"Okay. Look, I'm sorry to bug you right now. I can tell this is rough for you."
"You come see me, Mike. You come see Chrome later. I will have myself put together." She smiled bravely. "You will like what you see. I promise."
Her smile was a quavering thing, and I nodded and smiled, and left her alone.
Alone in the middle of the stage of the hottest club in Manhattan, which tonight—and perhaps on any future night—was as dead as Little Tony Tret.
Chapter 13
THE CLOUDS OVER the city were as gray as industrial smoke, and you could smell the rain up there. But whether the stuff would get dumped on us again was hard to say. The gentle mist barely registered, a little thunder grumbled, and I had a feeling the worst was over.
Or soon would be.
A pity, in a way—when a heavy rain came, city sounds were overwhelmed by nature, traffic thinning, pedestrians driven indoors and leaving the sidewalks to those who liked walking in the rain. Velda and I had gone out in it often enough, grinning into the wind and spray like sailors riding the bow through choppy stuff, and if it caught up with us today, we wouldn't mind at all.
Still, we were prepared—I was in the trench coat and she in her raincoat when we stepped from the cab in front of the East Side address of the turn-of-the-century former residence that housed the Enfilade gun club. It was pushing noon. I had skipped the Bing's workout and didn't swim either, because I got my exercise yesterday at the Y and S Club.
And in the Honeymoon Suite. Our reunion had been a loving, gentle affair, as I was recovering from that pummeling my midsection had taken under the bulletproof vest. Bruises blossomed overnight like exotic purple and black flowers. At breakfast—where we sat and talked and worked at putting the remaining puzzle pieces together—Velda had fed me more aspirin.
There had been no effort by her to get me back on the prescribed meds. Just the opposite. She had looked at the vials, reading over their contents, and her dark eyes flashed at me as I stood nearby shaving.
She said, "Do you know what you've been taking?" I said no, and she just shook her head... and shook the contents from the bottles into the toilet and flushed them all away.
Gerald, the dignified grayed guardian of the Enfilade gates, was at his nicely carved antique desk as usual. Velda smiled a little at the formality of his manner and his funeral director garb. He rose and bowed to her, which was pretty goddamn cute, I have to admit, then we stood before him like employees reporting to a benevolent boss.
"Mr. Hammer," Gerald said. "You are welcome to bring your lovely guest along this morning. But you must both sign in..."
He pushed the book toward me when I held up a hand. "We're just here with a couple of questions, Gerald."
"Oh? Detective business?"
"Gathering background."
"Nothing regarding our members, I hope."
"Well, frankly I'm investigating Inspector Doolan's death. It may not have been a suicide."
Gerald frowned thoughtfully. "He did seem an unlikely candidate for such, so vital an individual. How may I be of service?"
"I've never been an Enfilade regular, Gerry, so I'm not sure about certain procedures. Do members store their weapons here? I find it difficult to believe they hop out of a cab, or walk over from their parked cars, lugging firearms."
His smile was gentle, as if he were dealing with a child. "Some, like yourself, Mr. Hammer, have permits to carry." He nodded toward my left shoulder, indicating he could again tell I was packing. "Of course, there are firearms in use at the Enfilade, some of them vintage weapons, which would be difficult to transport in that fashion."
"The range downstairs—I've only seen handguns in use. Do any of the members keep rifles here?"
"A number do. Yes."
Velda was looking at the book that Gerald had pushed our way. Her eyes came up sharply to mine. "You need to see this, Mike. A couple of interesting entries...."
I checked them out, and said, "I see that Congressman Jaynor is downstairs."
"Yes he is. This is not a busy time—he's one of a handful using the facility. Your friend Mr. Webb is here again, and a few other members. Would you like to go down?"
After asking Gerald a few additional pointed questions, we did, passing the framed photos on that celebrity wall. Velda paused to look at several where Doolan posed with a group that included Anthony Tretriano and Alex Jaynor. We could make out the very muffled sounds of gunfire from the enclosed target range, but found Alex in the lounge area, seated with Smith & Wesson's resident champ, Chuck Webb. Two Wall Street boys sat with them in the midst of friendly conversation.
Introductions were made, with everybody standing to smile and nod at Velda, all of them taking in her beauty with open but not offensive admiration. I helped her out of her raincoat and she showed them what a real woman could do with a simple white blouse and black skirt.
I draped my trench coat over the back of a chair, and the Wall Street pair—in running clothes—excused themselves to go into the range. Chuck, in another polo shirt with the S & W logo, followed them in, throwing me a secret look and head wag, in back of Velda, letting me know what a lucky stiff he thought I was.
The sandy-haired, brown-as-a-berry politician was apparently not here to shoot. Alex was in a well-tailored black suit with white pinstripes and had enough bulk that I could tell a bulletproof vest was a part of his ensemble. When you get shot at from the street often enough, that kind of vest can become a necessary fashion accessory.
"So this is Velda," Alex said in the smooth, resonant voice that had served him well on television and in the political arena. "Doolan spoke of you warmly. He said you were the brains in the Hammer agency."
She shrugged and smiled.
I said, "Making me the beauty, I guess."
The light blue eyes in the narrow handsome face turned alertly serious. "Are you getting anywhere with your investigation into Doolan's death, Mike?"
"I've wrapped it up," I said, "as much as possible. In a case as complicated as this, not every loose end gets connected."
"Does this Tretriano killing factor in?"
I nodded. "At least in a peripheral way—Doolan was closing in on Little Tony. I believe the old boy was able to get close to 'Anthony,' and even scored an all-access pass to Club 52, thanks to their shared membership here."
Alex's expression grew thoughtful. "Well now, Mike—they weren't exactly close friends. Of course, all of the members here are sociable, and I suppose that did provide a certain common ground...."
"It must have. Doolan was fairly regular at Club 52 for a while, and he amassed evidence that connects Tony and his club to drug trafficking. These new clubs Little Tony's opening—or anyway was opening—would have expanded that operation nationwide."
The politician's expression combined alarm and disgust. "My God. Why didn't Doolan share this with me? I would have helped!"
"He was a sneaky old coot. He compartmentalized. You were close to him and shared his concern about illegal drugs in the city. And yet Doolan kept you unaware that Velda here had been working for him for nearly six months, the last two in South America, gathering intel on the cocaine cartel itself."
"Remarkable," he said, looking at Velda through new eyes.
I said, "This is far-reaching, Alex. Where all of the tendrils will finally reach remains to be seen ... but you can bet they'll be gathered up by federal investigators better equipped for the job than an old-time private dick like me."
Alex sat forward, his gaze going from me to Velda and back. "Was it the Bonetti bunch? The news is full of that shoot-out at that Mafia social club. If Doolan really was murdered, they make a good candidate for instigator. The Bonettis, remember, are the family behind the drug operation that Doolan and I ran out of his neighborhood."