The Mike Hammer Collection

Inside the bar a pair of chunkers were swapping stories in a half-drunken tone while a TV blared from the wall. A small archway led into the back room that was nestled in semi-darkness and when I went in a thin, reedy voice said from one side, “Walk easy, mister.”

He had his hands in his side pockets and would have been easy to take, loaded or not, but I went along with him. He steered me past the booths to the side entrance where another one waited who grinned in an insolent way and said, “He carries a heavy piece. You look for it?”

“You do it,” the thin guy said.

He knew right where to look. He dragged the .45 out, said, “Nice,” grinned again, and stuck it in his pocket. “Now outside. We got transportation waiting. You’re real V.I.P.”

The place they took me to was in Long Island City, a section ready to be torn down to make way for a new factory building. The car stopped outside an abandoned store and when the smart one nodded I followed him around the back with the thin one six feet behind me and went on inside.

They sat at a table, three of them, with Velda in a chair at the end. A single Coleman lamp threw everything into sharp lights and shadows, making their faces look unreal.

I looked past them to Velda. “You okay, honey?”

She nodded, but there was a tight cast to her mouth.

The heavy-set guy in the homburg said, “So you’re Mike Hammer.”

I took a wild guess. “Del Penner.”

His face hardened. “He clean?”

Both the guys at the door behind him nodded and the one took my .45 out and showed it. Del said, “You came too easy, Hammer.”

“Who expected trouble?”

“In your business you should always expect it.”

“I’ll remember it. What’s the action, Penner?”

“You sent her asking about me. Why?”

“Because I’m getting my toes stepped on. A guy named Kid Hand got shot and I hear you’re taking his place. I don’t like to get pushed. Now what?”

“You’ll get more than pushed, Hammer. Word’s around that you got yourself some top cover and knocking you off can make too much noise. Not that it can’t be handled, but who needs noise? Okay, you’re after something, so spill it.”

“Sure. You are stepping up then?”

Penner shrugged elaborately. “Somebody takes over. What else?” “Who’s Dickerson?”

Everybody looked at everybody else before Del Penner decided to answer me. He finally made up his mind. “You know that much, then you can have this. Nobody knows who Mr. Dickerson is.”

“Somebody knows.”

“Maybe, but not you and not us. What else?”

“You pull this stunt on your own?”

“That you can bet your life on. When this broad started nosing around I wanted to know why. So I asked her and she told me. She said they were your orders. Now get this . . . I know about the whole schmear with you knocking off Kid Hand and getting Levitt bumped and leaving Marv Kania running around with a slug in his gut. I ain’t got orders on you yet but like I said, when anybody noses around me I want to know why.”

“Supposing I put it this way then, Penner . . . I’m the same way. Anybody tries to shoot me up is in for a hard time. You looked like a good place to start with and don’t figure I’m the only one who’ll think of it. You don’t commit murder in this town and just walk away from it. If you’re stepping into Kid Hand’s job then you should know that too.”

Penner smiled tightly. “The picture’s clear, Hammer. I’m just stopping it before it gets started.”

“Then this bit is supposed to be a warning?”

“Something like that.”

“Or maybe you’re doing a favor ahead of time.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Like Kid Hand was maybe doing a personal favor and stepped down off his pedestal to look like a big man.”

The silence was tight. Del Penner just stared at me, not bothered at all by what I said. His hand reached up and touched his homburg and he sat back in his chair. “Warning then, Hammer. Don’t make any more noise around me. I imagine you’d be about a fifteen-hundred-buck job. One thousand five hundred bucks can buy both of you dead and no mud on my hands. Clear?”

I put both hands on the table and leaned right into his face. “How much would you cost, Del?” I asked him. He glared at me, his eyes hard and bright. I said, “Come on, Velda. They’re giving us a ride home.”

We sat in the front next to the driver, the skinny guy in back. All the way into Manhattan he kept playing with my gun. When we got to my office the one behind the wheel said, “Out, Mac.”

“Let’s have the rod.”

“Nah, it’s too good a piece for a punk like you. I want a souvenir.”

So I put the .32 up against his neck while Velda swung around in her seat and pointed the automatic at the skinny guy and his whine was a tinny nasal sound he had trouble making. He handed over the .45 real easy, licking his lips and trying to say something. The one beside me said, “Look, Mac . . .”

“I never come easy, buddy. You tell them all.”

His eyes showed white all the way around and he knew. He knew all right. The car pulled away with a squeal of tires and I looked at Velda and laughed. “You play it that way by accident, honey?”