Mickey Spillane - The Big Bang

"I was ... complicit." The blue eyes went to half-mast, and they studied the swirling liquid again. "I have been, in my lifetime, a driven man. A man caught up in himself, and his own goals and grandiose aspirations."

"My understanding," I said, "is you've contributed to society. You've cured, or anyway helped cure, a good share of diseases."

The tiniest shrug of his head preceded words that sounded distant: "Yes. That is true. But I neglected my wife and my son, in so doing. I allowed Linda to lavish attention and praise and possessions upon our son. And he learned, early on, that nothing was to be denied him. No desire, no happiness. All was his for the asking—anything he wanted to have or to do. It became an expectation. A right."

I sat back on the couch. My jacket was open, the .45 easily accessible. "Were you aware of his drug problem?"

"No. The extent of my parental attention was to attend his sports events, when I was available ... which was perhaps a third of the time. After Linda's death, I tried to get more involved with Davy, but for the most part he wasn't interested."

"Didn't he help you with the pottery program in the children's ward at Saxony?"

He smiled again, with genuine if rueful amusement. "That's a loaded question, isn't it, Mr. Hammer? Suppose you tell me what you know, or think you know, about the ceramics program at the hospital."

I shrugged. "It's not so much the program as the source of the ceramics—the Village Ceramics Shoppe. Too many of the players in this melodrama converge on that supposedly innocent little place. Russell Frazer worked there as a glorified delivery boy, and yet he dressed like Rex Harrison and lived like Sammy Davis—must've been pulling down good bread for menial help, huh? Your son picked up packages for the hospital program there, and Brix and his pals were seen in or around the shop. Even Billy Blue was in and out, after your son died anyway, and he may have been jumped because somebody thought he knew too much."

His eyes were narrowed now. "And what does all of that add up to for you, Mr. Hammer?"

"I think it's a dope distribution center. Russell Frazer, delivery man, could be making real dough if it was junk he was delivering, not bisque dishes and statuettes. Hell, I think they bake the stuff right into their figurines, and through some chemical process, the junk comes out again ready for marketing. They don't sell to individuals—a respectable shop like that wouldn't want junkies hanging around. But boxes or even crates of supposed greenware could be shipped out of the back nationwide, and smaller orders could be dropped off locally. It's an ideal system, and an innocuous front."

His smile was wide now, and he was shaking his head in apparent admiration. His words confirmed that: "Very good, Mr. Hammer. Excellent. It was only after my son's death that I was able to determine that the unbaked ceramic forms in my son's room represented more than just a sudden, unexpected interest by Davy in the welfare of hospitalized children."

I frowned. "The program at the hospital, for those kids—that was Davy's idea?"

"Oh yes. He took advantage, after Linda was gone, of my need to get closer to him, and suggested the therapeutic value of such a program in the children's ward. It was the perfect cover for the pieces to be in his room at home, or in a box in his car. You see, he really did have brains, my Davy."

I grunted a laugh. "So do you, Doc. You had the inspired notion of getting both Junior Evello and the Snowbird himself, your son's old friend Jay Wren, into your personal care at Saxony."

"I arranged that, did I?"

"Oh yeah. I was able to dig out the fact that those two 'auto accidents' were staged by insurance scammers hired by someone, but not someone from Syndicate circles—a wealthy straight. You, Doc."

"And why would I do that, Mr. Hammer?"

"Because Junior and the Snowbird were at your mercy, even if they didn't realize it." I grinned. "What did you use, Doc? Sodium pentothal? Some drug that would loosen their tongues, without their knowing about it. You found out all sorts of good stuff from those two, key information that you passed along to the cops as an anonymous phone tipster."

This genuinely surprised him. His head rocked back and he smiled in amazement. "How could you know that? My voice was scrambled electronically beyond recognition."

"I have friends in high and low places, Doc. I also have the unscrambled tape, and can turn it over to the NYPD and feds any time I please."

He was frowning now. "Go on, Mr. Hammer...."

"I'm not sure when you found out about the big shipment—whether that came first, and you used the tips to dry up the streets. Or if after you made those calls, the streets dried up, and the big bang became a Syndicate necessity. Chicken or the egg, huh? Anyway, you saw your way clear to get even with the bastards who caused your son's death. You could take their business away from them, knowing that in their circles, screwing up like that doesn't get you a gold watch. More like cement shoes."

His face was crinkled with amusement now. "And then what, Mr. Hammer? Become the top drug lord myself? A gangster? A Syndicate man?"

"You already were a Syndicate man. You wormed your way in as their Dr. Feelgood—that gave you access to your patients, even after the automobile accidents you arranged had been recovered from. You could continue giving them the truth-serum treatments, and tipping off the cops and feds." I shook my head. "You know, I'm starting to think that hypocritical oath you took must've had some loopholes."

His expression had a dazed quality now. "You ... you know about all that, too? Mr. Hammer, I am impressed. I had no doubt that you were a remarkable man, but this ... this is truly impressive."

"Meanwhile, back at the ceramics shop, you're needing some details that the big fish, Evello and Wren, didn't keep in their craniums. The kind of stuff middle management files away—and I'm figuring this character Elmain is the conduit here. Product is coming into that innocent little tourist trap, and going out again, so there's information in his file cabinet, about people he does business with, that might not be as routine and innocuous as you'd think."

"Impressive indeed...."

"That's why you maintained the ceramics program at the hospital, after Davy's death—so you could maintain contact with the shop, legitimize hanging around the place, actually casing the joint ... because you pulled that robbery there. You got into the files, to fill in the rest of the names you needed for your trip to Europe."

"You're doing fine, Mr. Hammer. You're doing fine."

"You've purchased the big shipment. You've come up with some new way to ship the stuff in, doing an end run around Evello and Wren that your football-playing son would be proud of. You've set yourself up as the new kingpin." I shook my head. "But that's what I don't get, Doc—why would you want to take over a business that you despise? A traffic in death that cost your son his life, and that's taken the lives of so many others?"

His mouth twitched a smile. "Any ideas?"

"Just one. When we spoke about the drug problem, you said it was a 'vicious circle, impossible to break.' Perhaps you intended to punish Evello and Wren, denying them their business, and planned to use the money you made from this junk for good—maybe plow it into cancer research or something. How am I doing, Doc? Close?"

"Close, Mr. Hammer. Close." He sat forward. "May I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

He laughed, once. "Actually, that's my question—did you come here to shoot me? You're an avenger, Mr. Hammer, a well-known proponent of frontier justice. Is that your prescription for this illness? To kill me?"