Baby, It’s Murder

Chapter Two

Eight-oh-eight, the two-office suite on the eighth floor of the Hackard Building in Manhattan, had never been anything fancy, not even after the old structure had been remodeled from head to toe. A dame that old never looks any better after the surgeon’s knife, but at least MICHAEL HAMMER INVESTIGATIONS didn’t look any older than your random Gabor sister.

The outer office was larger than my inner one, with a couch against the right side wall as you came in, a few reception chairs, and a little table for coffee and snacks opposite. The big wooden desk opposite the entry, serving as the barrier to my inner sanctum, bore a few personal items — a framed family photo, a vase usually adorned by a few flowers but just an empty vessel currently, a blotter, pen-and-pencil cup, and a modern IBM Selectric that seemed wrong for an ancient chunk of wood that was damn near as scarred up as yours truly. This in a room whose stingy array of windows included Venetian blinds making ’40s crime-movie patterns on the walls.

Still, this was a modest space even if right now it seemed cavernously empty. The coffee maker was just this cold cylinder of steel, the only fragrance touching the air an unpleasant chemical one courtesy of the Hackard janitorial staff. Morning sunlight floated with dust motes and, just a week since she left, a fine coating of the stuff reminded the man who paid the rent here that he’d never run a dust-cloth across anything in the place ever. Only she had.

She.

Velda.

That was a picture of her there on the desk — her desk — but its presence did not represent an out-of-control ego, though she looked typically lovely in the photo, all that raven hair in its style-defying page boy and the big, slightly Asian-looking brown eyes, those full red-lipsticked lips any movie goddess might envy. No, this was a family portrait — Velda, her matronly mother Mildred, and her sister Mikki, just an adolescent here but a young woman now. A beauty who one day might rival her older sister.

This outer office, which dwarfed my inner one, had never seemed particularly large to me. No need. A private detective’s office doesn’t get much walk-in trade; it doesn’t need to echo a doctor’s reception area, even if the customers also have afflictions that need attention. Now, however, it seemed a vast hollow shell, so empty without the woman who guarded my gate.

Seated behind her desk, I absorbed the emptiness. My eyes traveled to the little coffee-and-snacks table, and like a ghost shimmering into solidity, there she was. Not her, of course. But the memory of her, not long ago.

“You’ll be fine without me,” Velda said. “If this lasts longer than a few weeks, you can get a temp in.”

“Temps don’t pack cute little automatics in their purse,” I’d said.

She turned with two cups of coffee in hand and strolled over with that liquid grace of hers on full display. What she did with a pale silk blouse, black pencil skirt and kitten heels must’ve been illegal in some states. Surely a female couldn’t get away with going around packing concealed weapons like those — broad shoulders, full breasts, narrow waist and swell of swell hips — not without landing in the clink somewhere or other, anyway. Just those long muscular legs alone, hiding under the innocuous black fabric, could get a strip joint closed down for obscenity.

But there was nothing obscene about this beauty. Not a damn thing. Angels can wear anything they please, and look any way they like. Michelangelo used to draw them stark naked, just not this sinfully lovely.

Suddenly we were in my inner office and the desk I was behind was my own, the spareness of the room broken only by a few framed wall photos of the occasional illustrious client, an operator’s license, and a sharp-shooter award here and there. She sat with half of her hips slung on the edge of my desk and handed me the cup of coffee.

“Hope that’s enough sugar and cream,” Velda said, as if she hadn’t made the mix a thousand times. “I know what a big sissy you are.”

“Don’t spoil me,” I said, “right when you’re cutting me loose.”

She looked down on me. Even seated, she was tall. “I’m not cutting you loose. This is just for now.”

“We could hire somebody to stay with your sister,” I said. I sipped. Her coffee was always perfect. “I’m willing to pay the freight.”

That babe could frown without creasing a damn thing. “It’s not just Mikki, though I’d hate to think what I might’ve got myself into, the way kids have a mind of their own these days. It’s Mom. That broken hip is going to take time to heal.”

“Too much time. Doll, we can spend weekends out there in your mom’s place. I got nothing against her moving to Long Island. It’s... nice.”

Velda shrugged and a scythe blade of black hair swung. “Maybe it’ll come to that, Mike. For now, I want to be there for Mom and for Mikki. Surely you can understand.”

“I’m a selfish only child. I don’t understand shit.”

She sipped her coffee. “I’m well aware you have a... flaw or two.”

“Name one.”

She laughed and, goddamnit, so did I.

“As long as Mom is in that nursing home,” Velda said, “I should probably be there. Not that I’m really worried about Mikki.”

“Naw, your sis is a good kid.” Straight A student and budding tennis star that she was. “And I doubt your mom will put up with not being home for very long, either. Doll, you know I support you in anything you need to do. Family comes first.”

Velda came around and sat in my lap and my swivel chair took it well, its groan almost like a purr. Arms around my neck, she planted a big sticky kiss on her big ugly boss and, when the clinch was over, lifted my chin with a red-nailed fingertip and said, “That’s gonna have to hold you.”

“Is this that cruel and unusual punishment I hear so much about?”

A shake of her head made the ebony arcs swing. “It’s just the bitter truth. Can you handle it?”

“Haven’t you heard? I’m a tough guy.”

She gave me one more quick kiss. “You’re an old softie.”

“Where you’re concerned, I am.”

“We’ll see each other weekends.”

But we’d missed the last few. Work had kept me away, including the Ray Giles business for the News.

I watched her hip sway out from my inner office to her outer one, and it seemed a little exaggerated, trying too hard, taunting me, and then she closed the door behind her and I woke up.

I didn’t even remember falling asleep on the reception-area couch. But I had. I sat on the edge of the thing and rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands. I didn’t remember taking off my porkpie hat and trench coat, but there they were, hanging on the coat tree near the door like the skin a snake crawled out of.

There had been that one, long, terrible period... almost seven years... when she’d been secretly called back to duty by the spooks and wound up behind the Iron Curtain on a mission the details of which still hadn’t been wholly shared with me. Abandoned, I behaved like a punk, taking down a few peripheral bad guys, then crawling into one bottle after another.

But Velda came back to me, like no time at all had gone between, and I straightened the hell out and, since then, we had rarely been separated for long. We lived in the same apartment building, not together but “almost” married. She’d spent six months away, some years ago, when her aunt was very ill and needed care. I’d been miserable, not having her around — mail piled up and the office went to crap and I almost got myself killed doing P.I. work without her backing me up.

Fuck it.

On the spur of the moment, I decided: I would close up shop and join her on Long Island. I called Pat and told him.

“Good for you,” Pat said. “You could use an attitude adjustment.”

“I’ll let Nat Drutman know I’m taking an open-ended leave of absence,” I said. Nat owned and managed the Hackard Building. “And I’ll send my referrals to the Smith-Torrence Agency, who’ve covered for me before.”

“This sounds serious. You’re not going to retire on me, are you, Mike?”

“Make up your mind, Pat. You want my attitude adjusted or me to stick around and keep doing your job for you?”

That I delivered lightly, much as the curse he answered it with was.

Then he said, a tiny edge in his voice, “Try not to get in any trouble on Long Island. You have a history there.”

“That was a long time ago, Pat.”

“Everything was a long time ago for us, buddy.”

He clicked off.

At my apartment I packed a bag and in the parking garage collected the heap, as I referred to my nondescript black Ford with its souped-up engine. It wasn’t the first heap. I bought a used patrol car every five years or so at a police auction, and the practice had stood me well. I considered giving Velda a call, but on the off-chance she might try to talk me out of coming, I just headed out.

The destination was Sidon, eighty miles out on Long Island, a tourist destination, though its off-season population was up to a year-round twenty thousand now. I did, as Pat indicated, have a history in the hamlet, having removed a crooked police chief and cleaned out a crooked gambling casino. Just a couple little side trips on a getaway meant for me to dry out and cool down after the personal trauma of who the killer of my army buddy Jack Williams turned out to be.

I’d thought Charlotte was the love of my life, but I’d been wrong. The love of my life was the ex-policewoman who did the filing and the typing and took client notes in shorthand and who went undercover for her boss, risking her pretty tail for me. Here I’d thought Charlotte, the blonde goddess who turned out to be a black widow, was the tragedy that wrecked my life... when there Velda was, the miracle that saved me.

The Sterling house was in the Sunrise Hills addition on the northern edge of Sidon, modest bungalows about half of which were summer homes, shuttered now. In the middle of just another nondescript block, facing more small ranch styles, the place boasted a modest, well-trimmed lawn and shrubbery that hugged four brick stairs to a cement landing that was less than a porch.

I pulled up in front, behind a gleaming gold Corvette, a late model looking like a mirage in a middle-class neighborhood like this. I frowned as I got out, leaving my bag in my buggy’s back seat. I had a hunch I knew who that expensive ride belonged to, and it wasn’t Velda or anyone else living in this only slightly overgrown cottage.

I didn’t knock. The door was open and I went in, and somehow was not surprised when I moved through the humble living room with its old lady knickknacks and furnishings covered in plastic and on past the kitchen and into the little hallway that fed the three bedrooms. I peeked in at what I knew would be Velda’s, a hunch confirmed by her suitcase, emptied on a stand, and a vanity with her make-up arrayed like soldiers ready to do battle. As for Mrs. Sterling’s bedroom, its frilly drapes and air-freshener scent announced itself. Finally, I peeked into the guest room.

A teenage girl’s bedroom, really — color “Let It Be” Beatles and black-and-white Robert Redford posters, pink walls, made bed with blue spread, portable record player on a stand.

And a girl — asleep on the bed in her wispy pink bra and panties — who didn’t stir. Also a boy, with maybe a couple years on her, seventeen or eighteen, sitting up, startled; well-tanned, lithely muscular, blond and blue-eyed and handsome in a beach boy kind of way, he at least didn’t have the usual long hair. A nice close-to-the- scalp trim. You had to like that much about him.

I curled my finger, summoning him, and — wide-eyed — he obeyed. I held the bedroom door open for him and, as at ease with himself in his skivvies as a nudist at a nudist colony, he padded out into the hall, leaving the slumbering Mikki unaware.

I am not proud of the fact that Mikki, with her long legs and full figure, reminded me startlingly of her older sister; but at least nothing stirred in me that wasn’t anger. Well, irritation. She was on the too slender side, despite the Velda-ish bustiness — so many of these high school girls wanted to picture themselves as skinny fashion models nowadays.

I deposited the boy on the couch (a rare piece here of fifties vintage furniture that wasn’t plastic-wrapped) facing the color TV I’d bought Mrs. Sterling two Christmases ago. I found a chair and dragged it over and sat and faced him.

I asked him, cheerfully, “Any reason why I shouldn’t kick your ass?”

His voice was husky, mid-range. “You’re Mike Hammer.”

“That’s right.”

“Mikki’s uncle.”

“In name only, but yes.”

He nodded, once. “I know about you. I do know about you. You’re in the papers sometimes.”

“Not so much lately, but yeah. What’s that got to do with the price of tea in Harlem?”

He swallowed. “You could, at that.”

“I could what?”

“Kick my ass. I’m not into sports or anything.”

I jerked a thumb toward the street. “I figured that from the Vette. But you’re ‘into’ something, aren’t you?”

His eyes, which were light blue, widened again. “Mr. Hammer, I’m, uh, a friend of Mikki’s.”

“A good friend, I’d say.”

Several nods now. “We’re going together, yes. Not for long, but... yes. I never imagined anybody would catch us.”

“Criminals never do.”

His chin crinkled. “Is loving somebody a crime?”

I sighed. “Kid, I’m no saint, but—”

He sat forward, hands together, fingers intertwined. “Mr. Hammer, Mikki’s sister is never around this time of day. She spends most afternoons with Mikki’s mother, at the nursing home. I would never be so reckless as to... I mean... I wouldn’t think of... well.”

I stood. My turn to sigh. “Let’s step outside.”

The blue eyes popped in alarm. “Are you going to?”

“Am I going to what?”

“Kuh-kick my ass?”

I managed not to smile, stifling a laugh. “Outside, son. I don’t want to wake your girl. Apparently she needs her rest after your... workout.”

The boy blushed. He goddamn blushed! And I did laugh, once.

“Put your clothes on,” I said. “Quietly.”

I followed him to where Mikki was still dead to the world. He got into a light blue Key West FLA tank top and chino shorts and sandals. I gave him an “after you” gesture and he headed back into the hall with me behind him like the arresting officer. Soon we were sitting on the edge of the stoop atop the steps.

“You’re the Garrett kid,” I said, “aren’t you?”

He nodded. “Garrett Andrew Williams the Second. But everybody calls me ‘Second.’”

“College boy?”

“Sophomore. Long Island University.”

I’d heard Mikki speak of this scion of a wealthy family whose generations of money were strictly Wall Street. He had been popular, well-liked, the president of the senior class, a year or two ahead of her. What I hadn’t known was that she was going with him — I knew of another guy, far less well-connected, who she’d been seeing, a kid who did not have this kind of pedigree. That must’ve been over. Or else this was a hell of an interruption.

“Listen, Second,” I said, “I know boys will be boys and girls will be girls, particularly when the boy has a Corvette. But there are plenty of places on Long Island where you can park a vehicle and get busy in the back seat. Of course, a Vette doesn’t have a back seat, but there are other, better options than a bedroom at her mother’s house.”

He was studying me. “You’re not really... pissed at me?”

I waved that off. “I’m not that big a hypocrite. Jesus, son, this is a damn island — that makes for a lot of fucking beach. Grab some blankets and have a blast. But...”

I raised a forefinger.

“...use some damn precautions. You knock that girl up and we will re-negotiate that ass-kicking. Capeesh?”

“Capeesh,” the boy said with a relieved grin.

“Now. Go home.”

He nodded, got to his feet and then the gold Corvette was rocketing off. If he got a ticket, maybe it would underscore our little confrontation.

I was still seated there, thinking about how much times had changed, when I heard the screen door behind me creak open.

“Mike,” my unofficial niece said. Her voice was spookily familiar.

She was a lovely thing, tall like Velda, and the jeans she’d tugged on had stylish worn holes and her terry-cloth top left her tummy bare, and how could you blame a healthy kid like Second?

Barefoot, toenails scarlet, she was wearing brown-tinted glasses, not sunglasses exactly, more a style thing, the lenses so big as to look silly in their tortoiseshell settings.

“I guess I’m not exactly the first female sinner,” Mikki said, “you ever caught.”

I patted the brick next to me. “It’s not the sinning, it’s the stupidity.”

She plopped herself down. “I think my sister knows,” she said, but uncertainly. “About Second, I mean.”

“Maybe. But don’t insult her. At least have the decency to sneak around.”

That made her laugh a little, and then so did I.

“His hair is short,” the girl said, in a peace-keeping sort of way. “Isn’t that what counts with you?”

“I’m sure he’s a nice kid. And he’s rich. I like that about him.”

The eyes behind those big tinted lenses were studying me. “Don’t you want me to have to make my own way in the world?”

“I’ve tried that. It’s overrated. Look, just be sensible.”

Her eyebrows hiked above the big lenses. “Like Mike Hammer?”

“No! Hell no. Use precautions, and I recommend using, you know, not just the pill, but... go old-school.”

“Rubbers you mean?”

Now I was the one blushing. “Hey, I lost the sexual revolution a long time ago. I can’t keep up with you kids. But look, honey — just because he’s cute and rich, that doesn’t mean he’s... forever.”

She touched my nearest hand. “It kind of feels like it.”

“It always does. Particularly at your age.”

A car pulled up, a little green Mustang, settling in right behind the heap. Velda, in a brown one-piece velour pants suit that was designed to be nothing special but that she turned into something spectacular, got out, endless long legs first.

“What are you doing here?” she asked me, surprised but not quite cross. “It isn’t the weekend.”

“I heard there’s a good burger joint in Sidon,” I said. “Figured I’d check it out. Anybody interested?”

Soon we all were seated in Chuck’s Burger Haven in downtown Sidon with malts and fries and burgers, and a ton of in-the-know locals. When Mikki went off to the restroom, my secretary and I had a quiet confab.

Velda said, “I’m a licensed investigator, you know.”

“So I hear,” I said. “So what?”

“So I saw the bag in the back seat. That’s not the overnight number. That’s the one you take on a plane.”

“I didn’t take a plane here. I drove.”

“You came to stay a while,” she said, one eyebrow arched, half a smile going.

“You are a detective.”

“I’m not against it, you visiting,” she admitted. “By my tally, following your bloody trail in the News, you’ve been in two shoot-outs since I came out here and you’ve shot, and killed, five bad guys.”

“It was slow without you around.”

A sigh, a shake of the head, black arcs swaying. “I remember the first getaway you made to Sidon. It was... memorable.”

“Yeah. I remember. Saved you from a psychopath, as I recall.”

She cocked her head. “Let’s make this one a little more low-key. What say?”

Mikki was back. She slid into the booth on her sister’s side.

“I say,” I said, “it’s good to see both of you girls. And nice to have a quiet getaway for once.”

“I wonder,” Velda said.