Survival... ZERO! mh-11 Page 7

  When Renée held out her fingers to me her eyes had that sparkle in them again and she said, "I really am going to cultivate you, Mike. I'm going to get you alone for lunch and make you tell me everything about yourself."

  "That won't be hard," I said.

  Dorn had turned away to say hello to a foursome that followed us out and never heard her soft, impish answer. "It will be, Mike."

  I got back to the office and picked up the mail that had been shoved through the slot in the door and tossed it on Velda's desk. For five minutes I prowled around, wondering why the hell she didn't call, then went back to the mail again. There were bills, four checks, a couple of circulars and something I damned near missed, a yellow envelope from the messenger service we sometimes used. I ripped it open and dumped out the folded sheet inside.

  The handwriting was hers, all right. All it said was "Call Sammy Brent about theater tickets. Will call office tonight." The envelope was dated one fifteen, delivered from the Forty-fifth Street messenger service office. Whatever she was getting at was beyond me. Sammy Brent ran a tiny ticket office dealing mainly in off-Broadway productions and dinner theaters in the New York-New Jersey-Connecticut area.

  The Yellow Pages listed his agency and I dialed the number, getting a heavy, lower East Side accent in an impatient hello twice. I said, "Sammy?"

  "Sure, who else? You think I can afford help here?"

  "Mike Hammer, buddy."

  "Hey, Mike, whattaya know?"

  "Velda said I should call you about theater tickets. What the hell's going on?"

  "Yeah, yeah. That crazy broad of yours shows up here like some Times Square floozie on the loose and I didn't even know her. Man, what legs! She's got her dress up to ... good thing the old lady wasn't around. Man, she's got a top and bottom you can't ..."

  "What's with the tickets?"

  "Oh." His voice suddenly went quiet. "Well, she was asking about Lippy Sullivan. Real sorry about that, Mike."

  "I know."

  "Good guy, him. You know, he was hustlin' for me."

  "What?"

  "He picked up extra change scalping tickets. Not for the big shows, but like the regular ones I handle. Conventions come in, those guys got a broad and no place to go, he'd meet them in bars and hotels and hustle tickets."

  "What!"

  "He was a good guy, Mike."

  "Look, how'd you pay him?"

  "Cash. He'd get a percent of the price over the going rate. Like maybe a buck or two. It was a good deal. We was both satisfied. You know, he was a good talker. He could make friends real easy. That's why he did pretty good at it. No fortune, but he picked up walking-around money." When I didn't answer him he said, "It was okay, wasn't it, Mike? Like I ain't the only one who ..."

  "It was okay, Sammy. Thanks."

  And it was starting to spell out a brand-new story.

  I searched my memory for the return address that had been on the envelope in Lippy's garbage, finally remembered it as being simply new used furniture on Eighth Avenue and dug the number out of the directory.

  Yes, the clerk remembered Lippy buying a couch. It wasn't often they sold a new one in that neighborhood. He had picked it out on a Saturday afternoon just a couple of weeks before he died and paid for it in cash with small bills. No, he didn't say why he wanted it But permanent roomers in the area often changed furniture. The landlords wouldn't and what transients usually rented with their meager earnings were hardly worth using. I thanked the clerk and hung up.

  When I looked down the .45 was in my hand, the butt a familiar thing against my palm. It was black and oily with walnut grips, an old friend who had been down the road with me a long time.

  I slid it back in the holster and walked to the window so I could look out at the big city of fun. The clouds were rolling around the edges, melting into each other, bringing a premature darkness down around the towering columns of brick and steel. It's a big place, New York. Millions of people who run down holes in the ground like moles, or climb up the sides of cliffs to their own little caves. Most were just people. Just plain people. And then there were the others, the killers. There was one out there now and that one belonged all to me.

  Okay, Lippy, the pattern's showing its weave now. Sammy nailed it down without knowing it. You worked your tail off for an honest buck but you were just too damn friendly. Who did you meet, Lippy? What dip hustling the

  theater district did you pick up to move in with you? Sure, I could understand it. Dames were out of your line. It was strictly friends and how many did you have? You were glad to have somebody get close to you, to yak with and drink with. You found a friend, Lippy, until you found out he wasn't honest like you were. You latched onto a lousy cheap crook. What happened, pal? Maybe you located his cache and stuck it where he couldn't get to it, then dumped those wallets in the garbage. So he came back and tried to take it from you. No, Lippy, there wasn't any reason at all for it, was there? You would have shared your pad, your income, your beer ... anything to keep him straight and your friend that you could believe in and trust. No reason for him to kill you at all. Only I have a reason, friend, and my reason is bigger than the one you didn't have.

  All I had to do was find the right pickpocket.

  So I sat there and ran it over in my mind until I could see it happen. It shouldn't be too much of a job now I knew in which direction to take off. There was only that little nagging thought that something was out of focus. Something I should see clearly. It wasn't that complicated at all.

  Outside, the darkness had sucked the daylight out of the city and I sat there watching it fight back with bravely lit windows in empty offices and the weaving beams of headlights from the street traffic. In a little while the flow would start from the restaurants to the theaters and it would be the working hour for the one I wanted. If he was there.

  Meyer Solomon was a bail bondsman who owed me a favor and he was glad to pay it back. I asked him to find out if anybody had been booked on a pickpocket charge within the last two days and he told me he'd check it out right away. So I stayed by the phone for another forty minutes until it finally jangled and I picked it up.

  "Mike? Meyer here."

  "Let's have it."

  "Got six of 'em. Four were bums working the subway on sleepers and the other two are pros. You looking to hire one of 'em?"

  "Not quite. Who are the pros?"

  "Remember Coo-Coo Weist?"

  "Damn, Meyer, he must be eighty years old."

  "Still working, though. Made a mistake when he tried it on an off-duty detective."

  "Who else?"

  "A kid named Johnny Baines. A Philly punk who came here about three years ago. Good nimble fingers on that guy. The last time he was busted he was carrying over ten grand. This time he only had a couple hundred on him but it wasn't his fault."

  "Why not?"

  Meyer let out a sour laugh. "Because he was only three hours out of the clink where he spent ninety days on a D and D rap. He never really had a chance to get operating right. You going bail for somebody, Mike?"

  "Not this time, Meyer. Thanks."

  "Anytime, Mike."

  I hung up and went back to the window again. He was still out there somewhere.

  I called downstairs, had a sandwich, coffee and the evening papers sent up. The hunt was getting heavier for Schneider's killers and the reporters were hitting every detail with relish. Another time it would have been funny, because contract killers who blasted one of their own kind seldom got that kind of attention. Right now they'd be running scared, not only from the cops, but from the guy who gave them the job. Their business days were over. Two National Guard units were being called out on a security maneuver, detailed upstate. The same thing was happening in five other states. In. view of the tense international situation the military deemed it smart policy to stay prepared. It made for lots of space, dozens of pictures and if somebody was lucky they might come up with something. Somehow I didn’t feel very excited about sitti
ng on the edge of annihilation.

  At twelve fifteen the phone went off beside my ear and I rolled off the old leather couch and grabbed it. My voice still sounded husky from being asleep and I said, "Yeah?"

  "Mike?" Her voice sounded guarded. "Where the hell have you been, Velda?"

  "Shut up and listen. I rented one of those fleabag apartments across the street from Lippy's rooming house, downstairs in the front. If you called Sammy Brent then you have it spotted .. . the tickets and all?"

  "Loud and clear. Lippy had somebody staying with him."

  "That's what it looks like, but he was never seen going in or out and nobody seems to know a thing about it. Apparently he was a pretty cagy character to get away with that, but I know how he did it. In this neighborhood at the right hours he wouldn't be noticed at all."

  "All right kid, get with it."

  "Somebody's in Lippy's old room right now. I spotted the beam of a pencil flash under the window shade."

  "Damn!"

  "I can move in ..."

  "You stay put, you hear? I'll be there in ten minutes."

  "That can be too late."

  "Let it. Just watch for me. I'll get off at the corner and walk on up. Cover the outside and keep your ass down."

  I grabbed an extra clip for the .45 out of the desk drawer, slammed the door shut behind me and used the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator. A cab was ahead of me, waiting for a red light at the corner and I reached it as the signals changed and told him where to go. When the driver saw the five I threw on the seat beside him he made it across town and south to the corner I wanted in exactly six minutes and didn't bother to stick around to see what it was all about.

  It was an old block, a hangover from a century of an orgy of progress, a four-storied chasm with feeble yellow eyes to show that there still was a pulse beat somewhere behind the crumbling brownstone facades. Halfway down the street a handful of kids were playing craps under an overhead light and on the other side a pair of drifters were shuffling toward Ninth. It wasn't the kind of street you bothered to sit around and watch at night. It was one you wanted to get away from.

  I flashed a quick look at the rooftops and the areaways under the stoops when I reached Lippy's old place, found nothing and spotted Velda in the doorway across the street. I gave her the "wait and see" signal, then took the sandstone steps two at a time, the .45 in my hand.

  A 25-watt bulb hung from a dropcord in the ceiling of the vestibule and I reached up and unscrewed it, making sure I had my distance and direction to the right door clear in my mind. The darkness would have been complete except for the pale glow that seeped out from under the super's door, but it was enough. His TV was on loud enough to cover any sound my feet might make and I went past his apartment to Lippy's and tried the knob.

  The door was locked.

  I took one step back, planted myself and thumbed the hammer back on the rod. Then I took a running hop, smashed the door open with my foot and went rolling inside taking furniture with me that was briefly outlined in the white blast of a gunshot that sent a slug ripping into the floor beside my head.

  My hand tightened on the butt of the .45 and blew the darkness apart while I was skittering in a different direction, the wild thunder of the shot echoing around the room. Glass crashed from the far end and a chair went over, then running legs hit me when I was halfway up, fell and I had my hands on his neck, wrenched him back and banged two fast rights into his ear and heard him let out a choked yell. Whoever he was, he was big and strong and wrenched out of my hands, his arms flailing. I swung with the gun, felt the sight rip into flesh and skull bone. It was almost enough and I would have had him the next time around, but the beam of a pencil flash hit me in the face and there was a dull, clicking sound against the top of my head and all the strength went out of me in one full gush.

  A faraway voice said almost indistinctly, "Get up so I can kill him!" But then there were two popping sounds, a muffled curse, and I lay there in the dreary state of semiconsciousness knowing something was happening without knowing or caring what until a hazy dawn of artificial light made everything finally come into misty focus that solidified into specific little objects I could recognize.

  "Velda said, "You stupid jerk."

  "Don't be redundant," I told her. "Where are they?"

  "Out. Gone. The back window was open for a secondary exit and they used it. If I hadn't fired coming into the building you would have been dead by now."

  The yelling and screaming of the fun watchers on the street were coming closer and a siren was whining to a stop in front of the house. I pushed myself to a sitting position, saw the .45 on the floor and reached for it. I thumbed out the clip, ejected the live slug in the breech, caught it and slid it back into the clip, then reloaded the piece and stuck it back in the holster. "You see them?" I asked.

  "No."

  I took a quick look around the room before they all came in. The place was a shambles. Even the paper had been torn off the walls. "Somebody else figured it out too," I said.

  "What were they after, Mike?"

  "Something pretty easily hidden," I told her.

  CHAPTER 6

  Pat came in while they were taking my statement, listened impassively as I detailed the events at Lippy's place and when I signed the sheets, walked over and threw a leg over the edge of the desk. "You can't keep your nose clean, can you?"

  "You ought to be happy about extra diversions from what I hear," I said.

  "Not your kind." Pat glanced sidewise at Velda. "Why didn't you call for a squad car?"

  Velda threw him an amused smile. "I wanted to be subtle about it. Besides, I wouldn't want to get fired."

  I said, "Why the beef, Pat? We interrupted a simple break in and attempted robbery."

  "Like hell you did."

  "Nothing illegal about it. Any citizen could pull it off."

  "You managed to goof," he reminded me. "They got away."

  "They didn't get what they were after."

  "What were they after, Mike?"

  I gave a meaningless shrug.

  Pat picked up a pencil and twirled it in his fingers. Let's have it, Mike," he said softly.

  "Lippy was right, Pat. He got killed for no reason at all. He was a hardworking slob who made friends with some dip working the area and took him into the rooming house with him. That's the one they were after."

  Pat's eyes half closed, watching me closely. "Something was in one of those wallets . . ."

  "Maybe not," I said. "Apparently the guy was with Lippy a few weeks before Lippy got onto him and booted him out. That bunch of wallets was probably just his last day's take. You know who they all belonged to."

  "And one guy was Woody Ballinger."

  "Yeah, I know."

  "Keep talking," Pat said.

  "How many good pickpockets do you know who never took a fall?"

  "They all do sooner or later."

  "None of the prints you picked up from the apartment got any action, did they?"

  Pat's lips twisted in a grin. "You're guessing, but you're right. The set we sent to Washington turned out negative. No record of them anywhere, not even military."

  "That gives us one lead then," I said. "Most people stay within their own age groups, so he was a 4-F in his late forties."

  "Great," Pat said.

  "And without a record, maybe he wasn't a regular practicing dip at all. Somebody could have been after him for what he did before he took up the profession."

  "That still leaves us with nothing."

  "Oh, we have something, all right," I said. "Like what?" Pat asked me.

  "Like what they didn't get yet. They'll keep looking." The other two cops and the steno collected their papers, nodded to Pat and left the three of us alone in the room. Pat swung off the desk in that lazy way he had and stared out the window. Finally he said, "We haven't got time to throw any manpower into this right now." There was something tight in his voice. I felt Velda's eyes on me,
but didn't react. "I know."

  "You be damn careful, Mike. My neck's out now too."

  "No sweat." I lit a cigarette and tossed the match in the wastebasket. "Any progress yet?" He didn't look at me. "No."

  "The lid on pretty tight?"

  "Nothing will ever be tighter." He took a deep breath and turned around. In the backlight from the window his face looked drawn. "If you turn up anything, keep in touch. We still have a primary job to do."

  "Sure, Pat."

  I picked up my hat and reached for Velda's arm. I knew the question was on her lips, but she said nothing except for a so long to Pat. When we got down on the street to hunt up a cab she asked evenly, "What was that all about?"

  It was a nice night for New York. The wind had cleaned the smog out of the skies and you could see the stars. Kids walked by holding hands, traffic was idling along and behind the lighted widows families would be watching the late news. Only nobody was telling them that

  the biggest news of all they wouldn't want to hear. They were all living in wonderful ignorance, not knowing that they might be living their last night. For one second I wished I was in the same boat as they were.

  I took Velda's hand and started across the street to intercept a cab going north. "Just some departmental business," I said. "Nothing important."

  But she knew I was lying. There was a sadness in the small smile she gave me and her hand was flaccid in mine. Keeping details from Velda wasn't something I was used to doing. Not too long ago she had taken a pair of killers off my back without a second's hesitation. Now she was thinking that I couldn't trust her.

  I said, "Later, kitten. Believe me, I have a damn good reason."

  Her hand snuggled back into mine again and I knew it was all right. "What do you want me to do now?" Velda asked.

  "Back on the trail. I want that dip. He could still be in the area."

  "Even if he knew somebody was out to kill him?"

  "There's no better place to hide than right here in the city. If he's any kind of a pro he's been working. If he's moved in on somebody else's turf they'll be the first to dump him. So make your contacts and buy what you have to. Just lay off any hard action. I'll take care of that end."