The Mike Hammer Collection

Geraldine chuckled and shrugged. “With ease, that’s how. I am a fixture, a political associate and nothing more. I can prance around this house in the buff and he’d never notice.”

“Want to bet?”

“No, I mean it. Mr. Torrence is dedicated. His political life is all he knows and all he wants. He’s been in public service so long that he thinks of nothing else. Any time he is seen with a woman having supper or at some social function is for a political advantage.”

“The female votes?”

“Certainly. Women don’t mind widowers who seem to still have a family instinct but they do seem to resent confirmed bachelors.”

“That’s what the men get for giving them the vote. Look, kid, Sim tells me you’ve been through a few of his political campaigns.”

“That’s right.”

“He ever have any trouble before?”

“Like what?”

“Something from his past coming out to shake him. Any blackmail attempts or threats against his personal life. He says no, but sometimes these things go through the party rather than the individual.”

She sat back, frowning, then shook her head. “I think I’d know of anything like that. The organization is well knit and knows the implications of these things and I would have been told, but as far as I know nothing can interfere with his career. He’s exceptionally clean. That’s why we were so concerned about Sue’s running off. Even a thing like that can affect voting. A man who can’t run his own house can hardly be expected to run a state.”

“You know he’s in a position to be hurt now.”

“I realize that.” She got up, pushed her chair back and walked toward me with a swaying stride, not conscious at all of the subtle undulations beneath the tight-fitting sweater and skirt. “Do you think Sue will be all right?”

“She’s a big girl. She may not look it, but don’t be fooled.”

“This business . . . about Mr. Torrence killing her mother.”

“That’s an idea she’ll have to get out of her mind.”

Geraldine said, “She dreams it. Dreams can be pretty real sometimes. Her very early childhood couldn’t have been very nice. I don’t think she ever knew who her father was. If she makes open accusations it can damage Mr. Torrence.”

“I’ll speak to her. She around?”

“There’s a summer house on the south side where she practices. She practically lives there.”

She was standing in front of me now, concern deep inside those wild blue eyes. I said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Geraldine smiled, reached up slowly, and put her arms around my neck. With the same deliberate slowness she pulled herself on her toes, wet her lips with her tongue, and brought my mouth down to hers. It was a soft teasing, tasting kiss, as if she were sampling the juice from a plum before buying the lot. Her mouth was a warm cavern filled with life and promise, then just as slowly she drew away, smiling.

“Thank you,” she said.

I grinned at her. “Thank you.”

“I could hate you easier than I could like you.”

“Which is worse?”

“That you’ll have to find out for yourself.”

“Maybe I will, baby.”

At first I didn’t think she was there, then I heard the sounds of a cabinet opening and I knocked on the door. Her smile was like the sun breaking open a cloud and she reached for my hand. “Hello, Mike. Gee I’m glad to see you.” She looked past me. “Isn’t Velda with you?”

“Not this time. Can I come in?”

She made a face at me and stepped aside, then closed the door.

It was a funny little place, apparently done over to her specifications. One wall was all mirror with a dancer’s practice bar against it. Opposite was a record player with a shelf of LP’s, a shoe rack with all the implements of the trade, a standup microphone attached to a record player, a spinet piano covered with lead sheets of popular music and Broadway hits, with a few stuffed animals keeping them in place.

The rest of the room was a girl-style den with a studio couch, dresser, cabinets, and a small conference table. Cardboard boxes, books, and a few old-fashioned paper files covered the table and it was these she was going through when I found her.

“What’re you up to, Sue?”

“Going through my mother’s things.”

“She’s a long time dead. Face it.”

“I know. Would you like to see what she looked like?”

“Sure.”

There were a few clippings from the trade papers of the time and some framed nightclub shots taken by the usual club photographers and they all showed a well-built blonde with a slightly vacuous expression. Whether it was intended or built-in I couldn’t tell, but she almost typified the beautiful but dumb showgirl. There were four photos, all taken in night spots long since gone. In two of them she was with a party of six. In the other two there were four people, and in those she was with the same man, a lanky darkhaired guy with deep-set eyes who almost seemed like a hell-fire preacher touring the sin spots for material for a sermon.

“She was pretty,” I said.

“She was beautiful,” Sue said softly. “I can still remember her face.”

“These were taken before you were born.” I pointed to the dates on the back of the photos.