Survival... ZERO!

'Like hell you did.'

'Nothing illegal about it. Any citizen could pull it off.'

'You managed to goof,' he reminded me. 'They got away.'

'They didn't get what they were after.'

'What were they after, Mike?'

I gave a meaningless shrug.

Pat picked up a pencil and twirled it in his fingers. Let's have it, Mike,' he said softly.

'Lippy was right, Pat. He got killed for no reason at all. He was a hardworking slob who made friends with some dip working the area and took him into the rooming house with him. That's the one they were after.'

Pat's eyes half closed, watching me closely. 'Something was in one of those wallets . . .'

'Maybe not,' I said. 'Apparently the guy was with Lippy a few weeks before Lippy got onto him and booted him out. That bunch of wallets was probably just his last day's take. You know who they all belonged to.'

'And one guy was Woody Ballinger.'

'Yeah, I know.'

'Keep talking,' Pat said.

'How many good pickpockets do you know who never took a fall?'

'They all do sooner or later.'

'None of the prints you picked up from the apartment got any action, did they?'

Pat's lips twisted in a grin. 'You're guessing, but you're right. The set we sent to Washington turned out negative. No record of them anywhere, not even military.'

'That gives us one lead then,' I said. 'Most people stay within their own age groups, so he was a 4-F in his late forties.'

'Great,' Pat said.

'And without a record, maybe he wasn't a regular practicing dip at all. Somebody could have been after him for what he did before he took up the profession.'

'That still leaves us with nothing.'

'Oh, we have something, all right,' I said. 'Like what?' Pat asked me.

'Like what they didn't get yet. They'll keep looking.' The other two cops and the steno collected their papers, nodded to Pat and left the three of us alone in the room. Pat swung off the desk in that lazy way he had and stared out the window. Finally he said, 'We haven't got time to throw any manpower into this right now.' There was something tight in his voice. I felt Velda's eyes on me, but didn't react. 'I know.'

'You be damn careful, Mike. My neck's out now too.'

'No sweat.' I lit a cigarette and tossed the match in the wastebasket. 'Any progress yet?' He didn't look at me. 'No.'

'The lid on pretty tight?'

'Nothing will ever be tighter.' He took a deep breath and turned around. In the backlight from the window his face looked drawn. 'If you turn up anything, keep in touch. We still have a primary job to do.'

'Sure, Pat.'

I picked up my hat and reached for Velda's arm. I knew the question was on her lips, but she said nothing except for a so long to Pat. When we got down on the street to hunt up a cab she asked evenly, 'What was that all about?'

It was a nice night for New York. The wind had cleaned the smog out of the skies and you could see the stars. Kids walked by holding hands, traffic was idling along and behind the lighted widows families would be watching the late news. Only nobody was telling them that

the biggest news of all they wouldn't want to hear. They were all living in wonderful ignorance, not knowing that they might be living their last night. For one second I wished I was in the same boat as they were.

I took Velda's hand and started across the street to intercept a cab going north. 'Just some departmental business,' I said. 'Nothing important.'

But she knew I was lying. There was a sadness in the small smile she gave me and her hand was flaccid in mine. Keeping details from Velda wasn't something I was used to doing. Not too long ago she had taken a pair of killers off my back without a second's hesitation. Now she was thinking that I couldn't trust her.

I said, 'Later, kitten. Believe me, I have a damn good reason.'

Her hand snuggled back into mine again and I knew it was all right. 'What do you want me to do now?' Velda asked.

'Back on the trail. I want that dip. He could still be in the area.'

'Even if he knew somebody was out to kill him?'

'There's no better place to hide than right here in the city. If he's any kind of a pro he's been working. If he's moved in on somebody else's turf they'll be the first to dump him. So make your contacts and buy what you have to. Just lay off any hard action. I'll take care of that end.'

'How do we clear any messages?'

'Let's use the office. I'll keep the tape recorder on and we can bleep in any cross information.' Both of us carried electronic units that could activate the tape in either direction so it wasn't necessary to have someone in the office all the time.

'Where are you going to be, Mike?'

'Seeing what an old enemy is up to.'

'Woody Ballinger?'

''Uh-huh.'

'He can't afford to lose any more,' Velda said.

'Neither can I, sugar,' I said.

'What brings you back to him again?'

All I could think of was Heidi Anders' compact. What she had in it put her life on the line. I said, 'Somebody's not after money. Woody used to keep all his business in his head. Maybe he put some of it in his wallet this time. A smart dip could have spotted it and tried a little blackmail.'

But first I had to be sure.

They wouldn?t talk to the cops. To a uniform or a badge they were deaf, dumb and blind, but I wasn't department material and they could read it in my face. I was one of them, living on the perimeter of normalcy and the ax I was grinding was a personal one because Lippy had been my friend and they had tried to knock me off too.

The redheaded whore called Skippy who had her crib across the back court from Lippy had seen them come out the window, two guys in dark suits she could tell didn't come from the neighborhood. They had jumped the fence and gone through the alley between her place and the dry cleaner's. No, she didn't see their faces, but the light hit one and she knew he was partially bald, but not too old because he could run too fast. She took the twenty I gave her since the excitement scared off the John she had in the pad and it was too late to turn another trick.

Old lady Gostovitch had seen them go right past her when she was coming in from her nightly bash at the gin mill, but her eyes were bad and she was too bagged to make their faces. All she could tell me was that they were in dark suits, climbed into a car and drove away. When she crunched the bill I handed her in her fist she added one more thing.

Between wheezes she said, 'One wore them heel things.'

'What heel things?'

'Clickers.'

'Clickers?'

'Clickers. Like kids got, y'know?'

'No, I don't.'

'Sheee-it, boy. They drag 'em over the floor and scratch everything up. Like dancers got on their shoes, y'know?'

'Metal taps?'

'So I call 'em clickers. Only on his heels. Maybe I don't see so good no more, but I hear. Boy, I hear everything. I even hear the cat pissin'. Thanks for the scratch.' She looked down at the bill in her hand. 'How much