The handwriting was hers, all right. All it said was "Call Sammy Brent about theater tickets. Will call office tonight." The envelope was dated one fifteen, delivered from the Forty-fifth Street messenger service office. Whatever she was getting at was beyond me. Sammy Brent ran a tiny ticket office dealing mainly in off-Broadway productions and dinner theaters in the New York-New Jersey-Connecticut area.
The Yellow Pages listed his agency and I dialed the number, getting a heavy, lower East Side accent in an impatient hello twice. I said, "Sammy?"
"Sure, who else? You think I can afford help here?"
"Mike Hammer, buddy."
"Hey, Mike, whattaya know?"
"Velda said I should call you about theater tickets. What the hell's going on?"
"Yeah, yeah. That crazy broad of yours shows up here like some Times Square floozie on the loose and I didn't even know her. Man, what legs! She's got her dress up to ... good thing the old lady wasn't around. Man, she's got a top and bottom you can't ..."
"What's with the tickets?"
"Oh." His voice suddenly went quiet. "Well, she was asking about Lippy Sullivan. Real sorry about that, Mike."
"I know."
"Good guy, him. You know, he was hustlin' for me."
"What?"
"He picked up extra change scalping tickets. Not for the big shows, but like the regular ones I handle. Conventions come in, those guys got a broad and no place to go, he'd meet them in bars and hotels and hustle tickets."
"What!"
"He was a good guy, Mike."
"Look, how'd you pay him?"
"Cash. He'd get a percent of the price over the going rate. Like maybe a buck or two. It was a good deal. We was both satisfied. You know, he was a good talker. He could make friends real easy. That's why he did pretty good at it. No fortune, but he picked up walking-around money." When I didn't answer him he said, "It was okay, wasn't it, Mike? Like I ain't the only one who ..."
"It was okay, Sammy. Thanks."
And it was starting to spell out a brand-new story.
I searched my memory for the return address that had been on the envelope in Lippy's garbage, finally remembered it as being simply new used furniture on Eighth Avenue and dug the number out of the directory.
Yes, the clerk remembered Lippy buying a couch. It wasn't often they sold a new one in that neighborhood. He had picked it out on a Saturday afternoon just a couple of weeks before he died and paid for it in cash with small bills. No, he didn't say why he wanted it But permanent roomers in the area often changed furniture. The landlords wouldn't and what transients usually rented with their meager earnings were hardly worth using. I thanked the clerk and hung up.
When I looked down the .45 was in my hand, the butt a familiar thing against my palm. It was black and oily with walnut grips, an old friend who had been down the road with me a long time.
I slid it back in the holster and walked to the window so I could look out at the big city of fun. The clouds were rolling around the edges, melting into each other, bringing a premature darkness down around the towering columns of brick and steel. It's a big place, New York. Millions of people who run down holes in the ground like moles, or climb up the sides of cliffs to their own little caves. Most were just people. Just plain people. And then there were the others, the killers. There was one out there now and that one belonged all to me.
Okay, Lippy, the pattern's showing its weave now. Sammy nailed it down without knowing it. You worked your tail off for an honest buck but you were just too damn friendly. Who did you meet, Lippy? What dip hustling the
theater district did you pick up to move in with you? Sure, I could understand it. Dames were out of your line. It was strictly friends and how many did you have? You were glad to have somebody get close to you, to yak with and drink with. You found a friend, Lippy, until you found out he wasn't honest like you were. You latched onto a lousy cheap crook. What happened, pal? Maybe you located his cache and stuck it where he couldn't get to it, then dumped those wallets in the garbage. So he came back and tried to take it from you. No, Lippy, there wasn't any reason at all for it, was there? You would have shared your pad, your income, your beer ... anything to keep him straight and your friend that you could believe in and trust. No reason for him to kill you at all. Only I have a reason, friend, and my reason is bigger than the one you didn't have.
All I had to do was find the right pickpocket.
So I sat there and ran it over in my mind until I could see it happen. It shouldn't be too much of a job now I knew in which direction to take off. There was only that little nagging thought that something was out of focus. Something I should see clearly. It wasn't that complicated at all.
Outside, the darkness had sucked the daylight out of the city and I sat there watching it fight back with bravely lit windows in empty offices and the weaving beams of headlights from the street traffic. In a little while the flow would start from the restaurants to the theaters and it would be the working hour for the one I wanted. If he was there.
Meyer Solomon was a bail bondsman who owed me a favor and he was glad to pay it back. I asked him to find out if anybody had been booked on a pickpocket charge within the last two days and he told me he'd check it out right away. So I stayed by the phone for another forty minutes until it finally jangled and I picked it up.
"Mike? Meyer here."
"Let's have it."
"Got six of 'em. Four were bums working the subway on sleepers and the other two are pros. You looking to hire one of 'em?"
"Not quite. Who are the pros?"
"Remember Coo-Coo Weist?"
"Damn, Meyer, he must be eighty years old."
"Still working, though. Made a mistake when he tried it on an off-duty detective."
"Who else?"
"A kid named Johnny Baines. A Philly punk who came here about three years ago. Good nimble fingers on that guy. The last time he was busted he was carrying over ten grand. This time he only had a couple hundred on him but it wasn't his fault."
"Why not?"
Meyer let out a sour laugh. "Because he was only three hours out of the clink where he spent ninety days on a D and D rap. He never really had a chance to get operating right. You going bail for somebody, Mike?"
"Not this time, Meyer. Thanks."
"Anytime, Mike."
I hung up and went back to the window again. He was still out there somewhere.
I called downstairs, had a sandwich, coffee and the evening papers sent up. The hunt was getting heavier for Schneider's killers and the reporters were hitting every detail with relish. Another time it would have been funny, because contract killers who blasted one of their own kind seldom got that kind of attention. Right now they'd be running scared, not only from the cops, but from the guy who gave them the job. Their business days were over. Two National Guard units were being called out on a security maneuver, detailed upstate. The same thing was happening in five other states. In. view of the tense international situation the military deemed it smart policy to stay prepared. It made for lots of space, dozens of pictures and if somebody was lucky they might come up with something. Somehow I didnt feel very excited about sitting on the edge of annihilation.
At twelve fifteen the phone went off beside my ear and I rolled off the old leather couch and grabbed it. My voice still sounded husky from being asleep and I said, "Yeah?"
"Mike?" Her voice sounded guarded. "Where the hell have you been, Velda?"
"Shut up and listen. I rented one of those fleabag apartments across the street from Lippy's rooming house, downstairs in the front. If you called Sammy Brent then you have it spotted .. . the tickets and all?"