Kiss Her Goodbye (13 page)

I'd left the million-dollar marble in an envelope in the hotel safe—nobody knew I had the pebble, so it should be secure. I just didn't want to go around carrying the damn thing. After all, a person could get mugged here in Fun City.

But I
was
carrying something else now—the .45 in its speed rig. With the weight I'd lost, its bulk didn't show under my shoulder at all. Not that it ever had, since all my suits and sport jackets were cut for concealment. This was no simple precaution. Somebody had tried to kill me last night. No time to be keeping the gun packed away in a drawer—time for packing period.

I didn't bother looking around the street for a tail. If he was there, good. Whether a killer with an unknown agenda, or a copper sent by Pat for protection, I'd pick him up sooner or later. The weight under my arm had given a looseness to my shoulders, and I was getting the feeling that I was back in my own ballpark again. I flagged a cab, slipped in back, and gave the driver an East Side address.

The building was turn-of-the-century stylish, a former residence turned into a fashionable men's club. In the basement was the Enfilade, the most exclusive gun club in New York State, snugged away in the midst of Manhattan.

Of course, New York has always had a reputation for being trigger-happy, but these days even buying a gun is a hassle, licensing one is even worse, and finding a place to shoot the goddamn thing is nearly impossible.

So the deep-pocket supersports had come up with their own clubhouse—outfitted with a hundred-foot range and all the technology of a police academy with reloading equipment from cap-and-ball antiques to Israeli Arms .45s.

Membership was pretty damn selective. Social status could always do it, and money generally could too, while occasionally allowances were made for unique personalities, whom the gun fraternity decided could liven up their scheduled events—like the mayor or a Broadway star.

Or a respected retired cop like Bill Doolan.

Ten years ago I had been presented with a membership card so I could mingle during a rare-weapons exhibition, one of the few times select segments of the public had been invited into the shooters' sanctuary. They had a ten-million-dollar display up and I handled the guard duty personally. When the job was over, I was paid handsomely, but they didn't take the card back.

One ancient gent of British extraction said it really was "a bit of a whimsy" to have a member who had actually used a gun to shoot people.

I opened the interior door and the little grayed gnome of a man at the antique mahogany desk looked at me, squinted, then broke into a wide smile.

"Ah," he said. This diminutive guard at the gates wore a dignified black suit and necktie suitable for a high-class undertaker. "Mr. Hammer, is it not?"

"Right on," I told him. "And you're Gerald."

"I am indeed."

You could smell the age when you were inside, the tingling odor of wood polish and real leather, not tainted by the smoke of cigars or covered with cigarette haze. By the door Gerald sat guarding, a brass plate simply read:
SMOKING NOT ALLOWED ON THESE PREMISES.
A large ornate ashtray stood beside it to make the message clear and provide an exit for any cigar or cigarette that had made it that far. Those with brains would realize that the place was full of barrels of shot and powder, and the ordinance was a safety device.

"Gerry, it's great to see you, and to be seen. But I didn't bring my card."

"No problem, sir—I know all the members. It
has
been some time though, hasn't it?"

"Five years, I guess. Back when Hagley won the International Trophy. Some party that night."

"The exception not the rule, sir. We like to keep our affairs rather dull. Stuffiness has its own benefits, when your hobby is firing off weapons."

"I can dig it," I said with a grin. "Who's lurking in the Enfilade today?"

"At this relatively early hour?" He glanced at the book in front of him. "Only the professionals. A former United States champion in small arms, a gun-manufacturing executive, and our present club president, an ex-Marine marksman, recently retired from Wall Street. Are you going to join them?"

I shrugged. "I don't play with guns anymore."

"I wasn't aware that you ever did, Mr. Hammer."

"What do you mean?"

"Play with them."

"You have a point."

He nodded toward my left arm. "Still, seeing that you've brought your own weapon, perhaps you would like to get in some practice."

"Good eye, Gerry."

"And nose—I can smell gun oil at fifty paces. Would you care to go below and mix with the members in attendance?"

"I would," I said.

Since I'd last been down the stairs into the Enfilade, the place had been renovated. The range itself was walled off from a social area, and from the lack of even muffled pops or cracks, it was either not currently in use or had been soundproofed to a fault.

The lounge area took up perhaps a third of the expansive basement. What had been sheerly functional was now softened with all the accoutrements of a grand billiard room—overstuffed leather chairs, a hand-carved decorative bar, and a table of stainless steel steamer trays for snacks (breakfast items right now). Overhead the soft whisper of heavy-duty exhaust fans sucked out any odor of cordite fumes, but we already seemed isolated from the range. Framed photographs decorated the walls, along with mounted displays of antique pistols, and shelves of trophies gave off a heavy silver glow in the muted light.

The group was having a coffee break, their sound mufflers hanging around their necks like chunky stethoscopes. They were in running togs, though their sport of choice was a standing-still affair.

The former U.S. champion saw me coming, broke into a wide grin, and half-laughed, "I'll be damned, look who's here—my old hero. I always wanted to be
you
when I grew up."

"Good thing you never grew up." I held out my hand for a good solid shake. "How you doing, Chuck?"

Chuck Webb was a compact five eight with sky-blue eyes, a tan rivaling mine, and brown hair cut Marine short. His creamcolor polo shirt bore the logo of Smith & Wesson, the company he toured for nationally, giving exhibitions.

He glanced at the others. "This is Mike Hammer," he said to them, "in case you don't recognize him."

The others were quick to say they did recognize me, greeting me with smiles and wide eyes. Maybe the years I'd put on and the weight I'd lost hadn't made too much difference after all.

We had coffee and conversation, then—after the others had gone off to resume their shooting—Chuck asked, "You going to squeeze off a few rounds?"

"Not today, buddy."

"Too bad. I figured on making a few bucks off you."

"At a range, you could. Out where people are shooting back, I might have the edge."

His expression was embarrassed. "No doubt. Man, I was 4-F. Closest I got to combat was that John Wayne movie about Vietnam. Listen, uh, Mike ... sorry to hear about your friend Doolan. Hell of a nice guy."

Now that the others were shooting, I could make out muffled gunfire. But damn faint for being right next to it.

"You know Doolan well, Chuck?"

He shrugged. "We weren't exactly close, but we were friendly acquaintances at least. He was in the Friday group, and so am I. Plus, I'd run into him at some of the functions upstairs. Caught him at some political meetings too. Such a nice fella, little on the crusty side. Not a bad shooter either, particularly for a guy of his years. Hard to believe he'd ... turn a gun on himself."

He hadn't.

"Doolan was pretty spry for his age," I said.

He let out a gentle laugh. "Sure as shit was. When you came in, did you stop and look at the pictures on the trophy wall?"

"No."

He jerked his head toward the far side of the room where the stairs emptied out. "Come on—this is worth the trip, Mike."

And there among the many framed photos on display was old Doolan, sometimes when he was not so old. I hadn't realized he'd stayed in active competition at pistol shooting for so long. Only two years ago he had taken second place in an interstate meet.

Of the half-dozen latest photos, I recognized faces in every one—state senators, a Supreme Court judge, a few heavies in military uniforms, and a pair of very lovely dolls.

Chuck saw me eyeing them and said, "I thought it wouldn't take Mike Hammer's eyeballs very long to find their way to that pair. Both those lovely ladies are top marksmen. Or is it markspersons? Anyway, they're reps for an arms manufacturer."

"That's one way to keep a buyer's attention," I said with an appreciative nod. I pointed to Alex Jaynor, who was standing between the dolls, and asked, "Is Alex any good with a gun?"

"Not really. Do you know Alex?"

"We met at Doolan's funeral. They were apparently pretty tight in recent years."

"So I understand. Well, Alex shoots for fun, not for glory. Best I can say is, he enjoys it. Pretty decent guy for a politician. Doolan sponsored his membership."

"They seem an unlikely combo."

The remark brought another shrug. "Not really. Story is, Alex helped Doolan clean up his neighborhood. There was a shooting gallery—and I don't mean the Enfilade kind—and they got rid of that. Ran the druggies and the dealers out."

Cleaning drugs out of a neighborhood could make you unpopular with whoever had been profiting.

Chuck was saying, "Alex and Doolan were both right-wing anticrime, antidrug crusaders, and I guess that bridged any differences in age and background."

"I understand Alex was a reporter and that it was Doolan who encouraged him to quit and go into politics."

"Jibes with what I hear." Chuck tapped the photo under the last guy in the group. "Here's an oddball for you. Know him?"

He indicated a small, narrow-faced, mustached character with dark curly hair and dark eyes too small for his otherwise handsome face.

I had to look long and hard before recognition kicked in. "Shit—is that Tony
Tretriano?
"

"Right. Little Tony. Son of Big Tony."

Big Tony Tretriano had been a minor crime boss who died quietly in his sleep maybe six years ago.

I was shaking my head. "What's a bush-league wiseguy like Little Tony Tret doing in
this
club?"

Chuck was shaking his head, too, but in a way meant to calm me down. "Mike, he's a good kid. You may recall his mother did her best to keep the old man's hands off him."

I did. Tony Tretriano had graduated from an Ivy League school with a law degree and, after his sainted mother died, represented his pop for just a few years. After Big Tony kicked off, Little Tony stopped practicing law. That was the last I knew of the kid.

Chuck was saying, "In recent years, Anthony Tretriano has made it very clear he's severed all ties with organized crime—and in the last year, he's become a very big deal in this town. Jeez, Mike, you
have
been away."

"How has Little Tony become a big deal?"

"You've heard of Club 52?"

The pops in the range were louder. They must have upped their caliber.

"I was in Florida, not dead," I said. "Club 52's the 'in' disco for everybody who is famous, wants to be famous, or just wants to rub up against somebody famous."

Chuck laughed. "Yeah, I wish
I
could get in—any celebrity who comes to the Big Apple hangs there. Anthony owns and manages the club—he prefers Anthony to Tony, by the way. There was an article just a week or two ago in
New York
magazine about how he's expanding to just about every major city in these United States."

"Great. Now every big city will have a club where nobody can get past the velvet rope and the ex-wrestler doorman."

"I'm sure the rich and famous won't have any trouble at any of the locations."

"And 'Anthony' claims there's no mob ties to his club?"

"He seems squeaky clean." Chuck gave me another short laugh. "Funny how kids turn out. Big brother Leo did his bit in the pen for extortion and took over his old man's slice of the rackets when Big Tony died. At least, that's what it said in the
News.
Anthony has nothing at all to do with that part of the family anymore."

"Strange world," I mused.

"Crazy," he agreed. The light blue eyes brightened. "Mike, come on over and try the range. I have a new piece you'd dig—an S & W Model 29."

"What, the .44 mag?"

"You got it. Four-inch barrel. Herrett's Jordan Trooper stock in walnut. Adjustable sights..."

"Tempting. But another time, okay?"

"Sure." He shook his head, then laughed. "Yeah, that Doolan, he was still a pisser. Did you know that old fart had a young girlfriend?"

"I knew he still had an eye for beauty. But an honest-to-God girlfriend?"

His shrug was elaborate and his expression amused. "I never saw her, but a couple of the other members did. A big blonde, they said. Hey,
that's
a coincidence."

"What is?"

"You know where one of the guys said they saw Doolan with this young dish?"

"Where?"

"Club 52! How would a coot like Bill Doolan get into
that
trendy a watering hole? Much less land in the lap of some blonde out of
Penthouse.
Of course, just because he was getting up in years, doesn't mean he—"

"Couldn't
get
it up?" I finished. "Good to see you, Chuck. Don't let me keep you from your fun."

"Sure you don't wanna play with that .44 mag?"

"I haven't met the guy I couldn't stop with a .45."

I let him think about that as I waved and headed up the stairs.

Once again, Peter Cummings was in his office when I got there. Crouched behind a pile of papers at his desk, he looked up when I opened the door and motioned for me to come in—he was writing something in longhand. I waited for him to finish, which took maybe two minutes.

Then he let out a weight-of-the-world sigh Atlas might have envied, took the wire-rim glasses off, tossed them, wiped his eyes, and leaned back in his chair. "Well, Mike—are you getting anywhere on your New York vacation?"