"I presume he has a mother."
"No doubt," I said sarcastically. "So far you don't know who the father is. Do we leave the kid here until something turns up?"
"Don't be stupid. There are agencies who will take care of him."
"Great. What a hell of a night this is for the kid. His old man gets shot and he gets adopted by an agency."
"You don't know it's his father, friend."
"Who else would cry over a kid?"
Pat gave me a thoughtful grimace. "If your theory holds about the guy knowing he was going to catch it, maybe he was bawling for himself instead of the kid."
"Balls. What kind of a kill you think this is?"
"From the neighborhood and the type of people involved I'd say it was pretty local."
"Maybe the killer hopes you'll think just that."
"Why?" He was getting sore now too.
"I told you he ran over his own boy deliberately, didn't I? Why the hell would he do that?"
Pat shook his head. "I don't think he did."
"Okay, pal, you were there and I wasn't. You saw it all."
"Damn it, Mike, maybe it looked deliberate to you but it sounds screwball to me! It doesn't make sense. If he did swerve like you said he did, maybe he was intending to pick the guy up out of the gutter and didn't judge his distance right. When he hit him it was too late to stop."
I said something dirty.
"All right, what's your angle?"
"The guy was shot in the legs. He might have talked and the guy in the car didn't want to be identified for murder so he put the wheels to him."
Suddenly he grinned at me and his breath hissed out in a chuckle. "You're on the ball. I was thinking the same thing myself and wanted to see if you were sure of yourself."
"Go to hell," I said.
"Yeah, right now. Let's get that kid out of here. I'll be up half the night again on this damn thing. Come on."
"No."
Pat stopped and turned around. "What do you mean... 'no'?"
"What I said. I'll keep the kid with me... for now anyway. He'll only sit down there at headquarters until morning waiting for those agency people to show up."
Maybe it's getting so I can't keep my face a blank any more, or maybe Pat had seen that same expression too often. His teeth clamped together and I knew his shoulders were bunching up under the coat. "Mike," he told me, "if you got ideas about going on a kill-hunt, just get rid of them right now. I'm not going to risk my neck and position because of a lot of wild ideas you dream up."
I said it low and slow so he had to listen hard to catch it. "I don't like what happened to the kid, Pat. Murder doesn't just happen. It's thought about and planned out all nice and neat, and any reason that involves murder and big fat Buicks has to be a damn good one. I don't know who the kid is, but he's going to grow up knowing that the guy who killed his old man died with a nice hot slug in the middle of his intestines. If it means anything to you, consider that I'm on a case. I have me a legal right to do a lot of things including shooting a goddamn killer if I can sucker him into drawing first so it'll look like self-defense.
"So go ahead and rave. Tell me how it won't do me any good. Tell me that I'm interfering in police work and I'll tell you how sick I am of what goes on in this town. I live here, see? I got a damn good right to keep it clean even if I have to kill a few bastards to do it. There's plenty who need killing bad and if I'm electing myself to do the job you shouldn't kick. Just take a look at the papers every day and see how hot the police are when politics can make or break a cop. Take a look at your open cases like who killed Scottoriggio... or Binnaggio and his pal in Kansas City... then look at me straight and say that this town isn't wide open and I'll call you a liar."
I had to stop and take a breath. The air in my lungs was so hot it choked me.
"It isn't nice to see guys cry, Pat. Not grown men. It's worse to see a little kid holding the bag. Somebody's going to get shot for it."
Pat knew better than to argue about it. He looked at me steadily a long minute, then down at the kid. He nodded and his face went tight. "There's not much I can do to stop you, Mike. Not now, anyway."
"Not ever. Think it's okay to keep the kid?"
"Guess so. I'll call you in the morning. As long as you're involved the D.A. is probably going to want a statement from you anyway. This time keep your mouth shut and you'll keep your license. He's got enough trouble on his hands trying to nail the big boys in the gambling racket and he's just as liable to take it out on you."
My laugh sounded like trees rubbing together. "He can go to hell for all I care. He got rough with me once and I bet it still hurts when he thinks about it. What's the matter with him now... can't he even close up a bookie joint?"
"It isn't funny, Mike."
"It's a scream. Even the papers are laughing."
A slow burn crept into his face. "They should. The same guys who do the laughing are probably some of the ones who keep the books open. It's the big shots like Ed Teen who laugh the loudest and they're not laughing at the D.A. or the cops... they're laughing at Joe Citizen, guys like you, who take the bouncing for it. It isn't a bit funny when Teen and Lou Grindle and Fallon can go on enjoying a life of luxury until the day they die while you pay for it."
He got it out of his system and remembered to hand me a good night before he left. I stared at the door swinging shut, my arms tight around the kid, hearing his words come back slowly with one of them getting louder every time it repeated itself.
Lou Grindle. The arm. Lou Grindle who was a flashy holdover from the old days and sold his services where they were needed. Lou Grindle, tough boy de luxe who was as much at home in the hot spots along the Stem as in a cellar club in Harlem.
Lou Grindle who was on his hands and knees in the back of Lake's joint a week ago shooting crap with the help while two of his own boys stood by holding his coat and his dough and the one who held his coat was the dead guy back in the gutter who looked like an hourglass.
I wrapped the coat around the kid and went out in the doorway where I whistled at cabs until one stopped and picked me up. The driver must have had kids of his own at home because he gave me a nasty sneer when he saw the boy in my arms.
I told him where to make his first stop and he waited until I came back. Then I had him make seven others before I got any results. A bartender with a half a bag on mistook me for one of the boys and told me I might find Lou Grindle on Fifty-seventh Street in a place called the Hop Scotch where a room was available for some heavy sugar card games once a week. I threw him a buck and went back to the cab.
I said, "Know where the Hop Scotch is on Fifty-seventh?"
"Yeah. You goin' there now?"
"Looks that way, doesn't it?"
"Don't you think you better take that kid home, buddy? It ain't no good fer kids to be up so late."
"Chum, there's nothing I'd like to do better, but first I got business to take care of."
If I was drunk the cabbie might have tossed me out. As it was, he turned around in his seat to make sure I wasn't, then rolled across to Fifty-seventh.
I left the kid in the cab with a fin to keep the driver quiet and got out. The Hop Scotch was a downstairs gin mill that catered to crowds who liked dirty floor shows and a lot of noise and didn't mind footing the bill. It was hopping with drunks and half drunks who ganged up around the dance floor where a stripper was being persuaded not to stay within the limits prescribed by New York law and when they started throwing rolled-up bills out she said to hell with the law, let go her snaps and braces and gave the customers a treat when she did a two-handed pickup of all the green persuaders.
A waiter was watching the show with a grin on his fat face and I grabbed him while he was still gone over the sight of flesh. I said, "Where's Lou?" just like we were real pals.
"Inside. Him and the others're playin'." His thumb made a vague motion toward the back.
I squeezed through the crowd to where a bus boy was clea
ring off an empty table and pulled out a chair. The boy looked at the five in my fingers and waited. "Lou Grindle's inside. Go tell him to come out."
He wanted the five, but he shook his head. "Brother, nobody tells Lou nothing. You tell 'im."
"Say it's important business, and he'll come. He won't like it if he doesn't get to hear what I have to tell him."
The guy licked his lips and reached for the five. He left the tray on the table, disappeared around a bend that led to the service bar and kitchen, came back for his tray and told me Lou was on his way.
Out on the floor another stripper was trying to earn some persuasion dough herself so the outside of the room was nice and clear with no big ears around.
Lou came around the bend, looked at the bus boy who crooked a finger my way, then came over to see who the hell I was. Lou Grindle was a dapper punk in his forties with eyes like glass marbles and a head of hair that looked painted on. His tux ran in the three-figure class and if you didn't look for it you'd never know he was packing a gun low under his arm.
The edges of his eyes puckered up as he tried to place me and when he saw the same kind of a gun bulge on me as he had himself he made the mistake of taking me for a cop. His upper lip twitched in a sneer he didn't try to hide.
I kicked another chair out with my foot and said, "Sit down, Lou."
Lou sat down. His fingers were curled up like he wanted to take me apart at the seams. "Make it good and make it quick," he said. He hissed when he talked.
I made it good, all right. I said, "One of your butt boys got himself killed tonight."
His eyes unpuckered and got glassier. It was as close as he could come to looking normally surprised. "Who?"
"That's what I want to find out. He was holding your coat in a crap game the other night. Remember?"
If he remembered he didn't tell me so.
I leaned forward and leaned on the table, the ends of my hand inside the lapel of my coat just in case. "He was a medium-sized guy in expensive duds with holes in his shoes. A long time ago he worked for Charlie Fallon. Right now I'm wondering whether or not he was working for you tonight."
Lou remembered. His face went tight and the cords in his neck pressed tight against his collar. "Who the hell are you, Mac?"
"The name's Mike Hammer, Lou. Ask around and you'll find what it means."
A snake wore the same expression he got just then. His eyes went even glassier and under his coat his body started sucking inward. "A goddamn private cop!" He was looking at my fingers. They were farther inside my coat now and I could feel the cold butt of the .45.
The snake look faded and something else took its place. Something that said Lou Grindle wasn't taking chances on being as fast as he used to be. Not where he was alone, anyway. "So what?" he snarled.
I grinned at him. The one with all the teeth showing.
"That boy of yours, the one who died... I put a slug through his legs and the guy who drove the car didn't want to take a chance on him being picked up so he put the wheels to him. Right after the two of 'em got finished knocking off another guy too."
Lou's hand moved up to his pocket and plucked out a cigar. Slowly, so I could watch it happen. "Nobody was working for me tonight."
"Maybe not, Lou, maybe not. You better hope they weren't."
He stopped in the middle of lighting the cigar and threw those snake eyes at me again. "You got a few things to learn, shamus, I don't like for guys to talk tough to me."
"Lou..." His head came back an inch and I could see the hate he wore like a mask. "... if I find out you had a hand in this business tonight I'm going to come back here and take that slimy face of yours and rub it in the dirt. You just try playing rough with me and you'll see your guts lying on the floor before you die. Remember what I said, Lou. I'd as soon shoot your goddamn greasy head off as look at you."
His face went white right down to his collar. If he had lips they didn't show because they were rolled up against his teeth. The number on the floor ended and the people were coming back where they belonged, so I stood up and walked away. When I looked back he was gone and his chair was upside down against the wall.
The cab was still there with another two bucks chalked up on the meter. It was nearly three o'clock and I had told Velda I'd meet her at two-thirty. I said, "Penn Station," to the driver, held the kid against me to soften the jolts of the ride and paid off the driver a few minutes later.
Velda isn't the kind of woman you'd miss even in Penn Station. All you had to do was follow the eyes. She was standing by the information booth tall and cool-looking, in a light gray suit that made the black of her hair seem even deeper. Luscious. Clothes couldn't hide it. Seductive. They didn't try to hide it either. Nobody ever saw her without undressing her with their eyes, that's the kind of woman she was.
A nice partner to have in the firm. And someday...
I came up behind her and said, "Hello, Velda. Sorry I'm late." She swung around, dropped her cigarette and let me know she thought I was what I looked like right then, an unshaven bum wringing wet. "Can't you ever be on time, Mike?"
"Hell, you're big enough to carry your own suitcases to the platform. I got caught up in a piece of work."
She concentrated a funny stare on me so hard that she didn't realize what I had in my arms until it squirmed. Her breath caught in her throat sharply. "Mike... what..."
"He's a little boy, kitten. Cute, isn't he?"
Her fingers touched his face and he smiled sleepily. Velda didn't smile. She watched me with an intensity I had seen before and it was all I could do to make my face a blank. I flipped a butt out of my pack and lit it so my mouth would have a reason for being tight and screwed up on the side. "Is this the piece of work, Mike?"
"Yeah, yeah. Look, let's get moving."
"What are you doing with him?"
I made what was supposed to be a laugh. "I'm minding him for his father."
She didn't know whether to believe me or not. "Mike... this Florida business can wait if there's something important."
The speaker system was calling off that the Miami Limited was loading. For a second I debated whether or not I should tell her and decided not to. She was a hell of a woman but a woman just the same and thought too goddamn much of my skin to want to see me wrapped up in some kind of a crazy hate again. She'd been through that before. She'd be everything I ever wanted if she'd just quit making sure I stayed alive. So I said, "Come on, you got five minutes."
I put her on the train downstairs and made a kiss at her through the window. When she smiled with that lovely wide mouth and blew a kiss back at me I wanted to tell her to get off and forget going after a punk in Miami who had a hatful of stolen ice, but the train jerked and slipped away. I waved once more and went back upstairs and caught another cab home.
Up in the apartment I undressed the kid, stuffed the ragged overalls in the garbage pail and made him a sack on the couch. I backed up a couple of chairs to hold him in and picked him up. He didn't weigh very much. He was one of those little bundles that were probably scattered all over the city right then with nobody caring much about them. His pale hair was still limp and damp, yet still curly around the edges.
For a minute his head lolled on my shoulder, then his eyes came open. He said something in a tiny voice and I shook my head. "No, kid, I'm not your daddy. Maybe I'll do until we find you another one, though. But at least you've seen the last of old clothes and barrooms for a while."
I laid him on the couch and pulled a cover up over him. Somebody sure as hell was going to pay for this.
Chapter Two
The sun was there in the morning. It was high above the apartments beaming in through the windows. My watch read a few minutes after ten and I unpiled out of bed in a hurry. The phone let loose with a startling jangle at the same time something smashed to the floor in the living room and I let out a string of curses you could have heard on the street.
If I yelled it got stuck in my throat because the kid
was standing barefooted in the wreckage of a china-base table lamp reaching up for my rod on the edge of the end table. Even before I got to him he dragged it out of the clip by the trigger guard and was bringing his other hand up to it.
I must have scared the hell out of him the way I whisked him off the floor and disentangled his mitt from the gun. The safety was off and he had clamped down on the trigger while I was thanking the guy who invented the butt safety on the .45.
So with a gun in one hand and a yelling kid in the other I nudged the phone off the hook to stop the goddamn ringing and yelled hello loud enough so the yowls wouldn't drown me out.
Pat said, "Got trouble, Mike?" Then he laughed.
It wasn't funny. I told him to talk or hang up so I could get myself straightened out.
He laughed again, louder this time. "Look, get down as soon as you can, Mike. We have your little deal lined up for you."
"The kid's father?"
"Yeah, it was his father. Come on down and I'll tell you about it.
"An hour. Give me an hour. Want me to bring the kid along?"
"Well... to tell the truth I forgot all about him. Tell you what, park him somewhere until we can notify the proper agency, will you?"
"Sure, just like that I'll dump the kid. What's the matter with you? Oh, forget it, I'll figure something out."
I slammed the phone back and sat down with the kid on my knee. He kept reaching for the gun until I chucked it across the room in a chair. On second thought I called the doorman downstairs and told him to send up an errand boy. The kid got there about five minutes later and I told him to light out for the avenue and pick up something a year-old kid could wear and groceries he could handle.
The kid took the ten spot with a grin. "Leave it to me, mister. Me, I got more brudders than you got fingers. I know whatta get."
He did, too. For ten bucks you don't get much, but it was a change of clothes and between us we got the boy fed. I gave the kid five bucks and got dressed myself. On the floor downstairs was an elderly retired nurse who agreed to take the kid days as long as I kept him nights and for the service it would only cost me one arm and part of a leg.
The Big Kill mh-5 Page 2
