The Mike Hammer Collection

The rain came down a little harder and began to run off the brim of my hat. In a little while it seeped through the top of the cheap trench coat and I could feel the cold of it on my shoulders. And then I had the streets all alone again and the night and the city belonged only to me. I walked, so I was king. The others who huddled in the doorways and watched me with tired eyes were the lesser ones. Those who ran for the taxis were the scared ones. So I walked and I was able to think about Velda again. She had suddenly become a case and it had to be that way. It had to be cold and logical, otherwise it would vaporize into incredibility and there would be nothing left except to go back to where I had come from.

Think.

Who saw her die? No one. It was an assumption. Well assumed, but an assumption nevertheless.

Then, after seven years, who saw her alive? Richie Cole.

Sure, he had reason to know her. They were friends. War buddies. They had worked together. Once a year they’d meet for supper and a show and talk over old times. Hell, I’d done it myself with George and Earle, Ray, Mason and the others. It was nothing you could talk about to anybody else, though. Death and destruction you took part in could be shared only with those in range of the same enemy guns. With them you couldn’t brag or lie. You simply recounted and wondered that you were still alive and renewed a friendship.

Cole couldn’t have made a mistake. He knew her.

And Cole had been a pro. Velda was a pro. He had come looking for me because she had told him I was a pro and he had been disappointed at what he had seen. He had taken a look at me and his reason for staying alive died right then. Whatever it was, he didn’t think I could do it. He saw a damned drunken bum who had lost every bit of himself years before and he died thinking she was going to die too and he was loathing me with eyes starting to film over with the nonexistence of death.

Richie Cole just didn’t know me very well at all.

He had a chance to say the magic word and that made all the difference.

Velda.

Would it still be the same? How will you look after seven years? Hell, you should see me. You should see the way I look. And what’s inside you after a time span like that? Things happen in seven years; things build, things dissolve. What happens to people in love? Seven years ago that’s the way we were. In Love. Capital L. Had we stayed together time would only have lent maturity and quality to that which it served to improve.

But my love, my love, how could you look at me, me after seven years? You knew what I had been and called for me at last, but I wasn’t what you expected at all. That big one you knew and loved is gone, kid, long gone, and you can’t come back that big anymore. Hell, Velda, you know that. You can’t come back . . . you should have known what would happen to me. Damn, you knew me well enough. And it happened. So how can you yell for me now? I know you knew what I’d be like, and you asked for me anyway.

I let out a little laugh and only the rain could enjoy it with me. She knew, all right. You can’t come back just as big. Either lesser or bigger. There was no other answer. She just didn’t know the odds against the right choice.

There was a new man on the elevator now. I signed the night book, nodded to him and gave him my floor. I got off at eight and went down the hall, watching my shadow grow longer and longer from the single light behind me.

I had my keys in my hand, but I didn’t need them at all. The door to 808 stood wide open invitingly, the lights inside throwing a warm glow over the dust and the furniture and when I closed it behind me I went through the anteroom to my office where Art Rickerby was sitting and picked up the sandwich and Blue Ribbon beer he had waiting for me and sat down on the edge of the couch and didn’t say a word until I had finished both.

Art said, “Your friend Nat Drutman gave me the key.”

“It’s okay.”

“I pushed him a little.”

“He’s been pushed before. If he couldn’t read you right you wouldn’t have gotten the key. Don’t sell him short.”

“I figured as much.”

I got up, took off the soggy coat and hat and threw them across a chair. “What’s with the visit? I hope you’re not getting too impatient.”

“No. Patience is something inbred. Nothing I can do will bring Richie back. All I can do is play the angles, the curves, float along the stream of time, then, my friend, something will bite, even on an unbaited hook.”

“Shit.”

“You know it’s like that. You’re a cop.”

“A long time ago.”

He watched me, a funny smile on his face. “No. Now. I know the signs. I’ve been in this business too long.”

“So what do you want here?”

Rickerby’s smile broadened. “I told you once. I’ll do anything to get Richie’s killer.”

“Oh?”