“Do you make much money?”
“Sure. I get most a quarter or a half buck every time I do something. Them Park Avenue swells like me. Last week I made nearly fifteen bucks.” Fifteen bucks. That was a lot of dough to him. He lived simply enough; now he was proud of himself. So was I.
“Sounds pretty good, Bobo. How did you ever manage to run down such a good job?”
“Well, you remember old Humpy?” I nodded. Humpy was a hunch-back in his late forties who shined shoes in Park Avenue offices. I used him for an eye several times. He’d do anything to make a buck.
“Old Humpy got T.B.,” Bobo continued. “He went up in the mountains to shine shoes there and I took his place. Only I wasn’t so good at it like him. Then folks asked me to do little things for them and I did. Now I go down there every day early in the morning and they give me things to do like running errands. I got a day off today on account of I gotta see a guy about buying a queen bee. He’s got two. Do you think five bucks is too much to pay for a queen bee, Mike?”
“Oh, I don’t think so.” I didn’t know a queen bee from a king cobra, but queens usually run high in any species. “What did Mr. Kalecki say when you quit running numbers for him?”
Bobo didn’t clam up like I expected. “Gee, he was swell. Gimme ten bucks ’cause I was with him so long and told me I could have my old job back whenever I wanted it.” No wonder. Bobo was as honest as the day was long. Generally a runner made plenty for himself, taking a chance that the dough he clipped wasn’t on the number that pulled in the shekels. But Bobo was too simple to be dishonest.
“That was pretty nice of Mr. Kalecki,” I grinned, “but you do better when you’re in business for yourself.”
“Yeah. Some day I’m just gonna raise bees. You can make a lot of money from bees. Even own a bee farm, maybe.”
Bobo smiled happily at the thought of it. But his smile passed into a puzzled frown. His eyes were fastened on something behind me. I had my back to the door, but when I saw Bobo’s face, I knew that we weren’t alone in the back room any longer.
The knife went under my chin very slowly. It was held loosely enough, but the slim fingers that held it were ready to tighten up the second I moved. Along the blade were the marks of a whetstone, so I knew it had been sharpened recently. The forefinger was laid on the top of the four-inch blade in proper cutting position. Here was a lug that knew what it was all about.
Bobo’s eyes were wide open with terror. His mouth worked, but no sound came from it. The poor kid began to sweat, little beads that ran in rivulets down his sallow cheeks. A brown-sleeved arm came over my other shoulder and slid nicely under my coat lapel, the hand reaching for my rod.
I clamped down and kicked back. The table went sailing as my feet caught it. I got the knife hand and pulled down hard, and the high yellow landed in a heap on top of me. Just in time I saw the foot coming and pulled my head aside. The coal black missed by inches. I didn’t. I let go the knife hand and grabbed the leg. The next moment I was fighting for my life under two sweating Negroes.
But not for long. The knife came out again and this time I got the hand in a wristlock and twisted. The tendons stretched, and the bones snapped sickeningly. The high yellow let out a scream and dropped the knife. I was on my feet in a flash. The big black buck was up and came charging into me, his head down.
There was no sense to busting my hand on his skull, so I lashed out with my foot and the toe of my shoe caught the guy right in the face. He toppled over sideways, still running, and collapsed against the wall. His lower teeth were protruding through his lip. Two of his incisors were lying beside his nose, plastered there with blood.
The high yellow was holding his broken wrist in one hand, trying to get to his feet. I helped him. My hand hooked in his collar and dragged him up. I took the side of my free hand and smashed it across his nose. The bone shattered and blood poured out. That guy probably was a lady killer in Harlem, but them days were gone forever. He let out a little moan and slumped to the floor. I let him drop.
Just for the hell of it, I went through his pockets. Not much there. A cheap wallet held a few photos of girls, one of them white, eleven dollars and a flock of number stubs. The coal black covered his ruined face when I went near him, rolling his eyes like a cow. I found a safety-razor blade in his pocket with a matchstick through it. Nice trick. They palm the blade, letting it protrude a bit through the fingers, and slap you across the face. The matchstick keeps it from sliding through their fingers. That blade can cut a face to pieces.
The Negro tried to pull away, so I smashed him again. The pad of my fist landing on that busted jaw was too much for him. He went out too. Bobo was still in his chair, only now he was grinning again. “Gee, Mike, you’re pretty tough. Wish I was like that.”
I pulled a five spot from my pocket and slipped it in his shirt pocket. “Here’s something to buy a king for that queen bee, kid,” I said to him. “See you later.” I grabbed the two jigs by their collars and yanked them out of the door. Big Sam saw me coming with them. So did a dozen others in the place. Those at the door looked like they expected something more.
“What’s the idea, Sam? Why let these monkeys make a try for me? You know better than that.”
Big Sam just grinned broader than ever. “It’s been a long time since we had some excitements in here, Mistah Hammah.” He turned to the guys at the bar and held out a thick palm. “Pay me,” he laughed at them. I dropped the high yellow and his friend in a heap on the floor as the guys paid Sam off. The next time they wouldn’t bet against me.
As I was waving so long to Sam, Bobo came running out of the back room waving the five. “Hey, Mike,” he yelled. “Queens don’t need no kings. I can’t buy a king bee.”
“Sure they do, Bobo,” I called over my shoulder. “All queens have to have kings. Ask Sam there, he’ll tell you.” Bobo was trying to find out why from Sam when I left. He’d probably spend the rest of his life getting the answer.
The drive home took longer than I had expected. Traffic was heavy and it was nearly six when I got there. After I parked the car I took the stairs to my apartment and started to undress. My clean shirt was a mess. Blood was spattered all over the front of it and my tie was halfway around my neck. The pocket of my jacket was ripped down the seam. When I saw that I wished I’d killed that bogie. In these days decent suits were too hard to get.
A hot and cold shower made me feel fine. I got rid of my beard in short order, brushed my teeth and climbed into some fresh clothes. For a moment I wondered whether it would be decent to wear a gun when calling on a lady, but habit got the better of me. I slipped the holster on over my shirt, shot a few drops of oil in the slide mechanism of my .45 and checked my clip. Everything in order, I wiped the gun and shoved it under my arm. Anyway, I thought, my suit wouldn’t fit unless old iron-sides was inside it. This was a custom-made job that had space built into it for some artillery.
I checked myself in the mirror to be sure I hadn’t forgotten anything. Without Velda to give me a once-over before I went anywhere, I couldn’t tell whether I was dolled up for a circus or a night club. Now I wished I had been more careful with the Bellemy mouse. Velda was too good a woman to lose. Guess I could expect the silent treatment for a week. Someday I’d have to try treating her a little better. She was kind of hard on a guy though, never approved of my morals.
The jalopy needed gas so I ran it into a garage. Henry, the mechanic, and an old friend of mine, lifted the hood to check the oil. He liked that car. He was the one who installed an oversized engine in it and pigged down the frame. From the outside it looked like any beat-up wreck that ought to be retired, but the rubber was good and the engine better. It was souped up to the ears. I’ve had it on the road doing over a hundred and the pedal was only half down. Henry pulled the motor from a limousine that had the rear end knocked in and sold it to me for a song. Whenever a mech saw the power that was under the hood, he let out a long low whistle. In its own way it was a
masterpiece.
I pulled out of the garage and turned down a one-way street to beat the lights to Charlotte’s apartment. I couldn’t forget the way she looked through me the last time we met. What a dish.
The road in front of her house was lined with cars, so I turned around the block and slid in between a black sedan and a club coupé, Walking back to her place I kept hoping she didn’t have a dinner date or any company. That would be just my luck. What we would talk about was something else again. In the back of my mind was the idea that as a psychiatrist, she would have been more observant than any of the others. In her line it was details that counted, too.
I rang the downstairs bell. A moment later the buzzer clicked and I walked in. The maid was at the door to greet me, but this time she had on her hat and coat.
“Come right in, Mistah Hammah,” she said. “Miss Charlotte’s expecting y’all.” At that I really raised my eyebrows. I threw my hat down on a table beside the door and walked in. The maid stayed long enough to call into the bedroom, “He’s heah, Miss Charlotte.”
That cool voice called back. “Thank you. You can go ahead to the movies now.” I nodded to the maid as she left and sat on the couch.
“Hello.” I jumped to my feet and took the warm hand she offered me.
“Hello yourself,” I smiled. “What’s this about expecting me?”
“I’m just vain, I guess. I was hoping so hard that you’d call tonight. I got ready for you. Like my dress?” She swirled in front of me, and glanced over her shoulder at my face. Gone was the psychiatrist. Here was Charlotte Manning, the woman, looking delightfully young and beautiful. Her dress was a tight-fitting blue silk jersey that clung to her like she was wet, concealing everything, yet revealing everything. Her hair hung long and yellow to her neck, little tight curls that sparkled. Even her eyes had cupids in them.
She strode provocatively across the room and back toward me. Under the dress her body was superb, unlike what I imagined the first time. She was slimmer, really, her waist thin, but her shoulders broad. Her breasts were laughing things that were firmly in place, although I could see no strap marks of a restraining bra. Her legs were encased in sheer nylons and set in high heels, making her almost as tall as I was. Beautiful legs. They were strong looking, shapely....
“Well, do you like it?” she asked again.
“Lovely. And you know it.” I grinned at her. “You remind me of something.”
“What?”
“A way of torturing a guy.”
“Oh, please, I can’t be that bad. Do I affect you like that? Torture you, I mean?”
“No, not quite. But if you take a guy that hasn’t seen a woman in five years, let’s say, and chain him to a wall and let you walk past him the way you did just now—well, that would be torture. See what I’m getting at?”
Her laugh was low and throaty. She threw back her head a little and I wanted to grab her and kiss the beauty of her throat. Charlotte took my arm and led me to the kitchen. The table was laid out for two. On the table was a big pile of fried chicken and another equally large basket of French fries.
“Just for us. Now sit down and eat. I’ve already held supper an hour waiting for you.”
I was dumbfounded. Either she kept a complete file of my likes and dislikes or she was clairvoyant. Chicken was my specialty.
As I pulled out a chair and sat down, I said, “Charlotte, if there was an angle to this, I’d think the chow was poisoned. But even if it is, I’m going to eat it anyway.”
She was putting a red-bordered apron on. When she finished she poured the coffee. “There is an angle,” she said casually.
“Let’s have it,” I said through a mouthful of chicken.
“When you came in to see me I saw a man that I liked for the first time in a long time.” She sat down and continued. “I have hundreds of patients, and surprisingly enough, most of them are men. But they are such little men. Either they have no character to begin with or what they had is gone. Their minds are frail, their conception limited. So many have repressions or obsessions, and they come to me with their pitiful stories; well, when you constantly see men with their masculinity gone, and find the same sort among those whom you call your friends, you get so you actually search for a real man.”
“Thanks,” I put in.
“No, I mean it,” Charlotte went on. “I diagnosed you the moment you set foot in my office. I saw a man who was used to living and could make life obey the rules he set down. Your body is huge, your mind is the same. No repressions.”
I wiped my mouth. “I got an obsession though.”
“You have? I can’t imagine what it is.”
“I want a killer. I want to shoot a killer.” I watched her over a drum-stick, chewing a mile a minute on the succulent dark meat. She tossed her hair and nodded.
“Yes, but it’s a worthwhile obsession. Now eat up.”
I went through the pile of chicken in nothing flat. My plate was heaped high with bones. Charlotte did all right, too, but I did most of the damage. After a piece of pie and a second cup of coffee I leaned back in my chair, contented as a cow.
“That’s a wonderful cook you’ve got there,” I remarked.
“Cook, hell,” she laughed. “I did all that myself. I haven’t always been wealthy.”
“Well, when the time comes for you to get married, you’re not going to have to go out of your way to get a husband.”
“Oh, I have a system,” she said. “You’re getting part of it right now. I lure men to my apartment, cook for them, and before they go home I have my proposal.”
“Don’t look now,” I told her, “but it’s been tried on me before.”
“But not by an expert.” We both laughed at that. I suggested we do the dishes and she handed me an apron. Very politely, I laid it on the back of a chair. It just wouldn’t go well with my mug. If anyone I knew happened to breeze in and catch me in a rig like that I’d spend the rest of my life living it down.
After we finished the dishes we went into the living room. Charlotte curled up in the armchair and I half fell on the sofa. We lit cigarettes, then she smiled at me and said, “All right, you can tell me why you came up to see me. More questions?”
I shook my head. “I confess. Don’t beat me with that whip. I started out with two things in mind. The first one was to see you with your hair down. It turned out better than I expected.”
“And the other?”
“To see if you, as a practicing psychiatrist, could throw some light on the murder of my good friend, Jack Williams.”
“I see. Perhaps if you tell me more explicitly what you want, I’ll be able to help you.”
“Good enough. I want details. The murder isn’t old enough to get well into it yet, but I will. It’s entirely reasonable that someone at the party knocked off Jack. It’s just as reasonable that it was someone completely outside. I’ve made some character studies, and what I’ve found I don’t like. However, that may not be a good reason for murder. What I want from you is an opinion, not one based on fact or logic, but an opinion, purely professional, on how you think those I mentioned may tie into this thing and whom you’d line up for the killer.”
Charlotte took a deep drag on her cigarette, then crushed it out in an ash tray. Her mind was working hard, it was reflected in her expression. A minute passed before she spoke. “You are asking me to do a difficult thing, pass judgment on a person. Usually it takes twelve men and a judge, after hours of deliberation, to do the same thing. Mike, after I met you, I made it my job to look into your character. I wanted to know what a man like you was made of. It wasn’t hard to find out. The papers have been full of your episodes, editorials were even written about you, and not very favorable ones, either. Yet I found people who knew you and liked you. Little people and big people. I like you. But if I were to tell you what I thought I’m afraid I’d be passing a sentence of death on a person. No, I won’t tell you that, you’d be too quick to kill. That I don’t want. T
here’s so much about you that could be nice if only your mind wasn’t trained to hate too fiercely.
“What I will do is give you that which I have observed. It takes time to think back, and I’ve taken the whole afternoon to do just that. Little things I thought I had forgotten are clear now and they may make sense to you. I’m used to personal conflict, the struggle that goes on within one’s mind, not with differences between two or more people. I can notice things, put them in their proper places, but I can’t do more than file them away. If a person hates, then I can find the reason for his hatred and possibly help him to rationalize more clearly, but if that hatred has consumed him to the point of murder, then I can but say I might have expected it. The discovery of murderers and motives belongs to more astute minds than mine.”
I was listening intently to every word, and I could see her point. “Fair enough,” I said, “then tell me what you have observed.”
“It isn’t too much. Jack had been in a state of nervous tension for a week before the party. I saw him twice and neither time had he seemed any better. I remarked about it, but he laughed and told me he was still trying to rehabilitate himself to civilian life. At the time it seemed reasonable to me. A man who has lost a limb would naturally find life awkward for some time.
“The night of the party he was still as tense as ever. Somehow, it radiated to Myrna. She worried about him anyway, and I could see that she was nearly as upset as he was. Nothing visible, however, just those little things. A tendency to anger at the dropping of a glass or a sudden sound. Both Jack and she covered it up nicely, so I imagine that I was the only one who noticed anything.
“Mr. Kalecki came to the party in a grouch. Perhaps anger would be a better word, but I couldn’t figure out with whom he was angry. He snapped at Harold Kines several times and was completely uncivil to Mary Bellemy.”
“How?” I asked.
“They were dancing and she said something or other. I didn’t hear what it was, but he scowled and said, ‘The hell with that stuff, sister.’ Right after that he took her back to the group and walked away.”
The Mike Hammer Collection, Volume 1 Page 7
