The Big Bang

Chapter Two

DORCHESTER MEDICAL COLLEGE was an old, reputable, well-funded institution that specialized in rare-disease research. It was housed in two baronial-style mansions joined by a modern white-brick structure on the upper edge of Manhattan, quietly exclusive and staffed with the finest minds available courtesy of generous endowments from several giant corporations.

The nurse at the personnel desk had received her own generous endowments, but no corporations had been involved. Her hair was red-blonde and her freckled nose was almost as cute as her long-lashed blue eyes, which she batted at me when I made my inquiries.

Seemed she didn't usually give out information about employees, and unlike some people, she didn't mistake the ID card and badge for a city cop's. But the name on the ID made her eyes widen.

"I saw in the papers what happened to Billy," she said, and the blue eyes spiked with indignation. "It's all anybody around here is talking about today."

"I bet."

"It's lucky you were there. On the scene. You're a real hero, Mr. Hammer."

"Maybe, maybe not, but I'm doing follow-up and wanted to get some background on Billy."

She almost frowned. "As I said, we don't usually give out information about employees, Mr. Hammer...."

"That's a shame."

She fluttered some more. "But you are sort of almost a policeman, aren't you?"

I leaned a hand on her desk. "I never heard it put better."

Then she fetched the file on William R. Blue, age 17, and the rear view while she fished in a filing cabinet was worth the trip. She allowed me to copy down the kid's local address with references from school, clergy, and neighborhood shopkeepers.

Billy Blue was engaged in part-time work on weekdays, with a full day on Saturday, and he always accepted overtime if it was asked of him. There were no complaints from his supervisors and in seven months he had only taken off one day, for a dental visit. He had started with light janitorial work, moved into the dietary kitchen, then got assigned to Dr. David Harrin, chief of staff at nearby Saxony Hospital, who regularly taught at Dorchester.

I asked the nurse, "What does he do for Dr. Harrin?"

"Everything from sterilizing equipment to delivering supplies. The doctor has taken a rather personal interest in Billy, after seeing how enthusiastic the young man is about his job. Billy works very hard at his studies, too."

"But he's not a student here at Dorchester—he's still in high school...?"

"That's right, but Dr. Harrin took the boy under his wing. He's a nice kid, Billy, and I think Dr. Harrin sees a lot of potential in him."

I gave her a lopsided grin. "It's nice to know there are still some people like that around."

A touch of concern creased her brow. She lowered her voice as if sharing a secret: "Well, you know, the doctor lost his own son two years ago. The boy died of a heart attack a short while after a track meet."

"Damn," I said. "That's rough."

She nodded. "Especially so, what with Dr. Harrin being widowed a year earlier. His wife was killed in an automobile accident on Long Island. I imagine he feels a kinship with Billy, since the boy's an orphan himself. Did you know Billy practically supports his grandparents?"

I handed the file back to her. "Doesn't sound like Billy's exactly a problem child. But I just like to check everything out."

The blue eyes widened. "You could talk to Billy."

"I plan to."

"Or his friends at the high school..."

"Naw, that's not worth the bother. You know how it is. They're usually reluctant to say anything about other kids."

"How well I know. I have a sister that age."

"There's more at home like you?"

She didn't have a reply for that, just a smile. Then she glanced at her watch and said, "Billy and Dr. Harrin are quite close—you might want to speak to the doctor. You'll probably find him in the staff cafeteria about now." She pointed to one side. "Up those stairs and first door on the left."

"Appreciate it," I said.

"Any other information I can provide?"

"Nope."

But she gave me more info just the same, by way of her phone number.

I took the slip of paper and thanked her for it, but I'd pitch it. Not that a redhead like her couldn't soothe my pains, but if Velda ran across that scrap of paper, I'd need a doctor not a nurse.

Up in the cafeteria, a gnome-ish waitress in a hairnet who didn't exactly spark my appetite pointed out Dr. David Harrin. Though he sat hunched over a coffee by a window, he was clearly a tall man. He had a distinguished air and a bony, Lincolnesque physique. At the moment, he was studiously going over some handwritten notes in a spiral pad.

When I approached, the white-haired, bespectacled physician looked up and I knew at once that he, too, wasn't the kind you could fake out with a state license and a metal badge. His eyes were a washed-out blue, set in a firm, friendly face that had looked upon life and death a thousand times, searching for answers to ten thousand baffling questions.

"Dr. Harrin?"

"Yes?"

"I'm Mike Hammer."

He stood up and held out his hand, and I took it—there was a secure, tensile strength in his grip.

His smile was quick and genuine. "Ah, yes. The celebrated Mr. Hammer. Hero of the hour, and star of a dozen tabloid tales."

That was delivered in good humor, so I just said, "Guilty as charged."

"Sit down, Mr. Hammer, please. Coffee?"

Before I could answer, he signaled to a perky little waitress who was filling coffee cups and water glasses, and she nodded and went off to do his bidding.

Then he pulled his chair around so he could face me.

"I'm very happy you dropped by," he said. "It's a pleasure and a privilege to have you where I can thank you in person for helping Billy out of that jam."

"No trouble."

"I would think a world of trouble. Society has a way of punishing good Samaritans."

I'd been called a lot of things in my time, but good Samaritan wasn't one of them.

The doc was saying, "I hope you won't be having any difficulty yourself, with the, uh, messy aftermath."

"No," I assured him, "I'm clear. There were too many witnesses and, anyway, those punks had plenty of strikes against them already. How's Billy?"

His smile was one of relief. "Strictly bruises, lacerations, and a badly sprained ankle from that fall he took when the car swiped him. I'm making him stay at Saxony another couple of days—he doesn't relish the idea, but doctor's orders are, as they say, doctor's orders."

"Rank's got its privileges, all right."

The coffee came and we both thanked the perky little gal. This one was cute enough that the hairnet didn't defeat her.

As I stirred some cream and sugar in, I said offhandedly, "Billy mention why those clowns went after him?"

He looked up with a thoughtful squint. He reminded me of somebody—the actor John Carradine, maybe?

"Mr. Hammer, I'd say they were after his money. He'd just been paid, you know. Must it be anything more sinister than that?"

"No. That's sinister enough."

His eyebrows, which were as black as his hair was white, rose high. "The same thing happened twice last month to an orderly and a nurse. Open, daylight muggings by apparent narcotics addicts."

"What does Billy have to say on the subject?"

"He doesn't. He couldn't give any reason for the attack at all." Harrin made a wry gesture that was matched by his facial expression and said, "It doesn't matter much now, does it? That is, thanks to your quick action, Mr. Hammer. Two are dead and the other one is under arrest, and in critical condition."

"There are plenty more shitheels where they came from."

His look turned grave. "And we get them at Saxony, poor wretches."

"You feel sorry for them?"

"Not for them. For the human beings they once were."

"You know kids—they think they're going to live forever."

He said nothing, and I realized what I'd said.

"Sorry, Doctor. I know you lost your son. That's a hurt that doesn't go away. Sometimes I'm a tactless bastard."

He hardly seemed to be listening. But then he said, "Mr. Hammer, it's these times, these changing times. There are things about them that are positive—freedom of expression, that's a good thing. Certain shackles of society need to fall away."

"I kind of dig this sexual revolution myself."

"I would imagine. From what I understand, Mr. Hammer, you may have fired the first shot."

We both smiled at that, but then the doc said, "It's these narcotics that are the most troubling. A kid smokes a little marijuana, and really what's the harm? Jazz musicians have been doing it for years."

Couldn't argue with that.

"But it's a minor high, Mr. Hammer. Don't believe this nonsense about 'gateway' drugs. It's not the drug that intrinsically leads to harder stuff. It's the urge, perhaps a natural one in a young person, to experiment, to seek a, well, higher high. And now we're finding teenagers, teenagers, Mr. Hammer, addicted to heroin."

"Thanks to the bastards who sell them the stuff."

His shrug was eloquent in its sorrowful resignation. "I'm afraid it's a vicious circle almost impossible to break. Nothing seems to deter this idiotic need for thrills that inexorably leads the immature to a slow and sure death. It becomes so important, the users will even kill to obtain it ... or perhaps I should say, kill while it's using them. More coffee?"

"Sure. That's my drug of choice—caffeine."

"And I would imagine beer is another one."

"Guilty again."

His smile was world-weary. "But you are an adult, Mr. Hammer. You can make these choices. Our children can't."

I cut my sigh off with a grunt. "Too bad somebody doesn't wipe out all the dealers and the traffickers, way on up the ladder. But even I only have so many bullets."

He laughed at my kidding-on-the-square, and said, "You know, Mr. Hammer..."

"Mike."

"Of course ... Mike, you did a bigger service than you knew when you stopped that attack. Greater than just removing a couple of minor drug dealers."

"How's that?"

"The antibiotic Billy was delivering was something we had just developed. The police car that got it to the clinic arrived with about ten minutes' grace to save a woman's life."

"How did the cops know to deliver the stuff?"

"Billy remembered it when he gained consciousness in the emergency room."

I shook my head. "He's in a world of hurt, and his first thought is that? This is a kid I'd like to meet. I could use a boost in my opinion of the human race about now."

His smile was wide but thin. "Good. I know Billy would like to thank you personally." His eyes went up to the wall clock. "You know, I'm about to go over there myself, if you'd care to join me. It's only a two-block walk to the hospital."

"Fine."

He rose. "Then let's go up to my office so I can change."

We took the service elevator to the fourth floor of the east wing, where Dr. Harrin showed me into his modest office. He smiled when he saw me surveying the simple layout—a desk, two chairs, filing cabinet, and washstand. The only wall hangings were framed parchment scrolls, each with a one- or two-line quotation, from Admiral Dewey's " Keep Cool and Obey Orders" to Marie Antoinette's "Let Them Eat Cake." A couple were in Latin, which I flunked, but another said, "The king can do no wrong," coined by somebody who never heard of Lyndon Johnson.

"Not a very pretentious place," the doctor told me. "Here, space is too valuable to waste on large, lavish offices. This is where I hang my hat, and do a little paperwork. If we had time, I'd give you the grand tour."

"Of a medical college? No thanks. I wouldn't want to walk in on a cadaver getting cut up or anything."

"Who knows, Mike? Maybe you provided it."

I grinned, shrugged, and pointed to the framed items. "What's with the wall hangings?"

He traded his white smock for a suit coat and joined me at the wall, snugging his tie.

"A hobby of mine," he said. "Famous quotations and slogans, all pertinent to some phase of my life or some belief or even phobia of mine." He indicated the one at the far left. "My father gave me the first of these when I was ten."

I moved down and had a look at the faded yellow sheepskin with its flowery script: "The man who says it can't be done is interrupted by the man who did it."

"Anonymous," I said. "My favorite poet."

"And a sentiment apropos to practically any situation," he said, tapping the glass with a forefinger. "Remembering that simple phrase helped me earn my way through college and medical school. Whenever I think something is impossible, I just repeat that line to myself, and keep on."

"There are worse philosophies of life," I said. "So where does Marie Antoinette fit in?"

He moved to that framed phrase and stared at it wistfully before saying, "During the Second World War, three of us were sprawled in a trench. I was a medic and my patient had just died. I was griping about having to eat K rations. The other survivor looked at the mangled body beside me and said, 'Oh yeah? Like that French broad said, "Let 'em eat cake."' Rather put things into perspective. From then on, I often brought to mind those words, and that time. Somebody is always worse off than you are."

"True," I said, "though sometimes I wonder. But to me, Doc, that phrase has another meaning."

"Really? And what is that?"

He was expecting a wisecrack, but this is what he got: "Something can happen that wakes a sleeping giant. Sometimes it's an event, the Alamo, Pearl Harbor. Sometimes it's one individual, Churchill talking about blood, sweat, and tears, or your French broad saying, 'Let 'em eat cake.' But right after, the shit hits the fan."

He studied me with a thoughtful smile, then walked back to the desk and picked up a corrugated wrapper and slid out another framed slogan, holding it up for me to see.

"Here's my latest acquisition, Mike—'Caveat emptor.'"

"Let the buyer beware." Even my Latin covered that. "What consumer advocate magazine are you subscribing to?"

"Actually, this is a gift from my colleague and friend Dr. Sprague. He considers me something of an impulse shopper—he's trying to cure me of my bad habits through my own psychological devices."

"Will he succeed?"

"That," he said cheerfully, "is about as likely as me convincing Dr. Sprague to mind his own business.... Come on, Mr. Hammer ... Mike. Let's go see Billy."

***

His right eye was black, the side of his boyish face skinned up, one arm wrapped in bandages from wrist to shoulder, and his swollen ankle taped and propped on a pillow.

Dr. Harrin gave him a warm smile, and said, "You look lousy, Billy," and when the dark-haired kid chuckled through his sore mouth, the doc checked the damaged areas and nodded approvingly.

"This is no worse," he told the kid, "than something you might get playing football."

"Yeah," Billy said, "on pavement maybe."

That made Harrin smile again. "Who's ever seen grass in the city, except perhaps apartment-house patios?" He gestured to me and I stepped forward, my hat in hand. "Billy, this is Mr. Hammer. He's the one who stopped those characters from jumping you."

I said, "Hiya, Billy."

"Hello, Mr. Hammer." He tried to straighten or sit up a little and the bed squeaked. "I'm just sorry it got so ... so out of hand."

He was giving me a strange look, his bright blue eyes trying to classify me for his uneasy mind, which couldn't find the right category.

Sharp, these kids. They live in this city, too, and can pick up on things—I knew what he was thinking because I had seen that same expression on other faces dozens of times before.

Who is this guy? Cop? Hood? Citizen?

The marks of each category had left their scars on me, but Billy couldn't locate the fence that divided them into their own specific compartments and it scared him because at his age, after what he'd just been through, he couldn't afford to make mistakes anymore.

Dr. Harrin said, "Mr. Hammer is a private investigator, Billy. He was a little concerned about you."

A small light of relief showed in the kid's eyes. "Hammer. Mike Hammer?"

"That's right."

"I heard of you. You're famous."

"Infamous, maybe."

Then his eyes clouded again. I got the message before he realized he'd sent it, and assured him, "I wasn't part of this, son. I wasn't tailing those druggies or anything. I just happened to be coming out of a building where I had a client, when it went down."

"I see." He was still holding back.

I shook my head. "A rough go, son. Who were those creeps?"

His eyes tightened, his forehead, too. "Mr. Hammer..."

Like the good-looking redheaded nurse had known, these kids don't talk about each other—it's worse than prison, the inmates not wanting to rat the other cons out.

And I didn't want to have to trip him up in a lie in front of the doctor, either, so I went right on: "Felton punk have it in for you, after that argument?"

Harrin's eyes tilted toward me curiously, then shot back to the boy in the bed. "Billy, I didn't realize you knew them...."

"Well..." The kid licked his lips and swallowed. "Herm Felton and Norm Brix ... they used to go to my school. They dropped out a long time ago. I hardly knew them at all."

I said, "They knew you though, didn't they?"

After a few seconds of strained hesitation, Billy nodded. "Yeah, I ... I guess so."

I pressed: "What did they want from you, Billy?"

He squirmed, not caring to look at either of us, his savior or his mentor.

Harrin said, calmly, coolly, "You can tell us, son. There's nothing to be afraid of. We're both on your side."

A sudden denial leaped into his eyes, then he saw my face and knew no bullshit would get by that puss, and it subsided quickly. Speaking to the doctor was easier than dealing with me, so he rolled his head over and looked at Harrin. "You won't get pissed, Doc?"

"Do I have reason to, Billy?"

"Maybe. That I ... didn't tell you before, I mean."

"No, I won't get angry with you, Billy."

The kid locked his lips and nodded, his face resigned. "Felton ... he knew I worked for you. Somebody told him I could go any place I wanted to, at the college." He stopped and waited, as if that explanation were more than enough.

It wasn't for the doc, who urged, "Go on, Billy."

"They wanted me to get them ... stuff. Cocaine and other drugs. From the medical supply cabinets? They said they'd pay me more snitching stuff for them in a day than I made working for you, Doc, in a month."

When neither Harrin nor I said anything, Billy added, "I told them to go ... sorry, Doctor, but I told them to go fuck themselves."

I smiled a little.

"But Felton ... he said he'd make me change my mind, and have a good time doing it."

I heard Harrin say under his breath, "Unregenerate bastards..."

I asked the boy, "Could you have done that for them, Billy? Were the drugs that accessible?"

The kid shook his head. "Not really. They didn't know what they were talking about. That didn't stop them from putting the squeeze on me, though."

Harrin turned his cadaverous gaze my way and said, "Mike, there are two keys to the lock on the medical supply room. Authorized personnel can check one out, the supervisor on duty has the other and accompanies everyone in. Inventory control is tight and security is first-rate. There was no way Billy could have gotten in there without getting caught pilfering. Dorchester, as a medical college, is not run like the usual public hospital."

I said, "Except those punks didn't know that."

"Apparently not," Harrin said.

Then he patted Billy's hand, straightened, and smiled. "Well, son, don't fret about any of this. I appreciate your attitude and I'm glad you took the stand you did. In the future, you come to me, if anything like this ever comes up ... understood?"

Billy's face brightened. "Understood, Dr. Harrin. And ... look, I'm really sorry."

"I'm sorry, too—that you got bashed up. Now you stay put until Dr. Sprague releases you. I'll only be gone for a week, and you can get back to work when I return."

"Then you are going?"

Harrin nodded, smiling. "Finally decided somebody might know more on a subject or two than I do, and that I'd better catch up." He glanced at me and explained, "Medical convention in Paris. Haven't been there since the war."

Billy, his voice lighter now, said, "See if you can snag me Bardot's autograph, would you, Doc?"

Harrin chuckled and patted the kid's arm. His affection for the boy was nice to see.

Outside the building the doctor put a hand on my shoulder. "Anything I can pick up for you in Paris, my friend?"

"When you're getting Bardot's autograph," I said, "tell Bebe her Mike misses her, okay?"

We exchanged grins, and I flagged down a cab to get me back to midtown. I gave the driver the address of the Blue Ribbon on West Forty-fourth Street and fired up the last butt from my pack of Luckies.

The city unwound past the window, the sidewalks sparse with people, the work force on trains heading home by now, the city enjoying its temporary lull before darkness settled in and the night people took over. Everything seemed peaceful enough.

But so does dynamite until somebody touches a flame to the fuse.

Pat finished his knockwurst, washed it down with a beer, and belched. "Damn, that was good."

"Sounds like it."

He smirked at me. "And I suppose you never belch, Mike?"

"Naw. I got too much class to belch in public."

"Yeah?"

"I fart instead."

Pat's face twisted sourly. "Man, you are one nasty piece of work."

"Which is why the dolls dig me. They go for Neanderthal types."

"That's the best explanation of your appeal I ever heard."

Two after-dinner coffees arrived, and Pat said, "Tell me you've been behaving yourself since last we met."

"What do you think?"

He took on that same old troubled look and he shook his head. "I thought I told you to lay off...."

"Hell, I was curious, Pat. I poked around a little bit. Can you blame me?"

"That's how it all starts with you, buddy. You get curious, then somebody gets suddenly dead. I don't know how it goes down, but it does go down, and then everything turns to shit. You make things work out so that you only get dirty around the edges, not enough to need a bath or anything, and me? I wind up having to go around holding hands and pacifying the damn politicos who are screaming for your head."

I just shrugged and said, "So what are friends for?"

"Balls," he scowled.

I changed the subject to improve his digestion, but somehow we got back again to those charmers who took Billy down. The one in the hospital still couldn't be interrogated, the docs said, and his condition hadn't changed any.

I asked, "Anybody going to look into the drug scene in that neck of the woods?"

"Mike, the narco squad is busy all over town. We haven't got enough manpower to bust every little pissin' pusher. Hell, you know how these courts are today—the kids say they're sorry and get their wrists slapped and are dropped right back onto the streets. The only way we'll ever control this beast is if we can figure a way to stop the flow of stuff into the country."

I shrugged. "If our government ever puts a financial squeeze on the countries growing the junk, we might just manage that."

"How, in God's name?" Pat tried his coffee and put it down when it was too hot. "Look at opium. They grow it legally, supposedly for medical purposes. They sell only so much straight, because they have to, and hold back the rest for the black market, where they triple their take. Hell, man, the growers are only poor farmers who don't know any better since they only handle the raw product. It's the ones processing the stuff into heroin and shipping it out who need to be nailed. But right now, old buddy? They have the large loot to make payoffs, and the political power to keep the lid on the racket."

I said, "It has to end sometime."

"Yeah. When the world does." He shifted in his seat. "Right now there's an alert out for a massive heroin shipment being held for delivery someplace on the European coast. The syndicate operation here, your old pals the Evello Family, seem to have a cute little operation for getting the stuff in that nobody's been able to figure. For the past six months, the stuff's been delivered in small lots until they're sure their new procedure is foolproof. Now they're ready to go for the big bang."

"Oh? How big?"

"About fifty million dollars big, when it's cut and hits the street."

I let out a low whistle. "Pretty big at that, chum. Adds up to a whole lot of needle marks."

"Shit," Pat spat out. "Whole lot of robberies, muggings, and murders, you mean. Whole lot of kids dead, not to mention your occasional decadent celebrity. You got a damn good look at it the other day."

"Nothing I haven't seen before."

"And don't give me your crap about stopping the traffic in drugs. There's too much money to be made. It can't be stopped." He searched my face and scowled again. "What's so funny about that?"

"Just something I read today. A slogan."

"Yeah?"

I repeated, "'The man who says it can't be done is interrupted by the man who just did it.'"

Pat looked up at the ceiling in total disgust. "Oh great, just great. Hit 'em with a slogan. That'll do it. That'll show the big boys."

"Maybe it will," I said.

His eyes came down slowly, watched me, got mad for a second, then he grunted through a sarcastic smile. "You're just talking, right?"

"You been doing most of the talking."

"You're not getting into this..." He was frowning so hard he was inventing new lines in his face. "You're not tilting at this windmill, are you, Mike?"

"What windmill?"

"Drugs. Narcotics. Junk. Shit."

"No," I said.

"No?"

"No. I talked to Billy Blue, he's resting up, healing up, the bad guys are dead or maybe dying. My work here is done."

Pat was studying me now, the way you do a junkyard dog that's just sitting there wagging its tail at you. "I wish I could believe you, Mike."

I wasn't kidding, but I knew there was no convincing him, so I let it go.

I had sat too long in one position and the wound on my side was feeling like leather drying in the sun, pulling everything in with it.

Pat offered to drive me back to my apartment, but I opted to walk, told him so long, and took off east on Forty-fourth Street at an easy lope.

At Sixth Avenue a pair of hookers in miniskirts and blouses that were all chest almost gave me a pitch, but turned it off after a second glance. Sometimes vice cops can even look like vice cops, and I grinned at them for giving me the benefit of the doubt.

"Business must be off," I said, waiting for the light, "if a couple dolls like you don't have any takers."

This was generous but not a total lie.

The brunette with the pretty, green-stockinged legs flashed me a smile. Either I was a native straight who knew the dodge, or a cop skipping the entrapment angle—making the first overture louses up the case for a cop when there's a witness around.

"Sometimes," she said, "I think I shoulda hung on to my fuckin' pimp."

I shook my head. "But that cuts the pie in half, cutie."

"Half a pie beats hell out of a whole cookie."

Wisdom is where you find it.

She took a risk. "You looking for some company?"

"Thanks. Not tonight."

She nodded, then indicated her friend. "The two of us, honey, we could turn this dull conversation into a real lively party...."

"I imagine you could."

The light changed to green and I winked and started across the street. On the opposite corner, another pair who'd gathered that I'd turned down the other gals didn't bother chasing this foul ball, and let me go by with barely a glance.

On Sixth Avenue I walked north, remembering the way the street used to look and trying to picture it after the city planners and developers would finally get through. The decay had taken hold twenty years ago, but instead of treating the rot and restoring the originality, they had decided to extract each structure, replacing the street's aging smile with architectural dentures that seemed to be trying to take a jagged bite out of the sky. In between, where the holes were, the decay still showed, the infection deadly—right down to the gums of the sidewalk.

When I reached Forty-ninth Street, I cut east again, threading my way through another parade of faded fun girls looking for the tourist dollar, and almost made the middle of the block without having to deal with any wilted flower's offer.

An ancient rose of thirty in a too-tight dress split up the middle to where her wares showed was about to fall in step with me; her unlit cigarette in its long, slender holder was the opening gambit for the "got a light" come-on.

But her eyes, which had seen too much already, suddenly reached behind me and widened just enough to touch off all those old reflexes and I twisted out of the way of the knife that was supposed to have gone into me, hit the guy on the shoulder to spin him my way, and smashed a fast right to his face that splintered his nose into fragments of bone and flesh, then got him twice more before he lifted off his feet and plopped into the gutter between parked cars.

I kicked the six-inch open switchblade knife over beside him and looked down at the mashed face bubbling with blood. My mugger was damn well-dressed—that was no off-the-rack suit he was wearing. But he was too slippery and red for me to walk away with a decent description, so I knelt and patted him down until I found his wallet, took out his driver's license and social security card, shoved the wallet back, and stood up to grin at the ancient rose.

She was wondering whether to puke and I was in no mood to help her decide, so I left her standing there, unable to take her eyes off the smeary human fingerpainting in the gutter.

No crowd had collected, nothing seemed to have upset the ecology or the decorum of the street. A few eyes looked and a few mouths spoke, but there was no change in the tempo. It was simply a moment of waiting to see what would happen next.

When I crossed the street, I didn't even bother to pick up the pace. I was in no hurry.

But I knew that what I'd told Pat was wrong—this wasn't over, not when a "mugger" in a tailored suit had tried to knife me. Billy might not need my help anymore, but somebody did.

A guy named Hammer, who person or persons unknown had decided needed killing.