Kiss Her Goodbye

by Mickey Spillane

  He leaned forward. "You can bet that old son of a bitch wasn't just chasing young tail. He was working."

  "Like how?"

  "Beats the shit outa me. He was always into somethin'. He was an old pro and just liked to keep his hand in. Some guys never learn how to quit. Right, Mike?" Ernie paused, chewed on his lip a moment, then said, "Hard to believe he killed himself."

  I just looked at him without saying anything at all, then all his gears started to mesh and I saw him tighten up across the shoulders.

  He darted a look around, then said very softly, "So that's why you're back. You don't think Doolan snuffed himself either, do you, Mike?"

  "No," I said.

  He sat there thinking for maybe thirty seconds. Then he said, "Somebody you should talk to."

  "Okay."

  He slid out and came back two minutes later with a young guy about five ten with the long hair and mustache of his generation and a canary shirt with a pointed collar over a sport jacket that looked like couch upholstery.

  "This is Lonnie Dean," he said, making room as the younger man slid in next to him.

  "Christ, you are Mike Hammer," the kid said in a thin baritone. "I heard you were back in the city."

  I just nodded.

  Ernie said, "Mike, Lonnie wrote that story a while back about the new breed of organized crime family. Won a bunch of journalistic awards."

  "Didn't see it," I admitted.

  A grin blossomed under the younger reporter's thick mustache. "You wouldn't have, Mr. Hammer. The mob shake-up I wrote about followed that shoot-out on the pier you walked away from."

  "Crawled is more like it," I said. "So I was an instrument of change, huh? Like the kids say, groovy."

  His eyes were bright. He seemed enthusiastic and nervous, like he was meeting a movie star. "Mr. Hammer—"

  "Make it 'Mike,' Lonnie."

  "Mike. I could hardly believe it when Ernie came over and told me you were over here..."

  Christ. Not a damn autograph hound.

  "...I mean, we've never met, I've only been on the O.C. beat for a year. But you are news."

  "Yeah, well. Some people would be flattered but—"

  "No, I mean news right now. Didn't make the media, but that hooker who got run down? You got clipped, too, didn't you? And walked away from it?"

  I frowned. "Where did you hear that, son?"

  "I have sources."

  "In the department?"

  "Sure, Mr. Hammer ... Mike ... but those aren't the sources I'm talking about." He used a forefinger to bend his nose in the time-honored fashion to indicate he meant wiseguys. "Do you know who's claiming credit for almost running you down?"

  "Surprise me."

  "Alberto Bonetti."

  I squinted at him. "Why? It wasn't his people."

  Ernie got in a question: "How can you know that, Mike?"

  I shrugged. "Alberto would've used a pro. A pro wouldn't have got the girl, if I was the target."

  Lonnie said, "You mean, you'd be dead now."

  "Maybe. I've been out of the game. But hit-and-run isn't the mob's style either. Too many potential witnesses, too imprecise. And that driver was strictly amateur night." I sipped beer, thought about it. "The word on the street is Bonetti hired it done?"

  "Yeah." If the kid's eyes had been any brighter, I would have needed sunglasses. "And there's more, Mike. Your pal Doolan may not have been a suicide."

  I managed not to smile. "Do tell."

  "Bonetti's taking credit for that kill, too. Well, that may be oversimplifying it... You have something to do with that, too."

  "Me?"

  The shaggy-haired crime reporter nodded. He looked like a fucking Muppet, but he seemed to know his shit. "Nobody was figuring old Bill Doolan for murder until you came back to town. Word got out you were starting to nose around, which people took to mean Doolan musta been whacked, and the credit started going to Bonetti. Whether the rumors began with the old don, or just grew ... that's where it stands."

  I was nodding slowly. "So the street says ... or anyway thinks ...that Bonetti took Doolan out to get back at me, and lure me out of hiding...?"

  Lonnie nodded. "That's right, so he could have you taken out."

  Ernie said, "Like in a hit-and-run."

  The other reporter nodded.

  "But it's bullshit," I said.

  Lonnie shrugged. "Possibly, but it comes at a good time for Bonetti. He can use what it does for his rep among the other crime families right now. That shake-up is still under way, Mike—somebody new, somebody not so overt, is moving in on drug distribution. But the old-timers, like Don Giraldi and Pierluigi, if they solidify behind Alberto, the Bonetti family could be a power again."

  It made sense.

  Lonnie was chuckling. "You coming back to town, you really did old Alberto a favor. You ought to send him a bill for the good PR in his circles."

  "I may," I said.

  That stopped Lonnie's chuckling. "What are you going to do, Mr. Hammer?"

  "Well, right now I'm going to ask you for a favor. You do me that favor, Lonnie, I'll give you the inside track on what'll be a big story."

  "All right."

  "Check your sources. I want to know two things."

  "Okay."

  "First—is there any activity involving rare gems going on in mob circles? Rip-offs involving gems, or valuable stones being used for money laundering—anything of that nature."

  "You got it."

  "Second—has Tony Tret really gone straight? His family was once associated with the Bonettis, loosely, but associated. Could Club 52 be a front for drugs?"

  "Okay, but I doubt this Club 52 angle. As you must know, Mike, the authorities look the other way on the recreational stuff that goes down at that place. The club is in itself a goldmine, and I can't imagine Anthony Tretriano—who seems to despise his rough background—risking it."

  I smiled. "How long have you been working the organized crime beat?"

  "Just about a year."

  "Have you seen any evidence that those people will stop at anything where making money is concerned?"

  Lonnie laughed. "You got me there, Mr. Hammer. Mike."

  I reached a hand across and we shook. "Nice knowing you. I'm at the Commodore."

  "Not your office?"

  "Naw, it's closed up."

  "For good?"

  "Don't know, son. Don't know. Ernie, thanks for introducing us."

  "No problem, Mike. You always look out for your friends, don't you? Glad to do the same for you."

  And it was time to wander out into the rain and hail a cab.

  Alex Jaynor was listed in the Manhattan directory, an address on East Fifty-third Street. I took a chance on his being home and dialed from a pay phone around the corner. On the third ring, the phone was picked up and a smooth voice said, "Hello, Alex Jaynor here."

  I had to grin at the way he merchandised his greeting.

  "Hi, kid," I said. "Mike Hammer here."

  "Hey, Mike—where are you?"

  "Damn near on your doorstep. You have time to talk to me or are you busy?"

  "Not at all. Come on up—or would you rather meet someplace?"

  "I'll come up," I said, and cradled the phone.

  The building was an old one, but nicely refurbished, the kind of place up-and-coming people used until they got to the top of the ladder where penthouses became their style. Meanwhile, they lived in quiet opulence with a gray-haired doorman who had a genuine Irish accent. I gave him Alex's name, he let me in, then pointed to the elevator in the lobby. "Apartment 4-C, sir."

  I thanked him, went upstairs, found 4-C, and pushed the buzzer. The tall, sandy-haired politician came to the door grinning, holding his hand out, and practically pulled me inside. He was in a dark blue shirt without a tie and navy slacks, casual but crisp.

  "Good to see you again, Mike. This is a nice surprise."

  "Really?"

  "Not often I have a living legend stepping over
the threshold."

  I had to laugh at that one. "Never mind about legend—I'm just glad to be living." I followed him in. "Anyway, Doolan was the legendary one, not me. I always felt I walked in his shadow."

  "Well, having known the man, I can understand that. Make you a drink?"

  "A CC and ginger will do it."

  "Coming right up."

  While he built the drinks at a wet bar, I took a look around. The apartment was a small world of rust-stained wood, modern and high-ceilinged, with open stairs going up to a loft-style bedroom. The kitchen was tucked under the loft and was small, metallic, and utilitarian—nobody in Manhattan seemed to think much about eating in, at least in this part of town.

  There were doors off to a spare bedroom and a little study, but—with its comfortable leather chairs and sofa, and functional glass-and-metal tables—mostly the apartment had the feel of one big room, a masculine refuge from the world.

  Alex handed me my drink and said, "Like the digs?"

  "You got it made, kiddo. Good address, too."

  "Doolan found it for me about a month after we met. How he found it, I'll never know. It's still a little expensive, but I'm making the nut now."

  I said, "Cheers," and sipped the highball.

  "So, to what do I owe this visit?" He pointed to a dark brown leather chair and matching sofa and he took the former while I settled onto the latter. I tossed my hat on the glass-and-metal coffee table separating us.

  "You know, Alex, I wish I could lay a question out that made sense, but what I want to know is—what was going on with Doolan in the last, say, six months of his life?"

  "Not sure I follow."

  "I've been off the scene for a year, I hadn't seen him for at least a year before that, and now that he's gone, I'm trying to find out how he was dealing with what he had left of his life—facing that medical death sentence."

  Eyebrows lifted and came back down in the chiseled face. "But you were closer than I ever was with Doolan..."

  "I was then. You were now. Look, you two were tight during the time I was away. What was he like?"

  "Compared to what?"

  "Describe him," I said.

  He swirled the drink around in his glass, the ice chinking the side. "Doolan was a damn good friend. It's an overused word lately, but he was a real mentor."

  "You said you met him when you were a reporter for McWade's magazine."

  He grimaced, then chuckled. "You make it sound like more than it was, Mike. I was a roving reporter. It wasn't the cushiest of jobs—low pay and minimum expenses."

  "It's a Canadian publication—but you're not Canadian?"

  "No. I'm originally from Boston. It was just a job I was able to land out of college. Headquarters are in Toronto, but the general circulation is bigger in the New England states than it is in Canada. Most of the news is collected from the Northeast U.S. anyway."

  "McWade's send you to New York?"

  "On special assignment. All the major cities are troubled by teenaged crime, and Toronto wanted to see how New York handled it. They really wanted drama more than information. Sensationalism posing as journalism is, I'm afraid, what sells magazines. Even in Canada."

  "And what you were covering fitted in, huh?"

  Alex nodded and tasted his drink. "I guess you know there's been some pretty heavy stuff going down with youth gangs, and some of that activity leaked over into Doolan's neighborhood."

  "So I heard."

  "They had the residents in a state of terror until Doolan got involved. With his connections, that place was swept clean in a week. There were arrests, convictions, and by damn, nine of those punks are pulling time now."

  I grinned. "Doolan appreciate the publicity you could provide?"

  "Hell no—he wouldn't even let me go back to McWade's. Refused to let me turn the story in!"

  "How did he manage that?"

  "He promised to connect me with some New York—based publications, and thanks to him, I got into freelancing articles on a regular basis, and did some things that caught attention and won some awards. Even did some TV work. Somewhere along the line, Doolan steered me into politics."

  "He must have seen something in you he liked."

  "We were close. I lost my father when I was very young, and he did fill a void. And I think having somebody my age, who could handle himself, to wade in with him into the rough parts of that neighborhood, well ... it's probably the kind of thing he'd have leaned on you to do, if you'd still been around."

  "I'd like to think I would have helped out. Did it get rough?"

  "Enough. That was the first time I had shots thrown at me."

  "But not the last?"

  "No. Hell, Mike, I'm no hero. No tough guy. I was in the army during Vietnam, but never saw much action. I know my way around firearms, but that's mostly because of gun clubs as a kid, and, of course, the Enfilade now."

  "Tell me about getting shot at."

  "Nothing you can pin down. I was in my car, the first time. On the street, the next. And when I was campaigning for office, on an anticrime platform, it happened again. That was when Doolan talked me into wearing a bulletproof vest whenever I go out."

  "That can get a little bulky."

  "Well, I'm a wiry type. It doesn't show. But sometimes I don't know why I bother—vests don't stop head hits."

  "Do you know who was throwing those shots? I don't mean the specific shooters, but whatever group sent them?"

  His grin was wide and turned up at either end, Cheshire Catlike. "Well, you saw them the other night, Mike—at the funeral home? Doolan was convinced it was the Bonettis behind not only the drugs in his neighborhood, but the attempts on my life."

  Maybe the word on the street giving credit to old Alberto for taking Doolan out wasn't misplaced after all.

  "What if I told you, Alex, that I think Doolan may have been murdered."

  He said nothing for a moment, his light blue eyes unblinking. Then: "It may sound terrible, but I'd prefer that to suicide."

  "I hear that."

  "So goddamn out of character."

  "If I'm right, Alex, you may be the next target."

  "Yeah? Any advice?"

  "Keep wearing that vest."

  "Oh yeah."

  I shifted on the couch. "Did you know Doolan hung out at discos?"

  "What?"

  "Well, at one disco—a famous one. Club 52."

  He tried his drink again, frowning. "No, I didn't know, but in a way I'm not surprised."

  "Really?"

  "For a man his age, he did a lot of offbeat things, and went a lot of places, that conventional people would find strange."

  "What about women?"

  This time he put his drink down on the glass coffee table and another smile creased his face. "Hell, Doolan was an ass patter, Mike. You know the type—you can get in trouble for it these days."

  "Sure can."

  He laughed. "But when you get to be his age, you can get away with murder with the ladies." Then he realized what he'd said, and added, "Poor choice of words."

  "He ever talk about particular women?"

  "Not really, but I had the feeling he had some sort of friendship with a woman or two. Doolan and I were close, sure, but it was father-and-son close, which meant some doors were closed to me."

  I leaned back and stared up at the ceiling. Long shadows from the table lamps made an eerie pattern on the slats of wood.

  I asked, "What was his lifestyle like in the last month?"

  Alex considered that a moment, then spread his hands apart reflectively. "Normal, as far as I know. I saw him a couple of times every week. Hell, he never missed going to the Enfilade. No, wait a minute, that's wrong ... the last two times I saw him he did seem kind of, well ... down. The old buoyancy just wasn't there."

  "Enough to be suicidal?"

  "Who knows?"

  "Was he sick? Was it really kicking in?"

  "I admit I didn't think about it—I mean, everybody has
moods, off days. But it certainly could have been that. If he was really getting to be in bad shape, I'm surprised he never mentioned it to anyone."

  "Doolan wouldn't," I said. "You're right—he was a great friend, but certain doors stayed closed." I finished my drink, reached for my hat, rose. "Thank you for the hospitality, Alex."

  "Oh, my pleasure. Anytime."

  "Take care. I may need to give you a call again. I'm trying to put some pieces together. You might have the glue."

  "I hope I do," he said.

  Down on the street, the rain had let up. But a low rumble of thunder echoed across the city. There was an occasional dull glaze of cloud-hidden lightning in the south, and when the wind gusted past, I could smell more rain coming—the kind that was held above the buildings until it was soaked with debris and dust, and when it came down, it wouldn't be a cleansing rain at all.

  Chapter 8

  AT NINE P.M., West Fifty-fourth between Broadway and Eighth Avenue was an artery clogged enough to give Manhattan a heart attack. The taxis slightly outnumbered the brave, foolish souls with their own wheels, and it was so hopeless, even the horn-honk symphony seemed halfhearted.

  The fuss was over a fairly nondescript entryway for so famous a nightspot—a bunch of doors, a velvet rope, and a modest overhang that said CLUB 52 in light blue art deco lettering on a black background.

  The sidewalk was as jammed as the street, although a passageway from the curb cut through the crowd, maintained by security types in black 52-monogrammed blazers, so that the limos that somehow managed to crawl through traffic could disgorge celebrities and other beautiful people. These were gods and goddesses—these were that rarefied breed.

  They who were on the list.

  On either side of this red carpet were photographers whose flashes popped at each passing fur or gown or Armani suit while gawkers yelped and yelpers gawked as the blazer boys held them back. These were the unfortunate rabble who didn't even bother crowding up to the velvet rope for possible selection.

  I encouraged the cabbie to squeeze in behind the nearest limo and by nine-thirty, I was stepping out of a Yellow cab onto the red carpet. The rain had let up but I still had on the trench coat and porkpie hat as I walked in no great hurry up to where the shrimpy kid in the cream-colored sport jacket and no tie would be checking his clipboard, should he not recognize me.