Kiss Her Goodbye

Chapter 7

NIGHTTIME. New York. A charcoal sky rumbles and mutes the neon. The taxis have thinned out and those remaining are cruising slower now. More women drivers than I remember. A lot of small, foreign-looking guys behind the wheel. A year ago a lot of hippies hanging out, not so many now. The bar action is slow, almost quiet. Sometimes it gets like that in the city, as if everyone was waiting for a funeral procession to roll by.

An older, heavy-set uniformed cop on the corner looks at me a few seconds, nods sagely, and winks. I wink back. It has been a year since I've seen him. He's still on the same beat.

Up ahead, Forty-second Street is bathing itself in garish advertising, even the gray overhead can't diminish the commercial glow. The night people are in constant motion. Nobody seems to look at anybody else. If they do, they turn quickly away as if somebody might steal their anonymity.

It starts to rain. Not hard. Just a steady New York rain that doesn't seem to give a damn whether it happens or not. It's no downpour to bother rushing out of, only the kind of insistent drizzle that will make you uncomfortable if you stay in it too long.

You could think, though, on a night like this. You could wander and wonder and reason and begin to get a feel for things, like knowing that the aroma of good cooking will lead to restaurant windows where even on a slow night the tables will be filled with those taking refuge from the rain.

But Doolan's death doesn't provide a nice smell at all. There isn't a logical reason in the world to doubt he knocked himself off. While he was still reasonably functional, he'd kept doing the things he knew best, making productive use of his knowledge and his contacts. He chased a skirt or two. Maybe he even bedded down a couple. Then, before the Big Pain could claw his guts out, he sat down, put his favorite music on, and blew his heart apart. It seemed logical enough, it followed a pattern others had laid down, and I could almost believe it myself.

Almost.

I go back to the Commodore, consider digging out enough medication to address aches and pains the rain has stirred up, and to beat back thoughts that might keep sleep from coming. I decide against it and go to bed, where the thoughts I pursue like uncooperative suspects seem worth the chase, and when sleep finally comes, it's deep but not dreamless, a surreal mix of faces old and new and distinct and vague on streets where the neon is even more vivid, the rain slashing, the odors pungent, and I am at home again in Manhattan, awake or asleep.

Goddamnit.

I am home.

***

At five-thirty A.M., I was down on the street in sweats, setting out in an easy jog. I had decided to take a pass on Bing's today, and instead take advantage of the cool, sunny morning.

I didn't have to estimate the distance. Twenty blocks to the mile, and I went forty north, crossed the avenue, and did forty back. There were enough other runners out that I didn't feel alone, and I got back as the early workers were starting to show.

Cooling down slowly was a must, then a hot shower took the ache out of that spot that still bore the bullet track. I don't buy that macho crap about a final cold shower, so I dried off. I shaved and, for better or worse, I could recognize the guy in the mirror again.

"Shit," I told him.

Then I got into shirt and tie and shoulder sling and slacks and sport jacket and put the hat on.

God got melodramatic and let some thunder rip just as I was snugging the porkpie in place. I went to the nearest window. That early-morning sun I'd enjoyed was gone—it was raining again. A little harder than last night. Good thing I'd thought to pack the trench coat.

I had sicced Pat on tracking down various notions I had about the two dead girls—he and his little elves could be useful at times. But Pat didn't buy that Doolan had been murdered, so that angle of the investigation was all mine. And so far I had precious little.

I took a cab to Doolan's address. I still had the key, and there was something up there I wanted to pick up. I did so, but mostly I was here not for his pad, but for his neighborhood, to ask around.

Turned out old Doolan had been a nice guy and he had nice friends who said nice things about him, only "nice" was the kind of well-meaning sweet talk you hear right before and after the funeral, and not the sharp, pointed facts I needed.

And the only facts I was getting were basic—Doolan shopped locally, paid his bills, had a good credit rating, and was a pretty visible guy in the neighborhood, having helped run the druggies out. By the time I had covered all the local businesses, I'd come to a standstill.

It was almost noon and I was damn sick of all the nice things I had been hearing. I looked up and down the street, knowing something was missing. Then it came to me: there was no drugstore in sight. Somewhere a guy Doolan's age, with his medical problems, could get his prescriptions filled. And he would likely go to the nearest place at hand.

The Yellow Pages gave up three walking-distance possibilities just outside the neighborhood, and I checked the closest one first, hitting immediate pay dirt.

The store was small, in the middle of the block, had only a handful of customers, one shopping, two at the soda fountain, and none at all at the back prescription counter. Just inside, I shook the rain off my hat and coat, and headed back there.

"I don't talk about my patients," the druggist said, with the strong implication that he recognized the name William Doolan.

He was a small, sour, flat-faced type who didn't seem to want to talk about anything, except maybe what you owed him at the register.

I considered slapping him. His patients? He was a fucking pharmacist, not a damn doctor.

But that kind of thing didn't go over so good anymore, and I just got out the card Pat had given me and handed it across to him.

"Why don't you call that number," I said, "and see if I'm square."

Finally his curiosity overcame his suspicions, and he dialed it. He spoke briefly, then handed me the phone. "Captain Chambers wants to hear your voice."

I stuck the phone to my ear. "Pat, could you okay me to this guy?"

"What's it about, Mike?"

"Just checking up on Doolan."

"Come on, man, that's a dead end."

"Maybe, but at least I'm not asking you to handle it."

"Good point. Put him back on."

When I handed the phone back, there was another brief exchange and the druggist cradled the receiver on its hook on his counter. "I guess it's permissible to talk."

"Good," I said. "Anyway, I'm not interested in Mr. Doolan's medical history—what I'm trying to pick up are any stray details about his personal life."

"I was just his pharmacist...."

I managed not to say, Oh, not his doctor?

Instead I said, "I know, but he had lots of meds to fill, and regularly, and maybe you two talked a little."

"I'm not that talkative."

"Well, anything you can share would be appreciated."

"Like what?"

"Any little thing. You ever pass the time with him?"

He bobbed his head. "Now and then. We'd sit over there and have coffee."

That was a nice surprise. "So what did you fellas talk about?"

"Bill was an old cop. I guess you must know that." The druggist shrugged. "He'd tell me his old war stories—close scrapes and busting bad guys and that. What else has an old cop got to talk about?"

"Nothing about what he was up to lately?"

"Well—he went uptown a lot. He sat in Central Park, he said, and people watched. Sometimes he would dress funny."

"Funny how?"

"One time I told him he looked like a Bowery bum and he said I was making a good guess."

Christ—so he'd been staking somebody out. Who at this point in his life would Doolan be watching, undercover?

"Funny thing, though."

"Yeah?"

"A couple of times he looked pretty damned sharp."

"Sharp."

"Yeah. Nice suit. Like he really had dough. Mostly he was dressed like, well, any old bird his age. I asked where he was going all duded up, and you will not believe what he said."

"Try me."

"I say, 'Where are you going tonight, Bill? Club 52?' And you know what he says?"

"What?"

"'You must be psychic, Fred. That's exactly where I'm headin'.' Right. An old coot like that, going to Club 52. I gave him the horse laugh, but then a week later, he came in all duded up again, and I say, 'Expectin' another wild night at Club 52, are ya, Bill?' He says sure, and says if I don't believe him, have a gander at this ... and he shows me a plastic card, signed by that guy Anthony Tret-something, who owns the joint."

"Yeah?"

"It's a plastic card with Club 52 on it and it says ALL ACCESS. You believe that?"

"Did you ever ask Doolan why a guy his age would be going to Club 52?"

"Sure I did. Get this—he says to me, 'Don't be a stick in the mud, Fred—don't you dig disco?' Dig disco? Was he kidding?"

This was the Doolan who died listening to recordings of the great symphonies, a lover of all the fine classics—and in his final days, he dug disco?

"When did you see him last?"

"Couple days before he killed himself."

"So did he seem really sick? Was he depressed, or in pain...?"

"Not really, but then he was taking strong painkillers before he died, and wouldn't be feeling it much if at all. Who knows—maybe there at the end, he was having one last fling. Hell, twice, he bought some rubbers from me."

"Maybe he didn't want to be a daddy at his age."

"Nuts. Didn't want to catch a dose, I'd say."

Either way, it was an interesting purchase for an octogenarian.

There wasn't much else Fred the druggist could tell me, so I said thanks and left. He'd warmed up—I was glad I hadn't slapped him. For a nontalkative guy, he and Doolan had gabbed plenty.

But all I had was one more screwy bit about my old friend that didn't make any sense at all—he had not only been to Club 52, he'd been a regular, or enough of one to rate a signed entry card from Little Tony himself.

I was going back in time now.

Down at the end of the street would be an old barroom with scarred furniture and artifacts dating to Prohibition days. Some of the customers would look like they had been there that long themselves, and the old sportswriters would be gathered at one end arguing about something that never happened anyway.

I would meet Velda at the back booth where the phone was right on the wall and she would have a cold beer and a meatball sandwich already ordered for me and we would compare notes of what had happened in the world of sports that day, with Ernie and Vern constantly butting in.

The taste in my mouth was sour and I spit it out. This time there would be no Velda and I shut her out of my mind. Vern had died the way a sportswriter should, of a heart attack after filing a story about a no-hitter at Yankee Stadium last year.

Two old-timers looked at me, surprised, then grinned. Somebody said hello from a booth and I waved in that direction while I moved through the modest crowd.

There in back was Ernie—a dark little balding mustached guy with a stubby pencil behind one ear, rolled up sleeves, a loose necktie, and baggy trousers, looking like he was trying out for a revival of The Front Page. Vern had been sports, but Ernie was police beat.

Right now he had the phone stuck to his ear, his waving hand describing something that couldn't be seen on the other end of the line. Not unless the rewrite man was psychic.

When I sat down in the booth nearby, he gaped at me, then hung the phone up without saying goodbye.

"How you doing, Ernie?"

"Man..." He shook his head, whether in disgust or amazement, I couldn't quite tell. "You are the fuck alive. I hardly believe it. Somebody said you were at Doolan's funeral, but I said they were either lying or hallucinating."

"I was there, all right. One of the youngest."

"That's not much to brag about," he said with a snort of a laugh. He slid in the side where his half-drunk beer was already waiting. "Where the hell have you been, Mike?"

"Away."

"Oh, so it's twenty questions? You think I don't ask enough questions in a given day, that you have to play cute?"

"I was living in Florida." That was the first time I'd used the past tense for that.

"No shit? I thought you died. Everybody thought you were dead. When the Bonetti kid popped you, and you just disappeared, everybody figured you'd bought it. Either crawled off to bleed out someplace on your own, or got followed there and put out of your misery." He shrugged. "Mike Hammer's dead, there goes New York, I said."

"Sure you did, Ernie."

"But here you are back again, right?"

"Right."

"And you don't even look like some old shot-up piece of shit."

"Thanks a bunch."

"You look fit in fact. Packing heat?"

"I'm warm enough."

"That old glow in your eyes is there and everything. Somebody gonna die?"

"Somebody might."

He shifted in the booth. "So something big's going down, right?"

"Right."

"And if I ask what it is, you're going to tell me to shove it up my ass, right?"

"Right."

"Shit." He threw the rest of the beer down, then waved until the waitress saw him, and he held up two fingers. "So where's Velda?"

"I don't know, Ernie."

"Was she in Florida with you?"

"No."

Everything seemed to stop in midair, then he frowned.

I said, "It's over."

That got another snort of a laugh out of him. "In a pig's ass it's over," he said. "You don't just drop a broad like that. George Washington don't drop Martha. Tarzan don't dump Jane."

"Maybe Jane dumped Tarzan. Anyway, I hear she's got somebody else. And she's not in the city anymore." I managed a shrug. "These things happen."

"Jesus, Mike—this is like when the Yankees dropped Babe Ruth."

"Yet somehow the Yankees survived. Now forget it."

A young waitress came up and set down two foaming steins of beer in front of us.

"Want some pretzels, fellas?" she asked.

We both nodded.

"I'll bring 'em," she told us.

Ernie was smiling at me.

"What?" I said.

"That kid doesn't even know you. Maybe you gone out of fashion."

I was in no mood. "I need some information, Ernie." A frown started and I added, "Not asking you to share anything off the record, if you're not so inclined."

He wiped foam off his mustache. "Hey, if it's news, Mike, everything's on microfilm and you can look it up."

"You're quicker, pal." I took a pull of the beer. It was icy cold and tasted good. "This disco, Club 52—what goes on there?"

"It's popular and expensive and harder than hell to get into. It's where that dance, the hustle, got famous. You see everybody from movie stars to the big politicians inside."

"Even though they do coke in back?"

He frowned. "I've never been in there, Mike. I don't know where they do the coke."

"But they do it."

"Probably. Sure. Everybody in the upper register seems to."

"And nobody cares?"

"Hell, no."

"Because the 52's mobbed up? Little Tony Tret's running it, right?"

Ernie's head shake said no, but his mouth said, "Yes." Then he amended it: "Only, Mike, it's not a mob thing. Tony divorced himself from his family a long, long time ago. He was just a young entrepreneur who had the right idea at the right time. This cocaine kick, it's no big deal. It's just social. They keep it discreet, and nobody complains. It's not like there's piles of stuff on tables and everybody's bending over and snorting it."

"The clientele is the young and the beautiful, right?"

"Sure, and the old and the rich. Now and then tourists get in, if they know somebody or throw a hell of a tip at the doorman. But it's a hard ticket, man."

"Yeah? I know a guy who had an all-access pass."

"Like for backstage at rock concerts? Well, it makes sense. It's called a disco, but they do live music, too."

"That right?"

"Big sensation now is that Chrome broad from Spain or Mexico or somewhere—she was on Johnny Carson, you know, and got signed to a major record label. Gonna tour at these franchise clubs Tony Tret is opening all around the country." He chugged his beer, thumped the stein down, and cocked his head at me. "Who the hell would a middle-aged type like you know that would rate that kind of backstage pass?"

"You knew him, too—Bill Doolan."

"Aw, balls."

Said the queen.

"Oh, he had that kind of pass," I insisted.

He was shaking his head, not buying it. "Come on, Mike, you knew Doolan better than that."

"I thought I did. Story is, he was taking pictures for some newspaper guy out in L.A. Which is funny, since I don't remember Doolan being any kind of photographer."

Ernie made a farting sound with his lips. "Doolan was a photographer like all you dicks are photographers—point it at a naked broad through a motel window, and shoot. Hey, if he was doing pro-level photographic work, I'd have known."

"Didn't he feed you tips in recent years?"

"Sure he did—old Doolan came onto stuff, usually when he was working for his pal Cummings, who's a real P.I. Unlike you, Mike, who just pretend to be one so you can find excuses to shoot people, and not with a camera."

"If it's not likely Doolan was shooting photos for an L.A.-based reporter, then what was he doing?"

He leaned forward. "You can bet that old son of a bitch wasn't just chasing young tail. He was working."

"Like how?"

"Beats the shit outa me. He was always into somethin'. He was an old pro and just liked to keep his hand in. Some guys never learn how to quit. Right, Mike?" Ernie paused, chewed on his lip a moment, then said, "Hard to believe he killed himself."

I just looked at him without saying anything at all, then all his gears started to mesh and I saw him tighten up across the shoulders.

He darted a look around, then said very softly, "So that's why you're back. You don't think Doolan snuffed himself either, do you, Mike?"

"No," I said.

He sat there thinking for maybe thirty seconds. Then he said, "Somebody you should talk to."

"Okay."

He slid out and came back two minutes later with a young guy about five ten with the long hair and mustache of his generation and a canary shirt with a pointed collar over a sport jacket that looked like couch upholstery.

"This is Lonnie Dean," he said, making room as the younger man slid in next to him.

"Christ, you are Mike Hammer," the kid said in a thin baritone. "I heard you were back in the city."

I just nodded.

Ernie said, "Mike, Lonnie wrote that story a while back about the new breed of organized crime family. Won a bunch of journalistic awards."

"Didn't see it," I admitted.

A grin blossomed under the younger reporter's thick mustache. "You wouldn't have, Mr. Hammer. The mob shake-up I wrote about followed that shoot-out on the pier you walked away from."

"Crawled is more like it," I said. "So I was an instrument of change, huh? Like the kids say, groovy."

His eyes were bright. He seemed enthusiastic and nervous, like he was meeting a movie star. "Mr. Hammer—"

"Make it 'Mike,' Lonnie."

"Mike. I could hardly believe it when Ernie came over and told me you were over here..."

Christ. Not a damn autograph hound.

"...I mean, we've never met, I've only been on the O.C. beat for a year. But you are news."

"Yeah, well. Some people would be flattered but—"

"No, I mean news right now. Didn't make the media, but that hooker who got run down? You got clipped, too, didn't you? And walked away from it?"

I frowned. "Where did you hear that, son?"

"I have sources."

"In the department?"

"Sure, Mr. Hammer ... Mike ... but those aren't the sources I'm talking about." He used a forefinger to bend his nose in the time-honored fashion to indicate he meant wiseguys. "Do you know who's claiming credit for almost running you down?"

"Surprise me."

"Alberto Bonetti."

I squinted at him. "Why? It wasn't his people."

Ernie got in a question: "How can you know that, Mike?"

I shrugged. "Alberto would've used a pro. A pro wouldn't have got the girl, if I was the target."

Lonnie said, "You mean, you'd be dead now."

"Maybe. I've been out of the game. But hit-and-run isn't the mob's style either. Too many potential witnesses, too imprecise. And that driver was strictly amateur night." I sipped beer, thought about it. "The word on the street is Bonetti hired it done?"

"Yeah." If the kid's eyes had been any brighter, I would have needed sunglasses. "And there's more, Mike. Your pal Doolan may not have been a suicide."

I managed not to smile. "Do tell."

"Bonetti's taking credit for that kill, too. Well, that may be oversimplifying it... You have something to do with that, too."

"Me?"

The shaggy-haired crime reporter nodded. He looked like a fucking Muppet, but he seemed to know his shit. "Nobody was figuring old Bill Doolan for murder until you came back to town. Word got out you were starting to nose around, which people took to mean Doolan musta been whacked, and the credit started going to Bonetti. Whether the rumors began with the old don, or just grew ... that's where it stands."

I was nodding slowly. "So the street says ... or anyway thinks ...that Bonetti took Doolan out to get back at me, and lure me out of hiding...?"

Lonnie nodded. "That's right, so he could have you taken out."

Ernie said, "Like in a hit-and-run."

The other reporter nodded.

"But it's bullshit," I said.

Lonnie shrugged. "Possibly, but it comes at a good time for Bonetti. He can use what it does for his rep among the other crime families right now. That shake-up is still under way, Mike—somebody new, somebody not so overt, is moving in on drug distribution. But the old-timers, like Don Giraldi and Pierluigi, if they solidify behind Alberto, the Bonetti family could be a power again."

It made sense.

Lonnie was chuckling. "You coming back to town, you really did old Alberto a favor. You ought to send him a bill for the good PR in his circles."

"I may," I said.

That stopped Lonnie's chuckling. "What are you going to do, Mr. Hammer?"

"Well, right now I'm going to ask you for a favor. You do me that favor, Lonnie, I'll give you the inside track on what'll be a big story."

"All right."

"Check your sources. I want to know two things."

"Okay."

"First—is there any activity involving rare gems going on in mob circles? Rip-offs involving gems, or valuable stones being used for money laundering—anything of that nature."

"You got it."

"Second—has Tony Tret really gone straight? His family was once associated with the Bonettis, loosely, but associated. Could Club 52 be a front for drugs?"

"Okay, but I doubt this Club 52 angle. As you must know, Mike, the authorities look the other way on the recreational stuff that goes down at that place. The club is in itself a goldmine, and I can't imagine Anthony Tretriano—who seems to despise his rough background—risking it."

I smiled. "How long have you been working the organized crime beat?"

"Just about a year."

"Have you seen any evidence that those people will stop at anything where making money is concerned?"

Lonnie laughed. "You got me there, Mr. Hammer. Mike."

I reached a hand across and we shook. "Nice knowing you. I'm at the Commodore."

"Not your office?"

"Naw, it's closed up."

"For good?"

"Don't know, son. Don't know. Ernie, thanks for introducing us."

"No problem, Mike. You always look out for your friends, don't you? Glad to do the same for you."

And it was time to wander out into the rain and hail a cab.

Alex Jaynor was listed in the Manhattan directory, an address on East Fifty-third Street. I took a chance on his being home and dialed from a pay phone around the corner. On the third ring, the phone was picked up and a smooth voice said, "Hello, Alex Jaynor here."

I had to grin at the way he merchandised his greeting.

"Hi, kid," I said. "Mike Hammer here."

"Hey, Mike—where are you?"

"Damn near on your doorstep. You have time to talk to me or are you busy?"

"Not at all. Come on up—or would you rather meet someplace?"

"I'll come up," I said, and cradled the phone.

The building was an old one, but nicely refurbished, the kind of place up-and-coming people used until they got to the top of the ladder where penthouses became their style. Meanwhile, they lived in quiet opulence with a gray-haired doorman who had a genuine Irish accent. I gave him Alex's name, he let me in, then pointed to the elevator in the lobby. "Apartment 4-C, sir."

I thanked him, went upstairs, found 4-C, and pushed the buzzer. The tall, sandy-haired politician came to the door grinning, holding his hand out, and practically pulled me inside. He was in a dark blue shirt without a tie and navy slacks, casual but crisp.

"Good to see you again, Mike. This is a nice surprise."

"Really?"

"Not often I have a living legend stepping over the threshold."

I had to laugh at that one. "Never mind about legend—I'm just glad to be living." I followed him in. "Anyway, Doolan was the legendary one, not me. I always felt I walked in his shadow."

"Well, having known the man, I can understand that. Make you a drink?"

"A CC and ginger will do it."

"Coming right up."

While he built the drinks at a wet bar, I took a look around. The apartment was a small world of rust-stained wood, modern and high-ceilinged, with open stairs going up to a loft-style bedroom. The kitchen was tucked under the loft and was small, metallic, and utilitarian—nobody in Manhattan seemed to think much about eating in, at least in this part of town.

There were doors off to a spare bedroom and a little study, but—with its comfortable leather chairs and sofa, and functional glass-and-metal tables—mostly the apartment had the feel of one big room, a masculine refuge from the world.

Alex handed me my drink and said, "Like the digs?"

"You got it made, kiddo. Good address, too."

"Doolan found it for me about a month after we met. How he found it, I'll never know. It's still a little expensive, but I'm making the nut now."

I said, "Cheers," and sipped the highball.

"So, to what do I owe this visit?" He pointed to a dark brown leather chair and matching sofa and he took the former while I settled onto the latter. I tossed my hat on the glass-and-metal coffee table separating us.

"You know, Alex, I wish I could lay a question out that made sense, but what I want to know is—what was going on with Doolan in the last, say, six months of his life?"

"Not sure I follow."

"I've been off the scene for a year, I hadn't seen him for at least a year before that, and now that he's gone, I'm trying to find out how he was dealing with what he had left of his life—facing that medical death sentence."

Eyebrows lifted and came back down in the chiseled face. "But you were closer than I ever was with Doolan..."

"I was then. You were now. Look, you two were tight during the time I was away. What was he like?"

"Compared to what?"

"Describe him," I said.

He swirled the drink around in his glass, the ice chinking the side. "Doolan was a damn good friend. It's an overused word lately, but he was a real mentor."

"You said you met him when you were a reporter for McWade's magazine."

He grimaced, then chuckled. "You make it sound like more than it was, Mike. I was a roving reporter. It wasn't the cushiest of jobs—low pay and minimum expenses."

"It's a Canadian publication—but you're not Canadian?"

"No. I'm originally from Boston. It was just a job I was able to land out of college. Headquarters are in Toronto, but the general circulation is bigger in the New England states than it is in Canada. Most of the news is collected from the Northeast U.S. anyway."

"McWade's send you to New York?"

"On special assignment. All the major cities are troubled by teenaged crime, and Toronto wanted to see how New York handled it. They really wanted drama more than information. Sensationalism posing as journalism is, I'm afraid, what sells magazines. Even in Canada."

"And what you were covering fitted in, huh?"

Alex nodded and tasted his drink. "I guess you know there's been some pretty heavy stuff going down with youth gangs, and some of that activity leaked over into Doolan's neighborhood."

"So I heard."

"They had the residents in a state of terror until Doolan got involved. With his connections, that place was swept clean in a week. There were arrests, convictions, and by damn, nine of those punks are pulling time now."

I grinned. "Doolan appreciate the publicity you could provide?"

"Hell no—he wouldn't even let me go back to McWade's. Refused to let me turn the story in!"

"How did he manage that?"

"He promised to connect me with some New York—based publications, and thanks to him, I got into freelancing articles on a regular basis, and did some things that caught attention and won some awards. Even did some TV work. Somewhere along the line, Doolan steered me into politics."

"He must have seen something in you he liked."

"We were close. I lost my father when I was very young, and he did fill a void. And I think having somebody my age, who could handle himself, to wade in with him into the rough parts of that neighborhood, well ... it's probably the kind of thing he'd have leaned on you to do, if you'd still been around."

"I'd like to think I would have helped out. Did it get rough?"

"Enough. That was the first time I had shots thrown at me."

"But not the last?"

"No. Hell, Mike, I'm no hero. No tough guy. I was in the army during Vietnam, but never saw much action. I know my way around firearms, but that's mostly because of gun clubs as a kid, and, of course, the Enfilade now."

"Tell me about getting shot at."

"Nothing you can pin down. I was in my car, the first time. On the street, the next. And when I was campaigning for office, on an anticrime platform, it happened again. That was when Doolan talked me into wearing a bulletproof vest whenever I go out."

"That can get a little bulky."

"Well, I'm a wiry type. It doesn't show. But sometimes I don't know why I bother—vests don't stop head hits."

"Do you know who was throwing those shots? I don't mean the specific shooters, but whatever group sent them?"

His grin was wide and turned up at either end, Cheshire Catlike. "Well, you saw them the other night, Mike—at the funeral home? Doolan was convinced it was the Bonettis behind not only the drugs in his neighborhood, but the attempts on my life."

Maybe the word on the street giving credit to old Alberto for taking Doolan out wasn't misplaced after all.

"What if I told you, Alex, that I think Doolan may have been murdered."

He said nothing for a moment, his light blue eyes unblinking. Then: "It may sound terrible, but I'd prefer that to suicide."

"I hear that."

"So goddamn out of character."

"If I'm right, Alex, you may be the next target."

"Yeah? Any advice?"

"Keep wearing that vest."

"Oh yeah."

I shifted on the couch. "Did you know Doolan hung out at discos?"

"What?"

"Well, at one disco—a famous one. Club 52."

He tried his drink again, frowning. "No, I didn't know, but in a way I'm not surprised."

"Really?"

"For a man his age, he did a lot of offbeat things, and went a lot of places, that conventional people would find strange."

"What about women?"

This time he put his drink down on the glass coffee table and another smile creased his face. "Hell, Doolan was an ass patter, Mike. You know the type—you can get in trouble for it these days."

"Sure can."

He laughed. "But when you get to be his age, you can get away with murder with the ladies." Then he realized what he'd said, and added, "Poor choice of words."

"He ever talk about particular women?"

"Not really, but I had the feeling he had some sort of friendship with a woman or two. Doolan and I were close, sure, but it was father-and-son close, which meant some doors were closed to me."

I leaned back and stared up at the ceiling. Long shadows from the table lamps made an eerie pattern on the slats of wood.

I asked, "What was his lifestyle like in the last month?"

Alex considered that a moment, then spread his hands apart reflectively. "Normal, as far as I know. I saw him a couple of times every week. Hell, he never missed going to the Enfilade. No, wait a minute, that's wrong ... the last two times I saw him he did seem kind of, well ... down. The old buoyancy just wasn't there."

"Enough to be suicidal?"

"Who knows?"

"Was he sick? Was it really kicking in?"

"I admit I didn't think about it—I mean, everybody has moods, off days. But it certainly could have been that. If he was really getting to be in bad shape, I'm surprised he never mentioned it to anyone."

"Doolan wouldn't," I said. "You're right—he was a great friend, but certain doors stayed closed." I finished my drink, reached for my hat, rose. "Thank you for the hospitality, Alex."

"Oh, my pleasure. Anytime."

"Take care. I may need to give you a call again. I'm trying to put some pieces together. You might have the glue."

"I hope I do," he said.

Down on the street, the rain had let up. But a low rumble of thunder echoed across the city. There was an occasional dull glaze of cloud-hidden lightning in the south, and when the wind gusted past, I could smell more rain coming—the kind that was held above the buildings until it was soaked with debris and dust, and when it came down, it wouldn't be a cleansing rain at all.