And now, a year later, I sat in a familiar restaurant with my best buddy and my pulse rate had almost doubled and my breath was caught in my throat.
Damn.
"I got tired, Pat," I said. "I got tired of the whole goddamn mess."
"That kid was a fucking psycho killer. But he did us a favor, losing his cool—or maybe you did us the favor by goading him into that play. Shit. We wiped out damn near half the Bonetti family that night."
"And what good did it do, Pat? Twice the volume of drugs has come into the States since."
"But apparently not the Bonettis doing it," he said with a shrug. "That still leaves five families. Used to be six, till you squeezed the Evello bunch out, ten years ago. Anyway, that's ancient history."
I took another pull at the beer. "Sure. And all the assholes who want to get noodled up on poppy juice make it profitable for 'em. More power to the pricks."
"No. No attitude problem for you."
This time I finished off the beer and put the mug down. I waved for a refill and the waiter took the empty away. "I'm just plain tired of the game, Pat. I haven't got an attitude problem. I haven't got an attitude. Period."
The gray eyes turned placid. He smiled just a little. "Good."
I frowned at him. "And before you ask, let me tell you something. I haven't lost my nerve. It's just that it's finally occurred to me that tilting at windmills doesn't matter a damn in this lousy life. Let somebody else do the dirty work—like you cops, for instance."
"I been waiting years to hear this. Don't stop now."
"I have stopped. I'm not in it anymore. I haven't got the slightest faintest fucking desire to get wrapped up in that bundle of bullshit again. I've done it, it's past me, I'm retired."
For a full minute Pat went on eating, then nodded sagely. "And maybe it's for the best."
It was his tone of voice that made me ask, "What're you not saying?"
His eyes came back to mine. "Right now there's relative peace on the streets. After you wiped out young Bonetti, everybody thought the old man would try to lay a hit on you, and if it didn't take, you'd come roaring back at him with one of those wild-ass shoot-outs that you were so damn famous for. Hell, that's why we kept you under wraps in the hospital ... until you slipped out on your own."
"Don't lay any blame on the uniforms guarding me—I'm still not that easy to babysit."
"I didn't. I don't."
"So what's Papa Bonetti think about it now?" My second beer came and I sipped the head off it. "Is there still a contract out for this old dog?"
"Not to our knowledge." He shrugged. "We took out so many of his men, and you killed his son—Alberto's a broken man. Sitting out his final years at his Long Island estate, and at that old social club. He's out of the business."
"Balls."
"Okay, so maybe he's not as retired as he says. I mean, somebody's distributing the stuff."
"But not the Bonetti family."
"Far as we know, they aren't major players in narcotics. They may still have some fingers in the racket, but their strong suits are loan-sharking and gambling. On the other hand, I don't think Alberto Bonetti's losing sleep over evening the score with Mike Hammer."
"You sound sure of that."
"I am. We went through some back channels and put the question to him. As far as he's concerned, the incident is closed. His boy Sal was a hothead who aimed higher than he could reach. The kid's dead, his pop's staying under the radar, maybe retired, maybe not. Either way, any more shooting would be bad all around."
I paraphrased the Capone quote I'd shared with Marty: "Lousy for business."
"And it would make our current administration very uneasy, as well."
"I'll bet," I said sourly.
We both went back to our corned beef, the noise around us building up as the bar crowd made its way back to the tables. It was a scratchy sound now, an irritant. I had been away from it too long, much too long, and a scene I once found comforting only annoyed. They sounded like a bunch of damn kids at a ball game, and Pat and I tried to cover it with our own grown-up conversation.
But there comes a time when the small talk fades and all you do is sit there looking at each other, wondering how to work up to the main event.
I said, "What happened to Doolan, Pat?"
His frown had a ragged edge to it, as if he didn't like the way it was going to sound. "I told you. He killed himself."
"Bullshit."
He lifted a palm, like he was swearing in at court. "That's what I thought when I first saw the report. Doolan was never the suicide type."
"Damn well told. There's no way you're going to make me believe that."
The gray eyes had a weariness now. "Suicide isn't really the right word, Mike."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Pat sat back. "Physically healthy men who can't cope, and just plain give up and shoot themselves—that's suicide."
"So?"
"So a week ago Doolan had a final report from his doctor. He had a terminal cancer, and was about to go into the final stage. At best, he had about three months to live, and it was going to be a rough downhill ride all the way. He'd wanted to know the truth and the doctor pulled no punches—each day the pain would be worse and there was no way they could stop it."
I knew where Pat was headed.
He went on: "When the doctor confirmed what Doolan suspected, he went home and began putting his affairs in order. Got his will out of a lockbox and laid it out on his desk. His granddaughter gets most everything—the beach house, his insurance, and two fairly expensive paintings he'd bought years ago."
"Doolan buying paintings?"
"Don't laugh, Mike. Their value had gone up many times since their purchase."
"Who else was on his list?"
"The Patrolmen's Benevolent Association and a small bequest to an old buddy in a nursing home in Albany. From his desk, he called a cemetery on the Island and bought a short plot out there, and left a note to that effect attached to the will. It was dated the same day he died."
"Typed?"
"No. It was in his own handwriting and signed. No doubt about it being authentic."
"He did this on the day he died. And he left no other note?"
"No, Mike. But he shot himself, all right."
"Shot himself. And suicide isn't the right word?"
"Let's say it was deliberate self-destruction. Self-administered euthanasia." His shrug conveyed sorrow. "He was cutting out while he still had control."
Knowing old Doolan the way I did, it was hard to accept, yet on the surface that sounded reasonable enough. When a guy hits eighty, a dirty death is something he sure wouldn't want. Still... Doolan? Damn.
"How'd he do it, Pat?"
"With his own .38 revolver. He shot himself in the heart."
I looked up at him quizzically. "Old cops usually swallow the muzzle, pal."
"There are exceptions. He was one."
"You checked his hands."
"Sure. Doc did a paraffin test on him right there. He fired the gun, all right. Powder and flash burns right on his shirt. No unusual angle to the bullet entry. It would be easy enough to do. We even have a time for the shot. A little old lady heard it. She didn't know what it was at first, but got pretty damn suspicious. Her window opened right onto the air shaft from Doolan's, and she knew he was an old-timer cop."
"She the one who called in?"
"Uh-huh. And she placed the time right on the nose. The M.E. had an easy case on this one."
"How long had Doolan been dead before a car got there?"
"Maybe fifteen minutes." Pat knew what I was going to ask next and beat me to it: "The door was locked. First cops on the scene kicked it open."
"What about the street? Anybody see or hear anything?"
"Nothing. At ten-thirty at night, it's pretty quiet around there. Not like it's crawling with potential witnesses."
"There's a news vendor on the corner."
"I
know. And he'd closed down a half hour before."
I shut my eyes and let it run through my mind. Finally I said, "Any doubts, Pat?"
He shook his head. "I wish there were."
"It just doesn't sound like old Doolan," I insisted.
"Mike ... it is old Doolan we're talking about. Not the fireball we knew back in the early days. Not the guy that mentored us both, right after the war. When you get up there in years, hell, you change. He changed. You know that."
How could I argue about that? Hadn't I got older, and changed?
But I did argue: "No," I said flatly, "I don't know that. I admit the logic is there, Pat. But it still doesn't sit right."
"Hell, man. Cut me a goddamn break. I put everybody on it—we blitzed every angle we could before the day was out. Any real enemies Doolan had died a hell of a long time ago. He wasn't involved with any police matters, his circle of friends was small and of long duration. He was well-liked in the neighborhood, occasionally took part in civic affairs..."
"Like how?"
"Attended meetings when it concerned neighborhood problems or renovation. Things like that."
"Social life?"
"He would go to departmental retirement parties sometimes—I figure for him that was a big night out."
"What about his granddaughter?"
His wife and daughter were deceased; the one granddaughter was the only relative I knew of.
Pat said, "She still lives upstate with that slob she married. They got in town a couple hours ahead of you."
"Nothing there either?"
"Zilch. The grandson-in-law hasn't missed a day at work all year. Staying sober is probably killing him. If he gets drunk and beats up on Anna one more time, he goes up for a year. The judge really laid on him last time."
"She ought to dump that bum," I said.
"Right now she thinks she loves him. You know, old Doolan beat that kid's ass couple years back—Doolan in his seventies, the guy in his late twenties or early thirties. Funny as hell."
"So there's a suspect already."
He winced at that, and his eyes seemed tired now. "I told you, Mike, I've covered all the angles, including that one. There's not a reason in the world to label it anything except suicide."
I nodded, knowing that Pat was certain of his facts, but still reluctant to admit Doolan would renege on his ethical standards and take his own life. Hell, drugs could wipe any pain out right until he died, and Doolan had kissed death often enough not to be afraid of her.
"Take me through it, Pat," I said.
"Mike, imagine how many times I've—"
"One more time."
He sighed. "We got the call, the squad car responded, the officer broke the door down, went back to Doolan's study, flipped on the light, and saw the body—"
"Hold it. The place was dark?"
"Sure. But that's not unusual. You remember how Doolan was. Whenever he had a problem, he'd sit there in the dark listening to that classical music. And he had a problem, all right. That's what he was doing—thinking out a problem ... a problem he finally solved with a single shot. And before you ask, the music tape was still going when the officer entered. At that point it was about three quarters completed."
"How long was the tape?"
"Ninety minutes." He let me drift over the picture, then added, "Convinced?"
I shrugged. "I keep forgetting the first lesson Doolan ever taught us."
"What's that?"
"Don't get emotionally involved with your cases."
Pat snorted. "Yeah, well, that's a lesson you didn't learn so good, did you?"
I grinned at him, but there was nothing funny in it. "Must've dozed off in class that day, Pat."
His eyes locked with mine. "You're satisfied with what I told you?"
"Absolutely, buddy," I said. "There's no disputing the facts at all. Everything points to a suicide. But are you satisfied, Pat?"
"Yes," he said. His eyes were hard, his chin jutted. "I'm satisfied." Then the eyes hooded and the chin lowered, and he let out a deep breath and shook his head. "But you're not, are you, Mike? Not really?"
"Buddy," I told him, "I'm not doubting you at all. It's just that I feel highly pissed off at Doolan for pulling a stunt like that."
If he pulled a stunt like that.
"He wasn't Doolan," Pat said resignedly. "He was an old man, Mike."
I was older. I was jaded. I had changed. I was tired. I was retired. But I was still Mike Hammer.
"Bother you if I look into it myself?" I asked Pat.
"Nope." He let out a sigh that must have started yesterday. "I knew you were going to. No matter what I said. Just tell me why."
"So I can be convinced—like you."
"Fine," he said. "Be my guest." He slapped the tabletop. "Now ...let's go give the old boy a proper send-off."
And that was the real question, wasn't it?
Had somebody already given Doolan a send-off?
Chapter 2
TOMORROW THERE WOULD be an inspector's send-off for Doolan.
The city would escort the cortege to the county line and the motorcycle squads would pick it up from there. At the gravesite there would be rifles fired over Doolan's casket, bugles blowing, and somebody would present a flag to his granddaughter. Then it would be over and everybody would go home glad that it was over so they could get back to normal again, the bureaucrats and the foot soldiers and distant relatives and kids of deceased parents who'd been the old boy's friends having served out their obligation to a dinosaur of a cop who had taken way too long to get around to dying.
But tonight was different.
Tonight would be the gathering of the clan, and like all reunions, the pack would assemble in little groups according to age, rank, and serial number—the old-timers, long-retired, with their own little clique near the casket, those working buddies of Doolan's getting ready for their own inspector's parades. Gold badges gleaming on freshly pressed uniforms as the brass arrange themselves in ladderlike order of importance, wearing their funeral masks beautifully, but singing no praises to the corpse. In their own way, they'd be working.
We found a parking place down the block and walked till Pat nodded toward the old brick building with the gold lettering on its window.
"Let's go on in," he said. "Just about everybody else'll be there already."
I followed Pat, leaving my bag and my hat in the coat closet. Religious music played just softly enough to be heard but not loud enough to be recognized, and a female employee in her fifties with a white corsage and a trained sad face had us sign in at the book.
A good thirty cops, plainclothes and uniformed alike, were milling, chatting, ranging in age from late fifties to early thirties. Old Doolan had trained a lot of guys— special guys. The kind who had gone into some pretty high places—some on the streets, where the pace was fast and deadly, others up the departmental ladder where the air got thin with politics.
For the cops in the trenches, it wasn't a game that you retired out of. The end usually came with a startling suddenness and with little note of it anywhere. A lucky few stayed alive and slowed down enough so that they went into a desk job, where it was the lack of pace that killed them.
Pat was one of those organizational types who didn't fit the wild-man mold, and had been steered by Doolan into an active but largely administrative role. Doolan was right in that decision, although Pat still could take care of himself on the street.
Me, Doolan had scoped out quickly. As far as he was concerned, I never should have had that early on-the-job army training in the Pacific, a kid who went in lying about his age and came out older than his years. Lousy goddamn hellhole to go to school in, he'd said.
"You learn to kill too young, kid," he'd told me, "and something happens. You can get to like killing—but on the PD, if you have to kill, you make it part of the job and not some emotional damn explosion."
I had a streak that worried him. Doolan had trained me and guided me, b
ut I still lasted less than two years on the department before hanging out my private shingle.
"The rules dictate the action," he told me once.
And, punk kid that I was, I'd just grinned and said, "Yeah? Well, if there are no rules, you have to make your own up on the spot, don't you?"
Doolan had lost me my job. I hated him for it—for maybe a month. Years later, he let me read the memo he put through, advising that the NYPD send me to a desk or cut me loose.
"This is a good man," he'd written, "a brave man, and he has brains. But his emotions dictate his behavior, and he is the kind of unpredictable officer who will cause tragedy for himself and others."
I couldn't challenge that assessment.
Still, he had trained me well—all these years later, and here I was, still alive. One of the walking wounded maybe, but alive.
The sweet smell of flowers sickened me. I said to Pat, "Where are all the bad guys? Aren't they required by their dumb-ass code to come by and pay their respects?"
Pat glanced at his watch. "It isn't eight o'clock yet. They like to make an entrance."
"I'd like to help them make an exit. Why, after so many years, do these Cosa Nostra boys bother with all this ritualistic crap?"
"Tradition—gives 'em a sense of structure and pseudomorality. Whether they like it or not, they're still tied to old-country ways. The young guys hate it, but all of that omertà bull is bred into them, and they can't get rid of it."
"You turned into a regular philosopher, Pat."
"Hanging around you will do that." He nodded toward a little civilian crowd near the simple pine-box coffin. "Let's tell his granddaughter hello ... even though any tears she sheds will be of joy, anticipating what she'll inherit."
Kiss Her Goodbye Page 2
