The Mike Hammer Collection

I made my grin as simpering as I could, rolling away from Velda until I sat perched on the edge of the couch. I was going wild inside and fought to keep my hands dangling at my sides while I tried to look like an idiot caught in the act until I could think my way past this thing.

“I didn’t know there’d be two but it figures a babe like you’d have something going for her.” He nudged the gun toward me. “But why grab off a mutt like this, baby?”

When she spoke from behind me her voice was completely changed. “When I could have had you?”

“That’s the way, baby. I’ve been watching you through that window four days and right now I’m ready. How about that?”

I would have gone for the rod right then, but I felt the pressure of her knee against my back.

“How about that?” Velda repeated.

The guy let out a jerky laugh and looked at me through slitted eyes. “So maybe we’ll make music after all, kid. Just as soon as I dump the mutt here.”

Then I couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “You’re going to have to do it the hard way.”

The gun shifted just enough so it pointed straight at my head. “That’s the way I always do things, mutt.”

He was ready. The gun was tight in his hand and the look was there and he was ready. Velda said, “Once that gun goes off you won’t have me.”

It wasn’t enough. The guy laughed again and nodded. “That’s okay too, baby. This is what I came for anyway.”

“Why?” she asked him.

“Games, baby?” The gun swung gently toward her, then back to me, ready to take either or both of us when he wanted to. I tried to let fear bust through the hate inside me and hoped it showed like that when I slumped a little on the couch. My hand was an inch nearer the .45 now, but still too far away.

“I want the kid, baby, ya know?” he said. “So no games. Trot her out, I take off, and you stay alive.”

“Maybe,” I said.

His eyes roved over me. “Yeah, maybe.” He grinned. “You know something, mutt? You ain’t scared enough. You’re thinking.”

“Why not?”

“Sure, why not? But whatever you think it just ain’t there for you, mutt. This ain’t your day.”

There were only seconds now. He was past being ready and his eyes said it was as good as done and I was dead and he started that final squeeze as Velda and I moved together.

We never would have made it if the door hadn’t slammed open into him and knocked his arm up. The shot went into the ceiling and with a startled yell he spun around toward the two guys in the doorway, dropping as he fired, but the smaller guy got him first with two quick shots in the chest and he started to tumble backwards with the blood bubbling in his throat.

I was tangled in the raincoat trying to get at my gun when the bigger one saw me, streaked off a shot that went by my head, and in the light of the blast I knew they weren’t cops because I recognized a face of a hood I knew a long time. It was the last shot he ever made. I caught him head-on with a .45 that pitched him back through the door. The other one tried to nail me while I was rolling away from Velda and forgot about the guy dying on the floor. The mug let one go from the Police Positive that ripped into the hood’s belly and with a choking yell he tumbled out the door, tripped, and hobbled off out of sight, calling to someone that he’d been hit.

I kicked the gun out of the hand of the guy on the floor, stepped over him, and went out in the hall gun first. It was too late. The car was pulling away from the curb and all that was left was the peculiar silence of the street.

He was on his way out when I got back to him, the sag of death in his face. There were things I wanted to ask him, but I never got the chance. Through bloody froth he said, “You’ll . . . get yours, mutt.”

I didn’t want him to die happy. I said, “No chance, punk. This is my day after all.”

His mouth opened in a grimace of hate and frustration that was the last living thing he ever did.

From where to where? I thought. Why are there always dead men around me? I came back, all right. Just like in the old days. Love and death going hand in hand.

There was something familiar about his face. I turned his head with my toe, looked at him closely and caught it. Velda said, “Do you know him?”

“Yeah. His name is Basil Levitt. He used to be a private dick until he tried a shakedown on somebody who wouldn’t take it, then he did time for second-degree murder.”

“What about the other one?”

“They call him Kid Hand. He was a freelance gun that did muscle for small bookies on bettors who didn’t want to pay off. He’s had a fall before too.”

I looked at Velda and saw the way she was breathing and the set expression on her face. There was a strange sort of wildness there you find on animals suddenly having to fight for their lives. I said, “They aren’t from the other side, kitten. These are new ones. These want something different.” I waited a moment, then: “Who’s the kid, honey?”

“Mike . . .”