Doug Allyn - The Best American Mystery Stories 2003

“What do you want?” Hammett called.

“You got a visitor downstairs. A shine.”

Hammett got up from the bed and pulled the door open.

“Go get my visitor and bring him up,” he said.

The desk clerk returned with the black man right behind him.

“Clarence, this is the desk clerk,” Hammett said. “What’s your name?”

“Joe,” the desk clerk said.

“Joe,” Hammett said, “this is Clarence ‘Big Stick’ LeBeau. Until the war came along, he played third base for the Birmingham Black Barons of the Negro league. Hit thirty home runs or more in seven — it was seven, wasn’t it, Clarence? — straight seasons. If it weren’t for the color line, he’d have been playing for the Yankees. Not bad for a shine, huh?”

“I didn’t mean nothing by that, mister,” the desk clerk said. “You neither, Clarence.” His eyes darted this way and that. “I got to get back to the desk,” he said, and scurried off.

“Welcome to my castle,” Hammett said, stepping aside to let the black man in. “What brings you here?”

“I’ve got to get started to Florida for spring training,” the black man said. “The things you come up with. I didn’t know white folk knew anything about the Birmingham Black Barons. And why do you keep calling me Clarence?”

“It suits you better than Don Miller,” Hammett said. “And it keeps everybody guessing. Confusion to the enemy.”

“You been drinking?” Miller said.

“A little,” Hammett said. “You want a nip?” Miller shook his head. “But I’ve been sleeping more. The old need their sleep. What brings you here?”

“I was at the magazine office working on the illustrations for that frostbite article when I was called into the presence of Major General Davenport Johnson himself. He said you’d promised to go to a party tonight at some banker’s house, and since he knew what an irresponsible s.o.b. you were — those were his words — he was ordering me to make sure you got there. Party starts in half an hour, so you’d better get cleaned up.”

“I’m not going to any goddamn party at any goddamn banker’s house,” Hammett said. “I’m going to the Lido Gardens and the South Seas and maybe the Owl Club.”

“This is Little Sugar Delight you’re talking to, remember,” Miller said. “You’re going to the party if I have to carry you. General’s orders.”

“General’s orders,” Hammett said, and laughed. “That’ll teach me to be famous.” He took off his shirt, washed his face and hands, put the shirt back on, knotted a tie around his neck, put on his uniform jacket and a pair of glistening black shoes that he took from the valise, and picked up his overcoat.

“All right, Little Sugar,” he said, “let’s go entertain the cream of Anchorage society.”

Hammett got out of the Jeep in front of a two-story wooden house. Light spilled from all the windows, and the cold air carried the muffled murmur of voices.

“You can go on about your business,” he told Miller. “I’ll walk back to town.”

“It must be twenty below, Sam,” Miller said.

“Nearer thirty, I expect,” Hammett said. “But it’s only a half-dozen blocks, and I like to walk.”

Indoors, the temperature was 110 degrees warmer. Men in suits and uniforms stood around drinking, talking, and sweating. Among them was a sprinkling of overdressed women with carefully done-up hair. A horse-faced woman wearing what might have been real diamonds and showing a lot of cleavage walked up to Hammett.

“Aren’t you Dashiell Hammett, the writer?” she asked.

Hammett stared down the front of her dress.

“Actually, I’m Samuel Hammett, the drunkard,” he said after several seconds. “Where might I find a drink?”

Hammett quickly downed a drink and picked up another. The woman led him to where a large group, all wearing civilian clothes, was talking about the war.

“I tell you,” a big, bluff man with dark, wavy hair was saying, “we are winning this war because we believe in freedom and democracy.”

Everyone nodded.

“And free enterprise, whatever Roosevelt might think,” said another man.

Everyone nodded again.

“What do you think, Dashiell?” the woman asked.

Hammett finished his drink. His eyes were bright, and he had a little smile on his lips.

“I think I need another drink,” he said.

“No,” the woman said, “about the war.”

“Oh, that,” Hammett said. “First of all, we’re not winning the war. Not by ourselves. We’ve got a lot of help. The Soviets, for example, have done much of the dying for us. Second, the part of the war we are winning we’re winning because we can make more tanks and airplanes and bombs than the Germans and the Japs can. We’re not winning because our ideas are better than theirs. We’re winning because we’re drowning the sonsabitches in metal.”

When he stopped talking, the entire room was quiet.

“That was quite a speech,” the woman said, her voice much less friendly than it had been.

“You’d have been better off just giving me another drink,” Hammett said. “But don’t worry. I can get it myself.”

He was looking at a painting of a moose when a slim, curly-haired fellow who couldn’t have been more than thirty walked up to him. He had a major’s oak leaves on his shoulders.

“That was quite a speech, soldier,” the major said. “What’s an NCO doing at this party, anyway?”

“Ask the general,” Hammett said.

“Oh, that’s right, you’re Hammett, the hero of the morale tour.” The major took a drink from the glass he was holding. “You must be something on a morale tour with speeches like that.” When Hammett said nothing, the major went on, “I hear you’re involved in the murder of one of my sergeants.”

Hammett laughed. “I don’t know about involved,” he said, “but I’ve got a fair idea who did it.”

The major moved closer to Hammett.

“I think you’ll find that in the army, it’s safer to mind your own business,” he said. “Much safer.”

Hammett thrust his face into the major’s face and opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by another voice.

“Ah, Sergeant Hammett,” the voice said, “I see you’ve met Major Allen. The major’s the head of supply out at the fort.”

“Thanks for clearing that up, General,” Hammett said. “I thought maybe he was somebody’s kid and these were his pajamas.”

The major’s face reddened and his mouth opened.

“Sergeant!” the general barked. “Do you know the punishment for insubordination?”

“Sorry, General, Major,” Hammett said. “This whiskey just plays hob with my ordinarily high regard for military discipline.”

The major stomped off.

“That mouth of yours will get you into trouble one day, Sergeant,” the general said. He sounded as if he were trying hard not to laugh.

“Yes, sir,” Hammett said. “But he is a jumped-up little turd.”

“Yes, he is that,” the general said. “Regular army. His father was regular army, too. Chief of supply at the Presidio. Did very well for himself. Retired to a very nice home on Nob Hill. This one’s following in the family footsteps. All polish and connections. There, see? See how politely he takes his leave of the hostess. Now you behave yourself.” The general looked at the picture of the moose. “Damned odd animal, isn’t it?” he said, and moved off.

The general left the party a half hour later and Hammett a few minutes after that. He made his way down the short, icy walkway and, as he turned left, his feet flew out from under him. As he fell he heard three loud explosions. Something whirred past his ear. He twisted so that he landed on his side and rolled behind a car parked at the curb. He heard people boil out of the house behind him.