"I'll split our take from our clients with you," I said.
"What will that amount to?"
"Maybe a million. Maybe nothing."
He laughed again; scratched his beard. "Sounds about right. No fraud involved?"
"No fraud that would involve you. Or that you would find offensive. But you'll have to take my word."
"Your word is all I need, Mike. They'll be done when they're done. The first one will take at least two weeks. The others, less time."
"Are you sure?" Velda said, impressed.
"Well, to be sure, I'd have to check my records to see how long it took the last time I made three duplicates of Goliath's femur. Let's just leave it at that—I'll let you know when I'm done."
I checked my watch. "Hope you had a good time in New York, Paul. About time you headed home, isn't it?"
He chuckled. "I guess so."
From his little carry-on bag, he removed the brown shirt and slacks that looked enough like the real UPS thing to fool just about anybody. While he changed in my office, Velda and I repacked the Goliath bone in its swaddling and its bubble wrap and put it in the big brown box marked SAMPLES that we had waiting. Velda was doing the honors of taping it shut when Paul emerged, looking like a delivery man right down to the little cap.
I made a call. Velda already had the coffee going, and she microwaved some cinnamon rolls for us. We sat around her desk and drank and nibbled and chatted like we had all the time in the world. Then the phone rang and we were on.
As big and heavy as that box was, Paul carried it like a pro. I was just a guy who happened to get on the elevator with him (and who happened to have a .45 under my left arm) and also happened to follow him through the lobby past the doorman out onto the street and possibly temporary sunshine where the brown UPS-style van driven by a Secure Solutions guard was waiting.
The box and Paul both went in back, and the van went off to fight the traffic war. No real rush—the charter plane in New Jersey waiting for Paul would not take off without its only passengers: Paul Vernon, that Secure Solutions guard, and the Goliath bone.
Back upstairs, Velda raised an eyebrow. "Without a hitch?"
"Without a hitch."
"Hell of a way to send off a corpse, Mike."
"Better than old Goliath got in the Valley of Elah, kiddo."
She got me a fresh cup of coffee, and I perched on the edge of her desk as she sat behind it and crossed those sleekly nyloned legs.
"Is Paul up to this, Mike? I don't mean the duplication part. I mean ... that's a valuable relic, and half the Middle East is after it."
"Just half?" I sipped coffee. "Don't sweat Paul, Velda. He's a Desert Storm vet who carries a firearms license recognized in most states. As a sideline, he does very specialized insurance investigation involving museums and academic institutions."
"You know where he's going to do the work?"
"Nope. I don't want to, either. When he needs us, he'll call."
As if on cue, the phone gave its subdued buzz. I lifted it and said, "Yeah?"
"Mike?"
I knew immediately who it was and it sure wasn't Paul. I sat up. "Mr. Jackson. Got something for me?"
Bozo Jackson said, "Better get your white tail up here, Mike."
"If you just want to talk, Bozo, this line's secure."
"Talk is cheap," he said softly. "So is a certain other thing."
"Give me thirty minutes," I said.
Chapter 8
Clouds had rolled in and I didn't know whether snow or rain was coming, but I knew for sure it was damn cold. My hands were deep in my trench-coat pockets and I was missing the lining as I walked along 125th Street with Bozo Jackson. Landmarks like the Apollo Theater and the Hotel Theresa had been joined by the likes of Ben & Jerry's and Starbucks, and I guessed that was progress.
Bozo's hands were deep in the pockets of his black leather topcoat, too, but I had a feeling the cold wasn't why—the lump in his right-hand pocket was more than just his hand, and his hard keen eyes roamed up and down the street, making sure nobody was taking too much interest in us.
I asked, "What's up, brother?"
"Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Roger Cosmo was found in his crib this morning—OD'd on smack."
"That's a goddamn shame. Who the hell is Roger Cosmo?"
His sideways glance included an arched eyebrow. "The kid who drove that gypsy cab that carried a certain shooter to midtown Manhattan. To take a potshot or two at a couple of white college kids, remember?"
"Oh. Wasn't that Lonnie Hartman's cab?"
"Yeah. The late Lonnie Hartman."
"Jesus, Bozo. Dropping like flies around here. What happened to Lonnie?"
"Somebody traded him a .22 slug behind the right ear for his wallet outside his apartment house last night."
The sky growled, lightning flashes making sudden veins in the dark clouds.
I said, "That turns the trail cold on our midtown-hotel shooting."
"Cold as hell. Cold as Lonnie, Mike. Cold as Cosmo."
"Was this Cosmo kid a junkie?"
"Supposedly reformed. Weaned off the stuff onto methadone, and clean for over a year. But, yeah, he had a history, so the local five-oh at the twenty-eighth precinct can write it off easy."
I shook my head. "Like they can also write off Lonnie Hartman's murder as a straight armed robbery. That .22—hell, you're not saying..."
We turned the corner onto Lenox Avenue. "I'm more than saying, Mike. That shooter is back in town. Back in Harlem."
"Just because Hartman was killed with a .22, that doesn't mean the hotel shooter's made a return trip. Come on, Bozo, you know pros don't do it that way."
"Don't they?"
"Money behind him wouldn't want his ass spotted. They'd just pay him off and hire another gun. These sons of bitches are disposable, interchangeable."
Bozo's breath was billowing in the cold. "Mike, you talking about our kind of hoods—black and white." He saw me scowling. "I'm talkin' 'bout another color altogether. The shade that blows themselves up just to kill somebody else."
"You said he was back. Fill it in."
"He's not at the same hotel. Got a room at Suzie Squires' place, this time."
"Man, that's a fifty-dollar-a-bang sex house! They charge by the hour what most joints go for a day."
Bozo's massive shoulders lifted and fell. "Maybe he's practicing up for his virgins. Anyway, he's on the top floor."
"Who steered him there, Bozo?"
"Beats me. Probably asked a cabbie in a gypsy job—they get kickbacks."
"Who else knows about this?"
"You and me."
"Just you and me, Bozo?"
"Just you and me that counts, Mike. I put the word out. Everybody looking and nobody talking ... except to me."
"You got some respect on this street, man."
"Damn skippy. They can gentrify these streets all they want, but scrape a fingernail across this white veneer, and the gleaming black shows through."
"So does the street have any idea why you put the word out?"
"No way. My say-so is good enough reason."
"Usually they don't want to mess with the white man's business."
"This motherfucker's no more white than me."
"Can you keep him covered, Bozo?"
"You want him questioned? The Harlem way?"
"No. Just keep an eye on his ass and keep me posted."
Bozo grinned at me. "As a favor, Mike? I don't mind doin' you favors, but these boys are a whole other brand of dangerous."
"Five hundred a day, 24/7, till further notice."
"Man! You must be rollin' in it."
"Maybe I got my Social Security check in the mail."
Bozo laughed at that a little harder than I wanted him to. Then he asked, "You gonna take this shooter down, Mike?"
This time I gave him my own grin, where he could see my teeth between my lips. "Not here, old buddy. I wouldn't want to clip any of your people. But I
'll get him where I won't have to make up any excuses."
We were at our destination now. I hadn't known where Bozo was leading me till we got there, the candy and smoke shop run by Mr. Jellybean. The store had a CLOSED sign in the window.
"Don't worry about that," Bozo said with a dismissive wave. "Jellybean's got a side door on the alley for his real business."
"Why are we here, Bozo?"
"'Cause Jelly called me this morning. He's got a line on that purple gypsy cab."
Which was all well and good, only the side door was ajar. I saw Bozo tense and then I slipped a hand inside my trench coat and withdrew the .45. The click of its hammer was a tiny sound that filled the world of the alley. Bozo's hand was out of his topcoat pocket and a snubnose .38 was clenched in his fist.
I motioned for him to push the door open for me.
And I went in fast and low, doing a toplike spin with the .45 fanning around at any available target, only the sole available target didn't need shooting.
Jellybean had already been shot.
The gaudy gun dealer in the spartan office was seated at his desk as if ready to do business, leaned back in his chair with a frozen smile whose parted lips revealed the gold, silver, and diamonds that would never flash in a grin again. In his forehead was a small dark dot, like he'd come from India not Harlem. Only that dot bore no religious significance, other than the mark of the end of a mortal existence.
Bozo came into the small space, and I nodded toward the front of the store. The big ex-cop went out there to check it, then was back within thirty seconds to say, "Clear."
"Size of that entry wound's consistent with a .22."
"Damn, Mike—what kinda hell did you bring to Harlem?"
"Wasn't me, Bozo. I'm just working cleanup crew right now. Somebody else is making the mess."
"Do we call your pal Captain Chambers?"
I thought for a moment, then said, "No. He'd tie this in with everything that's gone down, and then the Feds would be on it. You want the Homicide Bureau and Homeland Security and FBI and all that other alphabet soup crawling around up here?"
"Fuck no."
"Eloquently put. Let's give Jellybean a little privacy and slip out. You touch anything?"
"My mama raised only one fool, and that was my brother."
"Good. You make an anonymous call to the Twenty-eighth Precinct, when you get a chance. Those boys will have half a dozen good reasons why a crooked-ass gun dealer got capped."
Just not the right one.
Driving back into lower Manhattan, I let the pieces run through my mind. This was no street rumble. This was no grand heist like the Brink's job. While the bodies piled up on the local level, this thing had international overtones that would make three killings in Harlem seem petty. From the point of view of a guy like me, a foundation of absurdity underpinned the whole damn thing—a scattering of sand dwellers throwing rocks at the monstrous democratic governments, smashing their edifices, terrorizing their populations and putting fear into everyone in the Western world.
I got out my cell and speed-dialed the office.
When Velda picked up the phone, I asked her if she'd like a hamburger. She hated hamburgers but she said sure and added, "Usual place?"
"Right on, doll."
All of the chatter was simply subterfuge. Our phone had been tapped before, and in cases that didn't involve Feds and foreign agents. What the exchange meant was to meet me at Chico's coffee shop two corners away.
I got to Chico's first, ordered two coffees, a Reuben for me and BLT for Velda. She came in just as the food was set down and patted my hand the way near-marrieds do. It felt good.
Quietly, she said, "My best girlfriends keep asking me what the holdup is this time."
"And what do you tell them?"
She let a tiny grin flit across her mouth and said, "Just that it doesn't take much to see that the desires of two little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world."
"Here's looking at you, kid," I said, toasting her with my coffee.
"So we set a new date."
"Yes."
Her eyes sparkled. "When?"
"The day this case is over. But there's one catch."
"Oh?"
"I got to still be alive."
"I'm not accepting any excuses ..." Her fingers tightened on mine, saying a lot more than her mouth did. Then the tip of her tongue eased out between her lips, made a wet pass on the fleshy red mounds, and disappeared within her impish smile.
"Why do you do that stuff in public?" I asked softly.
"To see you squirm," she answered. When I shook my head, she added, "Now what can we talk about here that we can't discuss in our office? I'm sweeping for bugs every time we step out, you know, and now I'll have to do the same when I get back."
"Sweeping. My little homemaker."
"I'd say 'go to hell,' but I can see it in your eyes, Mike. This thing's ramped up a notch."
I nodded, and filled her in on the three Harlem deaths, and the shooter holed up with some high-priced hookers.
She nibbled at her sandwich as I reported. Then she said, "We had a call from a Mr. Barry Axler."
"Do I know him?"
"No. But he's the personal assistant of the deputy consul for Israel."
"Another country heard from. What does he want?"
"To set up a meeting for his boss with Mike Hammer."
"I think we can arrange that."
"I already have." She checked her wristwatch. "It's in forty minutes."
"If the Israelis want a meeting, then they're hip to Goliath. Who leaked it? Obviously some of the Arab factions are tuned in. But how did Mr. Axler's boss get the info?"
She shrugged. "We both know all about double agents and counterintelligence."
"May be simpler than that. Rumors probably started back at the site of the discovery."
Nodding, she said, "The Israelis have a far more sophisticated intelligence service than any of the Arab nations."
Velda knew her stuff in this area; she'd done a stint with the CIA behind the Iron Curtain many years ago. You don't think I'd hire just any assistant, do you?
"You're right, Velda. The Mossad would have jumped on this like a tiger on a rabbit. They'd grasp at once the implications of such a discovery, what it could mean to whoever had the bone as a trophy, all the incredible political implications. To us it's only an artifact. To somebody else it's a religious symbol. By itself it has no power, but in the hands of true believers, as they say, it could be an inspiration for a national uprising."
"Arab or Israeli?" she asked.
"Yes," I said.
With the fate of the world hanging in the balance, there was no reason not to share a piece of cheesecake.
She had a few bites of her half, then asked, "What if the Israelis ended up with it, Mike? What then?"
"Nothing. They'd do a big PR buildup and then would probably lock it in a museum under armed guard."
"But it would be under constant threat then, wouldn't it?"
I nodded.
"Suppose they just destroyed it? Announced it as the symbol of their greatest victory, then symbolically and literally crushed that enemy again? Leaving nothing to be stolen, nothing to fight over, nothing to keep under lock and key."
I shook my head. "None of the groups vying for this would go that way. It's just too important a find—a physical reminder of a historical event so incredible it left its mark on the whole world."
"And it could spark something even bigger today," she said. "Bigger and much, much worse."
" War used to be two groups of men hammering at each other out in some field till the other side surrendered or was defeated. Now it's airliners flying into buildings and suitcase nukes and dirty bombs."
And from one ancient battle, only a giant femur survived.
But that was all that was needed to start another, much more horrific war.
At the Israeli Consulate's office on Second Avenue
, I waited in a small-but-tidy reception area decorated with lovely photographs of the Holy Land, the kind of peaceful vistas that betrayed the blood soaking the surrounding sand. I didn't have to wait long at all before a tall gray-headed gentleman of about fifty came out to meet me. This was an annex of the embassy in Washington, D.C., maintained for visiting Israeli dignitaries, general PR, and affairs of state like this one, where notoriety could be handled at a reasonable level.
The oval-faced, pleasant man in a suit tailored to make his slightly pear-shaped frame look its best had certainly done his homework. He was up to speed on the news accounts of my cases, dating back decades, and to put me at ease had insisted I address him as Leon. This was a relief, because I wasn't sure I could pronounce his last name.
"If you're Leon," I said, "I'm Mike, and we have that out of the way, at least."
When he offered a drink, I waved it off and sat in one of two facing soft leather chairs—no desk barrier for Leon.
"You know why I asked you to drop by," Leon said, a leg crossed, arms on armrests, casual but commanding.
Nobody "dropped by" an embassy, but I said, "Sure. Do we need to waste time circling around each other, or just cut to the chase?"
Leon smiled gently and nodded. "Cut to the chase, by all means."
"You've heard about the discovery of what we're calling the Goliath bone."
"I have. Has it been authenticated?"
"It's a human remain. Uncommonly large and inconsistent with any known Homo sapiens, with the possible exception of an acromegaly victim."
His forehead tightened. "But this relic, this bone, shows no signs of that disease."
"It does not. The thing was found in the right spot to belong to the Philistines' star player. But further identification stops there. It does jibe with the Scriptural accounts."
His smile remained gentle, but his eyes were shrewd. "Mike, what exactly is your interest in this discovery? I have read the accounts of your, well, exploits. You are known for dispensing a certain Torah-like eye-for-an-eye justice."
I grunted a laugh. "Yeah, for a kid raised Catholic, I've always been an Old Testament kind of guy."
"In my faith, we reserve eye-for-an-eye punishment for God to carry out."
[Mike Hammer 14] - The Goliath Bone Page 13
