Vengeance Is Mine

“Buy your bread and butter from me, will you?”

Pat let out a laugh. “I wish you wouldn’t take it so lightly. You’re in the little black book right now on the special S-list.”

I pulled out my wallet and slid my license out of the card case and threw it on his desk. “I won’t be needing that any more.”

He picked it up and examined it sourly. A large envelope on the filing cabinet held my gun and the report sheet. He clipped the card to the form and started to put it back. On second thought he slid the magazine out of the rod and swore. “That’s nice. They put it in here with a full load.” He used his thumb to jack the shells out of the clip, spilling them on the desk.

“Want to kiss old betsy good-by, Mike?”

When I didn’t answer he said, “What are you thinking of?” My eyes were squinted almost shut and I started to grin again. “Nothing,” I said, “nothing at all.”

He frowned at me while he dumped the stuff back in the envelope and closed it. My grin spread and he started to et mad. “All right, damn it, what’s so funny? I know that look . . . I’ve seen it often enough. What’s going through that feeble mind of yours?”

“Just thoughts, Pat. Don’t be so hard on a poor unemployed pal, will you?”

“Let’s hear those thoughts.”

I picked a cigarette out of the container on his desk, then put it back after reading the label. “I was just thinking of a way to et that ticket back, that’s all.”

That seemed to relieve him. He sat down and tugged at his tie. “It’ll be a good trick if you can work it. I can’t see how you can.”

I thumbed a match and lit up a smoke. “It won’t be hard.”

“No? You think the D.A. will mail it back to you with his apologies?”

“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.”

Pat kicked the swivel chair all the way around and glared at me. “You haven’t got your gun any more, you can’t hold him up.

“No,” I laughed, “but I can make a deal with him. Either he does mail it back with his apologies or I’ll make a sap out of him.”

His palms cracked the desk and he was all cop again. This much wasn’t a game. “Do you know anything, Mike?”

“No more than you. Everything I told you was the truth. It’ll be easy to check and your laboratory backs up my statements. The guy was a suicide. I agree with you. He shot himself to pieces and I don’t know why or when. All I know is where and that doesn’t help. Now, have you heard enough?”

“No, you bastard, I haven’t.” This time he was grinning back at me. I shoved my hat on and left him there still grinning. When I closed the door I heard him kick the desk and swear to himself.

I walked out into the glaring brightness of midday, whistling through my teeth, though by rights I should have been in a blue funk. I hopped in a cab at the corner and gave him my office address. All the way uptown I kept thinking about Chester Wheeler, or what was left of him on the rug. An out-and-out suicide and my gun in his mitt, they said. Private citizen Michael Hammer, that’s me. No ticket, no gun and no business, even my hangover was gone. The driver let me out in front of my building and I paid him off, walked in and pushed the bell for the elevator.

Velda was curled up in my big leather chair, her head buried in the paper. When I walked in she dropped it and looked at me. There were streaks across her face from wiping away the tears and her eyes were red. She tried to say something, sobbed and bit her lip.

“Take it easy, honey.” I threw my coat on the rack and pulled her to her feet.

“Oh, Mike, what happened?” It had been a long time since I’d seen Velda playing woman like this. My great big beautiful secretary was human after all. She was better this way.

I put my arms around her, running my fingers through the sleek midnight of her hair. I squeezed her gently and she put her head against my cheek. “Cut it, sugar, nothing is that bad. They took away my ticket and made me a Joe Doe. The D.A. finally got me where he wanted me.”

She shook her hair back and gave me a light tap in the ribs. “That insipid little squirt! I hope you clobbered him good!”

I grinned at her G.I. talk. “I called him a name, that’s what I did.”

“You should have clobbered him!” Her head went down on

my shoulder and sniffed. “I’m sorry, Mike. I feel like a jerk for crying.”

She blew her nose on my fancy pocket handkerchief and I steered her over to the desk. “Get the sherry, Velda. Pat and I had a drink to the dissolution of the Mike Hammer enterprise. Now we’ll drink to the new business. The S.P.C.D., Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Detectives.”

Velda brought out the makings and poured two short ones. “It isn’t that funny, Mike.”

“I’ve been hearing that all morning. The funny part is that it’s very funny.”

The sherry went down and we had another. I lit a pair of smokes and stuck one between her lips. “Tell me about it,” she said. The tears were gone now. Curiosity and a little anger were in her eyes, making them snap. For the second time today I rehashed what I know of it, bringing the story right through the set-up in the D.A.’s office.

When I finished she said some very unladylike curses and threw her cigarette at the waste basket. “Damn these public officials and their petty grievances, Mike. They’ll climb over anybody to get to the top. I wish I could do something instead of sitting here answering your mail. I’d like to turn that pretty boy inside out!” She threw herself into the leather chair and drew her legs up under her.

I reached out a toe and flipped her skirt down. On some people legs are just to reach the ground. On Velda they were a hell of a distraction. “Your days of answering the mail are over, kid.”

Her eyes got wet again, but she tried to smile it off. “I know. I can always get a job in a department store. What will you do?”

“Where’s your native ingenuity? You used to be full of ideas.” I poured another glass of sherry and sipped it, watching her. For a minute she chewed on her fingernail, then raised her head to give me a puzzled frown.

“What are you getting at, Mike?”

Her bag, green leather shoulder-strap affair, was lying on the desk. I raised it and let it fall. It hit the polished wood with a dull clunk. “You have a gun and a license to carry it, haven’t you? And you have a private operator’s ticket yourself, haven’t you? Okay, from now on the business is yours. I’ll do the legwork.”

A twitch pulled her mouth into a peculiar grin as she realized what I meant. “You’ll like that, too, won’t you?”

“What?”

“The legwork.”

I slid off the edge of the desk and stood in front of her. With Velda I didn’t take chances. I reached out a toe again and flipped her dress up to the top of her sheer nylons. She would have made a beautiful calendar. “If I went for any I’d go for yours, but I’m afraid of that rod you use for ballast in your handbag.”

Her smile was a funny thing that crept up into her eyes and laughed at me from there. I just looked at her, a secretary with a built-in stand-off that had more on the ball than any of the devil’s helpers I had ever seen and could hold me over the barrel without saying a word.

“You’re the boss now,” I said. “We’ll forget about the mail and concentrate on a very special detail . . . getting my license and my gun back where it belongs. The D.A. made me out a joker and put the screws on good. If he doesn’t send ‘em back with a nice, sweet note, the newspapers are going to wheel out the chopping block for the guy.

“I won’t even tell you how to operate. You can call the signals and carry the ball yourself if you want to. I’ll only stick my nose in during the practice sessions. But if you’re smart, you’ll concentrate on the body of Chester Wheeler. When he was alive he was a pretty nice guy, a regular family man. All the grisly details are in the paper there and you can start from that. Meanwhile, I’ll be around breaking ground for you and you’ll spot my tracks here and there. You’ll find some signed blank checks in the drawer for your expense account.”