Murder Never Knocks

Chapter Seven

At P.J. Moriarty’s steak and chop house on Sixth and Fifty-second, Velda and I sat in the bar across from Hy Gardner in a booth we were lucky to have. Mid-evening, the endless line of stools was full and the restaurant beyond was hopping, producing a drone of conversation punctuated by clinking glass and an occasional dropped dish, making for real privacy.

We ate first and talked no business. My kind of business, like what had happened yesterday afternoon in an elegant suite at the Waldorf-Astoria, did not make for polite table talk, even in my circles.

Then we settled in for drinks and the real reason I’d called this meeting. And I didn’t even have to call it to order.

“I made a few more inquiries,” Hy said, a tumbler of bourbon in one hand, a plump cigar in the other. The way he was peering at me over the glasses said he’d really come up with something.

I’d already filled him in on the phone about the party crasher at the bridal shower, giving him more than the papers had.

The columnist’s blue suit and darker blue tie were typically crisp, but his face sagged from a long day. In addition to making long-distance calls for me, he’d been in his suite at the Plaza since breakfast, interviewing Broadway actors and directors about their upcoming productions.

“Your client Leif Borensen has what we call in the newspaper trade ‘hidden levels,’” he said. “And I’m not talking about depth of character. More like the show business equivalent of cover stories.”

“Like the starlet who was a straight-A schoolgirl from Topeka,” I said, “but really a B-girl from Boston. That kind of level?”

He nodded, tamped cigar ash into a PJM glass tray. “Only in this case we’re talking about a rich aunt who died but was never alive in the first place.”

The rich aunt bit had always seemed too convenient to me.

“If a windfall inheritance didn’t fund his real estate schemes,” Velda said, leaning forward, “who did back Borensen?”

“Before I deal with that,” Hy said, exhaling smoke that had been in Havana before it made it to his lungs, “let me ask you both a question. How hard is it to raise money for independent movie productions?”

“Plenty hard,” I said. “And a pain in the tail. You have to go around begging nickels and dimes from dentists and doctors or maybe actual rich relatives.”

Velda put in, “Or if you already have a track record, you might scrounge up some advance sales from distributors based on a scary, sexy poster for a picture that hasn’t rolled film yet.”

“There’s another way,” Hy said, and a smile curled on that glum, anteater mug of his. “We have a group of individuals right here in Manhattan who often invest in motion pictures, particularly independent ones.”

And I got it right away. “Mob money.”

Velda got it, too, and snapped her fingers. “Borensen was a money laundry!”

Hy nodded sagely. “That’s the word I get. And he still is, as far as I can tell. The handy thing about the movie business, and television syndication as well, is that you can exaggerate the money you lose, or inflate the money you make, according to which way the wind is blowing.”

“Ideal set-up,” I said.

Hy went on: “And Borensen did a lot of his own distribution, to drive-ins with the flicks, and to local TV stations with his syndicated shows. Even a correspondence school accountant would find cooking those kind of books about as tricky as boiling water.”

I asked, “How did a smalltime New York actor get in bed with the lasagna lads in the first place?”

Hy sipped some bourbon before answering. “Well, as we know, back when he was starting out, Borensen was not exactly giving Brando and James Dean much competition. But he worked steady enough, and had access enough, on both stage and small screen... and a lot of TV was in New York back then, remember... to support himself with a profitable sideline.”

“Drug dealer,” I said.

Hy smiled a little, impressed by my perspicacity. He said, “Like the old ladies down in Florida say, bingo. Grass and pills and, who knows, maybe coke and heroin. My info isn’t that specific on that particular, uh, score.”

Frowning, Velda asked, “Is this theory or fact?”

“I have it on good authority it’s fact,” Hy said. “But I had to dig for it and call in some markers. This is anything but public knowledge back in L.A. And those in the know usually keep such things to themselves, or at most refer to them vaguely.”

“Show business has a long history,” I said, “of looking the other way where mob funding is concerned.”

Velda smirked. “Just ask the headliners in Vegas.”

They were piping in Sinatra right now.

Hy said, “Borensen’s move back to New York may mean he’s splitting from the boys, and going legit. Or he could be expanding operations for them. Either way you slice it, hooking up with Martin Foster, and now tying the knot with the late Foster’s successful actress of a daughter? That’s a big, a very big, step up for our golden boy in the producing game.”

“If I’d been butting heads with the Mulberry Street crowd lately,” I said, “I’d think Borensen’s been setting me up for them.”

Velda said, “Our man Leif was certainly in a position to do that. In these most recent two instances, he knew right where you’d be, Mike — first with the meeting at his apartment house, then with the bridal shower.”

Hy was staring me down. “Mike — is there something you’re not thinking of? Something involving the mob that might prompt them to use Borensen to tee you up for a hole in one?”

I shrugged. “I don’t see what. These days I’m strictly a working P.I., pursuing no grudges and not generating any, either.”

Velda said, “There must be something.”

I shrugged again and looked across the booth at my old friend.

“Well...” Hy started. He paused and stared into his thoughts, flicking off further expensive, illegal ash from his cigar. “...it’s a little thing, but there might be one item of interest. Of possible pertinence. But I don’t see the connection to you, Mike.”

“Let me be the judge,” I said.

The columnist grunted a laugh. “Why not? You’ve been the jury often enough.”

That made Velda smile.

He sipped a little bourbon. “I know this oldtime PR guy... well, knew him, he’s dead now... who was working on the story of his life. We went way back, and he used to feed me items, so... Anyway, last year, before the Trib closed its doors, he called wanting to have lunch with me. I said great, love to, talk old times and so on. In a way I hated it, though, because I’d have to lie to him about what a fine idea writing a book on his life story was. Either that, or break it to him that he was just another nobody who nobody heard of, who thinks his life mattered. I mean, how do you break it to a guy who fought his way across Europe that Audie Murphy beat him to it? Like people were out there just waiting with bated breath to read the life story of somebody they never heard of.”

As Hy paused for another sip of bourbon, Velda asked, “And was that the case with your old friend?”

He shook his head. “Not at all. I couldn’t have been wronger. This was a guy who spent forty years in the trenches of the New York show business scene, and he knew where all the bodies were buried, and who put them there. Everything from abortions to homosexuality to... mob ties. I warned him there could be legal repercussions, or worse... but he said at his age, he didn’t give a damn. Anyway, he was going to back up his memories with some hard research, to make sure the lawyers wouldn’t be scared off and a publisher would take it on.”

I asked, “Did he know Borensen back when?”

Hy shrugged, made a face, tamped more ash. “That’s what makes this a little thin, Mike. I don’t know for sure, but he would almost have to have known Borensen, and certainly knew of him. And with something as damning as drug dealing in his past, and mob money laundering ever since, Borensen would flip if he found out Dick was writing a tell-all.”

I leaned forward. “Dick? That wouldn’t be Dick Blazen, would it?”

“Right. Did you know the guy, Mike?”

I put out my Lucky. “No, but a friend of mine did.”

Velda asked, “’Did’? Past tense?”

“Very damn past,” I said to her. “That’s the regular customer who got run down in front of Billy Batson’s newsstand last month.”

I filled in some blanks for him on the incident — all Hy knew was that Blazen had been hit by a car — including Billy getting a good look at the driver but having no success identifying him, despite numerous line-ups at HQ and going through countless mug books.

Hy rested his cigar in the ashtray and leaned on an elbow. He was peering over the glasses again. “Are you thinking Borensen may have hired a contract killer to remove Dick Blazen? A hit-and-run for hire?”

“Why not?”

My phone caller of the night before had made a point of saying many of his contract kills had been passed off as accidents.

I continued, “On the other hand, maybe Borensen pulled that one off himself.”

“If so,” Velda said, “all we have to do is show Billy a picture of our client.”

Hy said, “Easier said than done. One of the things Dick asked me to help him with was finding pics of various lesser-known but key people he was mentioning in his book. He already had art on many of them, but Borensen was on a short list that Dick needed help with. I checked the Trib photo morgue and came up a goose egg. I called around to the other papers and nobody else had anything on the guy either.”

Velda asked, “Isn’t that unusual? Borensen was an actor on stage and television — several decades ago admittedly — but he’s a well-known producer today.”

“He was a minor actor in his early days,” Hy said, “and a schlock producer now. Some of his productions have generated good ink, but the werewolves and sweater babes got the press photos, not him.”

“Then,” I said to Velda, climbing out of the booth, “we’ll haul Billy’s behind over to Borensen’s apartment right now, for a personal appearance from our client.”

Velda was at my side in an eye blink.

“Hold up,” Hy said. “Did it ever occur to you that this Billy character might have been paid off?”

“No way,” Velda said.

“Billy’s okay,” I said. “He’s Captain Marvel in disguise, you know.”

That got a head shake and a laugh out of my cynical pal.

“Good luck, you two,” Hy said. “Call me at the Plaza if you get anything newsworthy.”

I said, “You’re sitting this one out?”

His smile was a friendly fold in a well-used face. “I’m a little long in the tooth to be going down bullet alley any more. But I’ll do what I can from the sidelines, starting with taking care of the check.”

I gave him a grin of thanks and took Velda by the elbow, heading out.

A light misting rain was just enough to all but empty the sidewalks and make the streetlights hazy. Neon smears turned Manhattan into an impressionist painting, taking the hard edges off and blurring the grime into something damn near romantic.

Neither Velda nor I minded the rain. We walked in it often, sometimes when it was coming down good and hard. Mist we just laughed at. Right now we were both in raincoats, having anticipated a damp evening, and we strolled the few blocks over to Lexington arm-in-arm, as something almost cold enough to be snow put tiny tears all over our faces.

But I won’t pretend that this was just another walk in the rain for us. I caught Velda keeping an eye peeled for somebody following, either on foot or on wheels, and outside the restaurant, I’d shifted my .45 to my right-hand trenchcoat pocket. And my hand was in that pocket. Call me over-cautious, but when they keep shooting at you, you can get a little gun shy.

Clutching my left arm, Velda asked, “Assuming Borensen didn’t hire it done... what does Billy seeing him run down Hy’s friend have to do with one Michael Hammer?”

There was just enough moisture to curl the tips of her black hair into something gypsy-like.

“First,” I said, “probably nothing. Second, we don’t know for sure Borensen’s responsible. We’re going to find out.”

“And if he did do it?”

I grinned into the mist. “Well, that Viking will get something from me and it won’t be a refund. A Viking funeral, maybe.”

Billy stayed open till nine-thirty and it was almost that. As we neared, he was just a small figure overwhelmed by the corner newsstand’s many magazines, particularly the side displays of comic books. Famous faces smiled at us as we approached. They didn’t care about the rain either, but then they were protected by the overhang of the stand.

He was arranging and stacking stuff and didn’t see us at first. When he heard our wet footsteps, and turned toward us, the wizened little guy in the plaid cap and flannel jacket had a stack of newspapers in his arms. Seeing Velda, Billy grinned and hugged those papers like he did her in his dreams.

“Hiya, Velda,” he said, the way a farmer says Aw Shucks. “When you gonna throw this bum over?”

She beamed at him and put something sultry in it. “I would, Billy, but then who would have me?”

He grinned goofily. “I think you know. I think you do.”

Then he acknowledged me with a regular smile; he was standing there between us, like a paperback between a couple of big bookends. He lowered those papers to fig leaf level.

“Y’know, Mike, that pic the News ran of you, after that cabbie took your bullet? Much better.”

I nodded toward Velda. “I took your criticism to heart, Billy. My faithful secretary here sent around a newer shot to all the papers, professionally done — not snapshots from paparazzi rats.”

“That kind of off-the-cuff stuff sells a lot of papers, Mike. You got a good business goin’. Don’t begrudge me mine.”

Right now, this late, there was no business. Lately the city had a habit of emptying out everywhere except the theater district, even before dark. Traffic on the rain-slicked street seemed steady but light.

“Listen,” I said, a hand on his shoulder, “I have a lead on that hit-and-runner of yours. How would you like to put his ass away for a long damn time?”

His whole face smiled. “Nothing better. What’s the deal, Mike?”

“I may have him identified.”

“You got a picture?”

“No, that’s the thing. The guy is a ghost where the papers are concerned. Hy Gardner tried every photo morgue in town looking for a pic.”

“Hy Gardner,” he sighed. The little man shook his head and his half-a-smile was bittersweet. “Them was the days.”

“Weren’t they just?” I patted his shoulder. “So now if this is the guy, Billy, you’re gonna have to put the finger on him. Look right at him, and not in a line-up, either, and say yay or nay. You up to that?”

He was grinning big. “If you’re at my side, Mike, I ain’t afraid.”

I glanced around. What few cars were going by kept right at the limit, taking advantage of the lack of competition, their headlight beams grainy with mist, chasing the pools of light they cast on the reflective surface. If it got any colder, they might get an icy surprise. Meanwhile, the sidewalks remained nearly empty but for the three of us in front of Billy’s comic-book-lined stand.

“You mind shutting down to do this, Billy?”

He frowned. It was against his principles to close up early.

I said, “You can’t do business in this rain, anyway, Billy my boy. We’ll grab a cab and go over to the guy’s place.”

His eyes widened. “What, he knows we’re comin’?”

“Oh, hell no.” I grinned. “It’ll be a big surprise. But he’ll let me in, don’t you worry.”

“You got that big .45 on you, man?”

“Always.”

“Safety off, one in the chamber?”

“You got it.”

“Then like somebody wise once said, ‘What me, worry?’”

Velda put a hand on Billy’s shoulder and said, “Thanks, Billy. This is very important.”

Billy lifted the stack of papers and hugged them again just as the dark blue Lincoln slowed at the light in the nearest northbound lane, right next to us. The driver leaned out the window as if to ask quick directions, and that was when I saw the ski mask, and I was going for the .45 in my raincoat pocket, an act that damnit slowed me down some, and Velda was clawing her purse for the .32, but the extended snout of the silenced automatic was already pointing out the window and three coughs, like a kid with asthma, told me I had put Velda and Billy in harm’s way, just by standing with them.

I had a complex thought that lasted a fraction of a second, and it was how I was going to die in the next instant, the light switch on my life going off, and my arrogance had done it, my belief that I was smarter and bigger and badder than anybody, but nobody is smarter and bigger and badder than three bullets rocketing their way at you.

Only the bullets didn’t hit me.

They hit Billy, thunking into those papers he was holding, missing his arms and chewing up newsprint, dotting an I on a headline, the power of those tiny guided missiles taking the little man down onto the pavement in a pile, armful of papers scattering, as faces on magazines smiled and looked everywhere but at him.

And the Lincoln was gone, jumping the light, flashing a license plate spattered with mud on a vehicle otherwise spotless. Other cars were going through an intersection the shooter was on the other side of, and the .45 in my hand couldn’t blow him a kiss without risking collateral damage.

Anyway, I was distracted by Velda, who never got her gun out, doing something I’d only heard her do a few times.

Screaming.