"Are you disturbed?"
"Not that much."
"You lie, Mike."
"Nicely, I hope."
"Yes. Very nicely. Now, what is it you want of me?"
"Something has our local organized crime group bent out of shape. It's big enough to squash them if it gets out and big enough to kill for to keep it quiet."
She said, "You'd better explain."
"It started with Anthony DiCica," I told her, then laid the details out for her one by one. She let me finish without saying a word and when I got to the end she unconsciously pulled the robe up around her again, frowning in thought.
She tilted her head at me, her eyes carefully shrouded. "No games?"
"Straight, kid."
"I'm simply an assistant district attorney."
"Nevertheless, you have the clout. Your boss has enough on his desk to keep him busy. All he wants is to get into court anyway. The legwork isn't his speed."
Candace nodded and asked, "Will Captain Chambers cooperate?"
"Why not? Interagency cooperation isn't active participation. He'd like to screw that State Department patsy anyway."
"Oh, Bennett Bradley is all right. He's pretty disappointed at not having found Penta after all these years. When all of a sudden the name showed up here . . . well, you can imagine how he feels, especially with a replacement for him due."
"Well, hell, he doesn't give a damn what we do about DiCica anyway. All he wants is one last clear shot at this Penta character. When can you get things started?"
She got to her feet before I could and smiled down at me. "The first thing in the morning, Mike."
Her tongue made her lips wet and she held out her hands and when I took them, she pulled gently and I stood up, feeling her fingers kneading my shoulders.
"Where do people like you come from, Mike?"
"Why?"
Girls can do strange things with their clothes too. With barely a movement, everything can suddenly fall away and they are naked and bare and nude all at once, the poutiness of their flesh pressing against your clothes like a hot iron, and they can squeeze themselves into the forbidden areas of your body the way water follows the contours of the earth.
Her mouth was soft, warm lips so cushiony and alive, feeling and tasting that it was like a kiss within a kiss. I enjoyed the flavor of her, the pillowed sensation of being enfolded by nakedness, and when it got too much, I pushed her away gently.
I knew what the look in her eyes meant. I knew what her smile meant. I grinned at her and took my lumps because she was getting back at me for the last time.
"You're the real bastard," I said.
The corner of her mouth twitched. "Uh-huh."
I took a long look at her standing there, soft, sensual musculature that was never motionless, the light outlining the gentle ripples of her body.
"Think we can start over?" I asked her.
She smiled. There was a glint in her eyes. "Why not?" she said.
I got my hat from the chair and got out of there. Downstairs there was a chill in the air and New York was getting that funny smell back again.
8
I had the cabbie drop me at the corner and picked up a late evening paper from the kiosk. There was a mist in the air and the streetlights had a soft glow around them, and lighted windows in the apartments were gently blurred. It was the kind of night that dampened street sounds and put a dull slick on the pavement.
The doorman at my place generally paced under the marquee, but tonight I couldn't blame him for staying inside. I hugged the side of the building out of the wind, moved around the garbage pails outside the areaway that ran to the rear and saw the feet inside the glass doors as the guy jumped me from behind.
Damn. The second time.
One arm had me around the throat and a fist was ready to slam into my kidneys, but I was twisting and dropping at the same time, so fast the fucker lost his rhythm and went down with me. His arm came loose and he rolled free, and I forgot all about him because the other one had come out of the hallway with a sap in his hand ready to lay my skull open. I let the swing go past my face and threw a right smack into his nose, saw his head snap back, then put another one into his gut.
This time everything was working right. The guy behind me came off the sidewalk thinking he had me nailed. I didn't want any broken knuckles. I just drove my fist into his neck under his chin and didn't wait to see what would happen. The boy with the sap was still standing there, nose-stunned, blood all over his face, but not out of it at all.
You don't have to waste skin on guys like that at all. I kicked him in the balls and the pain-instinct reaction was so fast he nearly locked onto my foot. His mouth made silent screaming motions and he went down on his knees, his supper foaming out of his mouth.
The doorman was just coming out of it, a lump already growing on the side of his head. "Can you hear me, Jeff?"
He grimaced, his eyes opened and he nodded. "That bastard . . ."
"I have them outside. You give the cops a call."
"Yeah. Damn right."
The big guy I had rapped in the throat was trying to get away. He was on all fours scratching toward the car at the curb. I took out the .45, let him hear me jack a shell into the chamber and he stopped cold. That old army automatic can have a deadly sound to it. I walked over to him, knelt down and poked the muzzle against his head.
"Who sent you?"
He shook his head.
I thumbed the hammer back. That sound, the double click, was even deadlier.
"We . . . was to . . . rough you up." His voice was hardly understandable.
"Who sent you?"
His head dropped, spit ran out of his mouth and he shook his head again.
Hell, neither one of them would know anything. Somebody had hired a pair of goons to lay on me, but they would sure have something to say to me about it.
"Why?" I asked him. I kept the tone nasty. I rubbed the gun harder against his temple.
All the big slob had in his eyes was fear. "You sent . . . the guys . . . a bullet."
I heard the siren of a squad car coming up Third Avenue. "How much did they pay you?"
"Five hundred . . . each."
"Asshole," I said. I eased the hammer back on half-cock and took the rod away from his head. A grand for a mugging meant the victim would be wary and dangerous and these two slobs never gave it a thought. I gave him a kick in the side and told him to get over beside his buddy. I didn't have to tell him twice.
Wheels squealing, a car turned at the corner and the floodlight hit me while it was still moving. The cameraman came out, rolling videotape, a girl in a flapping trenchcoat right behind him, giving a rapid, detailed description of what was going on into a hand mike, and I even let New York City's own favorite on-the-spot TV team catch me giving the guy another boot just for the hell of it.
When the squad car got there I identified myself, gave my statement and let the doorman fill in the rest. The two guys had waited near the curb nearly an hour, spotted me at the corner, then one came in, grabbed the doorman, waited until the other jumped me and laid a sap on the doorman's head before joining the fun. Luckily, the sweatband of his uniform cap softened the blow. Both the clowns had knives in their pockets along with the old standby brass knuckles and a blackjack. It took one radio call to get an ID on them and they were shoved, handcuffed, into the rear of the car.
Enough of a crowd had collected to make it an interesting spot in the late news coming up and the girl said, "Any further comment on this, Mr. Hammer?"
At least she remembered my name.
"They just tried to mug the wrong guy," I said. Then I winked into the lens and walked away.
Upstairs I called Pat, but somebody had already given him a buzz. I ran through the story again, then added, "It's all coming back to DiCica, buddy. They're making sure I know they're watching."