Don't Look Behind You Page 3

  When I finished, he said, “Damn, you young guys have all the luck. I haven’t had that kind of fun in I can’t remember when.”

  I about snorted Blue Ribbon out my nose. “Fun? Come off it, Smitty—when the bad guys zero in that close, it’s no fun at all.”

  “Bullshit, Mike. You can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy it.”

  “Killing a guy.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  Broad shoulders on a hard body gone somewhat flabby shrugged elaborately. “It’s just that you have no conscience… anyway, not that the rest of us could notice.”

  “Don’t kid yourself,” I said. “I got a conscience like anybody else.”

  “Maybe you got a conscience,” he said, with a tilt of his head, “but not like anybody else. How many people have you shot, anyway?”

  “Shot and killed, or just shot?”

  “Just the fatalities, man.”

  I waved that off. “Enough.”

  “See? A man with a conscience would know the number. How many women have you been with?”

  I grinned at him. “Not enough.”

  We both laughed at that.

  Then I put my smile away and said, “Anybody I took down had it coming, Smitty. People think I’m some kind of vigilante or executioner or some damn thing. But it’s always been a matter of survival with me.”

  Smitty’s eyes glinted. “Your style of survival, Mike, isn’t the usual kind. Maybe that’s what makes cops tick—them and firemen and other people in high-risk professions. Anybody can survive if they want to hide out in a cave all the time, never stick their nose out, let alone their neck. It takes a different breed to jump into an occupation that deliberately lowers the survival rate.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe hell.” His finger pointed at me past the beer can in his mitt. “When a guy goes looking for trouble, he can always find it. Put yourself in the trouble spots, and it will find you.”

  “Is that right.”

  “It’s right. Not just anybody can pull the trigger, even when the gun’s loaded and their life is in danger. But with you, it’s instinctive. And you even get a kick out of it. A real charge.”

  I took a long pull of the beer. “Quit psychoanalyzing me, Marion. It’s not your specialty.”

  Me razzing him with his name only made him grin broader.

  “Maybe I’m just envying you from behind this desk.” He swigged at his beer. “Anyway, society needs your type around. I’d just like to know why, when you seem well past your… youthful indiscretions, shall we say? Why somebody ups and puts out a contract on you.”

  “You got me, brother.”

  He was studying me through eyes set in pouches of fat. “Well, if you don’t know why, then there’s something awfully off-kilter about the notion. If getting you out of the way were a necessity, I could see it. But if somebody is playing a game, even if it’s a game of some old grudge, they’re taking a long chance… You sure you don’t have anything big shaking?”

  I finished the beer, put the empty on the desk and waved off another he was trying to force on me. “Maybe it was just mistaken identity.”

  “Guy stakes your office out for weeks and… oh. You’re just rattling my chain.”

  “Something like that. You don’t have to look so damn pleased that somebody tried to knock me off.”

  The bulldog puss split in a smile. “Why not? You make interesting entertainment for us put-out-to-pasture types. Anyway, as far as psychology goes, I’ve often wondered about you guys with no consciences.”

  “How about entertaining me?” I asked. “With this referral?” I tossed the letter he had sent me on the blotter in front of him. “And you can skip the fishing trip.”

  Smitty leaned back in his chair, grinned, shrugged, and said, “Good pay, easy work. We’re just not set up for it. Play watchdog for an afternoon and get a grand for your trouble.”

  “For a grand,” I said, sitting forward, “you can’t cover the place yourself?”

  He gave me a humorless grunt. “Ha. With the dough we make, that’d be a tax liability. Anyway, I could have shoved it off on one of our own legmen, but we don’t like ’em moonlighting when we pay their salaries… and besides, I thought it would be a hoot having you drop around for a briefing. A live one like you perks things up, once in a while.” He paused and fingered a cigar out of the silver humidor on the window sill behind him. “So, Mike? Want the job?”

  “Not particularly, but I could use the grand. What’s the pitch?”

  Smitty bit off the end of the cigar, lit it and coughed on the fumes he sucked in. “Leif Borensen. Ever hear of him?”

  I frowned in thought. “It’s a familiar name somehow. Did I see it on the end credits of a TV show as a producer or something?”

  “Bingo. He’s a local boy who went to L.A. and made good, twenty years or so ago. He was a lucky land speculator out there, picked up shares in several corporations on trading deals and one of them was a supposedly defunct production company. He got hold of some sharp production people who put it back on its feet and started making some cheap pictures—you know, monsters, juvies, sci-fi—and then made half-hour syndicated series for TV. He’s not exactly a Zanuck, more a one-man studio, but he’s successful enough… and most important, he pays his bills.”

  “Sounds like he’s used your agency before.”

  Smitty nodded. “We checked out personnel and company records for him on four different projects when he bought up corporations. He wasn’t aware we don’t handle personal stuff, like this bridal shower gig, so he just put his request through this office again.”

  “Maybe he won’t dig you not handling it personally.”

  “Client’s already okayed our recommendation,” Smitty said with a dismissive wave.

  He stopped, grinned again, rolled over to the little fridge on his swivel chair and came back opening another beer for himself.

  “In fact, Mike, he seemed pleased. He’s heard of you. Actually, you’re more in line with what he wants. A real gunslinger type.”

  “Nuts.”

  “Oh, I’m serious, Mike my boy. That bash for his fiancée will be strictly society stuff. All the jewels will be out. You’ll be sitting on top of enough silver to start your own mint, and if your luck holds, maybe it’ll attract a nice stupid burglar you can knock off and get your thrills and some more headlines… and then you can come in here and tell me all about it. You know I like those gory details.” His belly shook in a silent laugh.

  I was starting to get pissed off. He’d gone over the line with this crap. There was no humor in my voice when I said, “Cut that shit out, Smitty.”

  “Now don’t tell me you’re getting sensitive at this late date, Mike.” He pulled open his desk drawer, slid out a single printed form and handed it across to me. “Here’s the details. Just to show you what kind of friend I am… even if I do get a kick out of needling you… I didn’t deduct any percentage for the initial contact. Your check will come directly from the client.”

  I read the sheet, folded it, stuck it in my pocket and stood up.

  “Thanks,” I said. I’d gotten kind of irritated, but he deserved that much.

  His grin came back through the cigar smoke. “No thanks necessary, Mike. The talk was worth it. I keep trying to figure out you guys with no consciences. It’s an interesting gambit.”

  I slapped my hat on and walked to the door. There was a mirror beside it and I caught my eyes in the reflection. The coldness in their gray-blue disturbed even me.

  Then I turned to him. “So how many did you shoot, back in your day, Smitty?”

  There was no laugh in his face and the fire in his eyes dulled to a small, dying glow. He said nothing, but I wasn’t going to leave until he answered me.

  The fire went out entirely and he said softly, “Too many.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  A cold front was sticking its tongue out at New York, t
asting the edges of it, and—not liking what it found—spitting it back in a short, chilly blast. The rush-hour crowd made shoulder-brushing two-lane traffic on the sidewalks, and the usual batch of arm-wavers were jostling each other in the streets trying to flag down cabs at the worst possible time.

  I said the hell with it and crossed Sixth Avenue with the light and headed east back to my apartment, playing city safari until I got past Park Avenue. Manhattan was quite a jungle and not that different from the one in Africa. Every time one faction got out of hand and threatened to destroy the terrain, the game wardens moved in, rounded them up, and moved them to someone else’s domain. In Africa it was various species of animals. In New York it was just one lousy species—people—though with its various sub-species. For instance, now that the cops had confined the whores to the side streets, the girls were waving at you out of the windows, like Amsterdam but without the sexy mood lighting.

  When I reached Lexington, I turned north to pick up an evening paper at Billy Batson’s newsstand. Billy is one of the world’s larger little people—he was the tallest of the Singer Midgets, making him easy to spot in The Wizard of Oz—and twenty years ago or so, he’d invested ten years of decent show biz money into a newsstand at a prime spot. His real last name I never knew, but since his stand had always sported the best array of funny books on any Manhattan street corner, he got tagged with the name of Captain Marvel’s alter ego, newsboy Billy Batson.

  Now Captain Marvel was gone, sued out of existence by the Superman crowd, while Billy Batson was still here, and so was a colorful display of comic books dominated by newcomers like Spider-Man and The Fantastic Four. Billy was a sharp, streetwise character in a plaid golf cap, a padded quilt jacket, black flannel trousers, and Keds. He spotted me when I first turned the corner and had my paper ready.

  “How you hangin’, Mike?”

  “By the thumbs, like the guys on the radio say. How about you, Billy?”

  He tossed a hand. “Don’t do no good complainin’. Hey, man, that was some lousy picture of you in the News this morning.”

  “What can I say? My make-up man had the day off.”

  He grunted a laugh, made some change for a customer and turned back to me. “That story stunk worse than the pic. A load of crap, if my sniffer’s still workin’ right.”

  “One man’s load of crap is another’s official police version.”

  “Come off it, Mike. Who they tryin’ to kid? A hold-up guy in your office building? If they said he was a sex pervert and going after Velda, I mighta gone for it. But busting into a private cop’s office, for money he wouldn’t keep there, even if he had any? Weak, man, real weak.”

  “Don’t look to get original fiction out of homicide cops, Billy. They’re not trained that way, and they got limited imaginations.”

  He worked the fig leaf of his coin changer for another customer. “So lay the real spiel on me, man. I ain’t the general public.”

  “Simple,” I said. “The guy tried to tap me out.”

  “Somebody with a grudge?”

  “Somebody paid a wad of dough to have the deed done.”

  Billy gave me an incredulous look that ended in a laugh. “A hitman… for Mike Hammer?”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, hell’s bells, Mike… it’s like tryin’ to assassinate the Abominable Snowman.”

  “Thanks a bunch.”

  “Yeah, well, look what it got the guy. Anyway, that this-gun-for-hire stuff comes high. What did you ever do to deserve that kind of fancy treatment?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  He eyed me suspiciously. “You ain’t been messin’ around with some other guy’s broad, have you?”

  Little Billy had a big yen for Velda, and me cheating on her would just about make a hit justifiable in his mind.

  “Nobody’s broad but my own,” I assured him.

  “Big beautiful Velda.”

  “Big beautiful Velda.”

  He made change again for a customer buying two papers, something he could do in his sleep. “Maybe you’re steppin’ on the wrong toes. Mob guys, maybe. I remember when you was pretty good at that.”

  “I haven’t rated more than a frown from that bunch or anybody else for a good three years. Those headlines this morning were the first in a long damn time. You know that, Billy.”

  His wrinkled puss wrinkled some more. “Then your past is catching up to you, my friend. Maybe somebody you goosed once upon a time finally got enough loot together to get you splashed but good.”

  “Yeah? At this rate they’ll run out of money fast.”

  Billy shrugged and grunted another laugh, a humorless one. “One killing does not necessarily a bankruptcy make, old buddy.”

  “Sounds like you’ve been reading again,” I said. “Stick to the funny books.”

  He ignored that, sold another paper, then said, “If you rated a contract, they’ll try again, you know.”

  “Should make for an interesting autumn,” I told him. “How are you doing with that identification? Getting anywhere?”

  Just shy of a month ago, a hit-and-run driver had killed a customer strolling away from this newsstand. Billy was the only witness who got a good look at the driver.

  Billy shrugged, shaking his head, unconcerned. “My eyes are shot from goin’ through mug books lookin’ at ugly faces. Twice last week they took me downtown for a line-up, but it didn’t do no good. The guy I saw wasn’t one of those slobs. I keep tellin’ ’em. He was class, I could see that easy.”

  “Too bad nobody got the license plate. That the victim was a regular of yours makes it personal, I bet.”

  “Oh yeah, and it’s a damn shame. Dick Blazen. Did you know him, Mike?”

  “Naw. Papers said he was some kind of freelance PR guy.”

  Billy nodded. “Been around forever. Retired last year. Then retired into that gutter over there and after that a box in the ground. How I would love to help nail the bastard who made road refuse outa that sweet old bird.”

  I lifted a shoulder and put it back down. “The cops do all right on that kind of thing. They’ll come up with the right guy for you to ID yet.”

  “Hope so.” He passed out a couple more papers, taking correct change, then asked, “What’s up for tonight? Got a hot date with that doll of yours?”

  I shrugged. “Not exactly a date. Velda and I are going to put our heads together over dinner. See if we can come up with somebody who doesn’t love me.”

  “That’ll be swell for your appetites.” He pointed a stubby finger at me. “You just keep that chick out of the line of fire, Mike. Hear me?”

  I stuck my paper under my arm and winked. “I try, kid, I try. But she’s damn near as trigger-happy as I am.”

  That got a smile out of the crinkly face, and he waved as I walked off.

  * * *

  When I finished getting dressed, I popped open a cold can of beer and pulled the duplicate hot file out of the closet’s top shelf, stuck behind hats and gloves and scarves.

  It was something an old cop had started me doing a long time ago, keeping track of anyone and anything that might want to come back on me, and to do so in duplicate—a set for the office, another at home. The little metal file held my history in the P.I. racket, and a blood-drenched history it was.

  Sending me to the boneyard had been tried before and never worked, because each time had been a personal effort and I had been a little smarter and a lot faster and death cures any further trying.

  But this time a third party had been involved. A professional killer. That made it a different kind of game, a big all-star game and the other side had the advantage of invisibility, and nobody would be calling foul.

  Twice, I went through the card file, going back a full five years; but the only ones who could have had a grudge big enough to kill me over had been dead a long time, or were serving life sentences with no parole. Finally I yanked out two of the cards, copied the information down on my notepad, then slipped the ca
rds back in place. There was always the possibility of a late blooming vendetta, and if one had blossomed, it might well have come from the family or friends of the pair I had selected. It wouldn’t take long to check out.

  Before I left I reloaded the .45 with high velocity hollow points and slid it into the shoulder harness. It made one hell of a mean weapon, but if anybody was going to come up against me, I wanted all the odds I could get going my way. Just being tipped by one of those slugs could spin a damn horse around, and a full center shot would make a pretty disgusting picture.

  Like the one friend Woodcock left behind him on my office wall.

  I caught myself in the mirror just before I left. Other than my morning shave, looking at my reflection was something I didn’t do much any more, because I didn’t like what was there. I’d always been ugly but now I was getting older, and it didn’t help. You start counting all the times you’ve been to the well and know that it had to stop sometime. Time has a way of slowing you down, and making you careless, and when you look at your own face, knowing what it has seen, you wonder how you even have the ability to smile at all any more.

  Then I remembered Woodcock in my office and the mechanics of every calculated, seemingly casual move I had made to finally put him down, and let a cold grin split my lips, because expertise and a high survival factor still had the edge on time.

  I jammed on my hat, climbed inside my trench-style raincoat and let myself out the door, my hand tucked inside my coat and suit jacket like I was doing a Napoleon routine. The hallway was empty.

  The elevator took me down to the basement and I went out the back door and picked up a cab on the street behind the building. It had been a long time since I had to pull any of this garbage, but it had been a long time since anybody had tried to rub me out, too.

  The archaic sound of that made me remember just how long I had been around and that such things had been going on around me.

  Somehow, I didn’t get the charge out of it that I used to. But I would need to get my head in the game or have it get blown the hell off.