The Mike Hammer Collection

“I was a newspaperman then. Bayliss Henry of the Telegram. Pepper, they call me now. You had that gunfight with Cortez Johnson and his crazy bunch from Red Hook.”

“That was long ago, feller.”

“Papers said it was your first case. You had an assignment from Aliet Insurance.”

“Yeah,” I told him, “I remember the fire. Now I remember you too. I never did get to say thanks. I go through the whole damn war without a scratch and get hit in a lousy heist and almost burn to death. So thanks!”

“My pleasure, Mike. You got me a scoop bonus.”

“Now what’s new?”

“Hell, after what guys like us saw, what else could be new?”

I drank my beer and didn’t say anything.

Bayliss Henry grinned and asked, “What’s with you?”

“What?” I tried to sound pretty bored.

It didn’t take with him at all. “Come on, Big Mike. You’ve always been my favorite news story. Even when I don’t write, I follow the columns. Now you just don’t come busting in this place anymore without a reason. How long were you a bum, Mike?”

“Seven years.”

“Seven years ago you never would have put a gun on Sugar Boy.”

“I didn’t need it then.”

“Now you need it?”

“Now I need it,” I repeated.

Bayliss took a quick glance around. “You got no ticket for that rod, Mike.”

I laughed, and my face froze him. “Neither had Capone. Was he worried?”

The others had left us. The two guys were back at their table by the door watching the rain through the windows, the music from the overlighted juke strangely soft for a change, the conversation a subdued hum above it.

A rainy night can do things like that. It can change the entire course of events. It seems to rearrange time.

I said, “What?”

“Jeez, Mike, why don’t you listen once? I’ve been talking for ten minutes.”

“Sorry, kid.”

“Okay, I know how it is. Just one thing.”

“What?”

“When you gonna ask it?”

I looked at him and took a pull of the beer.

“The big question. The one you came here to ask somebody.”

“You think too much, Bayliss, boy.”

He made a wry face. “I can think more. You got a big one on your mind. This is a funny place, like a thieves’ market. Just anybody doesn’t come here. It’s a special place for special purposes. You want something, don’t you?”

I thought a moment, then nodded. “What can you supply?”

His wrinkled face turned up to mine with a big smile. “Hell, man, for you just about anything.”

“Know a man named Richie Cole?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said, casually, “he had a room under mine. He was a good friend. A damn smuggler who was supposed to be small-time, but he was better than that because he had loot small smugglers never get to keep. Nice guy, though.”

And that is how a leech line can start in New York if you know where to begin. The interweaving of events and personalities can lead you to a crossroad eventually where someone stands who, with one wave of a hand, can put you on the right trail—if he chooses to. But the interweaving is not a simple thing. It comes from years of mingling and mixing and kneading, and although the answer seems to be an almost casual thing, it really isn’t at all.

I said, “He still live there?”

“Naw. He got another place. But he’s no seaman.”

“How do you know?”

Bayliss grunted and finished his beer. “Now what seaman will keep a furnished room while he’s away?”

“How do you know this?”

The little guy shrugged and waved the bartender over. “Mike— I’ve been there. We spilled plenty of beer together.” He handed me a fresh brew and picked up his own. “Richie Cole was a guy who made plenty of bucks, friend, and don’t you forget it. You’d like him.”

“Where’s his place?”

Bayliss smiled broadly, “Come on, Mike. I said he was a friend. If he’s in trouble I’m not going to make it worse.”

“You can’t,” I told him. “Cole’s dead.”

Slowly, he put the beer down on the bar, turned and looked at me with his forehead wrinkling in a frown. “How?”

“Shot.”

“You know something, Mike? I thought something like that would happen to him. It was in the cards.”

“Like how?”

“I saw his guns. He had three of them in a trunk. Besides, he used me for a few things.”

When I didn’t answer, he grinned and shrugged.

“I’m an old-timer, Mike. Remember? Stuff I know hasn’t been taught some of the fancy boys on the papers yet. I still got connections that get me a few bucks here and there. No trouble, either. I did so many favors that now it pays off and, believe me, this retirement pay business isn’t what it looks like. So I pick up a few bucks with some well chosen directions or clever ideas. Now, Cole, I never did figure just what he was after, but he sure wanted some peculiar information.”

“How peculiar?”

“Well, to a thinking man like me, it was peculiar because no smuggler the size he was supposed to be would want to know what he wanted.”

“Smart,” I told him. “Did you mention it to Cole?”

“Sure,” Bayliss grinned, “but we’re both old at what we were doing and could read eyes. I wouldn’t pop on him.”

“Suppose we go see his place.”

“Suppose you tell me what he really was first.”