Authors: Mickey Spillane
Before long, Bill Doolan would be forgotten.
But not by everyone.
Not by the person who killed him.
And not by me.
The office that Doolan had shared with Peter Cummings looked like something out of
A Tale of Two Cities.
The corner building had opened in 1888, the year of the Great Blizzard, and had watched the city parade pass so long, it had itself become a monument of sorts, the kind two old men found comfortable toward the tail end of their lives.
Ten years younger than Doolan, Cummings had been on the force with Doolan, retired, and become a P.I., specializing in credit-investigations work. Doolan helped his friend out, working only when he'd wanted to, picking and choosing. Two great old guys who didn't know how to quit and, hell, they were still enjoying life, so why should they?
I knocked on the door, heard Cummings's gruff "It's open," and turned the knob.
"I'll be damned," he said. "Mike Hammer."
"Everybody's got to be somebody," I said.
His hair was all gray now, short and bristly. The years had left lines on his face and thinned out his once-powerful frame, but somehow you knew he was still a cop, years away from his era, who still carried a retirement shield in a worn leather case in his pocket. He was in a white shirt with no tie and the sleeves rolled, black slacks, and stocking feet. Argyles.
"I was wondering if you'd show up," he said. He was out from behind his desk, heading to a little fridge conveniently nearby. "Everybody else and his mother's been here. Come on in and sit down. Want a cold one?"
"Sure." I deposited myself in the old walnut client's chair and caught the cold can of Miller. "Like old times."
Back behind his desk, he held his can up. "Cheers."
"Cheers." I popped the top. "You weren't at the funeral."
"No. At my age you have to make a decision—how many funerals are you willing to go to, with friends dying left and right. I decided one more was plenty."
"Your own."
"That's right." He drank. "But don't think I don't feel it. Terrible about Doolan."
"I figure you know the details."
"Oh yeah. Pat laid everything out. He was real shook up over it."
"How're you taking it, Pete?"
"For real?"
"Yeah, for real."
Cummings leaned back, the swivel chair squeaking. "It isn't easy. We were friends for a long time." He took his glasses off, threw them on the desk, and massaged the bridge of his nose. "He wasn't my partner, but he did a lot of work out of here. So I saw him quite a bit. He was the last of the old bunch that I did see. With the others..." He shrugged. "...you say you'll keep in touch, but you don't. The past goes on a back burner and stays there."
I nodded.
"Now," he said, and sighed, "there's nobody left. Shit, who can blame Doolan for doing the Dutch act? Some days I feel like packing it in myself."
"You're working off a false premise."
"What?" His eyes caught mine and I saw both irritation and confusion there.
"Bill Doolan never killed himself."
Time was the heavy tick of the aged pendulum wall clock that seemed to be the only sound not just in the office, but in the world. It went on and on while Cummings slowly edged forward until his arms rested on his desk, his head tilted up to watch me carefully.
Softly, Cummings said, "Okay. How do you know this?"
"Doolan told me," I said. "A long time ago."
The clock kept ticking. It seemed louder now.
"You mind making that clear, Mike?"
I told him about the conversation in the Blue Ribbon.
Finally he nodded, his eyes narrowing. There was no discussion, no argument at all. "What are you going to do?"
"Sure as hell not let it sit the way it is. Somebody's going to get tumbled."
"The old Mike Hammer way?"
"I haven't come up with a new one."
"How can I help?"
"You can start by letting me go through Doolan's files."
He pointed across the room. "Feel free. Everything's over there in the two cabinets on the far end. Other three are mine. Of course, you know, the police have gone over the works. Pat Chambers is no slouch."
"They find anything?"
"Nothing they seemed to think was important. Maybe you can do better. You're no slouch either."
"Thanks a bunch."
Five old four-drawer wooden filing cabinets were pushed against the wall, looking like they came with the building. None of the drawers was locked and, from the way the folders were replaced, I knew everything had indeed been looked at by the police.
I could have told them what was in there—Doolan had always been a clipper. Whatever had looked interesting, he had cut out and saved: newspapers, magazines, anything at all. There was a file of news clippings on every intriguing murder case the past year and a half. Two folders had schematics of the latest alarm systems, including those used in Europe.
When I reached the third drawer, I found a particularly thick folder labeled
PERSONALS
and pulled it out. I had to crack a grin at that one—old Doolan still had his ego working for him. These were all news photos of him mixing with the public he had served so long. He had been a damn good after-dinner speaker, and there were shots of him in black tie speaking at banquets, a good dozen at political rallies, and just as many at police functions.
The old boy had gotten around more than I thought. Two shots were with presidents of the United States, and eight more were group shots where state senators were listening to whatever he was hanging on them.
What tickled me most was the envelope at the back of the folder filled with 8 x 10s of Doolan posing with dolls. Some of the shots went back twenty years and included movie stars like Marilyn Monroe and Rhonda Fleming up through Raquel Welch and Tuesday Weld; they were all classy ladies, really, even the two who ran elegant call-girl books. The backgrounds were restaurants, theaters, and clubs, the old ones I recognized, the new ones I didn't.
I waved a handful of the photos at Cummings. "What's with these, Pete?"
His grunt was meaningful. "I never asked for details. Doolan would show me new ones as he added them, grinning like a goofy kid. I was too envious to give him the satisfaction."
I chuckled. "Don't tell me the old guy still fooled around."
Once again I got that hard stare. "Mike," he told me, "you're not up in years yet, so you may think it's funny, but even guys our age can still get it up...
and
remember what to do with it."
"Sorry about that."
"Maybe it's not as
often,
but..."
"Sorry about that too."
"Don't be. Think of the money I save."
The last were three concert-type shots of a woman singing at a stand-up microphone. It partially obscured her face, but it was obvious she was a real beauty. Her platinum hair was straight and long, accentuating her rich brown complexion that went with features that seemed Hispanic and Asian at once. Certainly that red silk dress split up the side to her waist and exposing a long, lush leg had an oriental look, and helped make her look startlingly erotic.
"Who's this one?" I held the photos up.
"Her name's Chrome. Or anyway that's how he referred to her. A performer, pretty famous I guess. Some exotic looker, eh?"
"Not the girl next door," I admitted. "I'm beginning to think our old pal was a dirty old man."
Cummings let out a low laugh. "She was business, Mike. A friend of his in L.A., a reporter, wanted some shots for a show-business rag—this Chrome doll is apparently on the rise."
"So are most of the men in her audiences, I'd guess."
"Yeah, and the rest are gay."
"I didn't think Doolan dealt that much in photography."
"No more than any of us—in the P.I. game, you find your way around a camera. He didn't just work for me, you know. He did jobs for reporters, both local and guys like that one in L.A."
"A lot of that kind of thing?"
"If he was in the mood. If whatever it was appealed to him."
I nodded. "What's in the other cabinet?"
"Bills, mostly. Receipts, bank statements. He never threw anything like that away. Tell you, though, you'll waste your time going through them. He never looked at anything in there—he just
put
things there, every month, every year. You know, real pack-rat stuff. Funny, considering how anal retentive he was about keeping his apartment neat."
I pulled out the bottom drawer. This one was real interesting—one big folder on me went back ten years and wound up with glossy black-and-whites of me on the ground bleeding after that last shoot-out.
I still held the .45 and the lifeless feet of Sal Bonetti were in the background. My side started to throb again and I could feel the fire under my ribs. Something foul seemed to be caught in my throat.
Pete said, "You okay, Mike?"
I could feel his eyes on me. I stuffed the photos back, swallowed, and nodded.
"Maybe you could use another beer?"
I shook my head. "I'm all right. It just happens sometimes."
"What happens?"
"I start hurting in a couple of ways."
The folder had three other pictures in it, front and side views of Alberto Bonetti, in prison casual with his very own number under his name. There was an odd, implied pertinence about those pictures—the total lack of any other information suggested a special degree of importance.
Clashes between Bonetti and Doolan weren't frequent, and those were some years back. Both had come out of the same squalid Lower East Side neighborhood around the same time, hating each other like primeval enemies, one good, one bad.
How much did you hate Doolan, Alberto? Enough to have him killed? Enough to get me back here so you could watch my guts churn, knowing my great mentor was dead like your lousy kid?
Motive? Sure, Bonetti, you have one
hell
of a motive.
From across the room, Pete read my mind. "You speak to Pat about old Alberto?"
"No."
"Well, I can tell you that Pat already checked him out. Bonetti and four of his guys were at Gaspar Rozzi's wedding in the Bronx when Doolan died."
"That doesn't mean much, except maybe Alberto bothered to be seen by a shitload of people."
"Still, how the hell could he have managed it? There are contract killers who can pull off some pretty tricky kills, Mike—but could a stranger have got in Doolan's door and staged
that
suicide?"
This time I stared back at him. "Somebody did."
Cummings came around and knelt at his cooler again and brought out two more beers, tossed me one. "How can I help, Mike?"
I thumbed the can open. I was starting to feel tired again. I didn't remember feeling tired in the old days. "What was Doolan doing this past year, Pete? What was he involved in?"
"Kid, I wish I could tell you something fancy, but Doolan had turned social worker. You got to realize, his action days were long gone, just like me. Hell, working over the telephone was plenty, and when it came to a lot of legwork, forget it. No, his business, if you can call it that, was neighborhood work, a lot of lodge things ... like giving advice to kids and parents and even political types. He was good at that."
"No action at all?"
"Like what? Every Friday he went to the gun range, and fired off fifty rounds with the boys before lunch. But he's been doing that for years."
"What, a police range?"
"No. It's in Manhattan."
"A gun range in Manhattan?"
"You've heard of it, Mike—the Enfilade. All the society sports go there for a macho kick."
"Yeah. Yeah, I know the place. Pretty stiff fee to belong to
that
club."
"Hell, Doolan had an honorary life membership. Being a big ex-cop has its perks."
I'd check that out. "What about friends? Who was he still close to?"
"He went to too many funerals to have many left. Acquaintances he had plenty of. Everybody liked Doolan."
"Not everybody," I said.
We sipped our beers.
"Pete, you got any ideas? Any leads?"
"Mike, I ran outa ideas a long time ago. Ideas are for young guys like you. And leads are for
real
cops, not old broken-down P.I.s."
"I hope you're not referring to me."
"You? Hell, you're a youngster. No, look at me—I bought the suicide bit all the way. There wasn't one thing wrong with it, not how it went down. I could see myself taking the same route he did under those conditions, and the whole world would've believed it."
"Only it didn't happen that way," I said.
He put his glasses back on and peered at me over the rims. "I hope not. But the facts—"
"You're confusing facts with what we
think
we see." I stood up and put the empty can on his desk. "Okay if I use your phone, Pete?"
"Sure."
I called Pat and said I was ready to check the Mathes girl's place out. He said he'd meet me there in half an hour.
At the door, I said to Cummings, "Anything comes to mind, Pete, I'm over at the Commodore."
"Not at the old stand?"
"My office is closed for now. I'm just looking into a couple of things before I go back to Florida."
"Say, you still with that big, beautiful brunette? My God, she never changes. What a lovely woman. If you had any sense, Mike, you'd have married her ten years ago."
"I'm not with her, Pete. And if I had any sense, we wouldn't have just had this conversation."
His expression said he felt he'd stuck his foot in it, and I got out of there before he could recover.
I knew what Pat was up to. He was the guy who never left the neighborhood, taking the old returnee around the block to show him the changes since he left. It's hard to believe, but unless you've gone away and come back, nothing stands still. Buildings fall, blocks get chewed up, license plates change colors, and faces don't smile right anymore.
Ginnie Mathes had lived in a dilapidated brownstone four blocks from where she'd worked. The super had a basement apartment in the building next door and hadn't known his tenant was dead until Pat flashed his badge and told him so.