Mickey Spillane - Kiss Her Goodbye

I was nodding. "That girl got off a shift after the supper hour on a pay night. It was something she had been doing for a long time. If some creep spotted her routine, saw an easy mark, and followed her just for the cash she had on her, that would be one thing."

"Only she's mugged well away from where she lived and worked," Pat said. "What was she doing there, in that combat zone?"

"That's the question."

"Still could be two people," Pat said. "A mugger is hired to grab her bag, and somebody else is hired to toss her apartment."

"That's three people—including whoever hired both of them. Unless it's somebody who did this all himself."

"Or herself."

"You can kid yourself and say Doolan is a suicide, Pat, but this is a murder."

"Of course it's murder..."

"Not a mugging murder—a murder that needs solving. Are you going to help?"

He raised his hands in surrender. "I'm simply going to make sure you get your fill of this before the system gets it sorted out the old-fashioned way."

I gestured around the sad little apartment. "Really? Then how come the captain of Homicide is messing with a chintzy kill like this?"

"Humoring an old friend. Ready to go over and see Ginnie Mathes's mother?"

I felt my eyebrows go up. "You've been doing your homework, little boy."

"Plain old-fashioned cop stuff, friend. Lots of manpower and the right questions."

Six blocks away, we made a call on Mrs. Lily Mathes, whose dead husband had left her an entire four-story brownstone. Three floors were rentals, so you might think she was well-off; but rent control meant it took Social Security, too, for her to manage a modest living.

Mrs. Mathes was a plump sixty-something in a dark blue dress that may have been as close to black as she had handy. Her white hair was mixed with remnants of the blonde that, along with her attractive face, she'd passed along to her late daughter.

That face wore no makeup at the moment—perhaps it never did or maybe she just was saving herself the trouble of having it run and smear. Her eyes were red, but dry.

She seemed almost glad to see us—maybe it was a relief just to have someone to talk to.

There wasn't much she could add to the picture. Her daughter had been living alone for over two years. During that time, Ginnie had several jobs as a waitress, moving on only when a place closed. No, her daughter had never been in trouble. As far as the mother knew, Ginnie dated once in a while, but lately whenever she had time off, she spent it taking dancing lessons someplace across town.

Pat said, "Did she ever dance professionally?"

"Oh, no," the seated woman told us. "She was too shy for that."

Pat glanced at me, but didn't mention anything about the cabaret license on her daughter. Some things were better left unsaid.

While Pat was getting background, I made a casual circuit of the room. Like most women her age, Lily had her family photos on display. Her late husband was in several with her, a few were of mother, father, and daughter growing up, and one was six snapshots of teenaged Ginnie in a homemade montage—Ginnie and a stocky, blonde-headed guy in two, and with a skinny, shorter guy in the other four.

Lily Mathes smiled when she saw me looking at them. "Those were taken right after Ginnie got out of high school."

"Boyfriends?"

"Oh, you know how girls are."

"Ginnie still see either of these boys?"

She waved a hand dismissively. "That blonde one, he's married and lives in Jersey now. Joseph Fidello, the other one? He's been gone a long time. I think he became a seaman."

When I put the picture back, she said, "I'm afraid you gentlemen are wasting your time. Nobody... nobody who knew Ginnie ... would ever... ever want to ... to hurt her."

A tissue-filled hand covered her eyes and she let her head droop. She went on: "It was just this ... this terrible city ... these awful muggings ... they happen all the time. It's like ... like living in hell."

I wasn't the best guy to give her an argument.

Pat bent over and took her hand gently. "Just one more thing. Did your daughter always walk home?"

"Yes. On nice nights. If it rained, she took a cab."

"On a nice night—would she go walking farther afield? Or take a cab somewhere, maybe to go to a restaurant or club, or see a boyfriend, and then walk by herself...?"

She shook her head vigorously. "Where they found her, Ginnie wasn't anywhere near her apartment. She wasn't near to her work."

"Yes, we know...."

"She would never, never go down a street like where they found her. They tell me it was all torn up and not a safe place at all. I knew my daughter. She'd never go down such an unsafe street."

We didn't have to go any further. We said a gentle goodbye and left.

Once outside, Pat said, "So what do you make of it?"

"Three possibilities," I said with a shrug. "Ginnie was going to meet somebody, she was trying to elude somebody, or somebody was chasing her."

"All for thirty-five bucks and tips?"

"For something," I said.

FOR A WHOLE YEAR I had taken the ordered medication, capsules at regulated times, that were gradually being reduced in frequency and intensity as the physical damage repaired itself. The pain was gone, but so were my dreams. It took two months before I noticed it, and a direct inquiry pinned it down: my unconsciousness was being medicated as well as my body, but since there were no apparent side effects, I let it pass. Missing those surrealistic meanderings was no great loss, unless there were some lovely dolls involved.

But I had forgotten the meds on this night, and for the first time in a year, dreams came through. The first one was a jumble of guns blasting and orange flame chewing the night and exploding skulls and bursts of scarlet and white and gray, and then Velda, and me getting shot, and Velda, crying now, and me, dying now.

This faded into a new dream that wasn't scrambled at all. There was a continuity to it with an aim and a direction, but the light was fuzzy and I couldn't quite make it out. I was back on that war zone of a street looking down at the sand covering the awful puddle of blood on the sidewalk, feeling sand sift through my fingers.

Then it stopped being a dream and I realized I was half awake and thinking.

I kicked the sheet back and hung my legs over the bed. The pain was back again, a big hand feeling for a good grip. I got up, found my pants, and got the vial out of the side pocket. I flipped the cap off, shook one out, and swallowed it, then stuck the vial back.

That was when my fingers found the pebble, the souvenir of a lousy, dirty kill on the sidewalks of New York. It was an irregular oval, the size of a kid's marble, oddly colored with a frosted surface, and there was a distorted picture in my memory of something flashing near the short-sleeve cuff of the dead girl's dress.

Under my fingertip was a flat spot on the stone, and when I turned it over I knew what it was. What it meant. Slowly turning it to just the right place, I held my souvenir under the nightstand light and looked into a window that opened onto the pure brilliance hidden in that scruffy little stone.

What I had in my fingers was an uncut diamond with one hell of a carat weight, and somebody had ground a spot on it for absolute proof of what it was.

Ginnie Mathes's death had just taken on a new dimension.

There was a legal probability that I was withholding evidence, but not being an expert in the determination of precious stones, my accountability was limited. Which was nice phrasing, but probably a load of crap. What the hell, I hadn't mentioned to Pat the little arsenal squirreled away in Doolan's desk either.