I threw the pillow back at her and went back to the living room. The chubby little maid with the odd accent had her coat on and asked me to tell Miss Talmage she was leaving for the afternoon, but would be back around five to prepare supper. If she was needed, she could be reached at her sister's. Miss Tahnage had the number.
When she left I picked up the phone and called Henaghan at the New York City Department of Public Works. His second secretary found him and put him through.
'Hey, Mike,' he yelled. 'What's new?'
'Need some information, Henny.'
'Well, this is a public department.'
'See if you can check and find out what construction units have been issued permits for blasting inside the city limits. Can do?'
There was a small silence and Henaghan said, 'Aw, Mike, have you taken a look around lately? This town is like a beehive. They're putting up stuff all over the place.'
'Yeah, but they only blast during the ground operation. It shouldn't be all that difficult.'
'Look, I'll give you a number ...'
'No dice. I'll get handed from file clerks to petty officials who'll want explanations and authorizations and still come up with year-old information. I could do better touring the city in a taxi taking notes and I haven't got that much time. You do it for me.'
'Mike ...' Henny sounded harried.
'Or do you forget me having to run up to Albany to get you out of the can last summer? Or that time in Miami when ...'
'Okay, okay. Don't remind me. The memories are too painful. Where are you?'
I gave him the phone number.
'Stay there. It may take a little while, but I'll expedite things.'
From the bedroom I heard the shower cut off and clothes hangers rattling in a closet. I stared absently at the rain slashing against the window and picked up the phone
again, dialed my office number and activated the tape recorder.
And Velda had finally called in. Her voice was crisp and hurried, no words wasted at all. She said, 'Suspect located at Anton Virelli's area and running fast. Ballinger?s right behind him with his men but haven't pinpointed his location. If you haven't hit it yet, suspect goes by name of Beaver and knows he's being tracked. He's been working his way uptown and has something on his mind, probably a safe place to hide out. He should be making a move soon if he sticks to his timetable. My guess is he'll come out of the west end of the block so I'm going to take a chance and cover the Broadway side. Ill call back as soon as he shows.'
That was the end of the message and I was about to hang up when another click signaled a further message and a voice said, 'Uh, Mike? Like this is you or a machine. Mike?' There was a pause, then, 'So you're automated. Everything's gone automated.' I felt like telling that silly Caesar Mario Tulley to hurry up and get with it, but you don't rush the new generation. 'You know how you was asking about that guy in the red vest? So I split a joint with an old friend and we get to talking and I asked and sure enough, he knows a guy who knows him. I'm going to see him later, so if you get down this way I'll be working around the Winter Garden. Maybe I'll have something for you. Uh ... how the hell do you say so long to a machine anyway?' He mumbled something else and the connection was ended.
Damn, it was closing in fast. The ends were beginning to meet, but they were all tied up inside a tape recorder and I had to wait for the spool to roll. But Velda had narrowed it down somewhat. Anton Virelli was a bookie who operated from a storefront on Ninety-second Street just off Broadway. At least now I knew what area to concentrate on. I called Pat and rousted him out of bed at home. He hadn't had much sleep, but he softened the growl in his voice and listened when I gave him the information. He thought he could tap a couple of plain- clothesmen to probe the area for Beaver and he could get a warrant out for Woody and his boys that might slow them down long enough for us to reach our man first. I thanked him and hung up,
A lovely voice behind me said, 'Beaver. What an odd name. The people you know.'
I turned around and Renee was standing there, fresh from the shower, her hair piled on top of her head,
wrapped in a heavy white terry-cloth robe belted tightly enough to make her a living hourglass. She smelled of summery fragrances and bath oils and she pirouetted gracefully so I could see all of her, then wrinkled her nose at me, brought in a tray with a coffee pot and two cups and sat down.
'Great,' she said. 'Naked, I get no reaction. Completely covered in an old robe you simper like a kid. What's with you men?'
I took the coffee she handed me. 'We like the mystery better.'
'Liar. Business is more important to you. What have you been so busy about and who is Beaver? Another one of your friends who shoot at people?'
'I never met the guy.'
She gave me a hurt look. 'All right, you don't have to tell me anything. But don't blame me for being curious, please. After all, I did get shot and it was a new experience, one that I wouldn't like to repeat, and I thought some kind of explanation might be in order.'
Wind from the river rattled the window and the rain tried to claw its way in. I looked at her and grinned. Hell, she was entitled. I fished in my pocket and took out the three photos of Beaver, handing her one. I let her look at it while I started from the beginning and brought her up to date. But it was really me I was talking to, trying to jell the details in my mind, picking out the strange little flaws and attempting to force in things that didn't belong or should have.
She handed the picture back and I stuck it in my pocket.
The phone still sat there, impassive and unconcerned with it all.
The muscles were tight across my back and my hands were knotted into balls of rage.
'Mike ...' she came over to me and unbuttoned my jacket, then slipped it off, her hands kneading the back of my neck. I closed my eyes and felt the tension begin to melt under the gentle pressure of her fingers. She tugged the shoulder harness off then and let the .45 drop to the floor, then it was my tie and my shirt, her hands working their way across my chest and arms. Her palms pushed me back on the couch and her fingers worked at my belt and I just let her go ahead until she was done. I felt her stand up, heard the soft whisper of cloth and let my eyes slit open a bare fraction and watched her standing there warmly nude and smiling. 'Don't move,' she said.
I closed my eyes again, wiping out all thought for the minute she was gone, then heard her come in and opened them again. She threw a pillow on the floor beside the couch, knelt down with her arms outstretched and the vibrator she had attached to her hand started to pulsate crazily as she started at my neck and began a slow, deliberate journey into other areas.
Time went by in slow, lazy circles, then the erotic tingling of the vibrator stopped and a more intense sensation replaced it until time erupted into an explosive spiral that diminished out of sight and left me gasping for breath.
On the table the phone had come to life.
I opened my eyes and Renee said, 'Good?'
'Beautiful.'
I reached over and picked up the receiver.
Henaghan told me I probably could have done better with the taxi ride, but came up with five places conducting blasting operations at the moment. I wrote them all down, thanked him and hung up, looking at the list in my hand.
Only one place was above Fifty-Second Street, an area off Columbus Avenue at One Hundred-tenth Street. And that wasn't anywhere near Anton Virelli's territory at all. If Velda was holding down a stakeout around Ninety- second and Broadway, she was doing it alone. Somehow Beaver had cut loose earlier and with more manpower to cover the exits, Woody and his boys had caught his move and had him cornered in another location.
In a way it was a relief to me. She was out of the action now and I wanted to keep it that way. If Velda didn't tumble to the fact that Beaver was gone I could move in alone without sweating about her catching a slug. I looked at the paper again and swore softly. An area, that's all it was. A big flat area with hundreds of holes to crawl into. Those blasting signals were clear, but distant, tonal enough to penetrate phone booth walls or old apartments. There wasn't any chance of tracking down every telephone in the neighborhood at all. What I needed was an address. Beaver was heading for one definite spot, that was sure. One place where he figured he'd be safe. He was
