Mike Hammer--King of the Weeds Read online

  “You won’t get the Pulitzer paying off sources.”

  “I’ve got three more recent graduates of Sing Sing who sing a similar song. Danny’s is the saddest, though. He’ll be the star of my piece.”

  “And Rudy Olaf’s the villain?”

  “You bet. Start to see a different picture getting painted now, don’t you, Mike? Rudy’s been King Shit inside for forty damn years… but now his honeybunch is deceased and he’s decided to retire to the outside world with a bundle of cash courtesy of the City So Nice he screwed it over twice.”

  A different picture indeed than the one Warden Ladd had provided of a low-key, well-adjusted model prisoner who all but ran the library.

  I finally tried the coffee and it was cold; I pushed it aside. “You need to go to Pat with this, Tim. You need somebody honest in the system to expose this corruption.”

  Tim waved that off. “Mike, I’m still investigating. My sources are credible by my standards, but a former-junkie-slash-dying-AIDS-patient like Danny would be simple enough to impeach. I’m probably three months away from publication, and, of course, that’ll put Pat out of the picture, anyway.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The upbeat attitude of a reporter with a scoop faded. His expression went cloudy and his voice became hushed, no enthusiasm in it at all.

  “Mike, that’s the other reason I wanted to see you. The bad news I mentioned on the phone. My sources at One Police Plaza and City Hall say Pat is out.”

  “What do you mean out?”

  “It’s apparently part of the deal with Olaf’s lawyer.”

  Rufus Tomlin.

  Tim was saying, “Seems Olaf does hold at least some grudge. The NYPD gets not to be embarrassed, and Captain Pat Chambers gets a forced early retirement.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  When I got back to the office, Velda handed me a phone memo with a name on it I didn’t recognize. “Who’s Frank Hellman?”

  Her eyebrows and shoulders went up and down. “New one on me, too. Mr. Hellman has a not inexpensive Wall Street address. I made a few calls and learned he’s a very successful, very discreet ‘financial advisor.’”

  “A broker?”

  “I don’t believe so. He sits on several boards of privately held companies. That’s as far as I got.”

  I went into my inner office, sat down and punched in the number off Velda’s slip of paper, got a receptionist and asked for Hellman. She wanted my name, but that’s all it took.

  In a few seconds a pleasant, well-modulated voice said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Hammer.”

  “Same to you Mr. Hellman,” I said. “You called my office earlier…?”

  “Yes, and thank you very much for returning my call. I would imagine my name doesn’t mean much if anything to you. But I can assure you I represent powerful people whose names you would recognize.”

  “Okay,” I said, noticing he didn’t share any of them with me.

  Cheerfully, he said, “I would like to see you as soon as possible if I may. Do you have time yet today?”

  “Rest of my afternoon is clear. You want to come by the office, or maybe meet for a drink somewhere?”

  Hellman paused for a moment, then suggested, “Do you know where the Canterbury Club is?”

  “Sure do.”

  “Would three o’clock be too soon?”

  “No, I can make that.”

  “See you then, Mr. Hammer. I appreciate this.”

  Curiouser and curiouser, as the little blonde in the Disney picture put it. The Canterbury was a British-themed gentlemen’s sporting club where I’d been a guest several times, though not recently.

  The members owned handcrafted, gold-inlaid, decoratively engraved shotguns that cost as much as a new car. These highfalutin weapons remained in pristine condition, never to be shot, strictly collector’s pieces serving as a membership requisite for the club. In the basement was a target range where the old Webleys came out—and late-model automatics and fine European pieces, too—for the venerable members to pop at targets for bragging rights, before re-boxing and storing them away.

  I tugged the new .45 from under my arm, checked it over, pocketed two extra clips from a desk drawer, and checked my watch.

  Moving through the outer office, I told Velda where I was headed and she jotted it down on her desk calendar.

  Before I went out, I asked, “Anything on those Bowery chess clubs?”

  “I have a call in to a woman researching a book on the cultural history of the Lower East Side. She’s a friend of a friend, who should be able to give us some preliminary answers, or at least lead me to somebody who can.”

  “Good. I’ll be back before we close up for the day. Then we’ll catch a bite somewhere.”

  Out the window the gray sky continued to hover like a damp blanket waiting to get wrung out.

  Looking in that direction, Velda said, “For some reason this dreary weather makes me long for the old Blue Ribbon and that wonderful German food.”

  “Live to be my age, doll,” I said, going out, “and you get to see all your favorite restaurants disappear… and your best friends, too.”

  * * *

  Here and there around New York City are reminders of a time going back before even the Good Old Days—nineteenth-century structures with brass plaques attached to their corners that attest to the stimulating history of the building and/or its occupants.

  The Canterbury Club was in a stately old mansion whose original owner signed the Declaration of Independence; somehow this city father had managed to keep his home out of the hands of developers or anybody else intent on spoiling this piece of the city’s inherited past. The imposing edifice was protected enough by stalwart masonry and its original granite structure to withstand the years, aided and abetted by the city’s Historical Preservation Society.

  No doorman guarded the exterior, but once inside I was greeted by a sturdy-looking guy in his late twenties in a carefully tailored suit. He apparently rewarded any unscheduled visitors with a frigid smile that asked what the hell you were doing here if you weren’t a member.

  He made a question out of “Good afternoon, sir” and held his hand out for an invitation, because that was the only way a non-member might be admitted. I flipped open my wallet and showed him my P.I. ticket and my permit to carry a concealed weapon.

  The smile on his lips did not thaw. He projected that peculiar combination of brawn and condescension usually reserved for trendy niteries.

  “That’s a private badge, sir,” he said, “and even if it weren’t, you would need a warrant.”

  I just looked at him, letting him suck eggs for a couple of seconds before saying, “Mike Hammer to see Mr. Hellman. He’s expecting me.” I didn’t take my eyes off his.

  “Mr. Hammer, I’ve heard of you. Frankly, I didn’t know you were still alive.”

  “Well, that’s the rumor.”

  “Mr. Hellman is here. But I’m afraid he did not leave word to admit you.”

  “Then check with Mr. Hellman.”

  “If he were expecting a guest, he would have informed me.”

  “You’ve got a phone there. Make a call.”

  He thought about that. “I’ll do that, but you’ll have to wait outside.”

  Those cold eyes were telling me that I had had my day and this wasn’t one of them. I was from a generation grown old and tired. We were slower and weaker and ready to fall, now that the new ones had come out of the shell.

  “I’m going in,” I told him, and started by.

  He gripped my shoulder. “No you’re not.”

  The greeter needed a lesson in civility, so I gave him one by way of a hard fist under his ribs and left him there, closed up like a jackknife as he gasped for air.

  I was about to go through the ornate portals and into the foyer of the club when an old fireman in a new suit pushed through. His hair was salt-and-pepper and his face still bore a few scars from that Fourteenth Street blaze ten years ago.
/>   His voice was as rough as freshly sawed timber. “How’s it going, Mike?”

  I said, “What’s a nice guy like you doing in a place like this, Darrell?”

  He brushed an imaginary crumb from his tailored suitcoat. “Good bucks, buddy, and damn easy duty. I was just on my way to let our watchdog know you were expected.”

  “You were a little slow off the starting block.”

  He was looking past me at the doubled-up kid, who was still struggling for his breath as he tried not to puke.

  I said, “Tell that kid to be careful who he lays hands on in future.”

  “Oh, I’d imagine he just picked up on that.”

  “A lot of guards at the gates, Darrell. Why all the security?”

  He took my hat and trenchcoat. “Old men who play with guns are a paranoid breed, Mike. Particularly rich ones.”

  Then the ex-fireman opened a fancy door and gestured toward an ornate single elevator.

  “Mr. Hellman is waiting for you. You know where the shooting room is?”

  I nodded, gave him a nice-to-see-you smile, got on the elevator, and pressed the bottom floor button.

  A gentleman’s gun club like this had a real attitude, even in the basement. The walls were decorated with hunting club paintings and royal infantry photos. No nudes—nothing so tasteless. Not even a trophy case—far too tacky. Furnishings were upholstered in old-style maroon plush like my grandmother had in her parlor. Unlike the latter, though, smoking was allowed here, everything from fancy cigars to lowly cigarettes in an atmosphere where tobacco and cordite mingled.

  The shooters were appropriately dressed—no shirt sleeves showing, no blue jeans, just fine woolens with accessories to match, and each pair of shooting booths had an attendant at hand, although with no apparent score-keeping. Maybe that was considered tacky, too.

  Most of the members shooting this afternoon were older men, probably retired, certainly wealthy. A number were British expatriates, as had been the founders of the Canterbury.

  But one very American-looking, impeccably tailored gent was tall and graceful and thin, though the kind of thinness that carried muscle and sinew. The way he held the Glock automatic and triggered off a half dozen fast ones, as if science had never invented recoil, meant that nobody need retrieve the target to confirm his shots were tightly bunched.

  I walked up to him and said, “You shoot like a real gangster, Frank.”

  He flipped the clip out of the Glock and said, “Well, that’s what they call Wall Street types like me nowadays, isn’t it?”

  “You and lawyers,” I said.

  He turned and gave me a boyish grin. He had to be in his early forties with a bare touch of gray in his temples that spoke of experience, while youthfulness, whether contrived or for real, was in there, too. He let it all flash at me for a brief second, courtesy of teeth that God or a great dentist had done a fine job on.

  He said, “If you’re going to call me ‘Frank,’ I’ll have to call you ‘Mike.’”

  “It’s a deal.”

  Something in his manner conveyed a silent animal message: I’m big, I’m strong, I’m fast, and I enjoy deadly engagements.

  “How did you know me, Mike?” he asked, reloading. “No one is on duty down here that you might ask.”

  “I just didn’t see anybody else who could be you.”

  He flashed the teeth again, pleased by my remark. “I guess you’ve had the time to hone your detective skills, at that.”

  “Which is a very polite way to call me an old fart, Frank.”

  His expression turned serious, though some amusement remained in the dark green eyes. “You carrying, Mike?”

  “Certainly. You don’t visit a nudist colony unless you’re ready to strip down.”

  That got a smile from him, but more sly than amused. He hit the button that returned his target, then removed it, angling it to let me see his tight cluster before slipping a fresh sheet into the hangers.

  When he rolled the fresh target back to the twenty-five-foot mark, where it had been when he fired off his rounds, he seemed about to shoot, but thought better of it. He stepped aside and nodded to me. “Be my guest, Mike.”

  Idiotic challenges like that amuse me. They are all show, and grown people should know better. Nothing was on the line except pride and since Frank Hellman had already racked up a perfect score, nobody could beat him.

  I unbuttoned my suitcoat and gave him a smile and a shrug.

  He never saw the .45 come out from under my left arm as the roar of the seven slugs seemed to be one big sound that was over as fast as it started. The fusillade was still echoing, despite all the sound baffling, as I hit the return button to bring the target back so Hellman could see the one fist-size hole smack in the center of the bull’s-eye.

  “Good shooting,” Hellman said with a slightly glazed smile.

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Good target shooting. Shooting and aiming a .45 automatic on a range is only a matter of practice. Doesn’t really count.”

  “Why not?”

  “Nobody’s shooting back at you.”

  He considered that for a moment, then asked, “Do you always carry a round in the chamber?”

  Now I let him have a grin. The one that showed off my teeth. “You’d better believe it, buddy. I’m not going to waste time jacking one in the chamber when the shit’s flying.”

  I reloaded and eased the gun back into the holster. A little Cagney shoulder move got it settled where it should be. He didn’t need to know that firing off those rounds had both my side and chest aching.

  Down the row, a pair of old gentlemen waited until we had moved away, then walked to our booth to inspect our respective targets with their impressive groupings. The old gents turned and looked at us and murmured something I didn’t catch, but they were obviously impressed. Like Nigel Bruce when Basil Rathbone made a monkey out of him.

  I said, “Now that show-and-tell is over, Frank, shouldn’t we sit down and talk? Maybe some place less noisy?”

  “I agree, Mike. Time to head upstairs.”

  A small under-lit area off the main dining room provided a place for members to discuss business with just the faintest piped-in classical-music backdrop. The tables were arranged for groups of four or two, discreetly separated to keep conversations private. We chose the smaller seating and gave a drink order to a quiet waiter who, despite an age rivaling the old boys downstairs, was quick to bring two highballs, several napkins, and a bowl of peanuts.

  I settled back in the comfortable leather chair, with its shell-like button-tufted back, and waited for Frank Hellman to break the ice.

  He made a silent toast that I ignored, sipped at his glass, then said, “Mike, may I assume you never heard of me before today?”

  I nodded.

  “There’s a reason for that. I provide a very high level of… insulation… for certain men of business who have unique needs. I serve on a number of boards of directors… this you will be easily able to confirm, as there’s nothing secret about the firms in question… and recently I was appointed CEO of one.”

  So I’d made it up a rung.

  I smiled, chuckled, and said, “You’re Rufus Tomlin’s client.”

  He drew in air, seemed to think about what to do with it, then let it out and said, “I am.”

  “And you have a client. The man or men behind the company over which you have recently been promoted CEO.”

  “Very good, Mike. Very astute.”

  “No, about average.” I tossed some peanuts in my mouth and chewed as I spoke. “You’re the high-end money-laundering guy. You are the final step up a ladder of turning dirty money into something clean enough to pay taxes on.”

  He didn’t deny it, but he said, “That would have been a more accurate statement had you made it ten or fifteen or even twenty years ago. So very many of the business interests I represent are entirely legitimate now.”

  “Sure. But money still comes
in from new foreign partners handling the old moneymakers—Asians, Russians, Colombians. You’re a guy in a thousand-dollar suit, Frank, in a very fancy old gentleman’s club, so respectable you squeak. That doesn’t mean you don’t get some oil when nobody’s looking.”

  He shifted in his chair. “Beyond the associations you refer to…”

  “The Five Families, you mean.”

  “…I am aligned with persons in high positions, quite influential and very active in civic affairs. Nothing illegal in the backgrounds or practices of any of these respectable individuals. If you go looking for dirt, Mike, maybe you’ll find, oh… a traffic ticket.”

  “Fixed?”

  He shook his head, smiled. “Paid for.”

  I picked up my drink and tasted it. Good whiskey. Great mix. I swirled the ice around and took another sip. Off-handedly, I said, “I’ve already spoken to Mr. Tomlin about those supposed eighty-nine billion bucks that rumor has me sitting on. What’s left to discuss?”

  Hellman shrugged rather elaborately. “The terms of our negotiation.”

  “Is that what we’re doing?”

  He leaned back in his chair and took another sip of his drink and tasted it a while before swallowing. “This rumor you refer to has inspired wild tabloid yarns, bandied about in the media as if it were the contemporary equivalent of the lost Dutchman’s mine.”

  “Maybe it is.”

  A hand painted a lazy picture in the air. “Think of it, Mike, a fabulous treasure that belongs to whomever finds it, since nobody can prove ownership… hidden where even the finest tracker dogs in the land can’t sniff it out… a location known only to one rather eccentric private investigator, who as it happens couldn’t care less about the big bucks.”

  “That’s a new one, Frank—eccentric. Not sure I like that.”

  “All right, then—we’ll call him a remarkable private investigator…”

  “Better.”

  “…who, should he allow that site to be examined, could name his own finder’s fee, and it would even be arranged in such a way that it could be legitimized. That means that he and any family or friends he might designate could enjoy that fortune, for many, many years to come. Because, you see, Mike… Mr. Hammer—the cash is a secondary concern.”