The ropes holding me in the chair had been loosened, with just enough tension there to keep me from falling off the chair. I shook them loose, then leaned forward and stood up. I was shaky, so I didn't move for a minute.
No drugs were lousing me up now and I could see better in the light from that dull bulb than I could before. I was in some kind of a garage, the oil and grease smell thick, dull forms of heavy machinery on either side of me. On the floor, in front of my feet, was my hat. Next to it was my .45.
Bending down was easy. Getting back up wasn't. I put the .45 back in the holster and straightened out my hat.
No, that wasn't a mugging. That was as far away from a mugging as you could get. I still had my money in my wallet and when I looked at my watch it read four fifteen.
A wide sliding door was on the other side of the light with a normal door built into it. I twisted the lock, pulled on the knob and went out to the street. A sign over the door read SMILEY'S AUTOMOTIVE in old hand-painted letters. I walked to the corner slowly, saw where I was, then crossed the street and went another long block to where the lights were, waited a good five minutes, then flagged down a taxi.
The driver's eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. "You okay, mac?"
I nodded. "Yeah, just been one of those nights." I gave him my address and closed my eyes.
Pat looked at me with total disgust and jammed his hands in his pockets. "Mike, what kind of clown crap you call this? You let ten hours go by before you give me the story of what happened. You think we wouldn't have responded right away?"
"They were pros."
"Pros can leave marks behind," he reminded me.
"What did you find?"
"Okay, nothing of importance. The chair, ropes. Somebody spit blood on the floor. Type O positive."
"And that's half the population," I said. "At least there's somebody with some teeth out of whack and another dude with a busted nose probably sporting a pair of beautiful black eyes right now. You get anything more from the owner?"
"Zilch, that's what, Smiley's place has been in that spot for over twenty years. During the slow season he shuts down and heads for the tracks. Playing the ponies is his one vice."
"That's not a great area to leave a business alone, buddy."
"What's he got to steal? A couple of hydraulic presses for straightening car frames? What're you getting at anyway?"
"The guys who had me knew the place would be empty."
"Hell, there were two other places down the street that were empty too." He stopped and breathed in deeply. "Maybe we'll get lucky and find a broken nose or de-toothed slob who has grease marks on his shoe soles we can identify."
"Don't bother. They would have thought of that too."
"Why didn't you answer your phone?"
"Because I was beat. There wasn't one damn thing I could have done."
"When those interns called 911 we had you ID'd in fifteen minutes. Every car in the city was scrounging around looking for you."
"How about the car they threw me into?"
"A black Mercedes. Late model and nobody got the number. One intern said the right rear tail-light was out. So far, we haven't located it."
"So what are you all pissed off about?" I asked him. "I'm here, nothing's happened and we know somebody else is looking for the Penta character too."
Pat took another of those comforting deep breaths, quieted down and then told me, "We have all the information on the late Anthony DiCica."
"Oh?"
"Forget those minor counts in New York. DiCica turns out to have been an enforcer for the New York mob. He was a suspect in four homicides, never got tapped for any of them and gained a reputation of being a pretty efficient workman."
"Then how'd he get to be a delivery man?"
"Simple. Somebody cracked his skull open in a street brawl and he came all unraveled. He was in a hospital seven months and left with severely impaired mental faculties."
"Who sponsored him?"
"Nobody took him in. He remembered very little of his past, but he could handle uncomplicated things. He had been working with that printer you used for over a year. The hospital had no choice except to release him."
"What's the tag line, Pat?"
"He could have made enemies. Somebody saw him and came after him."
"In my office?"
"Anybody with a hate big enough to take him apart like that wouldn't be rational about it. He'd take him when and where he could and your office was it. He spotted him, followed him, then went in after him. If your unknown client did show up afterward all the activity scared him off."
For a minute I thought about it. There was still the "walker" Maria Escalante had seen, but for now I was keeping that to myself. I said, "Why the hell was I abducted then, Pat? Nobody wanted me. They wanted Penta."
A detective came in and handed Pat a thick folder and left. Pat flopped it open, scowled, then closed the office door, sealing out the confusion on the other side. "Mike, you remember Ray Wilson?"
"Sure. The old intelligence guy?"
"He's had Penta on the computers with Washington for two days. Usually we get some sort of a reply in a short, reasonable time. With Penta it's all delays and referrals to other agencies."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Probably nothing," Pat said. "Ray seems to think that when Penta was mentioned a flag went up somewhere down the line. When that happens we're into something pretty damn heavy."
I let out a laugh. "And I can see what will drop on you if they know we have such great heart-to-heart talks." I looked around. "This place bugged?"
He looked startled a second, then grinned. "Go screw yourself, pal. You're my pigeon and I'm running you."
"Good story," I said. "Stick to it." I looked at my watch. It was almost four o'clock. "When's the next briefing?"
"Like now," Pat said. "Let's go."
This time the Ice Lady wore a cool blue sheath of a fabric that seemed to caress her whenever she moved. She knew what it did and every motion was beautifully orchestrated for her audience. Their response was just as carefully calculated, as though they were totally ignorant of this vibrant woman who was one of them too. They saw us come in, but only stopped talking when we were close enough to hear what they were saying.
Pat motioned to the table. "Shall we sit down?"
I didn't bother with the chair bit this time. I took a seat across from Jerome Coleman and when he was ready, he nodded to the man next to him and said, "This is Frank Carmody and his assistant, Phillip Smith, both of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. On my right is Mr. Bennett Bradley, representing the State Department, and his special assistant from the CIA, Mr. Lewis Ferguson."
It's funny how cops look like cops. When they're federal they seem to dress alike, groom themselves identically and use the same body language. There were slight differences in the color and pattern of their suits, but not much. They were all in their early forties and probably had the same barber who gave proper haircuts and shaved close.
At least Bradley, the guy from State, was different. His suit was a light gray, his tie was red and he wore a mustache, which was more hair than he had on his head. Like Yul Brynner's, it was shaved off on the back of his skull for convenience. But he was still State, bore the bureaucratic attitude of tired integrity and seemed anxious to get on with the meeting.
Pat said, "I'm Captain Chambers and this is Michael Hammer. I believe you want to ask him some questions."
I held up my hand before they could talk, "This is a strange interagency relationship here. Cooperation between the FBI and CIA is pretty damn rare. Not to mention State. Do I need a lawyer here?"
The Ice Lady said, "You are not in jeopardy, Mr. Hammer."