Kiss Her Goodbye

Chapter 6

I WALKED TO BING'S Gym to work out the body ache from the love tap that Caddy gave me the night before. Bing's top trainer, Clarence, knew something had happened when he saw the bruises across my back and on my leg.

"Mixing it up already, Mr. Hammer?" Clarence asked. He was a black guy about thirty-five who'd long since retired from the ring. "You ain't been back in the city that long."

"Maybe somebody mistook me for an out-of-towner."

"Well, they gonna learn a lesson, I bet. You better work an easy routine today, on the apparatus."

Bing had taught everybody that word.

But I still worked up a good sweat, and even with the new aches and pains, I was feeling more myself. Clarence made sure I had a good rubdown and a shower before turning me loose. I was still sore, but clean as a whistle, and feeling better than I could remember. I hoofed it back to the hotel to change from my sweatshirt and slacks into a suit and tie, and to dump my gym bag.

I had made some changes. You would think I'd have doubled up on the meds last night, after that hit-and-run scrape. You would be wrong. I stopped taking the pills. I didn't flush them—I just put them away. They were mostly for pain and sleep and something that I suspected was an antidepressant meant to cool me out.

Well, a long time ago I had gone to sleep fine in foxholes in the kind of tropical rainstorms that could turn your safe haven into a drowning bath and had artillery for thunder, and if I could deal with those pains and pressures as a kid, I could sure as hell manage without medication as a man.

I'd left the million-dollar marble in an envelope in the hotel safe—nobody knew I had the pebble, so it should be secure. I just didn't want to go around carrying the damn thing. After all, a person could get mugged here in Fun City.

But I was carrying something else now—the .45 in its speed rig. With the weight I'd lost, its bulk didn't show under my shoulder at all. Not that it ever had, since all my suits and sport jackets were cut for concealment. This was no simple precaution. Somebody had tried to kill me last night. No time to be keeping the gun packed away in a drawer—time for packing period.

I didn't bother looking around the street for a tail. If he was there, good. Whether a killer with an unknown agenda, or a copper sent by Pat for protection, I'd pick him up sooner or later. The weight under my arm had given a looseness to my shoulders, and I was getting the feeling that I was back in my own ballpark again. I flagged a cab, slipped in back, and gave the driver an East Side address.

The building was turn-of-the-century stylish, a former residence turned into a fashionable men's club. In the basement was the Enfilade, the most exclusive gun club in New York State, snugged away in the midst of Manhattan.

Of course, New York has always had a reputation for being trigger-happy, but these days even buying a gun is a hassle, licensing one is even worse, and finding a place to shoot the goddamn thing is nearly impossible.

So the deep-pocket supersports had come up with their own clubhouse—outfitted with a hundred-foot range and all the technology of a police academy with reloading equipment from cap-and-ball antiques to Israeli Arms .45s.

Membership was pretty damn selective. Social status could always do it, and money generally could too, while occasionally allowances were made for unique personalities, whom the gun fraternity decided could liven up their scheduled events—like the mayor or a Broadway star.

Or a respected retired cop like Bill Doolan.

Ten years ago I had been presented with a membership card so I could mingle during a rare-weapons exhibition, one of the few times select segments of the public had been invited into the shooters' sanctuary. They had a ten-million-dollar display up and I handled the guard duty personally. When the job was over, I was paid handsomely, but they didn't take the card back.

One ancient gent of British extraction said it really was "a bit of a whimsy" to have a member who had actually used a gun to shoot people.

I opened the interior door and the little grayed gnome of a man at the antique mahogany desk looked at me, squinted, then broke into a wide smile.

"Ah," he said. This diminutive guard at the gates wore a dignified black suit and necktie suitable for a high-class undertaker. "Mr. Hammer, is it not?"

"Right on," I told him. "And you're Gerald."

"I am indeed."

You could smell the age when you were inside, the tingling odor of wood polish and real leather, not tainted by the smoke of cigars or covered with cigarette haze. By the door Gerald sat guarding, a brass plate simply read: SMOKING NOT ALLOWED ON THESE PREMISES. A large ornate ashtray stood beside it to make the message clear and provide an exit for any cigar or cigarette that had made it that far. Those with brains would realize that the place was full of barrels of shot and powder, and the ordinance was a safety device.

"Gerry, it's great to see you, and to be seen. But I didn't bring my card."

"No problem, sir—I know all the members. It has been some time though, hasn't it?"

"Five years, I guess. Back when Hagley won the International Trophy. Some party that night."

"The exception not the rule, sir. We like to keep our affairs rather dull. Stuffiness has its own benefits, when your hobby is firing off weapons."

"I can dig it," I said with a grin. "Who's lurking in the Enfilade today?"

"At this relatively early hour?" He glanced at the book in front of him. "Only the professionals. A former United States champion in small arms, a gun-manufacturing executive, and our present club president, an ex-Marine marksman, recently retired from Wall Street. Are you going to join them?"

I shrugged. "I don't play with guns anymore."

"I wasn't aware that you ever did, Mr. Hammer."

"What do you mean?"

"Play with them."

"You have a point."

He nodded toward my left arm. "Still, seeing that you've brought your own weapon, perhaps you would like to get in some practice."

"Good eye, Gerry."

"And nose—I can smell gun oil at fifty paces. Would you care to go below and mix with the members in attendance?"

"I would," I said.

Since I'd last been down the stairs into the Enfilade, the place had been renovated. The range itself was walled off from a social area, and from the lack of even muffled pops or cracks, it was either not currently in use or had been soundproofed to a fault.

The lounge area took up perhaps a third of the expansive basement. What had been sheerly functional was now softened with all the accoutrements of a grand billiard room—overstuffed leather chairs, a hand-carved decorative bar, and a table of stainless steel steamer trays for snacks (breakfast items right now). Overhead the soft whisper of heavy-duty exhaust fans sucked out any odor of cordite fumes, but we already seemed isolated from the range. Framed photographs decorated the walls, along with mounted displays of antique pistols, and shelves of trophies gave off a heavy silver glow in the muted light.

The group was having a coffee break, their sound mufflers hanging around their necks like chunky stethoscopes. They were in running togs, though their sport of choice was a standing-still affair.

The former U.S. champion saw me coming, broke into a wide grin, and half-laughed, "I'll be damned, look who's here—my old hero. I always wanted to be you when I grew up."

"Good thing you never grew up." I held out my hand for a good solid shake. "How you doing, Chuck?"

Chuck Webb was a compact five eight with sky-blue eyes, a tan rivaling mine, and brown hair cut Marine short. His creamcolor polo shirt bore the logo of Smith & Wesson, the company he toured for nationally, giving exhibitions.

He glanced at the others. "This is Mike Hammer," he said to them, "in case you don't recognize him."

The others were quick to say they did recognize me, greeting me with smiles and wide eyes. Maybe the years I'd put on and the weight I'd lost hadn't made too much difference after all.

We had coffee and conversation, then—after the others had gone off to resume their shooting—Chuck asked, "You going to squeeze off a few rounds?"

"Not today, buddy."

"Too bad. I figured on making a few bucks off you."

"At a range, you could. Out where people are shooting back, I might have the edge."

His expression was embarrassed. "No doubt. Man, I was 4-F. Closest I got to combat was that John Wayne movie about Vietnam. Listen, uh, Mike ... sorry to hear about your friend Doolan. Hell of a nice guy."

Now that the others were shooting, I could make out muffled gunfire. But damn faint for being right next to it.

"You know Doolan well, Chuck?"

He shrugged. "We weren't exactly close, but we were friendly acquaintances at least. He was in the Friday group, and so am I. Plus, I'd run into him at some of the functions upstairs. Caught him at some political meetings too. Such a nice fella, little on the crusty side. Not a bad shooter either, particularly for a guy of his years. Hard to believe he'd ... turn a gun on himself."

He hadn't.

"Doolan was pretty spry for his age," I said.

He let out a gentle laugh. "Sure as shit was. When you came in, did you stop and look at the pictures on the trophy wall?"

"No."

He jerked his head toward the far side of the room where the stairs emptied out. "Come on—this is worth the trip, Mike."

And there among the many framed photos on display was old Doolan, sometimes when he was not so old. I hadn't realized he'd stayed in active competition at pistol shooting for so long. Only two years ago he had taken second place in an interstate meet.

Of the half-dozen latest photos, I recognized faces in every one—state senators, a Supreme Court judge, a few heavies in military uniforms, and a pair of very lovely dolls.

Chuck saw me eyeing them and said, "I thought it wouldn't take Mike Hammer's eyeballs very long to find their way to that pair. Both those lovely ladies are top marksmen. Or is it markspersons? Anyway, they're reps for an arms manufacturer."

"That's one way to keep a buyer's attention," I said with an appreciative nod. I pointed to Alex Jaynor, who was standing between the dolls, and asked, "Is Alex any good with a gun?"

"Not really. Do you know Alex?"

"We met at Doolan's funeral. They were apparently pretty tight in recent years."

"So I understand. Well, Alex shoots for fun, not for glory. Best I can say is, he enjoys it. Pretty decent guy for a politician. Doolan sponsored his membership."

"They seem an unlikely combo."

The remark brought another shrug. "Not really. Story is, Alex helped Doolan clean up his neighborhood. There was a shooting gallery—and I don't mean the Enfilade kind—and they got rid of that. Ran the druggies and the dealers out."

Cleaning drugs out of a neighborhood could make you unpopular with whoever had been profiting.

Chuck was saying, "Alex and Doolan were both right-wing anticrime, antidrug crusaders, and I guess that bridged any differences in age and background."

"I understand Alex was a reporter and that it was Doolan who encouraged him to quit and go into politics."

"Jibes with what I hear." Chuck tapped the photo under the last guy in the group. "Here's an oddball for you. Know him?"

He indicated a small, narrow-faced, mustached character with dark curly hair and dark eyes too small for his otherwise handsome face.

I had to look long and hard before recognition kicked in. "Shit—is that Tony Tretriano?"

"Right. Little Tony. Son of Big Tony."

Big Tony Tretriano had been a minor crime boss who died quietly in his sleep maybe six years ago.

I was shaking my head. "What's a bush-league wiseguy like Little Tony Tret doing in this club?"

Chuck was shaking his head, too, but in a way meant to calm me down. "Mike, he's a good kid. You may recall his mother did her best to keep the old man's hands off him."

I did. Tony Tretriano had graduated from an Ivy League school with a law degree and, after his sainted mother died, represented his pop for just a few years. After Big Tony kicked off, Little Tony stopped practicing law. That was the last I knew of the kid.

Chuck was saying, "In recent years, Anthony Tretriano has made it very clear he's severed all ties with organized crime—and in the last year, he's become a very big deal in this town. Jeez, Mike, you have been away."

"How has Little Tony become a big deal?"

"You've heard of Club 52?"

The pops in the range were louder. They must have upped their caliber.

"I was in Florida, not dead," I said. "Club 52's the 'in' disco for everybody who is famous, wants to be famous, or just wants to rub up against somebody famous."

Chuck laughed. "Yeah, I wish I could get in—any celebrity who comes to the Big Apple hangs there. Anthony owns and manages the club—he prefers Anthony to Tony, by the way. There was an article just a week or two ago in New York magazine about how he's expanding to just about every major city in these United States."

"Great. Now every big city will have a club where nobody can get past the velvet rope and the ex-wrestler doorman."

"I'm sure the rich and famous won't have any trouble at any of the locations."

"And 'Anthony' claims there's no mob ties to his club?"

"He seems squeaky clean." Chuck gave me another short laugh. "Funny how kids turn out. Big brother Leo did his bit in the pen for extortion and took over his old man's slice of the rackets when Big Tony died. At least, that's what it said in the News. Anthony has nothing at all to do with that part of the family anymore."

"Strange world," I mused.

"Crazy," he agreed. The light blue eyes brightened. "Mike, come on over and try the range. I have a new piece you'd dig—an S & W Model 29."

"What, the .44 mag?"

"You got it. Four-inch barrel. Herrett's Jordan Trooper stock in walnut. Adjustable sights..."

"Tempting. But another time, okay?"

"Sure." He shook his head, then laughed. "Yeah, that Doolan, he was still a pisser. Did you know that old fart had a young girlfriend?"

"I knew he still had an eye for beauty. But an honest-to-God girlfriend?"

His shrug was elaborate and his expression amused. "I never saw her, but a couple of the other members did. A big blonde, they said. Hey, that's a coincidence."

"What is?"

"You know where one of the guys said they saw Doolan with this young dish?"

"Where?"

"Club 52! How would a coot like Bill Doolan get into that trendy a watering hole? Much less land in the lap of some blonde out of Penthouse. Of course, just because he was getting up in years, doesn't mean he—"

"Couldn't get it up?" I finished. "Good to see you, Chuck. Don't let me keep you from your fun."

"Sure you don't wanna play with that .44 mag?"

"I haven't met the guy I couldn't stop with a .45."

I let him think about that as I waved and headed up the stairs.

Once again, Peter Cummings was in his office when I got there. Crouched behind a pile of papers at his desk, he looked up when I opened the door and motioned for me to come in—he was writing something in longhand. I waited for him to finish, which took maybe two minutes.

Then he let out a weight-of-the-world sigh Atlas might have envied, took the wire-rim glasses off, tossed them, wiped his eyes, and leaned back in his chair. "Well, Mike—are you getting anywhere on your New York vacation?"

I said nothing. I had already plopped down in the same chair as before. Now I put my feet up on his desk.

"Make yourself at home," he said.

"How come you're making me work so hard, Pete?"

"What do you mean?"

"People keep telling me things that you could have. Like how Doolan made a target out of himself by running dopers and pushers out of his neighborhood. Like how the old boy still had a regular girlfriend."

The old ex-cop with the well-grooved face was not intimidated. He just grunted a laugh at the middle-aged child across from him. "You got to learn to walk before you run, kiddo."

"I took a leave of absence, pal. I didn't die."

He studied me a few seconds before he ran a hand through the gray bristles of his hair. "Oh, you died, all right, Mike. You dragged it out right to the last, then you died."

My hands started to form fists and my chest felt tight. "Oh?"

Pete nodded. "Don't fight it, Mike—it's nothing to be ashamed of. When the piss and vinegar run out?" He shrugged. "Just relax and enjoy life."

"Nothing ran out."

"Sure it did," he told me. "The vinegar's all gone, anyway. All that's left is the piss."

"That's enough."

He frowned and sat forward in the old swivel chair. "No, Mike, you're wrong. An old street fighter like you needs the whole schmear, piss and vinegar and balls of fucking steel. You go tangling assholes with any of the young turks we have around today, and they'll make a memory out of you in a hurry. In one lousy year, the whole game's changed again ... and there's no room left for cripples. Physical or emotional."

This time the tension started in my back and I breathed deeply held it, and exhaled slowly. Pete was goading me. Trying to tell me something that he figured I didn't want to hear.

"Just what is it you call the 'vinegar,' Pete?"

He showed me his teeth; a skull was grinning at me. "The aggression, kid, the damn fulminating, wild-assed attack attitude you used to shake everybody up with. That's what you haven't got anymore."

"How do you know?" I asked softly.

"Ah, I can read you like a book," he told me, waving me away like a wino bugging him for a buck. "It was all over you the other day, like a sick bad smell. And you know I'm right."

"You were right."

"What do you mean?"

I opened the jacket and I showed him the .45 in the sling. Then I showed him my teeth and let him see my eyes.

"Shit," he said. He swallowed. "Sorry. I, uh, should have given you a closer look, Mike. You are back."

"Yeah. Full of piss and vinegar and no fucking medication. Now what's this shit about Doolan having a girlfriend?"

Pete raised his eyebrows quizzically. "And you're not brain-dead either...."

"Well?"

"Doolan never told me outright, but I could read the signs."

"What signs?"

Pete rocked in his chair, smiling slightly. "Oh, a certain neatness of dress on odd occasions, a small scent that clung to his clothing that whispered woman. A bit of a secretive air, I'd say—like he wanted me to ask him something."

"But you didn't?"

Pete waved me off again. "Of course not."

"You suppose he was fooling around? Maybe with a married woman?"

"I don't know about married women, but I always hoped he was out there getting a little in his old age. Something was putting life back in his veins and a smile on his puss. Plus, it gives another old goat hope—means there might still be some juice left in me, too."

"Look," I said impatiently, "do you know who she was?"

"No, but she'd be about five eight, a person of good taste, fond of dancing, and much too young for him."

The corners of his mouth twitched in a smile. While he waited for me to figure it out, he got up, knelt at his little fridge like the special altar it was, and got us a couple of beers. Tossed me a cold can, popped his own, and sat again.

I popped mine, sipped the icy liquid, and said, "With two-inch heels, she left a makeup smear on him just high enough for dance contact—Doolan was a six footer—and the gift he gave her had class and was selected with a young woman in mind."

"Wise ass," he said. "Just don't put too much stock in this info. Him and younger women, it happened before. Once the daughter of an old friend who was visiting town for a week, another time it was the middle-aged widow of a cop he'd known. You know, some paternal-type romancing here and there."

"You think this last doll was paternal?"

"Maybe. Maybe not."

"Was that why you thought maybe he killed himself? He fell in love with some fine young thing, got dumped, and took the exit ramp?"

He stared thoughtfully at the wall above my head, nodding slowly. "Maybe that did help me buy the suicide bit. The woman seemed to drop out of his life maybe two months ago."

"But now you're not buying it."

"No." He gulped some beer, sat the can down hard on the desk, making a slosh. "Mike, when I think about it, really think about it? Doolan was an old dog. His fun times long past. His looking times were still with him, and he was smart enough to know the difference. If he made any kind of a run with the babes, it was commensurate with his age and health and all I could say was good luck to him."

"Pat speculate about this?"

"Not outside a vulgar remark or two." He sat forward and leaned on the desk. "Now about Doolan running the druggies out of his neighborhood—he was point man for a citizens' committee, but it was his young pal Jaynor who took the heat. That politician got some bullets thrown at him."

I frowned. "Really?"

"Oh yeah. And if you were trying to make an example out of a local do-gooder like Doolan, why the hell fake a suicide? You'd make him die nice and public, wouldn't you? Right down on the street?"

I wadded up the empty beer can and hit his wastebasket, no rim. "I don't kill to make examples. Any lesson I teach with a gun begins and ends with what comes out of the barrel."

He laughed. "Don't push it, Mike. You trying to talk me into thinking you're the same old tough guy, or yourself?"

"Fuck you, Pete," I said good-naturedly. "Where does Tony Tret come in?"

Pete shrugged. "He knew Doolan a little. They were both members of that fancy shooting club—the Enfilade?"

"Doolan and a mob kid like that? I can't picture it."

"Mike, Anthony Tretriano is cleaner than Windex. Every cop in town has gone through the former Little Tony's laundry and his garbage, and so has every reporter. That kid couldn't get in the Enfilade unless he was good and goddamn clean, and he damn sure couldn't get by Doolan's scrutiny, if he thought Anthony was up to something."

"You're calling him Anthony, too, like a guy I talked to over at the Enfilade did. Why?"

"No special reason. Doolan told me young Tretriano didn't like to be called Tony anymore. He associated it with times he'd rather forget."

"Some of us have a better memory than that. Did Pat know about Little Tony being in the same shooting club as Doolan and Jaynor?"

He tossed his beer can and missed the basket. So had several other of his cans. "I don't know. What makes me the expert? Ask Pat."

"I will. What I want from you is your blessing to go over Doolan's files in more detail."

"You think the police missed something?"

"Not necessarily, but I at least want to know what they know. And the other day I could only give 'em a cursory look. I got a hunch the answer, or parts of it, is in there."

"The answer to what?"

"Who faked Doolan's suicide. And why. You ever hear of a girl named Virginia Mathes? Ginnie Mathes?"

"Wasn't she a mugging victim the other night? It was in the News."

"Yeah. She was a mugging victim. What about another good-looking kid, Dulcie Thorpe? Ring any bells? Were either of those girls among Doolan's little stable of young fillies?"

I had only half of that out before Pete began shaking his head. "No, neither name means a thing to me, beyond that mugging squib. But you make it sound like Doolan was out laying pipe from here to Trenton. Man, I tell you, it was probably more a spectator sport with him. Who's this Thorpe girl, anyway?"

"She was a hooker. She's dead now. Maybe on purpose, or maybe because the guy who ran her down in a stolen Caddy missed me by an inch or two. You wanna see the black-and-blue place on my ass?"

This had turned the old boy a whiter shade of pale, whether from the escalating body count or the prospect of seeing my backside up close, I couldn't tell you.

Pete pushed back in his chair, pulled the top desk drawer open, and reached in back. He found what he was after and flipped it at me.

"Here's a key to the office. I'll be gone for the next two days, on a claim in Philly that requires eyes-on attention. So feel free to do what you want around here. Sleep on the floor for all I care."

"Thanks, pal."

"Any phone calls come in while you're here, take messages and jot 'em down. I don't have an answering machine."

"Thanks, Pete."

"No trouble," he said. "Now get out of here before you get piss and vinegar all over the place."

I got on my feet, exchanged smiles with the ex-copper, and headed for the door.

"And Mike! Try not to kill anybody in here. It's enough of a mess already."

After sixty years or so at the same stand, police HQ had a new address—One Police Plaza on Park Row near City Hall and the Brooklyn Bridge. The new digs were a thirteen-story pyramid of glass and concrete with the personality of a prefab garage. The upcoming move was probably why that documentary crew had been sniffing around the baroque old building on Centre Street the other day. At least nobody was talking about tearing the old girl down.

Pat's glassed-in office off the bull pen was piled with boxes, the file cabinet drawers yawning empty. He was in shirtsleeves and a bow tie, and looked frazzled.

He said, "You took long enough coming in, buddy. I got you off the hook by telling Traffic Detail how banged up you were."

I took the visitor's chair across from where he peered over stacks of paper and file folders. "Pat, what I told you on the phone is all there is."

"Yeah, sure," he said sourly. He pushed a form across the desk at me. "Fill it out."

"You want it typed?"

"There's the machine." He indicated with his chin.

I ran the obstacle course of boxes to the Remington on the little stand, and in five minutes I had the report finished, signed, and handed back.

"What did you find out about the Thorpe girl?" I asked him, returning to the chair.

"Not much more than the papers mentioned. Your little hooker was strictly a loner, not part of a stable. One thing that did surface—six months ago, she dumped her pimp and went out on her own."

"How'd she manage that in this town?"

"Easy," Pat laughed. "She shot him. Aimed right for his balls but got him in the left thigh instead. She told him if he tried coming after her, she'd put the next one in his eye."

"Sounds like she knew how to make a point. Who gave you that? I can't think that incident made its way into a police report."

"Not hardly. Her neighbor gave us the story. An older gal. She and Dulcie were friendly enough to talk a lot over coffee."

Speaking of which, he got up and poured two cups from the Silex and handed one to me, pushing across the sugar packs and creamer he knew I required. Not all tough guys drink it black.

"This shot-up pimp puts your theory in a new light, Mike. I don't figure the driver was after you at all. He got who he wanted."

I sipped at the coffee, swirled it around in the cup, and shook my head. "Maybe."

"Maybe hell. She bruised that pimp's ego just a little too much. He came back after all."

"Six months later? Who was he?"

"Fidel Waxman. Waxey for short. A Cuban from the West Side. No known address."

"You looking for him?"

He waved at the air. "Come on, Mike. You know the system. The report's up, and that's about it."

I finished the coffee. "You believe what you're saying, Pat? That I wasn't the target?"

"What have you got says otherwise?"

"You told me yourself—a pro boosted the hit-and-run vehicle."

"Hell, Mike, scumbags like that can double in any kind of low-level crime. Pimping and hot-wiring go hand in hand. So does stripping cars, from hubcaps to chop shops."

"Including murder?"

"Including murder. And one of these days, Waxey baby will surface on something else, and we'll nail his ass for this one. It's the way of the world." He took the coffee cup from me and put them both back on the shelf unwashed. "So, Mike—you've been out sniffing. What have you come up with on Doolan?"

"I hear he had a girlfriend."

This time he gave me a disgusted shake of his head and grunted under his breath as he sat down again. "Come on, Mike. You talking about those photos in his file? I can give you chapter and verse on every one of those—"

"No," I cut in, "this was street talk."

"Okay. I'll bite. What about it?"

"It just doesn't sound like Doolan, that's all. Chasing young tail. Looking, yes. Cop a feel, maybe. But something serious, with a woman decades younger?"

"Bullshit, Mike, what do you know about it? Or for that matter, what do I know about it?"

"What do you mean, Pat?"

"I mean, it's been three years since either one of us even made contact with Doolan, but he was still getting around." He stopped to paw the air. "Man, he didn't even back out of getting involved in some of the hard stuff."

I sat forward. "Hard stuff? What the hell, Pat? What have you been holding back?"

"Eighteen months ago, Doolan dumped information on the narco boys that got an intercept of a hundred-ten kilos of pure heroin. Two months later he gave them a crack lab in Brooklyn and a couple of million bucks' worth of stuff was picked up along with the local chemists putting it together."

This went way beyond helping a budding politico chase some druggies out of his neighborhood,

"Jesus, Pat, how did that old coot get into that?"

"Well, you know Doolan. He kept his sources close to the vest, but he always did have his informants. And he was out there doing routine work for his P.I. pal Cummings, and he saw things. He had an eye. A nose. Like you."

"Then even at this late date, Doolan was still making enemies."

"All cops got enemies," he reminded me.

"And enemies like revenge," I reminded him.

"Who the hell would want revenge on an old dog like Doolan?"

"Maybe some other old dog."

"Like Alberto Bonetti?"

I nodded.

"Mike, you are a man obsessed with that goddamn family." He sat down, folded his hands behind his head, and leaned back in his chair. "Bonetti has enough trouble keeping the ambitious young turks in his outfit from tearing up his own ass. Right now, he still has the bull on them, but keeping it that way is something else." He paused, took a breath, and his expression turned grave. "Mike—you've been goofing off for a year. Do you know what the hell's been happening around here?"

"Not really," I said. "Then again, the Miami area has its own Wild West show going."

"Multiply Miami by a hundred and you have New York. But it's not like the old days—the organizations have tightened up. They have legal covers and the kind of money laundries you could never conceive of. Imagine controlling an entire segment of the banking industry—that's what they have now."

I nodded toward the window. "This is the stock market town, buddy. If what you're saying is true—"

"It's true. And this city you love to hate, it's also the port of entry. Man, I remember when knocking off a dozen kilos of H got us on the front pages. Now you'd better unload tons of the stuff to rate a mention. And damnit, I mean tons. Now it's coke that's in the pipeline. Translate that into street value, and you'll see the kind of money power we're up against."

I asked, "So where does Bonetti stand?"

"Maybe not a major player anymore, but still in the game. And he's got a damn good cover, running his own supply line somehow to keep his bunch happy ... but mainly we figure him for a contact man. He arranges deals. At least we think so."

I said, "That's pretty thin."

"Organized Crime Unit does its best. This is more than they have on Don Giraldi."

"Costello's old buddy?"

"Yeah."

"Hell, I thought he was dead."

"That's what people think about you," Pat said. "You know how those old Cosa Nostra guys hibernate—he's still in his place on Long Island, but now his protection comes as much out of lawyers' briefcases as his bodyguards' guns. You remember Pierluigi?"

"Sure." Umberto Pierluigi was a top headhunter for Genovese back in the old days.

"Well," Pat said, "he's got his own cut of the pie now."

"His own family?"

"They don't dress it up like that anymore. It's a business organization called Sonata Imports, Inc." Before I could ask, he added, "And it's clean, as far as that goes. They even pay their goddamn taxes."

"So what's the story on Little Tony? Anthony-who-doesn't-like-to-be-called-Tony, I mean."

Pat shrugged. "Kid's out of the loop. He's gone straight. Even you have to know about Club 52."

"Yeah, I know about it. It's where the movie stars and recording artists and Broadway cats go to boogie under flashing lights and do cocaine in the backroom."

His face fell. "Knock it off, Mike."

"You're saying that doesn't happen?"

"Of course it happens."

"And you look the other way?"

He didn't say anything.

"Pat? You hear the question?"

"I heard the question. Everybody looks the other way, Mike. A little recreational use by celebrities is something I'm required to tolerate."

"Well, I'm not." I sat forward. "And you're telling me a disco where they got hot and cold running coke doesn't have mob ties? Are you fucking kidding?"

"Beyond what you're talking about, Mike—this social activity that certain parties see to it that we ignore? Anthony Tretriano is a straight shooter."

"Of what? Heroin?"

"Mike ... he's a businessman. He runs a very successful, famous, well-connected nightclub."

"I'll bet it's well connected. Listen, Pat, Doolan was murdered, and so were those two girls, and I think all three kills were 'well connected.'"

"Oh, Mike. Give it a break. What are you on?"

"Nothing. Not a damn thing. Not even fucking aspirin. Will you help me?"

"Help you what?"

"You have the men it takes to look into things that I just don't have the time or resources to run down. Things like, did Ginnie Mathes and Dulcie Thorpe know each other? Were they connected in any way?"

His mouth was smiling but his eyes weren't. "Should I take notes, now that I'm your unofficial legman?"

"If you want. For example, have you checked that dance studio where Ginnie was taking lessons? Who else belonged? Was it near where she was mugged?"

"I can tell you that one—it's a little off-Broadway studio. A lot of theater kids train there. And we already checked."

"For a tie between the two dead girls?"

"Well, no..."

"Get started, then, if you don't have too much packing to do for your move into that hideous new Holiday Inn they built you guys over by Chinatown."

He scowled. "You got other leads you want me to run down for you, Mike? Anything else I can do?"

"Yeah, there's a couple of things. Maybe you should get out your pad and pencil."

"And in the meantime, what will you be running down?"

"Hunches, Pat. That's where I excel, remember?"

"As I recall, killing people and banging dames is where you excel, and sometimes there's some blurring between the lines."

I shook my head sadly. "'Dames' is such an old term. You date yourself, kiddo." I looked at my watch. It was later than I thought. "Okay, here's a couple other leads you can run down..."

"Gee," Pat said. "Thanks."

But he had his pad and pencil ready.