The Killing Man

that note really have been for DiCica?'

'All I know, baby, is that it wasn't meant for me.'

'It isn't over, you know.' She finished her drink too and set the glass down beside mine. The first side of the Dante Symphony slid to a close and the machine flipped the record over. Now the real meat of Liszt's symphony would begin to show. 'What are you going to do?'

'What I started out to do,' I said. 'That one son of a bitch is going to fall. I don't give a damn what happens to all the money or all the coke as long as I get that bastard under my gun. We're playing around with somebody who likes to kill, likes to get paid for killing and likes to sign his name in chopped-off fingers.'

Coolly, she said, 'One of you is going to find the other, Mike.'

This time I grinned. 'Has to happen. But before it does, sugar, I'm going to make sure you have your truckload of nose candy. When you do, you're going to let Petey Benson in on the story, lay some credit on Ray Wilson and his espionage system, then you can hop into your boss's chair and be on your way to the White House.'

The beautiful blue icicle moved toward me and the static fire in the jumpsuit crackled minutely, and when her body touched mine, I felt shock that jumped from her nipple tingle in my chest, and whatever that charge did to her melted the ice completely and her mouth was on mine, eating at me, swirling and tasting, trying to vulcanize us together.

For a second I tried to hold her away, but her arms were around me and she was melting into me again. I let my fingers run down her back, following the muscles that moved along her spine, then my hands were at her waist and I knew what she wanted. I didn't do it, so she did it herself, sweeping the top of her jumpsuit off in a fast, fluid motion, and deliberately letting me have a long look at the lovely swell of those firm breasts before she pushed my coat off my shoulders and laid her breasts against my shirt so I could feel the heat, the incredible body warmth of her nakedness.

She started to smile, an impish quirk of her mouth. 'Can you take off your gun?'

I unsnapped the belt loop, pulled the shoulder strap off and laid the rig on the chair. 'A man's gotta do what he's gotta do,' I told her.

'John Wayne said that,' she mentioned.

'Many times, in many pictures.'

'Now you do what you gotta do,' she directed.

The Dante Symphony was coming to the end now. It was pounding, forcing the notes into an eerie crescendo so that you could see the flames, feel the passion and hear screams like none other anywhere. It was exhilarating to the point of absolute exhaustion and left you shaken with tremors that never came any other way.

Traffic was light going out of town. I picked up the Long Island Expressway, stayed at speed limit and let my mind wander back to when General Rudy Skubal was the main man in covert activities. During World War II he had his own unit, working under the Office of Strategic Services, and had been reassigned after the Nazi collapse to nailing war criminals trying to get out of Allied control.

He took a discharge in 1949, but the CIA was waiting then. The big action was tuning up in the cold war and it got hotter when Korea and Vietnam made their imprints on modern history. It was when the Middle East took on its own dramatic stance and developed terrorism to a high point of sophistication that the general's expertise was called on.

Then, suddenly, Rudy Skubal wasn't there any more. Somebody else occupied his office and the carefully couched words were that he had decided to retire. In a pig's ass he had decided to retire. He had rubbed some politico's feathers the wrong way and the power of the party had gone to work and squeezed out a real top gun and threw in some insipid party hack instead.

But old Skube didn't make any waves. He didn't have to. From then on he just made them pay for his services and kept himself the hell out of harm's way. Any more medals he didn't need.

I wondered what kind of light he was going to throw on Bern and Fells. Until now, I had never heard of any of his tigers going sour. But there always had to be a first time.

At Number 67 turnoff I picked up Route 21 North, ran past the little town of Yaphank and looked for the posts that marked the entrance to the old Kimball estate. It took thirty minutes searching and backtracking before I recognized them under a covering of wisteria, surrounded by sumac bushes. Unless the road was used almost daily, the ground covering obscured the tire tracks. I made a hard turn off the road, bounced over the culvert and felt a little relief when I knew the ground under the wheels was hard and firm.

After the first turn I was in another world. The seemingly uncared-for roughage of the exterior became a carefully tended wildlife area that quickly ended at a vast lawn surrounding a brick mansion right out of the Roaring Twenties.

Even now the general was taking no chances. Any invasion of his privacy could be clearly seen from any angle of the house, and the floodlights that were spotted around the building could turn night into day instantly.

I stayed on the driveway, going slowly, making the two large S-turns that gave the residents extra time to survey their guests, then drew up under the portico and got out of the car.

Maybe I should have called ahead. Nobody came out to meet me.

Then again, this wasn't the 1920s and the years of servants and butlers.

I walked up the stairs to the huge main door, pushed the button and heard a plain old-fashioned doorbell ring inside and then somebody appeared.

Some women can hit you with a visual impact you'll never forget. There aren't many of them, but there don't have to be many to leave a trail of men whose minds will always be impressed by a single contact. They don't have to be beautiful in any special sense, or with bodies specifically tuned to certain concepts, but to each viewer, they are the total thing that makes them woman.

This one had crazy electric blue eyes that could smile, as well as a full-lipped mouth, and when she said 'Good morning,' it was like being licked by a soft, satin-furry llama.

She had on a suit. The shoulders were broad, but not with the padding that was in style in 1988. She was real under the jacket and the military cut. It was tailored around beautifully full breasts, but short enough to show the generous swell of her hips. And she had a dancer's legs, muscularly rounded, but perfectly curved. They hardly make them like that any more, I thought. What she's doing here has to be a story by itself.

I said, 'Damn!' under my breath and grinned back at her. 'My name is Michael Hammer, ma'am. I'm an old friend of the general and I have something very important to see him about, and I'm hoping he'll have time to hear me out.' I held out my wallet with the PI license and gun permit behind the plastic windows, wondering where the hell my city schmarts had disappeared to.

She let out a disconcerting laugh. 'Well, Mr. Hammer, it is nice to see you. Please, come in.'

'Thanks.' I stepped up and walked past her. She was another big woman, with elfish grace, yet strangely athletic motion. She closed the door with a sweep of her hand, then thumbed open a panel and touched a red lighted button that went out momentarily and turned green.

'May I have your weapon?' she asked me.

I flipped out the .45 and handed it to her. She took it, slipped it inside a small wall closet and covered that too. 'You didn't ask me for a throw-away piece.' I said.

'That's because you haven't any.' She smiled back. 'Keys, pocket change and possibly a penknife, but nothing more. The instrument is very sensitive.'

'Supposing somebody just comes busting in here-'

'Why talk of unpleasant things?' she said. 'Now, I haven't introduced myself. I am Edwina West, General Skubal's secretary.'

'Hold it.'

She paused. 'Mr. Hammer?'

'Let's keep it simple and square, Miss West. No secretary garbage.'

'Oh?'

'You're CIA, aren't you?'

There was no hesitation at all. 'Yes, I am. Why should you ask?'

'Women don't generally refer to a gun as a weapon. You knew what a throwaway was.'

Her smile had real laughter in it. 'I'll have to remember that,' she told me. 'Do you like me any less now?'