Mike Hammer--King of the Weeds Page 18

  I said nothing and neither did Velda. And the sky’s only comment was a muffled grumble.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  By three in the morning, we knew that Pat had made it through surgery and that his odds had improved to fifty fifty. He was in an induced coma and would stay there for several days… if he made it that long.

  The doctor in charge didn’t reveal such information lightly—I had to convince him that I was as close to next-of-kin as Pat Chambers had. Over the years Pat had been engaged three times but had never married any of the women, since each came to understand that he was already wedded to his job. His only brother had died in Korea and his folks were long gone.

  “Doctor,” I asked him, “were you in the service?”

  “Vietnam. Medical Corps.”

  “Pat and I were in combat together in the Pacific. That brother enough for you?”

  It was.

  Velda and I somehow made our way back to her apartment and were so exhausted, we slept in till eight. She made us a bacon-and-eggs breakfast while I stood at a window with a cup of coffee, looking out on another cold gray day, the rain taking an intermission for now. People died on all kinds of days, but this one seemed made for it.

  Later I sat sipping my second cup of joe and said, “I’m not sure what’s coming up in the hours ahead, doll. Why don’t you dress for the country.”

  She knew what I meant, and when she returned from the bedroom she was in an olive jumpsuit with running shoes.

  “How’s this?” she asked, holding her hands out presentation style. “I’m afraid I look like a commando.”

  “If that’s what commandos looked like,” I said, “I would have stayed in the army.”

  Instead of going to the office, I hustled Velda into a cab that we took over to Thirty-Fourth Street, then got quickly out and grabbed another cab and headed to a nondescript Midtown building and a very private office where Velda had never visited. She knew something was up without asking, seeing me go through the routine of fouling up anybody following us with that two-cab shuffle.

  Bud Langston ran a strictly one-man operation. There was not even a receptionist to greet us as we entered a small office dominated by computers and monitors sitting on counters that surrounded a central area given over to a file-cabinet book-ended desk with neatly arranged paperwork, several phones, and no computer station at all. A high-backed wheeled stool made each counter’s work area accessible, while an adjacent room was a laboratory set-up, where Bud had his real fun.

  Bud’s computer programming business was more than just a cover, but he made his real money from a secret D.C. bureau. He was a world-class inventor and the research that went on in that modest lab had saved lives around the globe… and ended some.

  There was nothing special about the way he looked. He was one of those medium guys—medium height, weight, build, his round face made rounder by the echo of dark round-framed glasses. His mousy-brown hair was cut short and balding on top, where it was coming in spottily like grass trying to grow on fallow soil. He wore a white smock, which meant he planned to be working more in the lab today than on the computer side.

  “Thanks for seeing me at short notice,” I said to him, shaking his hand.

  “No problem, Mike,” he said. His voice was medium, too, somewhere between a second tenor and a baritone. He beamed at the lovely woman at my side. “You’re Velda. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  Her forehead frowned as her mouth smiled. “Haven’t we met…?”

  “Good memory,” he said to her with a boyish grin. “I sat next to you and Mike at Lincoln Center when they performed the Ring Cycle, oh… must have been ten years ago.”

  She said, “That’s not Wagner,” referring to the classical music playing at a low, soothing volume in the background.

  “Can’t work to Wagner,” he said with a shy smile and shrug.

  “That’s Liszt, you uncouth type,” I told her. “Listen, Bud—we’re on the firing line. Both of us. That high-tech lightweight body armor you loaned me, last year—you still got that handy?”

  He frowned, nodded. “I do. Need it again?”

  “Yeah. Pat Chambers got clipped last night.”

  His frown deepened and he shook his head. “I heard that coming in today on the radio. Terrible.” His eyes narrowed. “That’s right, you two are tight, aren’t you? Sorry, Mike. Never met the man, but what a reputation he has.”

  I pressed on: “Bud, is there any way we can get Velda one of those special vests, too?”

  He looked her up and down but not in the way most men did. “I think I have just the thing. Come with me.”

  We followed him into the lab.

  The material in question was not one of Bud’s own creations, though it was as amazing as anything he’d ever come up with. The very lightweight mesh was a modern-day take on chain mail, and made Kevlar feel like a suit of armor. The light, flexible fabric was an offshoot of research into metal mesh designed for scuba divers as shark protection.

  The inventor went to a closet and came back with what might have been a long-sleeved T-shirt on a hanger. He held it before me and said to Velda, “The surprising lightness of this metal fabric isn’t its only benefit. Most body armor leaves your arms open to bullet wounds. This gives you protection to the wrist and below the waist. I arranged this one for Mike last year, so that this flap comes up between the legs and fastens with Velcro. Slick, huh?”

  “Very,” she said. “You can do the same for me?”

  “Don’t have to. The first one I made came out too small for Mike. It’s all I have left of the material, but I can make some alterations if need be.”

  “Now he’s a tailor,” I said. “What kind of needle are you going to use, a laser beam?”

  “Nothing so high-tech,” he said, and nodded to a workbench across the lab. “Acetylene torch.”

  I said, “Not while she’s in it you aren’t.”

  “No worries, Mike. We’ll just take measurements.”

  Velda asked, “Is the material difficult to produce?”

  Bud turned to her. “Right now, I don’t know how to produce it. The young inventor responsible died under somewhat suspicious circumstances, and several of his suppliers did as well. It’s expensive stuff to contrive and he only made a few sample swatches for demonstration purposes.”

  I asked, “Didn’t the government balk at the price?”

  Bud nodded. “And he went back to the drawing board to try to bring down the cost, but in the meantime I think somebody may have spent money keeping this miracle product off the market. Or perhaps he did die accidentally—he was working with very critical materials when the blast took out his lab. But that doesn’t explain the several related ‘accidental’ deaths.”

  Velda asked, “How did you end up with even a limited amount of the stuff?”

  Bud’s smile was bittersweet. “The young genius and I were members of the same diving club. Our lockers were next to each other, and he’d been trying the material out in the club pool. After he died, I admit I helped myself to it. He’d told me all about it, and I was obviously interested.”

  She felt the mesh-armor shirt he was holding out, as if she were in a boutique, testing the feel of fabric. “I remember this stuff from when Mike used it last year. Such a satin-like texture. Bud, you could make a fortune.”

  “If those deaths were due to industrial espionage,” Bud said, “I don’t need to get myself killed picking up where my late peer left off. Maybe one of these days I’ll hire Mike to look into it. But not now.”

  He handed me the mesh shirt on its hanger and went back to the closet and came back with a second, smaller-looking long-sleeved affair also on a hanger. He presented the shimmering garment to Velda and pointed her to the rest room. Several minutes later, she returned, smoothing out her jumpsuit, giving us a smile and a shrug.

  “Fits fine,” she said.

  “I’m pleased,” Bud said.

  I said, “Don’t lie, pal.
You’re disappointed you don’t get to measure her for the alterations.”

  His smile crinkled his chin and his glasses bobbled on his nose. “Would have been a first for me, got to admit. I don’t do a lot of fittings in this place. Mike, you’re a little heavier than you were last year. You came here straight from a doctor’s care, if I remember right. Get into yours, too, would you? I might need to let it out with that torch.”

  And he pointed to the rest room.

  I did as I was told, and it fit fine.

  “We’ll leave these on,” I said, “and bring them back when we’re out of the woods.”

  “Maybe I should let you have them,” Bud said with a frustrated smirk. “That way I won’t be tempted to get myself killed by developing that stuff, and taking it to market.”

  I leaned against a counter. “Something else I wanted to ask you about, Bud. Nothing to do with this body armor, really. It’s related to this rash of cop fatalities.”

  Bud frowned and nodded. “Awful thing. You may think I’m a kook for saying so, but I suspect something nastier than coincidence is going on there. Call me a sap for going along with the tabloid alarmists if you like, but I think a serial killer is at work.”

  “So do I,” I said. “But why do you think so?”

  “Well, I’ve dealt with a lot of spook types, Mike. I’ve designed some fairly nasty things for the C.I.A. I can’t be more specific, but it’s put me in contact with some deadly people. These espionage types are brilliant and damn tricky and as manipulative as hell. There’s a word nobody uses anymore—diabolical. That’s what they are, Mike—diabolical.”

  I frowned at him. “A spy isn’t behind these deaths, Bud.”

  “No, but someone with that kind of mentality is. I don’t believe it would be difficult to arrange accidents by knowing the habits, the patterns, of intended victims. Those officers killed both on duty and off duty were likely driving home on a regular route or walking beats that were entirely predictable, based on their normal behavior. Assassins working for the government use that kind of intel routinely.”

  I nodded and tried another angle. “What about causing coronaries or other deaths by apparent natural causes?”

  I had in mind the jogger who’d had a heart attack.

  He waved that off. “Child’s play. That’s been around forever, Mike. You know some of the ways the C.I.A. tried to whack Castro, don’t you? Poisoned wetsuit, exploding conch shell, bacteria-laced hanky, exploding cigar, you name it.”

  Velda said, “Sounds like slapstick comedy.”

  “Slapstick tragedy is more like it,” Bud said. He frowned, raised a finger. “Here—let me show you something from my archives. These don’t date back to Castro days—these are currently in-use tools of spy tradecraft. Just don’t ask me whether or not I developed any of them…”

  He went to a drawer and unlocked it. From there he began displaying items in sealed plastic bags. “This ballpoint pen has a hypodermic needle with a point so fine, the victim receives a dose of deadly poison without even knowing it.”

  “Mightier than the sword,” I muttered.

  Bud withdrew another plastic bag. “This contaminated cigar… not the exploding one they tried on Castro… has a poison that provides instant death when heated and introduced into the lungs. Ten minutes after death, there’s no trace. Autopsy says heart attack, any examination of the remainder of the cigar shows nothing. Pack of Luckies here, same deal, and no surgeon general warning covers it. How about this innocent bottle of aspirin? These are the new improved variety with a secret ingredient—an explosive that detonates when triggered by stomach acid. If you take two, you won’t be calling the doctor in the morning. Here’s a new model of an oldie but goodie—this fake folded-up umbrella has a trigger that doesn’t spread itself but instead fires a small poisoned and very fatal dart. And this tube of lipstick… perfect for you, Velda… is a 4.5 millimeter single-shot weapon.”

  “But does it come in Drop Dead Red?” Velda asked, tugging at her jumpsuit unconsciously.

  Bud glanced at her with a frown. “That thing’s riding up on you, isn’t it? Bunching up. Let’s have a look.”

  So he got to take her measurements, after all, though we stayed well across the lab while Bud in his goggles used the small acetylene torch at his work counter to make the minor alterations.

  * * *

  We were in the office by ten-thirty. I sat behind my desk and studied the card that Roger Buckley had given me that included his number at the local Treasury Department office but had his cellular phone circled.

  He answered on the second ring. “Buckley,” he said.

  “Hammer,” I said.

  “Well, good morning, Mr. Hammer. Have you made a decision about Uncle Sam’s offer?”

  “I have.”

  “What’s the verdict then?”

  “Pick me up in front of the Hackard Building at two o’clock. Come alone.”

  “Are we going somewhere?”

  “Like they used to say in the gangster pictures, we’re going for a ride.”

  “That sounds rather ominous, Mr. Hammer.”

  “Then come armed if you like. I will be.”

  I hung up.

  Moments later, Velda slipped in sporting a curious arched eyebrow. Half-closing the inner-office door, she said quietly, “We’ve got an intriguing pair of walk-ins.”

  “Too busy today, doll. No time for new clients. Give them a time next week.”

  But she was already shaking her head, raven arcs swinging like lovely scythes. “You’ll want to see these two. Interesting-looking couple of kids.”

  “Velda…”

  “Amy and Nick Brogan.”

  “…Brogan?”

  “Yup. Henry Brogan’s grandkids, or so they claim.”

  I waved for her to let them in, then said, “You better sit in on this. Hit the recorder out there, so you don’t have to take notes.”

  She nodded, and then moments later ushered them in. Willowy but shapely, Amy Brogan was in a crisp white blouse with black slacks that would have said she was a waitress even if she hadn’t absent-mindedly left the little AMY name-badge on her breast pocket. Her black hair was short and curly and her lipstick was almost black, too. Skinny Nick Brogan was in a black CBGB’s T-shirt, frayed jeans and tennies. He had curly black hair about as long as his sister’s, which gave them the unnerving look of twins, though they clearly weren’t. Both were slender and attractive in a ragged way, with not a trace of rat-eyed Henry Brogan evident in their faces. Both were in their early twenties.

  They were nervous, even anxious, and came right to me before I’d even had a chance to rise. They thrust slender hands at me simultaneously and I shook them one at a time—gentleman that I am, I went with Amy first.

  “Have a seat, kids,” I said, gesturing. I was half-way up and on my way back down. “Please. What can I do for you?”

  Velda guided them into the two client chairs, and then got herself the spare from against a wall. She angled herself so that her attention was on our visitors, her pleasant, even bland expression hiding the microscope-like scrutiny she was giving them.

  They were both energetic and clearly upset. They started talking at the same time, then Nick put his hands up as if in surrender and let his sister have the floor.

  “Mr. Hammer,” Amy said, in a husky second soprano that carried considerable appeal, “I apologize for barging in on you. It’s just that… everything’s been so sudden. And I’m supposed to go in for work at eleven, and—”

  “Take a breath,” I said, and did so myself. “I assume this has to do with your grandfather’s death.”

  They both nodded.

  Nick picked up. “We have no illusions about what kind of person our grandfather was. Our mother died when I was six and Amy was eight. He owned that building he was living in, and it was an even bigger shithole then, but that’s where we grew up.”

  “Your mother had an apartment there?”

  Nick
nodded, but this time Amy went on: “Henry… I’m afraid we never called him ‘Grandpa’ or ‘Gramps’ or anything warm and fuzzy like that… Henry put us into the foster home system. We both bounced around there. Nick and I didn’t see each other again until after he graduated high school.”

  Nick said, “Despite dumping us, Henry wasn’t all bad. He stayed in touch, and he provided money to our various foster parents, and directly to us, on holidays and birthdays. He even put Amy through college. He would’ve done the same for me, but I dropped out to play my music.”

  “You’re a musician.”

  He nodded. “Yeah. I work steady. I have a band that’s doing okay. We may get a record deal, if… but it’s always touch-and-go in that business.”

  “And I’m an actress,” Amy said. Her smile was embarrassed. “Yes, we’re both in the arts, Mr. Hammer, which isn’t the smartest thing, we know. But when we moved back to the city… Nick, you tell this part.”

  Nick nodded and took the ball. “We went to see Henry at his building in the Bowery. We thanked him for all he did for us over the years, and he got weepy saying he wished he could have done more, wished he could’ve raised us himself, but he just couldn’t do it, an old man alone.”

  Amy, with a smirk, said, “He wasn’t that old when we were growing up.”

  Nick continued: “But you have to give him credit for trying, anyway. An apartment had opened up in that building of his, and he offered it to us. Amy and I still are rooming there right now. It was the pits, but we cleaned it up and—”

  “Never mind that, Nick,” Amy said. “Mr. Hammer, our grandfather made it clear to us that we were going to inherit that building. And you know, dump that it is, it’s gonna go for big bucks one of these days. That whole area is getting refurbished, you know.”

  Nick said, “It’s worth money now, but we would probably sit on it. Couple of years, who knows?”

  She sat forward. “But there’s more to it than that. Henry said… and this is the exact phrase he used… ‘After I’m gone, you and your brother are never going to have to worry again. You can be an actress and your brother can be a rock and roller and you’ll have all the cushion anybody would ever need.’”