Forces types that had been brought in to supplement the existing security staff with the need for heightened security the Goliath bone represented. But they looked efficient enough.

  "What are they carrying?" I asked Mr. Rogers.

  ".38 Police Positives."

  "Light weaponry, these days," I offered.

  "Enough to keep the riffraff away. Besides, it's university regs. They're not interested in lawsuits."

  I shook my head, amazed by their stupidity. " What, do they think a .38 caliber can't kill you dead?"

  "I won't pretend to understand the civilian bureaucrat mentality, Mr. Hammer. But they would never allow something as deadly sounding as a Glock or an AK-47."

  "How about a good old-fashioned .45?"

  "Now there's a man's piece," he said, and laughed. Who said he had no sense of humor? "If the slug doesn't do the job, you can always knock the bastard's brains out with the butt."

  We were bonding.

  He pawed the air and smiled. "Come on around that truck, Mr. Hammer." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I'll show you the Trojan Horse walkway into this place."

  The door was a painted metal face set into the brickwork with the flush look of old-time stability, a closure that would resist the impact from a small tank. It was hinged from the inside so there was no way you could get the door off. The brickwork that surrounded it was thick, pure granite that no intruder would want to mess with.

  "Where does it lead, Mr. Rogers?"

  "To a damned latrine. A pair of toilet bowls, two sinks, and a ten-foot long urinal. Made for the construction workers when they built the place."

  I started grinning.

  "What's so damn funny?"

  "Wouldn't happen to also be an inside door in that latrine that leads into a corridor of the building? Maybe covered over, probably with sheetrock and painted ... that nobody knows is there? Or hardly nobody."

  His forehead frowned and his mouth smiled. "You've seen the original blueprints, have you?"

  "No, but I've been to the rodeo a whole bunch of damn times. Am I right?"

  His nod was almost imperceptible.

  "Why don't you ask me what else I'm not supposed to see?"

  "Sure." His hands were on his hips; his eyes were narrowed. "How would you get in?"

  "That's an idiot door," I told him. "It was built a century ago and locked with an idiot lock. Under that paint job is a plugged keyhole you can't see, but it's right where a keyhole should be. You want me to open it now?"

  "Wise guy," Mr. Rogers said. But he was grinning now.

  "Have you suggested a reinforcement?"

  "The Board of Directors live in the past, Mike. They pooh-poohed the idea. The door was tight, didn't even rattle, no access has ever been attempted, and they were running on a budget."

  "They got enough money to X-ray my ass when I come calling on that lab downstairs." I shook my head. "Any other soft spots?"

  "Not that I know of. Why the Twenty Questions, Mr. Hammer?"

  "Because we're in a war, friend. The enemy has racked up a solid score so far, and they're looking to take another bite out of the Big Apple."

  "Well, shit, if they get near here they're going to run into some damn heavy fire, anyway."

  "Dying is their pleasure, buddy. They shoot right up to paradise. They think."

  "We'll be glad to give them a boost." Then he frowned. "What the hell would terrorists be wanting around here?"

  "Why do you think you were provided those Special Forces boys to beef up your staff all of a sudden? The Hurleys are dealing with a relic of interest to a certain part of the world that would be goddamn worthless if a shitload of oil weren't bubbling beneath it."

  "Mr. Hammer—"

  "Make it Mike."

  "And I'm Dan. Mike, this facility has superior security—"

  "With you in charge, Dan, I'd have to agree."

  "...as far as it goes. The research done here involves precious—sometimes priceless—artifacts. With the exception of my temporary new staff members, we're chiefly set up for the kind of security a major museum might have. But we're not cut out for a terrorist incursion."

  "Yeah. I know. But I figured you wouldn't mind getting a heads-up."

  "Not at all, Mike. Really appreciate it, though I don't know what I can do about it."

  We walked back to the main lobby where Velda and the kids waited and I told Dan Rogers I'd see him in the morning. The rugged ex-cop had a tight expression as he nodded so long, and our little group went out to the van with its Secure Solutions driver and a guard who rode shotgun. And when that guard rode shotgun, he rode shotgun.

  The new safe-house was on a cross street near the Garment District, a five
-room furnished apartment, one of half a dozen the security outfit maintained in Manhattan. I had the driver and guard wait down with the van and Velda and the kids, while I went up and made sure the premises were intact and empty.

  Nobody with guns was waiting this time around. And the place should suit the kids since it was furnished like a damn college dorm room.

  The two security guys stayed with the van for now. Eventually one of them would come upstairs to babysit brother and sister. For the moment it was just Velda and me with them. Velda and Jenna went off into the small kitchen to make coffee and rustle up some sandwiches, while I sat next to Matthew on a flimsy sofa in a living room furnished like a page in an IKEA catalog.

  This was my first chance to talk to Matthew away from Jenna. I put a hand on his shoulder. "You doing all right, son? Some pretty tough sledding."

  His smile was lopsided. "It is a little weird. Jenna seems fine during the day, but she cries at night."

  "But you're there to comfort her, right?"

  "Right. Uh ... Mr. Hammer, I told you before, my parents don't know about us, and if they ever find out, I don't know what they'll do."

  I scowled at him. "Stop thinking of yourself as a kid. You're a grown man, Matt, and Jenna's a grown woman. Your folks'll get over it."

  "Dad may. But—"

  "But what?"

  "Nothing."

  "You don't get along with your stepmother, do you, Matt?"

  "We ... we get along okay."

  "Hell you do. You resent her for stealing your Dad away from your Mom."

  He didn't argue the point.

  I asked, "Where is your real mother now?"

  "She died. She ... she killed herself."

  "Sorry, Matt. Hell, I had no idea."

  "She was a teacher, too, but not in my father's area, or league. She taught high-school English. And she was devoted to Dad. But she didn't share his work life the way Charlene does."

  "Charlene. You don't call her ' Mom'?"

  "No. Listen, I was in middle school when Dad left Mom, and I didn't handle it very well. Mom wasn't perfect. She had a drinking problem. Who am I kidding? She was an alcoholic. She kept it away from her work, but every evening, she got awful sloppy. And when things got rocky between her and Dad, she really began to fall apart."

  "So you took it out on your stepmother?"

  "Yeah. I suppose I did. As I got older, I realized I'd been, well, a real jerk, and tried to make up for it. But no matter what I try or say, she's never warmed up to me. Oh, she's nice to my face, but I know she says terrible things about me to Dad, behind my back."

  "How do you know?"

  "I just do. She's terribly two-faced. She pretends to be nice, and then puts me on the spot with Dad in any number of sneaky ways ... hard to explain."

  "Not really, Matt. It's an old story. Jenna knows how you feel?"

  "Yeah, and it's ... kind of a sore point between us. She doesn't want to hear me rag on her mother, and I guess I can't blame her."

  "And you think when your stepmother finds out about you and Jenna, the shit'll hit the fan?"

  He nodded. "That woman could really drive a wedge between me and Dad. She's tried before, but I've always managed to stay pretty tight with him."

  I patted his shoulder. "Fathers and sons have their problems. But nothing can come between them, not if they really are tight."

  His eyes pleaded with me. "What do you think I should do, Mr. Hammer? Tell Dad? That assumes I can get him off alone somewhere—Charlene's always around."

  "If it was me? Soon as Goliath is history again, I'd grab that girl and run off with her."

  "Elope?"

  "You really think your folks'll want a big wedding? 'Matthew, do you take your sister for your lawful wedded wife?'"

  His eyes widened, then rolled. "Good point, Mr. Hammer. Good point."

  The green metal cartridge case sat on Velda's desk, the lid open so the smaller cardboard containers that held fifty rounds of .45 ammunition each looked like an ornamental display. A chemically fragrant smell hung over the brass-and-lead ampoules like a perfume of death.

  On the side of the metal case were stenciled white letters and numbers, denoting where these babies were destined for. But that was back in 1945. The year of manufacture was there, too. Maybe a great researcher could track this antique back to the last owner, but I didn't have the time nor the aptitude to go that lengthy route.

  For a long while, Velda sat perched on the edge of her own desk, watching me camped out there in her swivel chair. When she thought I'd spent enough time looking at a damn box without doing anything about it, she blurted, "Don't you have any idea who sent that, Mike?"

  And that was when I knew.

  It was somebody who had access to cartridge cases of old but unused .45s.

  It was somebody who knew me pretty damn well.

  It was somebody who had something to tell me and wanted to make sure I was interested enough to trace it out.

  When I first knew him, Dick Mallory had been a wheeler-dealer kid tossed out of the Army on a bad-conduct charge. He had then managed to grab off loads of surplus military equipment when Vietnam was winding down. In one week, he had parlayed nine hundred bucks into ten thousand, and tripled that a week later. Two months later, he had opened three outlets and was on his way to being a millionaire. Unfortunately, he drank. And he gambled. And he got in with the wiseguys of Manhattan and supplied them with artillery he never should have had in his inventory.

  So the NYPD nailed Dick Mallory and sent him up for a bunch of years, and when they set him loose, he went back to his old business. This time he catered to hunters who had converted military equipment to sporting gear. It was an idea I had given him half-jokingly over beers, and it was working great until he started up his old ways on the side. When Pat arrested him for selling a dozen sound suppressors for common handguns to known underworld figures, I loaned Dick five hundred bucks for an attorney who didn't do him any good.

  Velda said, "Is that a thought I see on your face, Mike, or just gas pains?"

  "Let me make a call." I pulled the phone over and dialed Pat's office. There was a two-minute wait that I drummed my fingers through before he said, "Captain Chambers here."

  "Hiya Pat. I need a favor, and fast."

  "You always do. What's up?"

  "Do a rundown on Dick Mallory for me, will you?"

  "That low-life scum? Isn't he still inside?"

  "That's one of the things you can find out for me, pal. It's pretty important."

  His suspicion leached over the phone wires like steam. "Where do you tie in with an incarcerated gunrunner, anyway?"

  "Beats me. He sent me a present with no return address, and I'd like to thank him for it."

  "And I'm supposed to believe that?"

  "I'm not yanking your chain, Pat. Dickie bird sent me something, and I'd at least like to know what he's up to. Plus, I'd like to get that five hundred bucks back."

  "What did he send you, Mike?"

  "Aw, it's not big enough to bother you with, Pat. Captain of Homicide and all."

  "Sure. I'm above such things. I have other matters to attend to, like tracking down info on the scumbag likes of Dick Mallory."

  "So we're on the same page, then?"

  "Go to hell." Then he told me wearily, "I'll call you back."

  I hung up and looked up at Velda, whose nyloned legs were crossed and lovely as she sat on the edge of that desk, an alluring distraction. She had opened one of the cartridge boxes and was rolling a .45 slug between her fingers.

  "Somehow that seems dirty," I said, "the way you do it."

  She gave me one of those lush smiles. "Then I haven't lost my touch?"

  "Put it back," I growled.

  She replaced the bullet as the phone on her desk rang. I answered it myself.

  Pat said, "Mallory is in Bellevue. Somebody knifed him as he was leaving the joint. Guy seemed to know when Dick was being released and was waiting. Stuck in
the shiv, jumped in a waiting car, and took off."

  "Some welcoming committee. Dick just lay there with a shiv in him?"

  "No, the perp yanked it out and took it with him. Luckily, that blade didn't hit anything vital, but left one hell of a wound. Mallory got to his feet just as a visitor from the city came up in a taxi, and he grabbed that, but the driver saw him gasping and gagging in the backseat, saw him wipe his bloody hand across his face and then dumped his ass off at the hospital. He's there right now."

  "Thanks, Pat. I owe you."

  "You think?"

  They had Dick Mallory in a semiprivate room with a wrinkled old man in the next bed; the old boy's breath rasped like a warm-up to a death rattle. Dick had a prison pallor and stark white hair and was a lot thinner than I remembered him; he was maybe twenty years younger than me and looked a good ten years older.

  I took the padded chair beside the bed and stared at him and, when I let out a little cough, he opened his eyes, watched me for half a minute, then let his mouth split in a grin. "Got my mail, eh?"

  "Where did you get that stuff? Man, those babies are antiques."

  "Got a warehouse full of that vintage ammo. Oldies but goodies. I called my manager and told him just what to pick out and just where to send it."

  "Why the subterfuge, Dick?"

  "Hell, man, maybe I just wanted to see if you were still good enough to figure things out."

  "It wasn't too hard, Dick. I'm a detective, remember? And now I'm here."

  "You're here, Mike."

  "Why am I here? I'm asking you, Dick, not the sky."

  I got another grin out of him. Bigger this time. "Payback time for that five hundred bucks, maybe."

  "It didn't do you much good at the time," I reminded him.

  "Sure it did. Showed me I had one real friend, at least. Who didn't judge me. Who knew, for all my faults, I was loyal to my friends. Like you, Mike. Nobody ever had a better friend."

  "You can throw me a dinner when you get out."

  "If I get out, Mike. You still friends with that Captain Chambers?"

  "Yeah, sure. That's how I tracked you down."

  "Would you ask Chambers to put a cop on my door, till I'm out of the woods?"