Once again I beat the pair to the punch. "It's Mike Hammer," I called back. "If you don't want to talk with me, I'll beat it. If you want trouble I'll shoot the hell out of your guys here and the cops can mop up the mess."
I think the dialogue came out of that TV movie too.
"He's got a gun on him, Mr. Ponti," the skinny punk yelled.
"In his hand?"
"No. It's under his coat."
Ponti was like a cat. His curiosity was as tight as a stretched rubber band. He didn't even wait a second before he said, "He's always got a gun. Let him up, unless you want to shoot it out down there."
Ponti was a player, all right. When I got to the top of the stairs, he nodded for me to follow him, and he walked in front of me as if it were all one big tea party. He could have been showing off or he could have had men hidden, waiting for me to jump him. But there was no fear in his movements at all. He pushed open a door to an office but didn't go through. I made sure the door flattened against the wall so nobody was behind it, visually scanned the area, then stepped in and edged along the wall to a chair in front of Ponti's desk.
His expression suggested he appreciated my cautiousness. "Are you nervous, Mr. Hammer?"
"Just careful."
"You take big chances."
"Not really."
"Oh?"
"I could have blown those goons you have downstairs right out of their socks if they had tried to play guns."
"You could have lost."
For 30 seconds I stood there staring at him, then moved around the chair and sat down. "Go ahead and ask it," I said.
The don played his role magnificently. He pulled his padded leather desk chair back on its rollers, sat down easily and folded his hands in his lap. When he was ready his eyes met mine and he said, "Did you kill my son Azi, Mr. Hammer?"
There was no waiting time here either. "I shot him right in the head, Don Ponti. He was about to give me one in the face when I squeezed a.45 into his head. You're damn right I shot him, and if you have any more like him who want to try it, I'll do the same thing again."
I didn't know what to expect, certainly not the look of calm acceptance he wore. He seemed to be mentally reviewing the details of that night, and when all the pieces fit into the puzzle, he seemed oddly satisfied. "I do not blame you, Mr. Hammer," he told me quietly. "He's dead now and that is that. You want something from me, then say it."
"I want who killed Marcos Dooley."
"Dooley was a nice man," he said, the accent coming back.
"Yeah, I know."
"Then why did he die, Mr. Hammer?"
"Somebody thought he knew more than he should."
"What could he know?"
"He mentioned trouble in your organization, Don Ponti."
"There is no trouble. Everything has been legal for years."
"Screw the legalities. It's the distribution of wealth that causes a ruckus."
"Do you think I look like a rich man, Mr. Hammer?"
"Cut the crap, Don." I pushed out of the chair. "All I want is the guy who killed Dooley. This time it isn't just me. Captain Chambers is part of this package, and he's got the NYPD behind him. That's one big load of professionalism to buck up against."
"Somehow I think you have a person in mind," Ponti said.
I started toward the door, then turned and said, "I'd keep a close watch on your boy Ugo. He hasn't got the expertise we old-timers have."
Ponti nodded again, but a frown had creased his forehead and I knew his brain was doing mental gymnastics trying to figure out the hidden meaning to my words.
...
Willie the Actor was a skinny little guy with a strange, kidlike voice, a deep love for any kind of booze and no money at all. The job I held out for him was easy and meant a week in a bar if he could handle his money properly. It took a whole morning to get the scene staged, and when I was sure he had it, we got in a cab, went to a certain address and made a call from a cellular phone.
He didn't know who he was talking to, but he said his lines fast and clearly, sounding like a 12-year-old street kid half out of breath and real excited. He didn't even wait for the person on the other end to answer him. He said, "Ugo... Ugo... that you? You know that place where you guys meet? Some guy is watching it. I think he's gonna bust in there. You better get over here, Ugo." He stopped a moment and I could hear shouting in the phone. Then he said, "Gee, he's lookin' over this way. I gotta go."
When he hung up I handed him his pay, let him get out of sight around the corner and went back to the waiting cab. We didn't have to wait very long. Ugo Ponti came out of the garage under his house in a dark blue Buick and took off, screeching his wheels. My driver followed him without difficulty. In New York there are cabs all over the city and one looks just like another. Twice we rode right alongside him, and I got a good look at the glowering face of the prince of the local family.
We got to a part of Greenwich Village where new businesses have renovated dilapidated old areas. There was room at the curb for Ugo's car, so he parked and hopped out. I paid off the cabbie down the block and saw Ugo scan the street, enter a narrow alley between two buildings and disappear. The door was a heavy wooden leftover from a different century. I backed off and waited inside the lobby of a publishing firm until I saw Ugo step out, his face tight with anger. He looked around, shook his head and went back to his car, probably silently cursing the "kid" who passed on a bad tip to him, and drove off.
The lock was as easy as I expected, and I closed the door behind me, locking it again. A pile of empty cardboard boxes and assorted trash blocked the way, so I used my tools on the lock in the door to my left. Enough light came in from the old round window in the wall to let me see what I was doing, and in two minutes I was inside.
Here I could use the lights. The windows were completely blacked out so that whatever was done here was done in secret. The tables were plywood on sawhorses, soda boxes were used for chairs and cardboard cartons were the containers for all the paper that ran through the computers and copiers that lined the room. There was a fortune in electronics and exotic machinery.
There was nothing I could understand. Twice, I made a circuit of the room, poking into anything that might contain what I wanted. Nothing.
I was all set to leave when I heard the stairs outside creak. I flipped the lights off, then squeezed behind a four-drawer filing cabinet just before a key went into the lock and the door opened. The.357 came in first, with Ugo right behind it.
I was in a darkened corner and didn't move, so his eyes went past the cabinets. I stayed as immobile as I could. I could hear his footsteps, the impact as his shoe booted something aside. When he was right up to the cabinet he stopped dead. He saw the possible area, the only place in the room that could conceal a person, and he was about to earn his bones once more.
It was too bad he was right-handed. Had he shifted the.357 to his other hand and come around the corner, he would have nailed me. But he led with a stiffened right arm and before he knew what had happened I had twisted the rod out of his fingers, spun him around and held the muzzle of his own gun to the back of his neck. His breath was sucked in and he couldn't talk, but I could smell the fear that oozed out of him and knew when he wet his pants. I felt his body begin to twitch. Ugo Ponti was looking down his own black alley.
I said, "So, your inheritance is down the drain, kiddo. Even the computer whiz kids don't know where it went. No transactions, no deposits just a big nothing." I let my words sink in, let him measure the timbre of my voice. "But I'm going to find it, Ugo, baby."
I eased the gun away from Ugo's skin and let it run down his back, pressing against his spine. His mind was wondering if he'd feel the shot, not knowing whether or not to hope he'd die fast but realizing that if anything took out his spinal cord he was going to be strapped in a wheelchair for a long time. No parties, no broads, no booze, and just maybe somebody he'd kicked around might come up and plant a slug right in his face where he could see it coming.