This time, surprisingly, she didn’t want to go with me. She was sitting on the edge of her bed. “Why not leave me here?”
“Yeah?”
“Maybe something will develop in Sidon, and it would be better if one of us was on hand.”
Once Velda got her teeth into a case, she was as single-minded as a dog with a spare rib.
“You stay here in town then,” I said, climbing back into my coat. “Keep a check on Moody, too.”
“Don’t you trust him?”
“Everybody I trust in this town is in this room. If you see Dekkert or Beales anywhere near Moody-his office and living quarters are over that grocery down from the picture show-you give me a buzz at Pat’s. Try his office first, then his house.”
“Roger.”
“If that happens, maybe you can create a diversion yourself and keep those louses out of there.”
“Okay.”
I sat next to her on the bed. “You might also try dropping in to see Big Steve again. He may have the inside track on things without knowing it. Guy like him, working behind a diner counter, picks up on more than he even realizes.”
She was nodding, taking it all in.
“Get the political angle in town… where these Keystone cops fit in… exactly where Holden stands… get everything and anything. It’ll be fairly quiet, on a Sunday, but do what you can.”
“Got it.”
“I’ll probably be gone before you get up in the morning. If anyone inquires for me, tell them that I’m around town somewhere. Stall ’em off.”
Velda’s business-like expression turned thoughtful. “Did you find the bullet that was fired at you from the shack?”
I shook my head. “No. First, I went after the shooter, with no luck, then hauled ass out of there getting Poochie to the doctor.”
“Understandable.”
“Anyway, that slug can wait. So far, it’s been the only gun used on this case, and it could belong to anyone. Poochie had his eyes right on the window when the shot was fired, remember. I’m more interested in his story than tracing the bullet.”
“You know darn well,” Velda said with a humorless smirk, “that the little guy could never tell that story to a jury and have it believed.”
I looked at her. “When I get whoever fired that bullet, kid, there won’t be any jury trial.”
“Mike…”
“You know how I operate. Nobody tries to kill me and gets to keep breathing.”
She was shaking her head, her expression glum now. “You’re just asking for trouble.”
That was a laugh. “And they aren’t? Don’t forget that one of this outfit has already resorted to murder. If that isn’t trouble, what is?”
“All right, Mike,” she said, with a sigh. “Have it your own way. Just be careful.”
I got up to leave, but she grabbed my coat sleeve and pulled me back onto the edge of the bed, and the springs bounced us some.
I knew what she wanted. Because I wanted it, too.
I tilted her chin with my fingers and kissed her. Just a friendly goodnight kiss, more than a peck, but not much more.
It was enough to get us started, though. It made me hungry for more, and she knew it. Before I could help myself, she was in my arms and I was crushing her to me. Her mouth was on fire, her hands behind my head holding my face to hers. She had those incredible breasts pressed against me like a threat or maybe a promise, and every fibre in my body was jumping with passion.
When it was over, she nuzzled my ear and kissed my neck lightly.
“Sleep tight,” she said.
After a kiss like that, I’d be lucky if I could sleep at all.
So I went out into slumbering Sidon for a little late evening walk on what turned out to be a cool, breezy night. Every storefront was closed except a couple of bars, and I was almost surprised the sidewalks weren’t literally rolled up.
It wasn’t just Velda’s kiss, though, that was keeping me awake and sending me out for a stroll. I had someone to call on and figured that by now the reporters would be done with him.
Mayor Rudolph Holden, if the flimsy little Sidon phone book could be trusted, lived two blocks off the business section in a red-brick turn-of-the-century two-story house. Quaint but well kept-up, with a nice well-trimmed lawn, this was the largest home I had spotted in the community. Across the street was a Baptist church that was only marginally bigger.
There were lights on downstairs, so His Honor was up. But I wasn’t surprised when my two rings of his doorbell got no response. With that pack of reporters in town, who could blame him for ignoring it? So I hammered on the door and kept at it. Either Rudy would answer or the dead would wake. Either way should be interesting.
Rudy didn’t answer, but it wasn’t the dead, either. The woman was very much alive, slender and about fifty in a nice floral frock, and she hadn’t removed her make-up though it was after nine. She was the kind of older-looking dame who could put on an air of respectability without losing her sex appeal. Unless this was the housekeeper, Rudy had done all right for himself.
Even if it was the housekeeper, he’d still done all right for himself.
“Yes?” she said, her tone impatient, letting me know she didn’t appreciate being disturbed. She had nice hazel eyes and her white hair was youthfully arranged.
“Mrs. Holden?”
“Yes,” she said again, even more impatient.
“I’m not a reporter, ma’am.”
This seemed to take some of the starch out of her. But she said one more time, “ Yes? ”
Like, what the hell is it?
“Would you tell your husband that Mike Hammer is here to see him?”
“My husband is not home.”
“Okay. If he is home, you should tell him I’m here. He’ll want to see me. If he isn’t home, you should tell me where I can find him. It’s important. I’m a detective on the Wesley murder.”
Her irritation turned to alarm, and she said, “Just a moment.”
His Honor received me in his book-lined study. We sat in two comfy chairs before a fireplace that was of course unlighted. His wife had turned friendly, even gracious, and brought us sugar cookies on a plate and glasses of iced tea, which she set on a small table between her husband and me.
“Mr. Hammer,” he said, and he had a warm baritone that was a little odd coming from a small-ish, almost roly-poly individual.
He was in the same short-sleeve white shirt as at the park, but had ditched the too-short tie. He had lost much of his hair, but boyish features kept him young-looking. Minus the pot belly, and plus a full head of hair, he’d have been a nice-looking man. Nice enough to catch that attractive wife, anyway.
Superficially, he seemed calm. But he was eating the cookies nervously. I had one-he had six as we spoke, sugar gathering on his chin like a frost on a winter window.
“We’re lucky to have you in Sidon,” he said, nibbling.
“Really? And why is that?”
“Well, a detective of your abilities. Your renown. We’re a small town, and we’re not well acquainted with murder.”
“Murder gets acquainted with people in all kinds of towns, Your Honor. But you have Deputy Chief Dekkert to lean on, don’t you? He has real big-city experience.”
“Yes, Mr. Hammer, but his background is in vice.”
It sure was.
