Kill Me, Darling Read online

  “And Quinn could be his boy, or his partner, or his competition.”

  “Something anyway,” Pat said. “Worth keeping in mind. This is big, Mike. Big like in ramifications. Big like in repercussions.”

  Big like something Velda might go undercover to get?

  “I’ll keep it in mind, buddy,” I said. “I’ll check in with you tomorrow.”

  “Do that. If we get a break on the Big Man’s murder, I’ll call you.”

  We hung up.

  * * *

  Mid-afternoon, the city room at the Herald was hopping. Ben Sauer’s office door stood half open and I stuck my head in. He was at his messy desk, attending to curling sheets of copy. The only thing that had changed since the other night was the hulking city editor had traded in his red suspenders for blue.

  “Lousy timing, I know,” I said.

  But the horsey face only smiled and waved me in and to shut the door, then gestured to the hardwood chair opposite him.

  “Glad for the break,” he said. “A relief to talk to somebody who isn’t ink-stained and keyed-up.”

  I sat.

  A grin formed under the battered nose. “Sticking to that four-beer-a-day regimen, Mike?”

  “Only had three yesterday.”

  “Good for you, man.” Then he reached down and got his bottle out of that lower desk drawer. Testing me, maybe. Or just thirsty. He was the kind of guy who was thirsty all day long. And night.

  Pouring himself half a water glass of brown nectar, he said, “I’ve been hoping you’d stop by. You should have left me your phone number.”

  I folded my arms. “I’m at the Sea Breeze Motel. I don’t know the number, but I bet you have the staff to ferret that out.”

  He chuckled at that and had a sip of whiskey, leaving the bottle on his desk. “There’s a guy I know who’d like to talk to you.”

  “Is it somebody I’d want talking to me?”

  “Maybe. First things first, though. What brings you around to my hidey hole, Mike? Getting anywhere on your inquiry? Or is it a quest?”

  I figured that was rhetorical, and skipped straight to a condensed recap of what happened last night.

  He rocked back in his chair, a wide smile splitting the well-grooved face. “So you pasted Nolly in his own joint, huh? And lived to tell the tale! More than most could say.”

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “I figure he hardly ever kills anybody right there in the club.”

  The editor let out a small laugh. “You may have something there.” He gave me an appraising look. “How bad did his boys work you over?”

  “Thorough but restrained. I’m walking around, aren’t I?”

  “Well, not to be literal, but right now you’re sitting down.” He sipped whiskey. “What can I do for Mike Hammer?”

  “I could use a rundown on Quinn’s daily schedule, for one thing.”

  He got thoughtful, raised a finger, and pushed a button on his phone to get an outside line. I frowned and he shook the finger at me, then used it to dial a number.

  Half a dozen rings later, somebody answered. A male voice, I thought, but that’s all I could make out.

  Sauer said, “That party you said you’d like to meet is sitting in my office.”

  I frowned again and was half-way out of my chair when the editor raised a stop hand, and nodded for me to sit back down.

  “…I think he’ll meet with you, yes. If you can do him a small favor… Well, he needs a rundown on Nolly Quinn’s activities, and who better…? A daily schedule kind of thing… Yes. Yes, I’ll tell him.”

  He hung up.

  I studied him but the well-worn face wasn’t giving me anything. He was jotting something down on a notepad. Then he tore off a slip and handed it over to me, like I was his patient and this was the prescription.

  He said, “If you want that information, Mike, here’s where you should be in one hour. I wouldn’t be late. This is a punctual person.”

  “Who is this ‘person?’”

  “You’ll find out when you get there.”

  “If I go there.”

  He spread his hands. The right was ink-stained. “If you want the rundown on Quinn you requested, that’s where you’ll be in an hour. Up to you. I’m just passing it along.”

  I showed him my teeth. It was only a smile by definition. “Like you passed along what you knew about me to this ‘punctual person?’”

  He finished his whiskey, rocking back gently, smiling at me like a plantation owner on a porch in the glow of a mint julep.

  “I’m a newspaperman, Mike. You’re a private detective. We have something in common. We deal in information. Often we acquire more information by trading other information. That’s how it works for both of us, in both our fields, right?”

  “Mostly I just beat it out of people.”

  He smiled, started to chuckle but it got caught in his throat. His eyebrows went up. “Trust me on this, Mike. You do want to meet this individual, but it’s not my place to say more at the moment. And if it turns out you don’t, uh, hit it off? Well, then, you just walk away… Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “I don’t know, Ben. I don’t have anything else to trade. I already emptied the bag about last night at Nolly Q’s.”

  He patted the air like a lazy crossing guard. “Oh, that filled your account up nicely. Go ahead. What else can I tell you?”

  I sucked in air and let some out. “Ben, this is something you might not know off the top of your head. You might have to do a little digging.”

  “Try me.”

  “You’re aware that two of Quinn’s former flames got snuffed, right? At least that’s how I figure it.”

  He frowned in thought with some curiosity mixed in, then leaned forward. “Dorothy Flynn, hatcheck girl at his club. A suicide. Kimberly Carter, the singer. Hit-and-run victim. Closed cases, Mike. Not murders. Not officially.”

  “What do you think, Ben? Unofficially?”

  His shrug was expansive. “I don’t know what to think. He’s a ladies’ man. He breaks hearts left and right. I could buy some sensitive kid who got the boot doing the Dutch act. Having another recent ex get run down by a drunk driver… is that a tragic coincidence? Or does it strain credulity?”

  “It strains something.”

  He gestured to the file cabinets behind him. “Mike, you want to see the files on the two dead girls? They’re part of what I’ve salted away on Quinn.”

  “Not right now. I’m not interested in dead girls. You can’t talk to dead girls.”

  “Not without a Ouija board. What do you have in mind?”

  “I want the names of any other dames this road company Romeo’s thrown over in the past year and a half. I want their whereabouts, their addresses. According to Barney Pell, at least a couple of them are still in Greater Miami.”

  He was rocking again, but it was steady and shallow now. “You’re talking to Pell, huh? And here I figured maybe you were tryin’ to fly under the police radar.”

  I gave him a real grin this time. “No, I like to keep the cops informed… up to a point. Nice to have them handy. And they’re always kind of naturally a couple steps behind me.”

  He was smiling. Nodding. He jotted some notes down. “I’ll get back to you on that. At the Sea Breeze?”

  “At the Sea Breeze.” I got up. “Thanks.”

  “Off so soon?”

  “Yeah. There’s somebody I have to meet. Remember?”

  He was pouring himself another half a glass as I went out.

  * * *

  Miami Beach was a long, narrow island connected to the mainland by four causeway bridges and a shorter one at the northern tip. Somehow in that limited space, hundreds of gleaming white hotels and motels managed to pack themselves in along the oceanfront.

  I was strolling the grounds of one of the biggest hotels on Collins Avenue. Between it and the beach was a terraced area with colorful cabanas, royal palms, an outdoor bar, and a cluster of white
wrought-iron tables, the whole mess centered around a huge amoeba-shaped pool where a handful of young and beautiful guests swam and splashed. The kiddie pool was conspicuously empty, as if these thoroughbreds hadn’t gotten around to making babies just yet. Another sprinkling of what I took to be honeymooners were sunning poolside on lounge-style deck chairs, boy-girl-boy-girl. Sitting here and there at tables under umbrellas, taking in the moving tapestry of youthful flesh, were senior-citizen guests in clothes so gaudy a golfer would heave. Off-season here seemed divided between the newly married and heaven’s waiting room.

  The bored-looking Cuban bartender in the short-sleeve shirt and bow tie seemed disappointed when all I wanted was a beer. He served it up in a pilsner and with my rump half on a stool and my back to the bar, I surveyed the area. It took three whole seconds to spot him.

  Feds are always easy to make. They have hair longer than G.I.s and shorter than civilians. They wear suits that aren’t flashy but always look new and pressed, dark but not black, with white shirts. Their ties are always a little narrower than the fashion, unless the fashion is narrow, when they go a little wider. Their hats have a front pinched-crown and snapped brim and no feather. Their shoes are Florsheims with a military shine. They are not just clean-shaven, but twice-a-day shaven. They have faces so blank it’s like they’ve never been used. When they smile you can only see it if you’re really paying attention. They don’t drink on the job. They make carrying a gun seem dull.

  But my fed was trying to fit in. Substitute above where applicable: a cream-color linen suit; green-and-yellow pastel striped tie; white straw fedora with black band; and white bucks. Add black sunglasses, and a glass of iced tea with lemon. Top it off with a huge red-and-blue umbrella shielding the white table where he sat alone, facing the swimming pool.

  I sat next to him and put my beer on the table. “Red-and-blue umbrella to one side of the bar, like the instructions said. Next time try sunbathing on Old Glory—you’ll be easier to spot.”

  Who was I to talk? In my suit and tie I was about as touristy as a vacuum cleaner salesman.

  He turned toward me barely and one of those smiles you had to know how to catch formed on a well-tanned anonymous face that was largely obscured by the sunglasses. What still showed was the kind of blandly handsome features you see in Sears catalogues.

  He extended a hand below the edge of the metal table as if he were passing me microfilm. His handshake was as firm as it was perfunctory. “Michael Hammer. Thank you for seeing me.”

  “Do you have a name or a number or anything? What, FBI? No… FBN, right? This would be a federal narcotics investigation. After all, Hoover’s gang thinks the Mafia is a myth. Like the Loch Ness monster and a free lunch.”

  His voice was soft with an edge. “You’re as big a character as I’ve heard, Mr. Hammer.”

  A bouncy blonde in a bikini was pretending she wanted to get away from the young guy pursuing her. I was glad no lifeguard was around to tell her no running around the pool.

  I asked, “Why would the FBN have heard of me?”

  He sipped his iced tea. “Two years ago, you were implicated in the deaths of several key figures in a major Mafia narcotics ring.” The barely imperceptible smile returned briefly. “Yes, Mr. Hammer, the FBN does believe in the Mafia.”

  I watched the blonde caper some more. “I was questioned about that. Never went anywhere.”

  “I said ‘implicated.’ And our friends at the CIA consider you the probable key figure in a major if hushed-up incident involving the deaths of some seventy-eight agents of Communist Russia, including the only Soviet operatives ever discovered on American soil.”

  A very cute brunette in a two-piece bathing suit was sitting on the edge of the pool next to a young guy who was probably her brand-new husband. I hoped he knew what a lucky bastard he was.

  “That I wasn’t even questioned about,” I said. “Anyway, seventy-eight strikes me as a little low. Do you or don’t you have a name, buddy? A phony one will do.”

  His lips pursed in mild irritation. “My name is Jones, and it’s not phony. Do you need to see credentials?”

  “Naw. But if you’re not a fed, you should hire out to kids’ parties as one.” The brunette and her guy were kissing in front of God and everybody. “Mr. Jones, you know what I want from you—Nolly Quinn’s daily routine.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Mr. Hammer.”

  I sipped the beer. It felt nice not to gulp it. Nicer that it just seemed refreshing and not like life’s blood anymore.

  I said, “If this is where you tell me to butt out, because I’m interfering with a government operation and would spoil months of work and yackata yackata, then save yourself the trouble.”

  He shook his head and that damn faint smile returned. It even hung around. “Nothing like that, Mr. Hammer. Don’t quote me, but I’m pleased… others are pleased, as well… that you’ve taken a personal interest in Nolly Quinn.”

  I stopped looking at broads in bikinis and turned to stare into the agent’s sunglasses. The rest of his face had no more expression than they did. “Now you’ve really lost me, Jonesy.”

  He flipped a hand. “Mr. Quinn has indeed been the focus of an FBN operation… but it’s one that was recently suspended due to insufficient cause.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Something human came into his voice. “It means that a team of three working six months couldn’t get a damn thing on somebody as slippery and well-insulated as Nolly Quinn. He makes occasional trips to Cuba, and several associates of his do the same, rather more frequently. He communicates with any number of freelance fliers, as well as the captains of various vessels, both commercial and recreational. In no instance have we ever seen an exchange of money, nor any transfer of contraband.”

  “What about on the Cuban end?”

  Displeasure registered however faintly. “We’re not authorized to operate outside of the USA.”

  I grinned at this idiocy. “Well, your ‘friends’ in the CIA sure as hell can and do, don’t they?”

  He paused, probably as he decided how much he dared parcel out to me. “For reasons we can’t discern, there is little or no interest from those quarters in helping us on that front. It’s possible… and I say this very much off the record, Mr. Hammer… that Nolly Quinn is an asset of theirs.”

  “Quinn in bed with the CIA? You have got to be shitting me.”

  He indulged himself in a tiny sigh. “Would that it were so, Mr. Hammer. But it’s a big, dirty, complicated world out there, and strange bedfellows seem to be requisite in international espionage.”

  “So your operation has been shut down?”

  He nodded. “I’m the only agent left. My office is in Miami.” He took a card from his suit coat’s breast pocket and handed it over. “I’ve written a private number there as well, should you require my support.”

  I eyeballed the card. “Really? John Jones?”

  The faint smile again. “Somebody has to be. Otherwise it wouldn’t be so common, would it?”

  I shifted in the wrought-iron chair. “Reading between the lines, Jonesy, I figure you might like having me around causing trouble for Quinn. Might make up for what you couldn’t pull off.”

  “Something like that.” Another tiny sigh. “But as for your request, I’m afraid I can’t help you out on Quinn’s daily routine.”

  “Don’t tell me that’s top secret.”

  “No, Mr. Hammer. Nolly Quinn doesn’t have a daily routine. He has half a dozen legitimate business interests, from fruit to construction. And there’s his nightclub, where he sometimes is on hand for four or five nights out of a week, and other times skips a week entirely. He spends an unspecified amount of time tending to his various business interests. In no particular order. At no particular time of day.”

  I frowned. “That nightclub—if Uncle Whiskers wants Nolly Quinn taken down so bad, why doesn’t the FBI bust his ass over that wide-open casino he runs?”


  Then a little sound emerged that must have been a laugh. “Are you familiar with the system of law enforcement in Miami-Dade County?”

  “Sort of. Just a little more corrupt than Chicago and ten times as complicated, right?”

  He nodded. “Twenty-six independent incorporated communities, including Miami and Miami Beach, each with its own police force, plus winding in and around those is unincorporated territory handled by the sheriff’s metro division. It’s a recipe for chaos, and for corruption.”

  I was shaking my head. “But after that Senate fuss, the FBI shut down the gambling in this town.”

  “Most of it. There are exceptions, Mr. Hammer, and Nolly Q’s is a major one. That casino is protected, and before any federal raid is made, Quinn is warned and a procedure goes into effect that turns that gambling den into a big empty storeroom in under an hour.”

  “Sounds like somebody ought to just kill the bastard.”

  Agent Jones said nothing, sipping his iced tea.

  I sat forward and stared right into those sunglasses. “Jones, have you people sent an agent in, to infiltrate Quinn’s set-up? A woman maybe?”

  His mouth twitched. “If you mean your friend Miss Sterling, no. She’s not one of ours.”

  I wasn’t sure whether that was good news or bad. “Were you working in tandem with NYPD Vice? Specifically with Captain Wade Manley?”

  “No.” His tone turned somber. “I knew him, of course, and I understand you were his friend. He was a fine officer, and a good man. You have my sympathy for your loss.”

  I kept pressing. “Did you uncover anything that might have linked Quinn to Manley’s murder, no matter how vague? How tenuous?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing. And I only have one other piece of information for you, Mr. Hammer. Not, I’m afraid, anything that you will be pleased to hear.”

  “What?”

  “Your friend Velda moved in with Quinn today.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  After my meeting with Agent Jones, I was in the hotel’s underground parking garage heading to the Ford when I noticed a little guy in his fifties strolling down the row of cars. He was walking a tiny dog, a Pomeranian, like maybe he thought cement would do just as well as grass for his little explosion of orange and white fur.