And thoughts of murder ride with me, as I crawl down highways with my mind and heart racing, smoking through three packs a day, daydreams of how I want that Nolly Quinn in my hands, where I can quell the shaking to squeeze and squeeze and squeeze his throat until his eyeballs bulge and I let go of him and he gasps in relief while those orbs still bulge and I dig them out of his face like clams in the sand and squeeze and pop and squish them like grapes and then the fun really begins…
Oh, I’d never hated anyone so much.
Imagine how much I’d hate him when we finally met.
* * *
It was hot, stinking hot as I finally crossed the state line, and the sweat leaked out of me until my shirt was a soggy mess that clung to my skin. When I stopped for gas maybe an hour out of Miami, I stripped off the sodden thing and threw it in a trash can and got a fresh one out of my suitcase from the back seat of the car.
The attendant, whose rolled-up long-sleeved uniform didn’t look any fresher than the shirt I’d just tossed, grinned and eyed my plates. “New York, huh? Hell of a time of year to come to Florida, ain’t it?”
“The next time I’ll know better.”
“How’s things up there?”
Talking to humans was an effort, but I figured I better try to fit in. “Just as hot, not as humid. You from up that way too?”
“Yeah, Jersey. I shoulda stood there, too. But my old lady had a hunk of property down here, and figured we could develop it and sell out. Turns out nobody wants to buy.”
“Business can’t be that bad.”
“It ain’t. Business is pretty good, tell you the truth. It’s only that nobody wants to buy. There ain’t no other station around here for miles and that’s why business is so good for gas, but it’s also why there ain’t nobody to buy the place.”
My mouth was so damn dry. “You sell beer?”
“Sure. Inside. The old lady’ll get it for you. Want me to check under the hood?”
I gave him the okay and went inside. Behind the counter, the nondescript woman in the two-dollar jumper reading the fashion magazine looked at me once, then without a word from either of us reached into the cooler and brought out a bottle of brew. I skidded a quarter across to her and used the church key that was already waiting.
Number two of the day. No more than one at a time for a month maybe, four-a-day total, and then it would be all right.
I looked at the beer foaming in the bottle, studied it until I knew every bubble by name, then shoved it between my teeth. My hand was shaking so bad, it was all I could do to keep from gulping it down like a thirsty dog at a millpond.
“You damned drunk,” I said.
The woman looked up from her magazine, blinking. “What’s that, mister?”
“Nothing. Sometimes I talk to myself.”
“You’re as bad as my husband.” That had been neither nasty nor friendly—just a statement of fact. She went back to her magazine. I finished the bottle and set it on the counter.
The attendant came in wiping his hands on a paper towel. “That’ll be a buck-ninety, bud. She took a quart of oil. Gave you the best, considering the ride.”
The car was a beauty all right, a maroon Ford convertible with twin pipes and a black top, tucked away for now. It had been a gift from a Mafia admirer who felt bad for wrecking my previous heap, and among the hidden accessories had been six sticks of dynamite wired to the ignition and a back-up booby trap rigged to the speedometer.
“Keep it,” I said, handing him two bucks and ending his speculation that I was a big spender. I went out to the car, climbed in, talking myself out of another beer. Funny how highway patrol guys frown at beer behind the wheel.
It was a little better driving. Not much, but a little. The smell of the ocean came in on the breeze, pleasant, but foreign to my New York nose. In front of me the heat bounced off the roadway and shimmered back to the sky. Back a few hundred miles, the trees and houses had changed shape and color, becoming unreal clusters of pastel stucco squatting under drooping palms. People were half-naked things hugging the shadows, whiter than you expected them to be. They knew to stay out of the sun. Nobody moved very fast. They were smarter than the city bunch.
Miami seemed to evolve out of the late haze of the day, first the sharp squares of the windows reflecting the red of the sun like bloodshot eyes, the shapes of the buildings forming around them slowly. Squadrons of gulls wheeled and dipped over the water, their cries strangely welcoming yet remote, like a butler introducing a guest to a party.
I unwound the handkerchief I had drying on the door handle and wiped the sweat from my face. Pieces of lint stuck to the four-day stubble of beard until I swore and brushed them off like insects. Up ahead a small rooftop neon sign blinked on and off in the blue dusk, the VACANCY as large and bright red as its name, SEA BREEZE MOTEL.
The motel itself was nothing special, just a low-slung one-story white clapboard with a two-story office midway, the end of the building painted pastel blue and boasting about both air conditioning and electric heat. I eased on the brakes and swung onto the gravel drive, following the U to its apex where a middle-aged couple sat in a yellow metal glider rocker outside the office. Only one car parked outside the dozen doors. Theirs, I suspected.
Still, crappy business or not, the man got up almost reluctantly. He was in a short-sleeve yellow-and-pink floral shirt and light yellow slacks, balding, in his forties. His wife was brunette and plumply attractive in a yellow-and-white sundress. She smiled pleasantly out of habit or duty or something. They were both working on bottles of Sun Drop sodas. They both wore sandals.
“Evening,” the guy said. “Looking for a place?”
I nodded and climbed out of the car.
He grinned with ripe lips and big uneven teeth. He had a two-tier face, compact on top and jowly below, big nose and bright eyes. One of those ugly guys who come across friendly and even appealing.
“Well,” he said, and gestured with both hands, “you can take your pick, mister. Off-season we’re almost always empty.”
“Too bad,” I said. “Looks like a nice place.”
That was an exaggeration, but not much of one.
“Oh, it’s a swell little motel. We’re full October through April. Matter of fact, we kind of like to see it empty after a busy season. Mother and me call it our summer vacation. Going to be staying long?”
“Maybe. A few days anyway. How far into the city?”
“Takes about fifteen minutes. If you want a swim, you can go right down here to the beach.” He nodded his head toward the east. “Good places to eat up the road a bit,” he added. He sneaked a quick glance toward his wife, who was engrossed in her soda pop, and winked and whispered, “You can find a real drink up there, too.”
When he said the word my tongue snaked out over my lips. The breeze got suddenly too cool and the flesh crawled up my back.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll find my way around, thanks.”
I followed him into the office and registered. With summer rates in effect, fifteen bucks bought me three nights. When he stuck the money in the drawer, he swung the register around, looked at it, and plucked a key off a board behind him.
“Glad to have you, Mr. Hammer. My name’s Merle Duffy, but ‘Duff’ will do, and if there’s anything you want just let me know. Guess you might as well take a shady-side cabin. It’s a double and is more in season, but that don’t matter none when the sun’s this hot. Take your car around to twenty-four and I’ll open it up for you.”
The room was cooler than you’d expect. Duffy switched on the window air-conditioning unit and I could feel the temperature coming down to normal right away. The double bed had a light yellow chenille spread, the walls were light blue, the furniture gray. No TV. A few framed pictures of birds. It was a room perfect for a one-night stand or maybe killing yourself.
He showed me how to work the door, made sure I had plenty of nickels for the pop machine outside, then tested the running ice water tap
in the bathroom to make sure everything was just right.
He said, “I think you’ll like it better here than in a hotel in town. Much cooler and nobody ever bothers you. Cheaper, too.”
Duffy didn’t know it, but the not-being-bothered part was the best reason for staying there.
I asked, “Anything special doing in town?”
“What was it you had in mind?”
“Oh, a little excitement.”
“Tourist kind?”
I shook my head. “You know the kind.”
His homely face broadened in a grin. “If you feel like tossing your dough down a drain, there’s plenty of places for that. There’s all kinds of fancy bars ready to sell you a drink for the price of a bottle.”
I licked my lips the way a guy in the desert does when even the mirages don’t come.
He was saying, “Nightspots right out of the movies, with big bands and top talent. Course, if after you’ve tossed your loot around, you might like to win some of it back, I hear they got some games open again. Some, anyway. I hear.” He shrugged and looked dolefully in the general direction of his wife on the other side of the building. “Them things I don’t know much about any more. Time was when I could take you there myself.”
“I thought things were pretty hot in Miami.”
His grin got sour. “I remember when it was a fun place to live. A guy could have his drinks and play his games.”
“Yeah,” I said. “The papers up north made it sound like the American Riviera.”
“Papers did that down here too. Then that Kefauver character came along and everybody got riled up about it and raised a stink. So what good did it do? The place is still full of snakes with too much money.”
“What kind of snakes?”
“Some of the biggest gangsters in this country live here at least part of the year, Mr. Hammer. Started a long time back with Capone.” His eyes went over me carefully as if he were seeing me for the first time. “You some kind of cop or something?”
“Hell no.” I made my face grin. “What makes you say that?”
“You kinda look like it. You sure aren’t one of them sharp boys, even if that heap says you might be. Hell, even wheels like that wouldn’t be good enough for that bunch. They all got foreign jobs or Caddies.” He pulled the door open and stood there a moment. “Well, you want anything, just call, hear?”
“Sure, thanks a lot.” I started to dig in my pocket for some change, but he held up a hand and shook his head.
“Mr. Hammer, I’m the owner, not the help. No tipping required. Just happy for a little male company.”
“Thanks. And make it ‘Mike.’”
He gave me another of those ugly, endearing grins. “Okay, Mike. If you live through whatever adventures you have tonight, you come give me a full report… outside of the little woman’s earshot.”
I laughed. First time in a while. “I’ll do that, Duff.”
I took my time getting unpacked. Down at the bottom of the suitcase was the .45 still in the sling. Some of the oil had oozed out staining a shirt with a greasy smear. I picked the holstered weapon up, dangled it from the harness, then dropped it in the top drawer of the dresser all by itself. I started to look up, saw myself in the mirror, and turned away.
Four months had made a difference, just like Pat said. A difference in how I looked, how I felt, even how I thought. The four days driving down here had worked out some of the poison. I was coming out of it. There would be no D.T.s or seizures or any of that fun stuff. Maybe I was getting my luck back.
But when I held my hand out and stared at it again, it still shook. You don’t fool around with a rod when you get that far gone. The thirsty bastard in my head wanted a drink and I could feel the cotton working around inside my mouth. I swore out loud, stripped off my clothes and climbed under the shower.
I was going to hate it when I shaved.
It meant I had to look in the mirror.
* * *
The Herald Building was an old lady trying to stay young. The outside was all white brick and tile with oversize windows, but only when you were inside did you realize that here was part of the womb that helped give birth to the city so long ago. The furniture was antique, not deliberately so, but because it started life with this structure.
It was a wonder the elevators passed inspection. I stepped onto one and the uniformed gnome working the control said, “Where to?”
“City Desk.”
“That’s on four, sir.” He pulled the outside door shut and started the car rattling upward. It was going to take a long time getting there. He grinned at me toothlessly. “Seems like most everybody uses the stairs these days.”
I could see why.
At four, the car groaned, jerked and stopped. The operator motioned to the right with his thumb. “Just down the hall.”
Up at this level it was a little cooler. Office doors swung open to let the night breeze pass through and the rattle of typewriters was like machine-gun fire. The Herald was a morning sheet and this was the time of its going to bed. I pushed through the gates into the city room, walked past the empty rows of desks to the rear where a hard-faced guy in a colorful sport shirt was correcting a proof.
“City editor in?” I looked reputable enough in my suit and hat and freshly shaved face to get away with it.
“Yeah, that’s his cubbyhole over there. Ben Sauer.” He pointed to a frosted-glass office taking up one corner of the room. “Knock before you go in. Gives him time to stash his bottle away. He doesn’t like to get caught at it.”
I don’t want to see him using it either, I thought.
I said thanks and went back and knocked. Somebody moved inside the room, a desk drawer eased closed and a deep male voice called out, “Come on in.”
He had been a big man once. The raw power of a millhand stood out in the frame of his body, and life had gouged its lines deep into his horsey face, and taken most of the brown out of slightly too long, somewhat unkempt hair whose color was a sickly light yellow now. A long time ago somebody had broken his nose.
Looking past his size, he wasn’t so big now. More like a fish that had been hooked and fought until it was tired. Life was trying to drag him up to the gaff, but only when you looked at his hands did you realize that though the fish was weary, there was power enough for one last, tremendous leap that could snap the leader and bring back the freedom.
“Ben Sauer?” I asked.
He leaned back in the chair, his eyes swimming a little bit. His white shirt had its sleeves rolled up and he wore red suspenders, a gray suit coat tossed on a newspaper-piled chair off to one side.
“I must be,” he said good-naturedly. “That’s what it says on the door.” He frowned at me a little bit, trying to remember if he had seen me before. He decided he had, even if he couldn’t remember where or when, like the song said, and he got chummy in that immediate way drunks do.
His grin was a loose thing. “You know what they call me out there?”
I shook my head.
“Whiskey Sauer.” He pulled open that lower desk drawer. “Care for a belt? Despite the nickname, there’s no mixer to go with it.”
I shoved my hands in my pockets so he wouldn’t see them jump. “No. Thanks.”
Maybe I said it too loud. Maybe my face said more than my voice. His eyes came up from the half-opened drawer and ate into mine. “You’ve had enough already, huh?”
“I had plenty,” I said.
“You look it, too. Sit down.”
I did, taking the hardwood chair opposite him.
He asked, “Taking the cure?”
“My own version of it.”
“Which is what?”
“Four beers a day and trying not to crawl out of my skin.”
“Okay, so I won’t torture you. The bottle stays in the drawer. You don’t look like a man in the mood to socialize, anyway.” He reached down and shut it. “You want something. What is it?”
“Information.�
��
We were brothers of the bottle and he was ready to consider my request. “Well, a newspaper’s the right place to come for that. I’m guessing you’re after the stuff I can’t get away with publishing, without getting sued or dead.”
“That’s about right.”
The swimming eyes settled down some. “First tell me who the hell you are and why you want it.” Then the humor came back into those eyes and he stretched out in the chair again, folding his hands behind his head.
It was my turn.
“The name is Mike Hammer. I’m a private investigator licensed in New York State. Down here from Manhattan.”
A low whistle snaked out of his teeth. “I thought you looked familiar. I’ve run a couple features on you, man. You don’t look so good now. Bender?”
I nodded.
“But now you’re on a case?”
“Not exactly. I’m looking for a dame.”
“Join the club. What makes this one special?”
“She’s hanging out with Nolly Quinn.”
The fish gave a start, an almost imperceptible signal that it was ready to thrash free from the hook, its eyes gleaming with a sudden hatred for the angler who had hooked it. Then as quickly as it came that gleam died away.
The editor got up, pulled out a pair of file drawers, extracted one folder each and sat down again. From the first he dumped a sheaf of news clippings and two typewritten sheets.
“This is all about you,” he said. He scanned the stuff on his desk briefly. Some were New York papers, but Miami clips, too. I’d attracted attention. “You have a disturbing reputation, Mr. Hammer.”
“So I hear. I earned it. And make it ‘Mike.’”
“And make it ‘Ben.’… You’ve killed men. Something of a… record number of men.”
“None that didn’t need it.”
His big hands scooped the clippings together like a card dealer raking in for a new shuffle. When he had them back in the folder, he emptied out the other one. It was a lot fatter than my file. There were fewer clippings, but more of those typewritten sheets.
He asked, “You know this Nolly Quinn?”
“Heard of him.”
“Well, guess what. He’s bumped more guys than you have, friend.”
Kill Me, Darling Page 4
