The Mike Hammer Collection

Rather than hear me answer she opened the door and slid out of the car. I came around from the other side and we went up the steps into the house together. It was a funny feeling, this coming home sensation. There was the house and the woman and the mutual desire, an instinctive demanding passion we shared, one for the other, yet realizing that there were other things that came first and not caring because there was always later.

There was a huge couch in the living room of soft, aged leather, a hidden hi-fi that played Dvořák, Beethoven and Tchaikovsky and somewhere in between Laura had gotten into yards of flowing nylon that did nothing to hide the warmth of her body or restrain the luscious bloom of her thighs and breasts. She lay there in my arms quietly, giving me all of the moment to enjoy as I pleased, only her sometimes-quickened breathing indicating her pleasure as I touched her lightly, caressing her with my fingertips. Her eyes were closed, a small satisfied smile touched the corners of her mouth and she snuggled into me with a sigh of contentment.

How long I sat there and thought about it I couldn’t tell. I let it drift through my mind from beginning to end, the part I knew and the part I didn’t know. Like always, a pattern was there. You can’t have murder without a pattern. It weaves in and out, fabricating an artful tapestry, and while the background colors were apparent from the beginning it is only at the last that the picture itself emerges. But who was the weaver? Who sat invisibly behind the loom with shuttles of death in one hand and skeins of lives in the other? I fell asleep trying to peer behind the gigantic framework of that murder factory, a sleep so deep, after so long, that there was nothing I thought about or remembered afterward.

I was alone when the bright shaft of sunlight pouring in the room awakened me. I was stretched out comfortably, my shoes off, my tie loose and a light Indian blanket over me. I threw it off, put my shoes back on and stood up. It took me a while to figure out what was wrong, then I saw the .45 in the shoulder holster draped over the back of a chair with my coat over it and while I was reaching for it she came in with all the exuberance of a summer morning, a tray of coffee in her hands, and blew me a kiss.

“Well hello,” I said.

She put the tray down and poured the coffee. “You were hard to undress.”

“Why bother?”

Laura looked up laughing. “It’s not easy to sleep with a man wearing a gun.” She held out a cup. “Here, have some coffee. Sugar and milk?”

“Both. And I’m glad it’s milk and not cream.”

She fixed my cup, stirring it too. “You’re a snob, Mike. In your own way you’re a snob.” She made a face at me and grinned. “But I love snobs.”

“You should be used to them. You travel in classy company.”

“They aren’t snobs like you. They’re just scared people putting on a front. You’re the real snob. Now kiss me good morning—or afternoon. It’s one o’clock.” She reached up offering her mouth and I took it briefly, but even that quick touch bringing back the desire again.

Laura slid her hand under my arm and walked me through the house to the porch and out to the lawn by the pool. The sun overhead was brilliant and hot, the air filled with the smell of the mountains. She said, “Can I get you something to eat?”

I tightened my arm on her hand. “You’re enough for right now.”

She nuzzled my shoulder, wrinkled her nose and grinned. We both pulled out aluminum and plastic chairs, and while she went inside for the coffeepot I settled down in mine.

Now maybe I could think.

She poured another cup, knowing what was going through my mind. When she sat down opposite me she said, “Mike, would it be any good to tell me about it? I’m a good listener. I’ll be somebody you can aim hypothetical questions at. Leo did this with me constantly. He called me his sounding board. He could think out loud, but doing it alone he sounded foolish to himself so he’d do it with me.” She paused, her eyes earnest, wanting to help. “I’m yours for anything if you want me, Mike.”

“Thanks, kitten.”

I finished the coffee and put the cup down.

“You’re afraid of something,” she said.

“Not of. For. Like for you, girl. I told you once I was a trouble character. Wherever I am there’s trouble and when you play guns there are stray shots and I don’t want you in the way of any.”

“I’ve already been there, remember?”

“Only because I wasn’t on my toes. I’ve slowed up. I’ve been away too damn long and I’m not careful.”

“Are you careful now?”

My eyes reached hers across the few feet that separated us. “No. I’m being a damn fool again. I doubt if we were tailed here, but it’s only a doubt. I have a gun in the house, but we could be dead before I reached it.”

She shrugged unconcernedly. “There’s the shotgun in the bathhouse.”

“That’s still no good. It’s a pro game. There won’t be any more second chances. You couldn’t reach the shotgun either. It’s around the pool and in the dark.”