The intern glanced at me critically, running his eyes up and down then doing a quickie around my face. His fingers flicked out to spread my eyelids open for a look into my pupils and I batted them away.
“Keep your hands off me, sonny,” I said.
Pat waved him down. “Let him be miserable, Doctor. Don’t try to help him.”
The intern shrugged, but kept looking anyway. I had suddenly become an interesting psychological study for him.
“You’d better get him up there. The guy hasn’t long to live. Minutes at the most.”
Pat looked at me. “You ready?”
“You asking?” I said.
“Not really. You don’t have a choice.”
“No?”
Larry said, “Mike—go ahead and do it.”
I nodded. “Sure, why not. I always did have to do half his work for him anyway.” Pat’s mouth went tight and I grinned again. “Clue me on what you want to know.”
There were fine white lines around Pat’s nostrils and his lips were tight and thin. “Who shot him. Ask him that.”
“What’s the connection?”
Now Pat’s eyes went half closed, hating my guts for beginning to think again. After a moment he said, “One bullet almost went through him. They took it out yesterday. A ballistics check showed it to be from the same gun that killed Senator Knapp. If this punk upstairs dies we can lose our lead to a murderer. Understand? You find out who shot him.”
“Okay,” I said. “Anything for a friend. Only first I want a drink.”
“No drink.”
“So drop dead.”
“Bring him a shot,” Larry told the intern.
The guy nodded, went out and came back a few seconds later with a big double in a water glass. I took it in a hand that had the shakes real bad, lifted it and said, “Cheers.”
The guy on the bed heard us come in and turned his head on the pillow. His face was drawn, pinched with pain and the early glaze of death was in his eyes.
I stepped forward and before I could talk he said, “Mike? You’re—Mike Hammer?”
“That’s right.”
He squinted at me, hesitating. “You’re not like—”
I knew what he was thinking. I said, “I’ve been sick.”
From someplace in back Pat sucked in his breath disgustedly.
The guy noticed them for the first time. “Out. Get them out.”
I waved my thumb over my shoulder without turning around. I knew Larry was pushing Pat out the door over his whispered protestations, but you don’t argue long with a medic in his own hospital.
When the door clicked shut I said, “Okay, buddy, you wanted to see me and since you’re on the way out it has to be important. Just let me get some facts straight. I never saw you before. Who are you?”
“Richie Cole.”
“Good. Now who shot you?”
“Guy they call . . . The Dragon. No name . . . I don’t know his name.”
“Look . . .”
Somehow he got one hand up and waved it feebly. “Let me talk.”
I nodded, pulled up a chair and sat on the arm. My guts were all knotted up again and beginning to hurt. They were crying out for some bottle love again and I had to rub the back of my hand across my mouth to take the thought away.
The guy made a wry face and shook his head. “You’ll . . . never do it.”
My tongue ran over my lips without moistening them. “Do what?”
“Get her in time.”
“Who?”
“The woman.” His eyes closed and for a moment his face relaxed. “The woman Velda.”
I sat there as if I were paralyzed; for a second totally immobilized, a suddenly frozen mind and body that had solidified into one great silent scream at the mention of a name I had long ago consigned to a grave somewhere. Then the terrible cold was drenched with an even more terrible wash of heat and I sat there with my hands bunched into fists to keep them from shaking.
Velda.
He was watching me closely, the glaze in his eyes momentarily gone. He saw what had happened to me when he said the name and there was a peculiar expression of approval in his face.
Finally I said, “You knew her?”
He barely nodded. “I know her.”
And again that feeling happened to me, worse this time because I knew he wasn’t lying and that she was alive someplace. Alive!
I kept a deliberate control over my voice. “Where is she?”
“Safe for . . . the moment. But she’ll be killed unless . . . you find her. The one called The Dragon . . . he’s looking for her too. You’ll have to find her first.”
I was damn near breathless. “Where?” I wanted to reach over and shake it out of him but he was too close to the edge of the big night to touch.
Cole managed a crooked smile. He was having a hard time to talk and it was almost over. “I gave . . . an envelope to Old Dewey. Newsy on Lexington by the Clover Bar . . . for you.”
“Damn it, where is she, Cole?”
“No . . . you find The Dragon . . . before he gets her.”
“Why me, Cole? Why that way? You had the cops?”
The smile still held on. “Need someone . . . ruthless. Someone very terrible.” His eyes fixed on mine, shiny bright, mirroring one last effort to stay alive. “She said . . . you could . . . if someone could find you. You had been missing . . . long time.” He was fighting hard now. He only had seconds. “No police . . . unless necessary. You’ll see . . . why.”
“Cole . . .”
His eyes closed, then opened and he said, “Hurry.” He never closed them again. The gray film came and his stare was a lifeless one, hiding things I would have given an arm to know.
I sat there beside the bed looking at the dead man, my thoughts groping for a hold in a brain still soggy from too many bouts in too many bars. I couldn’t think, so I simply looked and wondered where and when someone like him had found someone like her.
Cole had been a big man. His face, relaxed in death, had hard planes to it, a solid jawline blue with beard and a nose that had been broken high on the bridge. There was a scar beside one eye running into the hairline that could have been made by a knife. Cole had been a hard man, all right. In a way a good-looking hardcase whose business was trouble.
His hand lay outside the sheet, the fingers big and the wrist thick. The knuckles were scarred, but none of the scars was fresh. They were old scars from old fights. The incongruous part was the nails. They were thick and square, but well cared for. They reflected all the care a manicurist could give with a treatment once a week.
The door opened and Pat and Larry came in. Together they looked at the body and stood there waiting. Then they looked at me and whatever they saw made them both go expressionless at once.
Larry made a brief inspection of the body on the bed, picked up a phone and relayed the message to someone on the other end. Within seconds another doctor was there with a pair of nurses verifying the situation, recording it all on a clipboard.
When he turned around he stared at me with a peculiar expression and said, “You feel all right?”
“I’m all right,” I repeated. My voice seemed to come from someone else.
“Want another drink?”
“No.”
“You’d better have one,” Larry said.
“I don’t want it.”
Pat said, “The hell with him.” His fingers slid under my arm. “Outside, Mike. Let’s go outside and talk.”
I wanted to tell him what he could do with his talk, but the numbness was there still, a frozen feeling that restricted thought and movement, painless but effective. So I let him steer me to the small waiting room down the hall and took the seat he pointed out.
There is no way to describe the immediate aftermath of a sudden shock. If it had come at another time in another year it would have been different, but now the stalk of despondency was withered and brittle, refusing to bend before a wind of elation.