"Why did he call you in, Mike?"
Now I grinned real big. "Because I'm not nobody."
"And what do you do with it after you find it?"
"Buy a new car. Hell, you can have some. New dress, shoes, things like that."
"Get serious," Velda told me.
"I am," I said. "Now, what about Dooley's history?"
The change of pace rattled her for a moment, then she stumbled over a page of her notebook. For a moment she frowned at it, and then her eyes drifted up to mine. "Those Navy serial numbers are wrong, Mike. They weren't his."
Before I could answer her she cut me off with a wave of her hand. "Oh, I found him, all right. I ran down the personnel on the destroyer Latille, and there he was. Then I got his proper ID. I had to mention a few names to get his son's name and address, but I knew you wouldn't mind." She ripped a page out of the notebook and handed it to me.
I looked at the address in New Brunswick, memorized it and tucked the paper under my desk blotter. "We still have a problem, kitten."
She waited for me to say it.
"What are those other numbers on the urn, then?"
"Maybe..." she searched for the name, "Marvin can tell you."
A little nerve tugged at my jaw. Nobody ever forgets his military serial number. Nobody. You don't forget where to wear your hat either. Or put on your socks.
...
Velda had charted the run to New Brunswick right on the nose. There were no wrong turns, no stopping to ask directions, just a straight, easy drive. When I stopped in front of the decrepit old building where Marvin Dooley lived, she said, "You like my navigation?"
I grinned. "Beautiful, kitten. I hope you can cook like that."
The place had a common vestibule that housed eight mailboxes, a single overhead bulb and the smell of multiracial cooking. The slots beneath the mailboxes held names, except for one, and since DOOLEY wasn't in any of the others, the blank one had to be Marvin's. I pushed the button and tried the door. It swung open with no trouble. Muted TV voices overlapped and somewhere a radio was tuned in to a rock station that thumped out a monotonous beat. Behind me, Velda closed the door.
To our left was a wooden staircase leading to the second level. A door creaked open, feet clicked across the floorboards and a male voice yelled down over the banister, "Yeah, whaddya want?"
"Marvin?"
There was a moment's hesitation before he answered, "Who wants him?"
But by then I was up the stairs and his head jerked around, not knowing whether to hold his ground or duck back into his room. "I'm Mike Hammer, Marvin. I was in the Army with your father."
"He's dead."
Just then Velda came up the stairs and took his breath away long enough for him to lose his antagonistic attitude. I said, "You mind inviting us inside?"
He glanced at me a few seconds, frowned, then stared at Velda long enough to change his mind and nod toward the door. I waited for him to go in first and followed him closely. Then I waved at Velda to come and close the door.
As I expected, it was a nothing place. One room with a cot that doubled as a sofa, a two-burner stove, small sink and a narrow, old-fashioned refrigerator that took up a corner. The kitchen table had two wooden chairs, and an old canvas beach chair was right in front of a fairly new TV that was on the floor. But he was clean. No dirty dishes, no dust accumulation, no pile of clothes. The only lingering smell was that of antiseptic soap.
He caught my thoughts and said, "I'm poor but neat, Mr. Hammer." His eyes shifted to Velda and he added, "No woman's here, lady. It's something I picked up in the Navy."
"The lady is my associate," I told him. "Her name is Velda."
No surprise showed in his expression. He nodded toward her and said, "The paper mentioned her. At the funeral."
"Why weren't you there, Marvin?"
He shrugged eloquently. "What good would that have done?"
"Marvin - how do you know? When was the last time you saw your father?"
"Before I went in the Navy. We hardly kept in touch. There were a couple of letters and a card that gave me his new address." Shrewdness seemed to touch his eyes and he looked directly at me. "What did the old man leave me, Mr. Hammer?"
"An urn full of ashes, kiddo. What did you expect?"
"Don't give me that crap, buster. You didn't come all the way down here to tell me that. He left you something and you need me to get it."
"I need you like a hole in the head," I said. I took out a notepad and wrote down a name and address, then handed it to him. "His ashes are in this repository. Do you want them?"
He studied me again, his teeth gnawing at his lips. "You said you were in the Army with my father?"
"That's right."
"How the hell did he get in the Army? Damn, that doesn't make sense. All the old man ever wanted was to get out on the ocean."
"He ever do that?"
"Not before he joined the Navy. All he ever did was run that old boat of his up and down the Hudson River."
That was something Dooley had never mentioned to us. "What kind of boat?" I asked him. "Where did he keep it?"
"A Woolsley, in a little marina a few miles north of Newburgh. Nothing much there now, but back in the old days there were about a dozen yachts docked."
Marvin rubbed his hands over his face, then ran his fingers through his hair. "Do you want anything else?" he asked.
"Would you give it to me if I did?"
"Depends."
I handed him one of my cards, some of which Velda had put in my pocket. "Just one thing, Marvin."
"Oh?"
"Your father was killed for a reason. Whoever did it might think he entrusted information to you and -"
"He didn't tell me nothing! He -"
"I know that, but there's a possibility that the quicker we get the killer the longer you'll have to live. Give it a thought, Marvin."
The traffic flow on the Jersey Turnpike was loose and fast, so we got back to the city early enough for me to drop Velda off at her apartment.
...
I was on my way to see Don Lorenzo Ponti, and the odds were going to be on his side. Ponti was getting old, but the game stayed the same. I got out my shoulder holster, slipped into it, put a clip of fresh ammo in the.45 and tucked it in the leather.
All I hoped was that the boneheads Ponti kept around him had good memories and better imaginations.
The local club was straight out of an old television movie, with building blocks of translucent glass to let in light on the main floor while keeping anybody from seeing in. The only thing different about the block was that graffiti artists had not touched a spray of paint to the woodwork.
I got out of the cab half a block away and let them see me walk up to the club. There were two hoods outside the door who came out of the same TV show as the building. For a few seconds it looked like they were going to move right in on me. Then one hood whispered something, and the other seemed puzzled and his face went blank.
I walked too fast for them to flank me, one on either side, and grinned at their consternation at suddenly being vulnerable if any shooting started. To make sure they stayed that way, I ran my fingers under the brim of my porkpie hat and knew they both had a good look at the butt end of the gun on my side.
You don't try to be nice to guys like this. I said, "Go tell your boss I want to talk with him."
"He ain't here," the fat one said.
"Want me to shoot the lock off?" I didn't make it sound like a joke.
The skinny one said, "You got a big mouth, mister."
"I got a big name too. It's Mike Hammer. Now shake your tail and do what your buddy told you to do."
"You're not coming in here wearing a rod, Hammer."
I didn't get to answer him. The dark figure leaning over the banister upstairs yelled down in his softly accented voice and said, "What's going on down there?"