Mickey Spillane - Kiss Her Goodbye

I knocked on the door, heard Cummings's gruff "It's open," and turned the knob.

"I'll be damned," he said. "Mike Hammer."

"Everybody's got to be somebody," I said.

His hair was all gray now, short and bristly. The years had left lines on his face and thinned out his once-powerful frame, but somehow you knew he was still a cop, years away from his era, who still carried a retirement shield in a worn leather case in his pocket. He was in a white shirt with no tie and the sleeves rolled, black slacks, and stocking feet. Argyles.

"I was wondering if you'd show up," he said. He was out from behind his desk, heading to a little fridge conveniently nearby. "Everybody else and his mother's been here. Come on in and sit down. Want a cold one?"

"Sure." I deposited myself in the old walnut client's chair and caught the cold can of Miller. "Like old times."

Back behind his desk, he held his can up. "Cheers."

"Cheers." I popped the top. "You weren't at the funeral."

"No. At my age you have to make a decision—how many funerals are you willing to go to, with friends dying left and right. I decided one more was plenty."

"Your own."

"That's right." He drank. "But don't think I don't feel it. Terrible about Doolan."

"I figure you know the details."

"Oh yeah. Pat laid everything out. He was real shook up over it."

"How're you taking it, Pete?"

"For real?"

"Yeah, for real."

Cummings leaned back, the swivel chair squeaking. "It isn't easy. We were friends for a long time." He took his glasses off, threw them on the desk, and massaged the bridge of his nose. "He wasn't my partner, but he did a lot of work out of here. So I saw him quite a bit. He was the last of the old bunch that I did see. With the others..." He shrugged. "...you say you'll keep in touch, but you don't. The past goes on a back burner and stays there."

I nodded.

"Now," he said, and sighed, "there's nobody left. Shit, who can blame Doolan for doing the Dutch act? Some days I feel like packing it in myself."

"You're working off a false premise."

"What?" His eyes caught mine and I saw both irritation and confusion there.

"Bill Doolan never killed himself."

Time was the heavy tick of the aged pendulum wall clock that seemed to be the only sound not just in the office, but in the world. It went on and on while Cummings slowly edged forward until his arms rested on his desk, his head tilted up to watch me carefully.

Softly, Cummings said, "Okay. How do you know this?"

"Doolan told me," I said. "A long time ago."

The clock kept ticking. It seemed louder now.

"You mind making that clear, Mike?"

I told him about the conversation in the Blue Ribbon.

Finally he nodded, his eyes narrowing. There was no discussion, no argument at all. "What are you going to do?"

"Sure as hell not let it sit the way it is. Somebody's going to get tumbled."

"The old Mike Hammer way?"

"I haven't come up with a new one."

"How can I help?"

"You can start by letting me go through Doolan's files."

He pointed across the room. "Feel free. Everything's over there in the two cabinets on the far end. Other three are mine. Of course, you know, the police have gone over the works. Pat Chambers is no slouch."

"They find anything?"

"Nothing they seemed to think was important. Maybe you can do better. You're no slouch either."

"Thanks a bunch."

Five old four-drawer wooden filing cabinets were pushed against the wall, looking like they came with the building. None of the drawers was locked and, from the way the folders were replaced, I knew everything had indeed been looked at by the police.

I could have told them what was in there—Doolan had always been a clipper. Whatever had looked interesting, he had cut out and saved: newspapers, magazines, anything at all. There was a file of news clippings on every intriguing murder case the past year and a half. Two folders had schematics of the latest alarm systems, including those used in Europe.

When I reached the third drawer, I found a particularly thick folder labeled PERSONALS and pulled it out. I had to crack a grin at that one—old Doolan still had his ego working for him. These were all news photos of him mixing with the public he had served so long. He had been a damn good after-dinner speaker, and there were shots of him in black tie speaking at banquets, a good dozen at political rallies, and just as many at police functions.

The old boy had gotten around more than I thought. Two shots were with presidents of the United States, and eight more were group shots where state senators were listening to whatever he was hanging on them.

What tickled me most was the envelope at the back of the folder filled with 8 x 10s of Doolan posing with dolls. Some of the shots went back twenty years and included movie stars like Marilyn Monroe and Rhonda Fleming up through Raquel Welch and Tuesday Weld; they were all classy ladies, really, even the two who ran elegant call-girl books. The backgrounds were restaurants, theaters, and clubs, the old ones I recognized, the new ones I didn't.

I waved a handful of the photos at Cummings. "What's with these, Pete?"

His grunt was meaningful. "I never asked for details. Doolan would show me new ones as he added them, grinning like a goofy kid. I was too envious to give him the satisfaction."

I chuckled. "Don't tell me the old guy still fooled around."

Once again I got that hard stare. "Mike," he told me, "you're not up in years yet, so you may think it's funny, but even guys our age can still get it up... and remember what to do with it."

"Sorry about that."

"Maybe it's not as often, but..."

"Sorry about that too."

"Don't be. Think of the money I save."

The last were three concert-type shots of a woman singing at a stand-up microphone. It partially obscured her face, but it was obvious she was a real beauty. Her platinum hair was straight and long, accentuating her rich brown complexion that went with features that seemed Hispanic and Asian at once. Certainly that red silk dress split up the side to her waist and exposing a long, lush leg had an oriental look, and helped make her look startlingly erotic.

"Who's this one?" I held the photos up.

"Her name's Chrome. Or anyway that's how he referred to her. A performer, pretty famous I guess. Some exotic looker, eh?"

"Not the girl next door," I admitted. "I'm beginning to think our old pal was a dirty old man."

Cummings let out a low laugh. "She was business, Mike. A friend of his in L.A., a reporter, wanted some shots for a show-business rag—this Chrome doll is apparently on the rise."

"So are most of the men in her audiences, I'd guess."

"Yeah, and the rest are gay."

"I didn't think Doolan dealt that much in photography."

"No more than any of us—in the P.I. game, you find your way around a camera. He didn't just work for me, you know. He did jobs for reporters, both local and guys like that one in L.A."

"A lot of that kind of thing?"

"If he was in the mood. If whatever it was appealed to him."

I nodded. "What's in the other cabinet?"

"Bills, mostly. Receipts, bank statements. He never threw anything like that away. Tell you, though, you'll waste your time going through them. He never looked at anything in there—he just put things there, every month, every year. You know, real pack-rat stuff. Funny, considering how anal retentive he was about keeping his apartment neat."

I pulled out the bottom drawer. This one was real interesting—one big folder on me went back ten years and wound up with glossy black-and-whites of me on the ground bleeding after that last shoot-out.

I still held the .45 and the lifeless feet of Sal Bonetti were in the background. My side started to throb again and I could feel the fire under my ribs. Something foul seemed to be caught in my throat.