My Gun Is Quick

Chapter Two

It was a little after four when I got back to the office. Velda was licking envelopes in an unladylike manner and glad of an excuse to stop. She said, "Pat called me a little while ago."

"And told you to tell me to behave myself like a good boy, I suppose."

"Or words to that effect. Who was she, Mike?"

"I didn't find out. I will though."

"Mike, being as how you're the boss, I hate to say this, but there are a few prosperous clients knocking on the door and you're fooling around where there isn't any cash in sight."

I threw my hat on the desk. "Wherever there's murder there's money, chick."

"Murder?"

"I have that idea in mind."

It was nice sitting there in the easy chair, stretched out in comfort. Velda let me yawn, then: "But what are you after, Mike?"

"A name," I said. "Just a name for a kid who died without one. Morbid curiosity, isn't it? But I can't send flowers with just 'Red' on them. What do you know about a guy called Berin-Grotin, Velda?" I watched a fly run across the ceiling upside down, making it sound casual.

After a moment she told me: "That must be Arthur Berin-Grotin. He's an old society gent about eighty, supposedly one of the original Four Hundred. At one time he was the biggest sport on the Stem, but he got tangled with old age and became almighty pious trying to make up for all his youthful escapades."

I remembered him then, mostly from stories the old-timers like to pass out when they corner you in a bar for a hatful of free drinks. "Why would a guy like that need a bodyguard?" I asked her.

Velda dug back into her memory. "If I remember correctly, his estate out on the Island was robbed several times. An old man would be inclined to be squeamish, and I can't say that I blame him. I'd hire a bodyguard, too. The funny part is that the burglar could have had what he wanted for the asking by simply knocking on the door. Arthur Berin-Grotin is a sucker for hard-up stories... besides being one of the city's biggest philanthropists."

"Lots of money, hey?"

"Umm."

"Where did you get the dope on him?"

"If you'd read anything but the funnies, you'd know. He's in the news as often as a movie star. Apparently he has a fierce sense of pride, and if he isn't suing somebody for libel, he's disinheriting some distant relative for besmirching the fair name of Berin-Grotin. A month ago he financed a million-dollar cat and dog hospital or something. Oh, wait a minute..."

She got up and began ruffling through a heap of newspapers on top of the file. After a brief search she pulled out a rotogravure section, a few weeks old, and folded it back. "Here's something about him."

It was a picture taken in a cemetery. Amid a background of tombstones and monuments was the half-built form of a mausoleum. There were two workers on the scaffolding laying marble slabs in place, and from the looks of it money was being poured into the job. Next to it was the artist's conception of the finished job, a classic Greek-temple arrangement. Arthur Berin-Grotin was playing it safe. He was making sure he'd have a roof over his head after he died.

Velda put the paper back on the pile. "Is he a client, Mike?"

"Nope. I happened to run across his name and was interested."

"You're lying."

"And you're getting fresh with the boss," I grinned at her. She stuck out her tongue and went back to her desk. I got up and told her to knock off early, then jammed on my hat. There were a few things that I had in mind, but I needed a little time to pass before I could get started.

Downstairs I found a bar and called for a beer. I was on my third when the paperboy came in with the evening edition. I flipped him a dime and spread it on the bar. Pat had done a good job. Her picture was on the front page. Under it was the question "Do you know this girl?" Sure, I knew her. Red. I couldn't forget her. I was wondering if anybody else was having trouble forgetting her, too.

I tucked the paper in my pocket and walked down to my car. The taxis and, commuters were jamming traffic all the way downtown, and by the time I had crossed over to Third Avenue it was nearly six o'clock. I didn't have a bit of trouble finding that hash house again. There was even a place to park right outside it. I went in and climbed on a stool and laid the paper down in front of me with the picture up. Down at the end Shorty was pushing crackers and soup over to another bum. He hadn't seen me yet.

When he did he went a little white around the nostrils and he couldn't seem to take his eyes off my face. He said, "Whatta ya want?"

"Eggs. Bacon and eggs... over light. And coffee."

He sort of sidled down the counter and fished in a basket for the eggs. One dropped and splattered all over the floor. Shorty didn't even seem to notice it. The bum was making a slobbering noise with his soup and the bacon on the griddle started to drown him out. Behind the grill was a stainless steel reflector, and twice I caught Shorty looking in it at me. The spatula was big enough to handle a cake, yet he couldn't balance an egg on it. He made each on the third try.

Shorty was suffering badly from the shakes. It didn't help any when he had to push the paper away to set the plate down and saw Red's picture staring at him.

I said, "One thing about eggs: you can't spoil them with bum cooking. No matter what you do they still taste like eggs." Shorty just stared at me. "Yeah, eggs are eggs. Once in a while you get a bad one, though. Makes me mad as hell to get hold of one. Did you ever smash a bad egg wide open? They make a noisy pop and stink like hell. Bad eggs can be poison, too."

I was half-way done before Shorty said, "What are you after, mister?"

"You tell me."

Both of us looked down at the paper at the same time. "You're a copper, ain't'cha?"

"I carry a badge... and a rod."

"A private snooper, eh?" He was going tough on me.

I laid my fork down and looked at him. I can make pretty nasty faces when I have to. "Shorty, maybe just for the hell of it I'll take you apart. You may be a rough apple, but I can make your face look like it's been run through a grinder, and the more I think of the idea the more I like it. The name is Mike Hammer, chum, you ought to know it down here. I like to play games with wise guys."

He was white around the nostrils again.

I tapped the picture, then let my finger stay on the question underneath. Shorty knew damn well I wasn't fooling around any more. I was getting mad and he knew it, and he was scared. But just the same he shrugged. "Hell, I don't know who she is."

"It wasn't the first time she had been in here. Quit holding out."

"Ah, she came in for about a week. Sometimes she tried to make pickups in here and I threw her out. She was Red to me and everybody else. That's all I knew about her."

"You got a record, haven't you, Shorty?"

His lips drew back over his teeth. "You bastard!"

I reached out and grabbed his shirt and held him against the counter. "When a guy gets out of stir he goes straight sometimes. Sometimes he don't. I'm betting that if the cops decided to look around a little bit they could find you had a finger in some crooked pie, and it wouldn't take them a week to put you back up the river."

"H-honest, Mac, I don't know nothing about the dame. Look, I'd tell you if I did. I ain't no trouble-maker and I don't want no trouble around here! Why don't'cha lemme alone?"

"There was a greaseball in here that night. His name is Feeney Last. How often has he been in?"

Shorty licked his thick lips nervously. "Hell, maybe twice. I dunno. He went for the redhead, that's all. He never even ate in here. Lay off, will ya."

I dropped the handful of shirt. "Sure, pal, I'll lay off." I threw a half buck on the counter and he was glad to grab it and get over to the register away from me. I swung off the stool and stood up. "If I find out you know any more than you told me, there's going to be a visitor in here looking for you. A guy in a pretty blue uniform. Only when he finds you he's going to have a tough time making any sense out of what you tell him. It's not easy to talk when you've just choked on your own teeth."

Just before I reached the door he called, "Hey, Mac."

I turned around.

"I-I think she had a room some place around the corner. Next block north."

He didn't wait for an answer. He got real busy swabbing the broken egg off the floor.

Outside I started the car, changed my mind, then walked up Third to the street corner. It would have taken a week to comb the dingy apartments that sprawled along the sidewalks and I wasn't in the mood for any leg work.

On one corner was a run-down candy store whose interior was obscured by flyspecked signs, but for all its dirt it served as a neighborhood hangout. In front of the paper stand were three young punks in sharp two-tone sports outfits making dirty cracks at the girls passing by. A husky blonde turned and slapped one across the jaw and got a boot in the tail for her trouble. This time she kept going.

I angled across the street and walked up to the kid holding his jaw, trying to rub out the red blotch. I opened the button on my jacket and reached back for a handkerchief, just enough so the sling on the shoulder holster was visible across my shirt for a second. They knew I was carrying a rod and looked at me as if I were a tin god. The kid even forgot to rub his face any more. Nice place to live.

"There's a cute little redhead who has a room around here, Buster. Know where I can find her?"

The kid got real important with the man-to-man line I was handing him and gave me a wink. "Yeah, she had a place upstairs in old-lady Porter's joint." He jerked his head down the street. "Won't do ya no good to go there. That little bitch got herself killed last night. All the papers got her pitcher on the front page."

"You don't say! Too bad."

He edged me with his elbow and slipped me a knowing look. "She wasn't no good anyway, buddy. Now, if you want a real woman, you go up to Twenty-third Street and..."

"Some other day, feller. While I'm here I'll look around this end of town." I slipped him a fin. "Go buy a beer for the boys."

I walked away hoping they'd choke on it.

Martha Porter was an oversize female in her late fifties. She wore a size dress that matched her age and still she peeked out in places. What hair wasn't yanked back in a knot straggled across her face and down the nape of her neck, and she was holding the broom ready to use it as a utensil or a club.

"You looking for a room or a girl?" she said.

I let a ten-spot talk for me. "I saw the girl. Now I want to see the room."

She grabbed the bill first. "What for?"

"Because she copped a wad of dough and some important papers from the last place she worked and I have to find it."

She gave me an indifferent sneer. "Oh, one of them skiptracers. Well, maybe the papers is there, but you won't find no dough. She came here with the clothes on her back and two bucks in her pocketbook. I took the two bucks for room rent. Never got no more from her neither."

"Where'd she come from?

"I don't know and I didn't ask. She had the two bucks and that's what the room cost--in advance, when you don't have no bags."

"Know her name?"

"Why don't you grow up, mister! Why the hell should I ask when it don't mean nothing. Maybe it was Smith. If you want to see the room it's next floor up in the back. I ain't even been in there since she got killed. Soon as I seen her face in the papers I knew somebody would be around. Them broads give me a pain in the behind."

The broom went back to being a broom and I went up the stairs. There was only one door on the landing and I went in, then locked it behind me.

I always had the idea that girls were kind of fussy, even if they were living in a cracker barrel. Maybe she was fussy at that. It was a sure thing that whoever searched the room wasn't. The bed was torn apart and the stuffing was all over the place. The four drawers of the chest lay upside down on the floor where someone had used them as a ladder to look along the wall molding just below the ceiling. Even the linoleum had been ripped from the floor, and two spots on the wall where the plaster had been knocked off were poked out to let a hand feel around between the partitions. Oh, it was a beautiful job of searching, all right. A real dilly. They had plenty of time, too. They must have had, because they would have had to be quiet or have the young elephant up here with the broom, and the place wouldn't have looked like that if they had been hurried.

One hell of a mess, but I started to grin. Whatever caused the wreckage certainly wasn't found, because even after they had looked in the obvious places they tore apart everything else, right down to the mouse-hole in the baseboard.

I kicked aside some of the junk on the floor, but there wasn't much to see. Old magazines, a couple of newspapers, some underwear and gadgets that might have been in the drawers. What had once been a coat lay in strips with all the hems ripped out and the lining hanging in shreds. A knife had been used on the collar to split the seams. On top of everything was a film of dust from a spilled powder box, giving the place a cheaply perfumed odor.

Then the wind blew some of the mattress stuffing in my face and I walked over to close the window. It faced on a fire-escape and the sash had been forced with some kind of tool. It couldn't have been simpler. On the floor by the sill was a white plastic comb. I picked it up and felt the grease on it. A few dark hairs were tangled around the teeth. I smelled it.

Hair oil. The kind of hair oil a greaseball would use. I wasn't sure, but there were ways of finding out. The hag was still in the corridor sweeping when I went out. I told her somebody had crashed the place before I got there and liked to knock it apart. She gave one unearthly shriek and took the steps two at a time until the building shook.

It was enough for one day. I went home and hit the sack. I didn't sleep too well, because the redhead would smile, kiss her finger and put it on my cheek and wake me up.

At half-past six the alarm went off with a racket that jerked me out of a wild dream and left me standing on the rug shaking like a kitten in a dog kennel. I shut it off and ducked into a cold shower to wash the sleep out of my eyes, then finished off the morning's ceremonies with a close shave that left my face raw. I ate in my shorts, then stacked the dishes in the sink and laid out my clothes.

This had to be a new-suit day. I laid the tweeds on the bed and, for a change, paid a little attention to the things that went with it. By the time I had climbed into everything and ran a brush over my shoes I even began to look dignified. Or at least sharp enough to call on one of the original Four Hundred.

I found Arthur Berin-Grotin's name in the Long Island directory, a town about sixty miles out on the Island that was a chosen spot for lovers, trapshooters and recluses. Buck had my car gassed up and ready for me when I got to the garage, and by the time nine-thirty had rolled around I was tooling the heap along the highway, sniffing the breezes that blew in from the ocean. An hour later I reached a cut-off that sported a sign emblazoned with Old English lettering and an arrow that pointed to Arthur Berin-Grotin's estate on the beach.

Under the wheels the road turned to macadam, then packed crushed gravel, and developed into a long sweep of a drive that took me up to one of the fanciest joints this side of Buckingham Palace. The house was a symbol of luxury, but utterly devoid of any of the garishness that goes with new wealth. From its appearance it was ageless, neither young nor old. It could have stood there a hundred years or ten without a change to its dignity. Choice fieldstone reached up to the second floor, supporting smooth clapboard walls that gleamed in the sun like bleached bones. The windows must have been imported; those on the south side were all stained glass to filter out the fierce light of the sun, while the others were little lead-rimmed squares arranged in patterns that changed from room to room.

I drove up under the arched dome of a portico and killed the engine, wondering whether to wait for a major-domo to open the door for me or do it myself. I decided not to wait.

The bell was the kind you pull--a little brass knob set in the door-frame--and when I gave it a gentle tug I heard the subtle pealing of electric chimes inside. When the door opened I thought it had been done by an electric eye, but it wasn't. The butler was so little and so old that he scarcely reached above the door-knob and didn't seem strong enough to hold it open very long, so I stepped in before the wind blew it shut, and turned on my best smile.

"I'd like to see Mr. Berin-Grotin, please."

"Yes, sir. Your name, please?" His voice crackled like an old hen's.

"Michael Hammer, from New York."

The old man took my hat and led me to a massive library panelled in dark oak and waved his hand towards a chair. "Would you care to wait here, sir. I'll inform the master that you have arrived. There are cigars on the table."

I thanked him and picked out a huge leather-covered chair and sank into it, looking around to see how Society lived. It wasn't bad. I picked up a cigar and bit the end off, then looked for a place to spit it. The only ashtray was a delicate bowl of rich Wedgwood pottery, and I'd be damned if I'd spoil it. Maybe Society wasn't so good after all. There were footsteps coming down the hall outside so I swallowed the damn thing to get rid of it.

When Arthur Berin-Grotin came into the room I stood up. Whether I wanted to or not, there are some people to whom you cannot help but show respect. He was one of them. He was an old man, all right, but the years had treated him lightly. There was no stoop to his shoulders and his eyes were as bright as an urchin's. I guessed his height to be about six feet, but he might have been shorter. The shock of white hair that crowned his head flowed up to add inches to his stature.

"Mr. Berin-Grotin?" I asked.

"Yes, good morning, sir." He held out his hand and we clasped firmly. "I'd rather you use only the first half of my name," he added. "Hyphenated family names have always annoyed me, and since I am burdened with one myself I find it expedient to shorten it. You are Mr. Hammer?"

"That's right."

"And from New York. It sounds as though one of you is important," he laughed. Unlike his butler, his voice had a good solid ring. He pulled a chair up to mine and nodded for me to be seated.

"Now," he said, "what can I do for you?"

I gave it to him straight. "I'm a detective, Mr. Berin. I'm not on a case exactly, but I'm looking for something. An identity. The other day a girl was killed in the city. She was a redheaded prostitute, and she doesn't have a name."

"Ah, yes! I saw it in the papers. You have an interest in her?"

"Slightly. I gave her a handout, and the next day she was killed. I'm trying to find out who she was. It's kind of nasty to die and not have anyone know you're dead."

The old man closed his eyes slightly and looked pained. "I understand completely, Mr. Hammer." He folded his hands across his lap. "The same thought has occurred to me, and I dread it. I have outlived my wife and children and I am afraid that when I pass away the only tears to fall on my coffin will be those of strangers."

"I doubt that, sir."

He smiled. "Thank you. Nevertheless, in my vanity I am erecting a monument that will bring my name to the public eye on occasions."

"I saw the picture of the vault in the papers."

"Perhaps I seem morbid to you?"

"Not at all."

"One prepares a house for every other phase of living... why not for death. My silly hyphenated name will go to the grave with me, but at least it will remain in sight for many generations to come. A bit of foolishness on my part, yes; I care to think of it as pride. Pride is a name that has led a brilliant existence for countless years. Pride of family. Pride of accomplishment. However, the preparations concerning my death weren't the purpose of your visit. You were speaking of this... girl."

"The redhead. Nobody seems to know her. Just before she was killed your chauffeur tried to pick her up in a joint downtown."

"My chauffeur?" He seemed amazed.

"That's right. Feeney Last, his name is."

"And how did you know that?"

"He was messing with the redhead and I called him on it. He tried to pull a rod on me and I flattened him. Later I turned him over to the cops in a squad car to haul him in on a Sullivan charge and they found out he had a license for the gun."

His bushy white eyebrows drew together in a puzzled frown. "He... would have killed you, do you think?"

"I don't know. I wasn't taking any chances."

"He was in town that night, I know. I never thought he'd act like that! Had he been drinking?"

"Didn't seem that way to me."

"At any rate, it's inexcusable. I regret the incident extremely, Mr. Hammer. Perhaps it would be better if I discharged him."

"That's up to you. If you need a tough boy around maybe he's all right. I understand you need protection."

"That I do. My home has been burgled several times, and although I don't keep much money on hand, I do have a rather valuable collection of odds and ends that I wouldn't want stolen."

"Where was he the night the girl was killed?"

The old gent knew what I was thinking and shook his head slowly. "I'm afraid you can dismiss the thought, Mr. Hammer. Feeney was with me all afternoon and all evening. We went to New York that day and I kept several appointments in the afternoon. That night we went to the Albino Club for dinner and from there to a show, then back to the Albino Club for a snack before returning home. Feeney was with me every minute."

"Your chauffeur?"

"No, as a companion. Here in the country Feeney assumes servant's garb when I make social calls, because others expect it. However, when we go to the city I prefer to have someone to talk to, and Feeney wears mufti, so to speak. I'm afraid I have to tell you that Feeney was in my company every minute of the time."

"I see." There was no sense in trying to break an alibi like that. I knew damn well the old boy wasn't lying, and the hardest guy to shake was one whose character was above reproach. I had a nasty taste in my mouth. I was hoping I could tag the greaseball with something.

Mr. Berin said, "I can understand your suspicion. Certainly, though, the fact that Feeney saw the girl before she died was coincidence of a nature to invite it. From the papers I gathered that she was a victim of a hit-and-run driver."

"That's what the papers said," I told him. "Nobody saw it happen, so how could you be sure? She was somebody I liked... I hate like hell to see her buried in a potter's field."

He passed a hand over his face, then looked up slowly. "Mr. Hammer... could I help in some way... for instance, could I take care of decent funeral arrangements for her? I... would appreciate it if you would allow me to. Somehow I feel as though I should. Here I have everything, while she..."

I interrupted with a shake of my head. "I'd rather do it; but thanks anyway. Still, it won't be like having her family take care of her."

"If you do need assistance of any sort, I wish you would call on me, Mr. Hammer."

"I might have to at that."

The butler came in then with a tray of brandy. We both took one, toasted each other with a raised glass and downed it. It was damn good brandy. I put the glass on a side table, hating myself because it looked like everything stopped here. Almost, I should say. The greaseball was still in it, because he might possibly know who the redhead was. So I made one last stab at it.

"Where did you get this Last character?"

"He came well recommended to me by a firm who had used his services in the past. I investigated thoroughly and his record is excellent. What connection could he have had with the deceased girl, do you suppose?"

"I don't know. Maybe he was only making use of her services. Where is he now, Mr. Berin?"

"He left for the cemetery with the nameplate for the tomb early this morning. I instructed him to stay and see that it was properly installed. I doubt if he will be back before late this afternoon."

There was as much here as I wanted to know. I said. "Maybe I'll run out and see him there. Where's the cemetery?"

He stood up and together we started walking towards the door. The little old butler appeared from out of nowhere and handed me my hat. Mr. Berin said, "Go back towards the city for ten miles. The cemetery lies west of the village at the first intersection. The gate-keeper will direct you once you reach it."

I thanked him for his time and we shook hands again. He held the door open for me and I ran down the steps to the car. He was still there when I pulled away and I waved so-long. In the rear-view mirror I saw him wave back.

The gate-keeper was only too happy to show me all the pretty tombstones and the newly dug graves. He took over the right seat of the car like a tour guide on a sightseeing bus and started a spiel that he hardly interrupted by taking a breath. It was quite a joint, quite a joint. From the names on all the marble it seemed as if only the rich and famous died. Apparently there were three prerequisites necessary before they'd let you rot under their well-tended sod: Fortune, Fame or Position. Nearly everyone had all three. At least very few went to their reward with just one.

It was easy to see that the winding road was leading to a grand climax. In the north-east corner of the grounds was a hillock topped by a miniature Acropolis, and the guide was being very particular to keep my attention diverted the other way so it would come as a complete surprise. He waited until we were at the foot of the hill, then pointed it out with a flourish, speaking with awed respect in his voice.

"This," he said, "is to be a great tribute to a great man... Mr. Arthur Berin-Grotin. Yes, a fitting tribute. Seldom has one done so much to win a place in the hearts of the people." He was almost in tears.

I just nodded.

"A very sensible man," he continued. "Too often those final preparations are hurried and a person's name is lost to posterity. Not so with Mr. Berin-Grotin."

"Mr. Berin," I corrected.

"Ah, you know him then."

"Somewhat. Do you think it would be O.K. if I looked at the place close up?"

"Oh, certainly." He opened the door. "Come, I'll take you there."

"I'd rather go alone. I may never have another chance to get back, and... well, you understand."

He was sympathetic at once. "Of course. You go right ahead. I'll walk back. I must see to certain plots at this end, anyway."

I waited until he was lost among the headstones, then lit a cigarette and walked up the path: The men were working on the far side of the scaffolding and never saw me come up. Or else they were used to sightseers. The place was bigger than it looked. Curved marble columns rose upwards for fifteen feet, overshadowing huge solid-bronze doors that were embellished with handcrafted Greek designs.

The lintel over the doors was a curved affair held in place with an engraved keystone. Cut in the granite was the three-feather emblem of the royal family, or a good bottle of American whisky. Each plume, the tall center one and the two outward-curving side plumes, was exact in detail until they could have passed for fossil impressions. There were words under it in Latin. Two of them were Berin-Grotin. Very simple, very dignified. The pride of a name; and the public could draw its own conclusions from the grandeur of the structure.

I started to walk around the side, then flattened against a recess in the wall. The greaseball was there, jawing out the workman for something or other. His voice had the same nasty tone that it had had the other night, only this time he had on a brown gabardine chauffeur's uniform instead of a sharp suit. One of the workmen told him to shut up and he threw a rock at the scaffolding.

Just on a hunch I reached in my pocket and took out the plastic comb, and slid it down the walk so that it stopped right by his feet. He didn't turn around for a minute, but when he did he kicked the comb and sent it skittering back in my direction. Instinctively, his hand went to his breast pocket, then he bent over and picked it up, wiped it on his hand and ran it through his hair, then returned it to his shirt.

I didn't need any more after that. The greaseball was the guy who'd made a mess out of the redhead's room.

He didn't see me until I said, "Hullo, Feeney."

Then his lips drew back over his teeth and his ears went flat against the side of his head. "You dirty son of a bitch," he snarled.

Both of us saw the same thing at the same time. No guns. Feeney must have liked it that way because the sneer turned into a sardonic smile and he dropped his hand casually into his pocket. Maybe he thought I was dumb or something. I was just as casual when I flicked open the buttons of my nice new jacket and slouched back against the wall.

"What do you want, shamus?"

"You, greaseball."

"You think I'm easy to take?"

"Sure."

He kept on grinning.

I said, "I went up to the redhead's room last night. What were you looking for, Feeney?"

I thought he'd shake apart, he got so mad. There was a crazy light going in his eyes. "There was a comb on the floor by the window. When you doubled over to get out it dropped out of your pocket. That comb you just picked up."

He yanked his hand out of his pocket and the partially opened blade of the knife caught on cloth and snapped into place. I had my jacket off one arm and flipped it into his face. For a second it blinded him and the thrust missed my belly by an inch. He jumped back, then came in at me again, but my luck was better. The knife snagged in the jacket and I yanked it out of his hand.

Feeney Last wasn't easy. He ripped out a curse and came into me with both fists before I could get the coat all the way off. I caught a stinger on the cheek and under the chin, then smashed a right into his face that sent him reeling back to bounce off one of the columns. I tore the sleeve half off the jacket shucking it, and rushed him. That time I was a damn fool. He braced against the pillar and lashed out with a kick that landed in my gut and turned me over twice. If I hadn't kept rolling, his heels would have broken my back. Feeney was too anxious; he tried it again. I grabbed his foot and he landed on the stone flooring with a sickening smash.

No more chances. I could hardly breathe, but I had enough strength left to get a wristlock and make him scream with pain. He lay like that, face down and yelling, while I knelt across his back and dragged his hand nearly to his neck. Little veins and tendons stretched in bas-relief under his skin, and the screams died to a choking for air.

"Who was she, Feeney?"

"I dunno!"

The arm went up another fraction. His face was bleeding from pressing it into the stone. "What were you after, Feeney? Who was she?"

"Honest to God... I dunno. God... stop!"

"I will... when you talk." A little more pressure on the arm again. Feeney started talking. I could barely hear him.

"She was a whore I knew from the Coast. I went up there and fell asleep. She stole something from me and I wanted it back."

"What?"

"Something I had on a guy. He was paying off and she stole it. Pictures of the guy and a broad in a hotel room."

"Who was the redhead?"

"I swear it, I dunno! I'd tell you, only I dunno. Oh, God, oh, God!"

For the second time Feeney fainted. I heard footsteps behind me and looked up to see the two workers standing there in coveralls. One had a newly smashed nose and a black eye and he was carrying a stonemason's hammer. I didn't like the way he held it.

"You in on this, chums?"

The guy with a black eye shook his head. "Just wanted to make sure he got it good. He's a wise guy... too quick to use his hands. Always wants to play boss. If we weren't getting plenty for this job we would have chucked it long ago." The other agreed, with a nod.

I stood up and pulled on what remained of my new suit, then picked Feeney up and hoisted him on my shoulder. Just across from my car was a newly opened grave with the canopy up and chairs all set, waiting for a new arrival. I leaned forward and Feeney Last dropped six feet to the bottom of the grave and never moved. I hoped they'd find him before they lowered the coffin, or somebody was going to get the hell scared out of him.

The gate-keeper came to the side of my car as I was pulling out to say a friendly word and be complimented on his handiwork. He took one look at me and froze there with his mouth open. I put the car in gear. "Mighty unfriendly corpses you have in this place," I said.