Survival... ZERO!

Dorn drifted into his business. He had started out during the war years assembling radar components under military contract, developed a few patentable ideas and went on from there. He admitted freely that World War II, Korea and the Vietnam thing made him wealthy, but didn't hesitate to state that the civilian applications of his products were of far more benefit than could be accrued by the military. Hell, I didn't disagree with him. You make it whenever and however you can. Separate ethics from business and you get a big fat nothing.

Apparently Renee Talmage had been with him for ten years or so and was a pretty valuable asset to his business. Several times she came up with items of interest that belonged more in a man's world than a woman's. Dorn saw my look of surprise and said, 'Don't mind the brainy one, Mike. She does that to me sometimes . . . the big answers from those pretty lips. I pay her handsomely for her insight and she hasn't been wrong yet. My only concern is that she might leave me and go in business for herself. That would be the end of my enterprises.'

'I can imagine. I got one like that myself,' I said. At two thirty I told them I had to split, waited while Dorn signed the tab and walked to the street with them. Someplace the sun had disappeared into the haze and a bank of heavy, low clouds was beginning to roll in again. I

offered to drop them off, but Dorn said they were going to walk back and gave me another firm handshake.

When Renee 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