The Mike Hammer Collection

I tried his door, but the lock was secure. The only windows were those facing the street, the protective iron bars imbedded in the brickwork since the building had been erected. I knocked again, louder this time, and called out, but nobody answered.

Then again I had that funny feeling I had learned not to ignore, but it had been so long since I had felt it that it was almost new and once more I realized just how long it had been since I was in a dark place with a kill on my hands.

Back then it had been different. I had the gun. I was big.

Now was—how many years later? There was no gun. I wasn’t big anymore.

I was what was left over from being a damn drunken bum, and if there were anything left at all it was sheer reflex and nothing else.

So I called on the reflex and opened the door with the card the tall thin man gave me because it was an old lock with a wide gap in the doorframe. I shoved it back until it hit the door, standing there where anybody inside could target me easily, but knowing that it was safe because I had been close to death too many times not to recognize the immediate sound of silence it makes.

He was on the floor face down, arms outstretched, legs spread, his head turned to one side so that he stared at one wall with the universal expression of the dead. He lay there in a pool of soup made from his own blood that had gouted forth from the great slash in his throat. The blood had long ago congealed and seeped into the cracks in the flooring, the coloring changed from scarlet to brown and already starting to smell.

Somebody had already searched the room. It hadn’t taken long, but the job had been thorough. The signs of the expert were there, the one who had time and experience, who knew every possible hiding place and who had overlooked none. The search had gone around the room and come back to the body on the floor. The seams of the coat were carefully torn open, the pockets turned inside out, the shoes ripped apart.

But the door had been locked and this was not the sign of someone who had found what he wanted. Instead, it was the sign of he who hadn’t and wanted time to think on it—or wait it out—or possibly study who else was looking for the same thing.

I said, “Don’t worry, Dewey, I’ll find him,” and my voice was strangely hushed like it came from years ago. I wiped off the light switch, the knob, then closed the door and left it like I found it and felt my way to the back through the labyrinth of alleys that is New York over on that side and pretty soon I came out on the street again and it had started to rain.

His name was Nat Drutman. He owned the Hackard Building where I used to have my office and now, seven years later, he was just the same—only a little grayer and a little wiser around the eyes and when he glanced up at me from his desk it was as if he had seen me only yesterday.

“Hello, Mike.”

“Nat.”

“Good to see you.”

“Thanks,” I said.

This time his eyes stayed on me and he smiled, a gentle smile that had hope in it. “It has been a long time.”

“Much too long.”

“I know.” He watched me expectantly.

I said, “You sell the junk from my office?”

“No.”

“Store it?”

He shook his head, just once. “No.”

“No games, kid,” I said.

He made the Lower East Side gesture with his shoulders and let his smile stay pat. “It’s still there, Mike.”

“Not after seven years, kid,” I told him.

“That’s so long?”

“For somebody who wants their loot it is.”

“So who needs loot?”

“Nat—”

“Yes, Mike?”

His smile was hard to understand.

“No games.”

“You still got a key?” he asked.

“No. I left to stay. No key. No nothing anymore.”

He held out his hand, offering me a shiny piece of brass. I took it automatically and looked at the number stamped into it, a fat 808. “I had it made special,” he said.

As best I could, I tried to be nasty. “Come off it, Nat.”

He wouldn’t accept the act. “Don’t thank me. I knew you’d be back.”

I said, “Shit.”

There was a hurt look on his face. It barely touched his eyes and the corners of his mouth, but I knew I had hurt him.

“Seven years, Nat. That’s a lot of rent.”

He wouldn’t argue. I got that shrug again and the funny look that went with it. “So for you I dropped the rent to a dollar a year while you were gone.”

I looked at the key, feeling my shoulders tighten. “Nat—”

“Please—don’t talk. Just take. Remember when you gave? Remember Bernie and those men? Remember—”

“Okay, Nat.”

The sudden tension left his face and he smiled again. I said, “Thanks, kid. You’ll never know.”

A small laugh left his lips and he said, “Oh I’ll know, all right. That’ll be seven dollars. Seven years, seven dollars.”

I took out another ten and laid it on his desk. With complete seriousness he gave me back three ones, a receipt, then said, “You got a phone too, Mike. Same number. No ‘thank yous,’ Mike. Augie Strickland came in with the six hundred he owed you and left it with me so I paid the phone bill from it. You still got maybe a couple bucks coming back if we figure close.”

“Save it for service charges,” I said.

“Good to see you, Mike.”