Baby, It’s Murder

Chapter Six

Neither Velda nor I got much sleep after our discovery of the girl’s “works” in that valance. And over breakfast around eight, which I cooked up for us — bacon and eggs and refrigerator biscuits — Velda and I discussed in hushed tones what our day would be, while Mikki was sleeping it off.

Sitting at the little kitchen table, Velda munched thoughtfully on a bacon strip while I proposed she keep a close eye on her sister. This was Saturday and Mikki would likely have plans with Second or maybe some girlfriends, and Velda could use her shadowing skills to keep track of wherever she might go.

“You might even spot her with her connection,” I said.

“You think that’s Brian Ellis, don’t you?”

I buttered a biscuit. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s some other long-haired biker who started fucking her in junior high.”

That got a little smile out of her. “You have always had such a lovely way of putting things, Mike Hammer. But I’ll remind you — they are clearly estranged, those two.”

I talked with my mouth full. “Doesn’t mean he isn’t still her connection. Hell of a way to get a girl back, hooking her on heroin.”

She pointed an accusing bacon strip at me. “Why don’t you suspect the new boyfriend? Maybe he’s got a business going with a high school crowd — and college kids that funded that gold Corvette of his.”

“I didn’t say he was off the table as a suspect. In fact, while you’re keeping eyes on Mikki, I plan to drop in on Second’s old man at the family manse. Sniff around some.”

Velda worked up a smirk. “Well, you may sniff Second’s young stepmother, knowing the way your bloodhound’s snout works. She’s a former showgirl of about forty with a body by Fisher. Spends her days sunning by the mansion pool.”

I raised surrender palms. “You know I’m a one-woman man, doll.”

“You are now. But it took you a while.”

I was in the living room with my feet up when Mikki finally emerged from the hallway looking most presentable for a little junkie who’d rolled in, in the middle of the night. I’d seen her stumble into the bathroom, spend half hour in there, then stumble back into her bedroom. Her re-emergence, looking fresh as a teenage daisy, either spoke for her recuperative powers or maybe she’d popped a little speed.

You would never fucking know that her hobby was heroin. She was beautiful, a younger Velda, just slimmer and with that long straight hair brushing her shoulders. Her lightweight baby-blue sweater was long-sleeved, of course — track marks not being in style — and her pink bell bottoms matched her pink open-toe sandals.

So fresh, so innocent.

My rage and my unhappiness dueled while I somehow managed to show neither. “Hiya, kid. Rough night?”

“Don’t ask,” she said with a smile, then headed into the kitchen. She returned a little later nibbling one of my biscuits. “Where’s Vel?”

“Getting dressed for the day. Thought we might take in that little amusement park and see how we look in the funhouse mirrors.”

A lie, of course. Oh, Velda was getting dressed, all right. But we were already on a roller-coaster ride after what we learned about this kid.

Three girlfriends picked Mikki up in their Plymouth Barracuda, a red-and-black job that shouted sex and money and irresponsible rich-ass parents. Velda was poised to go out the bungalow’s back door to the garage on the alley where her Mustang awaited. Not the least conspicuous car to shadow in, but Velda knew all the tricks.

I knew a few myself.

The two-story, amber-roofed tan-brick colonial estate — which the First and Second and assorted Williamses called home — wasn’t a castle exactly, but it would do till one came along. Call it a medieval fortress with air conditioning. The red-brick drive through lush grounds concluded in a circle around a central cupid fountain where shrubbery knelt in worship.

I rang the bell and the human beast that answered, apparently housebroken but just, eyed me from his battered Black boxer face with slit-eyed suspicion. His head was shaved, his jaw jutted, and his shoulders required looking at one at a time. He wore a black suit and tie, a modern variation on full butler livery. Jeeves by way of Sonny Liston. Even better was that he had learned, with patient schooling one would guess, to say, “Yes?” not “Yeah?”

“My name is Mike Hammer.”

“And?”

“And I’d like to see Mr. Williams, if he’s home and available. I’m his son’s girlfriend’s uncle.”

A slight lie, but I’d told worse.

“Wait,” he said, and shut the door in my face.

To his credit, he did not slam it.

Perhaps a minute later, the door opened and he said, in a rich baritone, “Mr. Williams will see you now.”

Six words! That was twice as many as the total of what he’d granted me previously.

He held open the door, I stepped in, and he led the way. We were in a marble-floored entryway where an army platoon might have bivouacked. The wallpaper was a pale white with gold flocking. A crystal chandelier shimmered and a staircase wound up to heaven, or perhaps the second floor. We skirted the staircase and I was deposited in a fully outfitted gym no larger than two Vic Tannys.

The man in purple sweats on the exercise bike — going a steady if modest pace — did not pause to greet me, though greet me he did: “Mr. Hammer — this is something... of an honor...”

Not an honor — “something” of an honor. Well, a guy in my line takes what he can get.

“An honor for which of us?” I asked cheekily.

“For me... of course.” He stopped and climbed off, an older version of his good-looking son right down to the close-cropped blond hair. But his grooved face made clear he’d been around a while and earned his wrinkles. Hadn’t we all.

Grabbing a towel from somewhere, like Bugs Bunny in a cartoon producing a machine gun, he slung the cloth around his neck and headed over to a rowing machine. Got in, as if he had somewhere to go; but did not immediately start rowing.

“You dropped by the country club, I understand,” he said, one eyebrow arched.

“I did. That’s your club, I hear. And you’re more than just a member.”

Sitting with his hands on the oars now, he said, “I’m one of the consortium who own it. I do apologize for its rundown nature.”

“Still pretty nice.” I was standing arms folded, like a spotter helping him exercise. “Little long in the tooth, maybe.”

He shrugged purple shoulders. “Needs an overhaul. But that’s coming. The country club way of life is not going the way of the dodo, no matter what you hear. Maybe you’ve noticed, Mr. Hammer, but this world of ours has gone generally to shit.”

He began to row. Maybe he was trying to escape the changing times. He should have tried my technique: ignore them.

“You... spoke to... my man Traynor.”

“Your man?”

“Well, he works for me... at the club... can’t make it very far on a... pitiful teacher’s pay... good man, though.”

“The ladies seem to like him.”

“Any... good tennis pro... better be popular... with the... wenches.”

There was a word you didn’t hear much anymore: wenches.

“I was expressing my concern,” I said, “for my niece. I figure as her tennis coach he might have some insights as to why she quit with such a promising future ahead of her in the sport.”

What I’d learned about Mikki and the contents of that valance were nobody’s business but Velda’s and mine.

“She isn’t... your niece, though... is she, Mr. Hammer?”

“No. Actually, my goddaughter. But my fiancée is her sister — Velda Sterling — who’s staying with Mikki while their mother is hospitalized. Hip replacement surgery.”

Williams climbed out of the rowing machine and walked toward the corner where a wet bar waited — doesn’t every fully appointed gym have one? He gestured for me to follow, as if I were his puppy in training.

“What’s your poison, Mike?” he said, back behind the counter. “May I call you ‘Mike’?”

“Certainly, Garrett. Or do you prefer ‘First’?”

He laughed. I’d been expecting carrot juice or some kind of tonic, but he was pouring himself some Scotch over the rocks. Johnnie Walker King George Scotch, at that.

“Pity to water it down,” he admitted. “But I have my health to look after.”

“Who doesn’t?”

He frowned and smiled all at once. “What are you having, man? Or are you one of these wusses who won’t take a drink before evening comes?”

Two stools were at the counter. I took one.

“Ginger ale and some of that Scotch,” I said, “if you’re feeling generous.”

“Ah. A man who drinks only the finest.”

“Right. Canada Dry.”

My host laughed a little, taking the dig well. He was wearing Paul Newman’s blue eyes on loan. Unless he’d bought the damn things.

“If you want my opinion,” Williams said, “and I’ve shared it with Second — it’s a goddamn shame that girl gave up her tennis. Saw her play many a time. The list of schools after her, big-name schools, Ivy fucking League schools, is a long one. And it isn’t like she couldn’t use a scholarship — Mikki doesn’t exactly come from money.”

“No. But she does come from good stock.”

“Lovely child, absolutely.” He toasted me. I toasted him back.

“But,” he continued, “Second is adamant about respecting the girl’s own decision in that regard. His generation doesn’t view the female sex with the same narrow eyes as us older misogynist males.”

“Still, he has encouraged her to stick with the sport.”

“He has.”

I took the bubbling glass he handed me; sipped. Said, “What do you know about this boy Brian Ellis?”

He sipped and savored and said, “White trash. Bad influence. Drinker. Pot smoker. A biker who has some kind of damn hold on the girl that Second hasn’t been entirely able to break... at least as far as I know. I try to stay out of my son’s way. Having a father like me, with my kind of social standing — if I might be so immodest — is no picnic.”

“Easier to be First than Second.”

His shrug was resigned. “I am afraid so. I really don’t know what else I can tell you, Mike.”

“Has your son mentioned dope peddling being a problem at Mikki’s high school? I’m not talking about pot, though personally I think that’s goddamn evil shit. One bad thing leading to another worse one, and worser ones.”

Nodding, Williams said, “No argument. But, no — I haven’t heard anything from Second that would lead me to believe Sidon High is a nest of drug-dealing vipers. And this Ellis kid is out of school, remember. It’s these aging bikers running dope runs to Mexico that I hear whispers about.”

“Out of high school,” I corrected. “But in junior college.”

“If you call that ‘college.’”

I let out a breath. “Well, I won’t take any more of your time, Mr. Williams.”

“Garrett, Mike! Garrett. You let me know whatever you might need while you’re in town. I’ll put you on the dining list at the club, if you like.”

“That’d be swell, Garrett.”

He gestured toward the exit. “I can show you out... or summon George.”

“George?”

“My butler. The colored gentleman who saw you in. He was a boxer, you know. Put Floyd Patterson on the canvas.”

My head bobbed back like I’d taken a punch myself. “He beat Floyd Patterson?”

“No. Patterson beat him. But first George made him kiss that canvas.”

I slipped off the stool. “I can find my own way out, if you don’t mind. George sounds a little too intimidating for this light heavyweight.”

Williams saluted me with his snifter of expensive Scotch. “Suit yourself. Very nice meeting you, Mike.”

“Same back atcha.”

When I exited the gym, George was nowhere to be found, which was what I hoped, as I had something else in mind.

She was sunning by the heated pool, its shimmer rising like heat over asphalt but more inviting. Brown as a berry, blonde as a starlet, full lips a brightly lipsticked red, this forty-something vixen in a tiger-stripe bikini had less fat on her than a filet mignon. Mrs. Garrett Williams the First had an I Dream of Jeannie look that gave any healthy hetero male the same wish.

Her bikini barely containing their nicely rounded contents, Tammy Williams might have been sleeping behind those Ray-Bans on that lounge chair, but she wasn’t, because she said, “Well, look who’s here.”

The voice was husky in just the right way.

I pulled up a beach chair. “Specifically, who’s here? Or generally who’s here?”

She looked at me over her sunglasses. The eyes were green. Like money. “Specifically. I am literate, you know.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“I read the papers. I’ve been reading them since I was a babe in arms.”

“You’re still a babe. Whose arms you’re in probably varies.”

She tossed off her reply. “You’re Mike Hammer, all right. Not in the papers as often as when you were a young, dangerous pup... but you’re him.”

“I’m him,” I admitted. “I’m a dangerous old dog now.”

“Not so old. Not any older than me and I’m still standing.”

“No, you’re lounging. But don’t stop. It looks good on you, Mrs. Williams.”

She chuckled, pushed her Ray-Bans back in place. “Now you’re just showing off. I could be a guest. I could be the help.”

“Expensive help, I’d say.”

She swung over to sit on the edge of the lounge. Her C-cup breasts were real; a connoisseur can tell. “Are you just here to flirt with an old married lady? Or do you have something more substantial in mind?”

“I wanted to ask you about your son.”

“Second? He’s not my son.”

“No?”

“He’s my stepson. Do you know he doesn’t much care for me?”

“Well, nobody likes their wicked stepmother.”

An eyebrow arched over one Ray-Ban lens. “Then why does he look at me that way?”

“What way?”

“The way you’re looking at me — like you want to fuck me.”

I grinned, chuckled. “First of all, I bet you get that a lot. Second of all, I don’t shock that easily.”

Her laugh echoed off the water. It was a nice enough laugh, but it tried a little too hard.

“Why don’t I buy you a drink,” she said, rising. “The pool house has a lovely bar, very well stocked.”

Said my well-stacked hostess.

I looked up at her. “Your husband already plied me with drink.”

“Some of that valuable Scotch, I assume. Such a show-off. I don’t think it’s real. These are.” She pointed from one breast to the other. “Or do you need to inspect the evidence?”

“Please, Mrs. Williams. I blush easily.”

Soon, I was seated on a stool across from her in the poolside cabana as she played bartender, echoing the positions her husband and I had been in not long ago. She had slipped a shortie pale-yellow terry cloth robe on; it hung open, and her breasts hung too, hovering over the counter like friendly UFOs. No surgeon had been involved with their creation — maybe God. Or the Devil. She didn’t have any Scotch, so I settled for Seven and Seven.

“So then,” I asked, “you and Second don’t get along?”

“No, we do. About as well as possible when your mother dies under mysterious circumstances and your father marries me.”

I sipped. “What mysterious circumstances were those?”

“Bad brakes. A mountain road. The perfect storm. By which I mean, there was a perfect storm the night her brakes went bad on that mountain road.”

“You seem fairly unconcerned about it.”

She shrugged. “They weren’t my brakes.” Smiled. “I make my own breaks.”

You could only admire an evil bitch who didn’t bother hiding either her wares or her attitude.

I asked, “Like working the Copa line and marrying a rich man? Moving into a Long Island mansion? Those kind of breaks?”

“Those kind of breaks,” she admitted. Something like seriousness settled in on her attractive if hard features, her green eyes narrowing. “Look, Mike. My stepson and I aren’t close. I make sure we aren’t, because the last thing I need is some teenager with a hard-on crawling in bed with me.”

“Understood. Your husband might notice.”

She flipped a hand; her nails were the same bright red as her lipstick. “We sleep apart. Sleep issues. But we’re still as conjugal as fucking hell, so don’t get any ideas.”

“I’ve had nothing but ideas since I got here.”

She sipped. “I saw the articles about you and that ‘secretary’ of yours. I know what you’ve got waiting for you at home.”

“Maybe I’m a hound.”

“Maybe you used to be and now you’re just a flirt. Listen, my husband likes it when men are attracted to me. Makes him realize how lucky he is. And you’re famous. He’s got a kink about that and we could probably get away with having a gay old time.”

“Maybe not gay.”

A pink terry-cloth shoulder shrugged. “Old expression, timeless thought. But I’m worried about Second. That girl he’s going with has a nasty ex who might be capable of just about anything. And Second really is kind of... pampered.”

“I’m not going to lead you astray, Mrs. Williams.”

“Make it ‘Tammy.’”

“Okay, Tammy. I’ll tell you true — that girl you mentioned is my stepdaughter. My secretary’s sister. And you already know that my secretary is more than just that.”

“I see.” Serious now, my new friend Tammy said, “I wouldn’t like to see Second caught in the middle here. Between this Ellis boy and your stepdaughter. And meaning no disrespect, Mike — that girl is a bad influence.”

A lot of bad influence seemed to be in the air.

I asked, “What makes you say that?”

Her features took on a seriousness I didn’t know they were capable of. “Don’t ask me how I know this, but... I have friends who know the Ellis boy. Understand?”

I was following but pretended not to. “How so?”

The husky voice grew hushed. “Long Island isn’t Manhattan. It’s all spread out and it has its own social structure and all, but... look, some of the people I party with have connections that aren’t social. Follow me?”

“Recreational drugs.”

“You said it, not me.”

“I understand you’ve had occasional pool parties here for Second and his high school friends.”

“That’s right.”

“Just between us — have you seen any... recreational drugs at play at any of these?”

Firm headshake. “No. Never.”

I gestured toward the pool. “You’re usually around, like for the one yesterday?”

She cocked her head. “I am around, but we haven’t had a pool party yet this year. Too cold, obviously.”

So Mikki and Second had gone off somewhere else yesterday. I should have realized that — a girl with needle tracks doesn’t go to a pool party.

Tammy was studying me now, something sly in it. Her voice dropped to a whisper, which the huskiness made play rather well. She leaned over the bar. So did her breasts.

“Uh, Mike, listen. Listen carefully. My husband may have some sexual kinks that a wife like me can play to her advantage. But he’s a health nut — he’s almost sixty and is staunchly against everything from pot on up. And he’s drummed that view into Second.”

“How can Daddy know it took with Junior?”

Both shoulders collaborated on a shrug that spoke volumes. “You can never know for sure. But there are no signs that our young man of the house is anything but a straight arrow... except maybe horny. Say, uh... was my hubby working out in his little gym?”

“Not so little. Yeah. Why?”

“He always takes a nap after a workout. Tosses a few down and goes up for a snooze. Like clockwork.”

“Does he.”

She touched my nose with a fingertip, then withdrew it like my skin had been hot-stove hot. “Maybe you’d like to fool around a little, Mike. Maybe I’d like to see if you can live up to your storied reputation as one of Manhattan’s greatest lovers.”

“I appreciate the offer, Tammy. But I’d better pass.”

“It’s a standing one, Mike.”

I was already halfway out.

“You’re telling me,” I said