My grin got bigger all the time. 'They've killed hundreds of people, see, but they finally killed the wrong dame. They tried to kill me and they wrecked my car. That last part I especially didn't like. That car was hand built and could do over a hundred. And for all of that a lot of those top dogs are paying through the kiester starting now. That's the word.'
Mousie didn't say anything. He stood up slowly, his teeth holding his bottom lip to keep it up. He jerked his head in what was supposed to be a so-long and slid out from behind the table. I watched him walk to the door, forgetting the sandwich that lay on top of the counter. He opened the door slowly, walked out to the sidewalk and turned east, not looking to either side of himself. When he had gone I got up myself, paid my bill and took the change to a phone booth.
Pat was home and still up. I said, 'It's me, pal. Velda told me you heard the news.'
He sounded a little far away. 'You don't have much sense, do you?'
'They're looking for me. Two boys by the name of Charlie Max and Sugar Smallhouse.'
'They have reps.'
'So I hear. What kind?'
'Teamwork. Max is the one to watch. They're killers, but Smallhouse likes to do it slow.'
'I'll watch Max then. What else?'
'Charlie Max is an ex-cop. He'll probably have a preference for a hip holster.'
'Thanks.'
'Don't mention it.'
I slapped the receiver back on the hook. The dime plinked into the box and the gaping mouth of the thing laughed at me silently. Well, in a way it was a pretty big joke. The army of silent men couldn't stay silent. I didn't know them but they knew me. They were just like the rest; crumbs who knew how to play a one-sided game, but when they were playing somebody who could be twice as silent, twice as dirty and twice as quick they broke in the middle and started begging. Someplace in the city were people with names and some without names. They were organized. They had big money in back of them. They had political connections. They had everything it took to stay where they were except one thing and that was me with my own slab in a morgue. They know what to expect from the cops and what to expect from the vast machine that squatted on the Potomac but they didn't know what to expect from me. Already one guy had told them, a punk with crooked yellow teeth who had had a gun on me and lost it. Then they'd ask around if they didn't already know and the stories they'd hear wouldn't be pretty. The fear they handed out so freely to others they'd taste themselves, knowing that before long, if I was still alive, they'd have to chew the whole lump and swallow it.
At the cigarette counter I picked up a fresh deck of Luckies, went out into the air and headed for the Stem. Out there were the hunters spending advance money. Cold boys with reps who didn't know the whole score. They knew the word was out and wanted to cut it off.
But they didn't hear the whole word. Before the night was over they'd hear a lot of things that might make them want to change their minds. One of the things was the rest of the word. They'd find out the hunters were being hunted.
Just for the fun of it.
Chapter Eight
The Globe gave me the information on Nicholas Raymond. It was an old clipping that Ray Diker dragged out for me and which wouldn't have been printed at all if there hadn't been an editorial tie-up. The press was hot on hit-and-run drivers and used his case to point up their arguments about certain light conditions along the bridge approaches.
Nichols Raymond got it as he stepped into the street as the light changed and his body was flung through a store window. Nobody saw the accident except a drunk halfway down the block and the car was never tracked down. The only details about him were that he was forty-two years old, a small-time importer and lived in an apartment hotel in the lower Fifties.
I told Ray Diker thanks and used his phone to call Raymond's old address. The manager told me in a thick accent that yes, he remembered Mr. Nick-o-las Raymondo, he was the fine man who always pO his bills and tipped like a gentleman extreme. It was too bad he should die. I agreed with him, poked around for some personal information and found that he was the kind nothing can be said about. Apparently he was clean.
Finding something on McGrath was easy. The papers carried the same stuff Velda had passed to me without adding anything to it. Ray made a couple of calls downstairs and supplied the rest. Walter McGrath was a pretty frequent visitor to some of the gaudier night clubs around town and generally had a pretty chick in tow. A little persuasion and Ray managed to get his address. A big hotel on Madison Avenue. The guy was really living.
We sat there a few minutes and Ray asked, 'Anything else?'
'Lee Kawolsky. Remember him?'
Ray didn't have to go to his files for that. 'Good boy, Mike. It was a shame he couldn't follow through. Broke his hand in training and it never healed properly. He could have been a champ.'
'What did he do for a living after that?'
'Let's see.' Ray's face wrinkled in thought. 'Seems like he bartended for Ed Rooney a bit, then he was doing a little training work with some of the other fighters. Wait a sec.' He picked up the phone again, called Sports and listened for a minute to the droning voice on the other end. When he hung up he had a question in his eyes.
'What's the pitch, Mike?'?
'Like what?'
His eyes sharpened a bit as they watched me. 'Lee went to work for a private detective agency that specialized in supplying bodyguards for society brawls and stuff. One of his first assignments was sticking with a kid who was killed across the river a few days ago.'
'Interesting,' I said.
'Very. How about the story angle?'
'If I knew that I wouldn't be here now. How did he die?' 'It wasn't murder.'
'Who says?'
He picked up a pipe, cradled it in his hand and began to scrape the bowl with a penknife. 'Killers don't drive the same beer truck for ten years. They aren't married with five kids and don't break down and cry on the street when they've had their first accident.'
'You got a good memory, kid.'
'I was at the funeral, Mike. I was interested enough to find out what happened.'
'Any witnesses?'
'Not a one.'
I stood up and slapped my hat on. 'Thanks for the stuff, Ray. If I get anything I'll let you know.'
'Need any help?'
'Plenty. There's three names you can work on. Dig up anything good and I'll make it worth your while.'
'All I want is an exclusive.'
'Maybe you'll get one.'
He grinned at me and stuck the pipe in his mouth. Ray wasn't much of a guy. He was little and skinny and tight as hell with a buck, but he could get places fast when he wanted to. I grinned back, waved and took the elevator to the street.
Dr. Martin Soberin had his office facing Central Park. It wasn't the world's best location, but it came close. It took in a corner, was blocked in white masonry with venetian shuttered windows and a very discreet sign that announced his residency. The sign said he was in so I pushed the door while the chimes inside toned my arrival.
Inside it was better than I thought it would be. There was a neat, precise air about the place that said here was a prominent medical man suited to the needs of the upper crust, yet certainly within the financial and confidential range of absolutely anybody. Books lined the walls, professional journals were neatly stacked on the table and the furniture had been chosen and arranged to put any patient at ease. I sat down, started to light a cigarette and stopped in the middle of it when the nurse walked in.
Some women are just pretty. Some are just beautiful. Some are just gorgeous. Some are like her. For a
