Mickey Spillane - Kiss Her Goodbye

I had four more in the clip and I spread them around evenly, two for Dulcie Thorpe, two more for Doolan, and a free pass on Tony Tret, and he just took them, shuddering under the impact, not even screaming because the soupy insides of him couldn't make it happen, all he could summon was bloody bubbly froth.

"I have another clip here," I said conversationally, "but now I think I have made my point. When I leave, the door will be open. Maybe you can crawl out of here. Maybe you can get help."

He was crying, but when a sob came, it hurt too much and he forced it back.

"There's one last touch I think you'll enjoy," I said. "Smart guy like you, you might savor the irony."

I bent over and showed him the .45.

"This is Doolan's gun," I said. "When the cops check out these shell casings, that's where it will lead them. Same gun was used at the Y and S shoot-out, which will tie you to a mob hit. Anyway, my point is—in a way, it's like Doolan himself killed you."

I holstered the gun. He was on the floor, crawling. He hadn't made much progress when I exited the room, but I left the door open for him. He probably couldn't make it down to the street alive, but I liked the idea that he'd die trying.

MIDAFTERNOON, VELDA and I sat in a booth at Cohen's Deli. I had my namesake corned beef and pastrami sandwich, having worked up an appetite, and my secretary behaved herself with a little bowl of chicken soup. What a beautiful woman puts up with to stay that way.

I dabbed my mouth with a paper napkin, then reached over and dug in the left-hand pocket of my trench coat, which was wadded up next to me.

I held the marble-size stone up to the light. It didn't look like much of anything. Basil had died for this and other stones, and they had funded new lives for inhuman beasts and franchised human weakness into even more wealth.

"That," she said, "might make a nice engagement ring."

"Here's what we're going to do with it," I said, and handed it to her. "You're going to take it to David Gross at the diamond exchange."

"I am?"

"Yeah. I have my own last errand to run. But I want you to get copies made of every photograph you have of those south-of-the-border Nazi bastards, and all the evidence that you've gathered with the feds in mind."

"Okay. What for?"

"You give the stone to David, and the packet of evidence and photos. You tell him to quietly sell the diamond, and to keep a finder's fee according to his own conscience. But the proceeds—like the packet—are to go to some people he knows."

"What kind of...? Oh. Nazi hunters?"

"Yeah."

"To bring these monsters to trial?"

"No."

Took her half a second to process that, then she just sat there staring at the innocent pebble in her palm. Finally she said, "Fine. What's your errand?"

"Some things you're better off not knowing about."

"In case I'm questioned? Or because it involves a beautiful woman?"

I grinned at her. "Right. We'll meet back at my room at the Commodore."

"The Honeymoon Suite, you mean."

"Yup. Then we'll paint the town red."

"Haven't you done enough of that already?"

That made me laugh. "Well, I am back in a New York state of mind. But tomorrow, we'll catch a plane down to Florida. I'll teach you how to catch snook."

"Do I want to know how to catch snook?"

"It's not optional."

"Are we moving there? If we're going to retire while we're still young, maybe we should hang on to half of what this diamond's worth."

"No, it's a vacation. I got a car down there. We'll drive it home."

"Home?"

"Yeah. I'm not kidding anybody."

I glanced out the window at a street where people were moving, staying out of each other's way without acknowledging each other's existence. A gray sky loomed, threatening rain but not doing anything about it. The buildings had a terrible interchangeable blankness. Cabs were honking at cars whose drivers were screaming at the cabbies. A Puerto Rican hooker in a miniskirt and black mesh stockings and a cheap blonde wig was watching out for potential johns with one eye and the beat cop with the other. A leg-less beggar on a wheeled board was having success with the occasional tourist and nobody else.

I shrugged. "This is where I live."

The towering apartment building on Park Avenue had been there forever, exuding a quiet splendor that passersby were welcome to glimpse but only the wealthy could afford. The intimidating doorman in gold-braided blue moved to cut off my entry, then recognized me.

"Mr. Hammer," he said, and nodded.

We'd never met. He just read the papers.

"You happen to know if Miss Chrome is in?" I grinned at him, shoved the hat back on my head. "Hey, I know that sounds dumb—I never got her last name."

"She's never shared it with us, either," he said, in a good-natured growl. "But, yeah, I believe she's in. Guy in the lobby will call up for you. That's a lot of woman, Mr. Hammer."

"I met women before."

He laughed, tipped his braided hat. "That's what I hear."

Getting past the lobby was easy. The guy there confirmed "Miss Chrome" was in, and called up to see if she'd receive me, and she would.

So when I knocked on the door in a gold-scrolled marble vestibule about the size of your average SoHo flat, I half expected a butler to respond. But all I got was the platinum blonde disco doll her own self, in a fluid silver silken dressing gown with a rope belt. White open-toed shoes revealed red nails against tan flesh. The contrast between the stark white hair and the very brown flesh was ever startling.

The hand she extended for me to take was similarly scarlet nailed.

"So nice, Mike, that you accept my invitation," she said, the Latin accent a sensual purr. Nothing showed of last night's sorrow, not even in her eyes, which were bereft of spidery red.

I took my hat off—I'd left the trench coat with Velda. "I know I should have called. Forgive me?"

"There is nothing to forgive," she said, gesturing me inside. "The invitation, it was open. I was in a bad place last night. I am embarrassed for you to see me so."

"You lost somebody dear to you."

I had figured on brilliant splashes of primary color in the pad, the fiesta rainbow cliché gringos always expect. This was more like old Hollywood, a snowstorm of a living room with the kind of modern white furnishings and carpet you might expect from Jean Harlow or Marilyn Monroe, with walls and ceiling to match. Still, many tones were on display—ivory, cream, off-white, interrupted by a handful of large black-and-white glamour photographs of herself. Well, she knew what she liked.

The blizzard was relieved by a big picture window with a view all the way to Central Park, a postcard-worthy vista. The sun had finally cut through the clouds and smog, and the sky over the geometric shapes of the city wore the bright blues and whites of a perfect spring afternoon.

Strangely, her first move was to go to that window and close the cream-color curtain, blotting out that lovely view, as if Act One was over and this was intermission.

"Too bright for a night person," she said, with a little laugh. The only light now came from a single lamp on a white-lacquer end table. "Something to drink?"

"Maybe later. I want to talk first."

"Then we will talk. Suddenly you sound so serious, Mike. Is it about Tony's death? Are you investigating it? You are a detective."

She settled in an overstuffed white leather club chair, tan arms slipping from loose silk sleeves to rest regally along the chair's elevated sides as she crossed her long, lush legs.

I sat opposite her on a low-slung couch assembled from intersecting rectangles, as hard and uncomfortable as a doctor's examination table and about the same color. Between us squatted a glass-and-metal coffee table, not unlike the one at Club 52 with the coke mirror. I tossed my hat there.