Don't Look Behind You (6 page)

She deposited me at a doorway. She had never let go of my hand. Her touch was the damnedest thing—warm and cool at once.

“Leif’s just inside,” she said.

“Are you joining us?”

“No. I’m a modern girl, but I know when it’s man-talk time.”

Maybe there was hope for this new generation after all.

But I pressed: “I’m a little surprised you’re not going to be part of the meeting, Gwen. And it’s Mike.”

“Hi Mike. Why’s that?”

“Well, why meet at your place, if you’re not going to be part of the discussion?”

“Oh. I see. I hope you won’t be shocked, but after Daddy’s death, I asked Leif to move in here with me, and he said yes.”

If she got to know me better, she’d learn I didn’t shock quite so easily.

“You know, I knew your father,” I said.

The eyes widened again. Were those spaced-apart lashes fake? I didn’t care. They made blue sunflowers out of those eyes.

Very interested, she asked, “Were you friends with Daddy?”

“That overstates it. Friendly acquaintances even overstates it. But we each knew who the other was, and if we were in the same place would at least say hello and sometimes chat. Very charming guy. I admire his success. Nice man.”

She gave me half a smirk. “Not everyone who did business with Daddy would agree. He gave his stars fits, directors, too. Do you know what Anthony Newley said about Daddy?”

“No.”

“‘Will Rogers said he never met a man he didn’t like. Well, Will Rogers never met Martin Foster.’”

We both laughed a little at that.

“I miss him,” she said, letting the sadness show in that lovely face. “At first I was so… so
mad
at him. But he must have been in a lot of pain.”

There was nothing to say to that, but, “How are you holding up, Gwen?”

“All I can say is, Leif’s been a real boon in all this. I don’t know where I’d be, or how I’d have begun to deal with this thing, without him.” She gave my hand a final little squeeze. “Now, go on in there, Mike.”

She bounced off, the cute red-clad bottom bidding me a friendly goodbye. Half-way down the cavernous hall, she looked back and called out, echoing a little, “Don’t worry about getting lost. I’ll be back to collect you!”

I went on through into a two-story study, dominated by dark masculine woods, the kind of book-lined affair that needs library ladders on both its floors. One wall was plaster and bookless, though, reserved for a fireplace and framed photos of stage and screen stars and the occasional celebrity politician, all featuring the late Martin Foster in handshake or arm-around-the-shoulder pose. In the midst of this was a big framed Hirschfeld caricature of the departed producer—damn near the size of a movie poster.

The floor was parquet but a good deal of it was taken up by another Oriental carpet, on which perched half a dozen brown-leather easy chairs surrounding a glass-topped coffee table, fairly massive,
Playbill
programs of Foster’s many theatrical productions spread out on display within.

But the most impressive thing in the room was a man who had to be Leif Borensen, a big, grinning blond guy looking for all the world as if he had just stepped ashore from a Viking longboat—if Vikings wore camel-colored cardigans, light pink shirts, gray slacks, and Rolex watches.

He’d heard me come in and left his easy chair by the coffee table to approach with a smile and an outstretched paw. We shook, and neither of us showed off, and he introduced himself and gestured me to one of the easy chairs.

“Can I get you something to drink, Mr. Hammer?”

“I wouldn’t turn my nose up at a rye and ginger.”

“Rocks?”

“Why not?”

At a nearby bar cart, he built that and something for himself as well, and sat across from me, that glassed-in array of his late father-in-law’s theatrical triumphs between us.

“You live up to your billing, Mr. Hammer.”

“Do I?”

He gestured with his tumbler of what appeared to be Scotch. “You’re big and look mean as hell. I’d cast you in one of my TV shows if I didn’t think you’d scare the women and children.”

I smiled at that. “Call me if a bad guy role opens up. Now what’s this about a thousand dollars?”

He sipped the apparent Scotch. Single malt, no doubt. I wondered if it was older than his fiancée.
He
certainly was—fifty, easily, though his face wasn’t as lined as you’d think. Plastic surgery perhaps, or maybe he didn’t use his face much.

“I have to admit,” he said, smiling mostly with his eyes and confirming my latter notion, “that I was tickled when Smith-Torrence suggested you as a referral.”

“Oh?”

He nodded and set the drink down on a coaster on a little mahogany table between him and the next chair. “I admit to being a fan. You may not know this, but I was a working actor… or anyway, I worked occasionally… back in your heyday in the early ’50s.”

“Is that right?”

“Am I irritating you?”

“No. I always look and sound like this.”

He shook his head, chuckled. “Well, I used to get a real kick out of it. Years later, I would tell the writers on my private eye shows, ‘Do a little research on that Mike Hammer in New York. Then you’ll know what a
real
tough private eye is really like.’”

“Nobody ever accused me of that before.”

He sipped Scotch, then gave me a concerned look. “What about this recent incident? Killing a burglar in your building?”

“Just looking after my interests,” I said with a shrug.

Everybody didn’t need to know a hitman was gunning for me. That might discourage business.

“So,” I said, changing the subject, “I’m who you think is right for a bridal shower security job? Sounds a little like overkill to me.”

He waved a hand like a bored magician. “I’ll understand if you want to take a pass, Mr. Hammer. This might be beneath you.”

“Yeah, it might be,” I said, “but that grand you mentioned to Smitty is just about eye level.”

He grinned with his whole face this time, and some lines came out of hiding. “It’ll be an afternoon affair, starting at four and going till six-thirty, this coming Friday.”

This was Tuesday. “I was going to ask you about that. Why such short notice?”

“The invites have been out for two weeks, but it was only after I got to thinking that I realized having some security makes a lot of sense. You see, we’re getting married in Hawaii at the end of the month, no family, with just a handful of friends we’re flying out with us. Just a romantic beach-side ceremony with lots of flowers and a luau after.”

I was ahead of him. “So this shower takes the place of a wedding reception.”

“Right. I have almost no friends in Manhattan any more, but of course Gwen does, and that means the gift table will be piled with treasures.”

“Understood.”

“I’d want you there at three, Mr. Hammer, just to get a handle on things. It’s at the Waldorf. I forget the suite number—I’ll get it to you.”

“How many guests?”

“Fifty very wealthy women. We’ll have some high-end entertainment, too. It’s essentially a cocktail party.”

“Do you expect trouble?”

“Not at all. But between the gifts and what those women will drape themselves with… could make a thief’s haul worth a couple of hundred thousand.”

I worked up a whistle.

“And a hold-up man with a gun,” Borensen said, eyebrows raised, “wouldn’t have much trouble intimidating a room full of females.”

Maybe, but not all females were alike.

I said, “I’m bringing my second-in-command along.”

“Miss Sterling? Velda?”

“That’s right. You’ve done your research.”

He smiled, shrugged. “She used to make the papers, too. Yes, I think that would be fine. I can bump the fee to $1500, if you like.”

“Bump away.”

He wrote me out a $750 check on the spot as a retainer.

I held the check in my fingertips and let the ink dry. “Do I need to rent a tux?”

“No. Just your best business suit.”

I gestured to myself. “This is it. Suitable?”

“A suitable suit, Mr. Hammer. Not to worry.”

He rose. I was in the process of being dismissed.

I got up, glancing around. “Cozy little place you have here.”

He laughed sadly as he came around to walk me out. “Yes, Martin was a hell of a showman. And he didn’t live small. He was only married once, though—did you know that?”

“I guess I didn’t.”

“Kind of remarkable, considering the, uh, opportunities a man like him would have. Gwen’s mother was in the chorus line of one of Martin’s first musicals. She had Gwen’s looks but not her talent. Still, she grew into the role of a society woman, as the Foster fame grew.”

The Foster bankroll, too.

“I heard you were in the process of mounting a new musical yourself,” I said, “when Foster took his life.”

He visibly paled. “Terrible thing. Awful tragedy. I had no idea Martin was in such… misery. He’d kept his cancer from us entirely. I haven’t smoked for years, and I’m glad of it.”

“Me, too, only recently I picked it back up again.”

“Well, stop, Mr. Hammer, if you don’t mind a little friendly advice. And, yes, I returned to the scene of my initial failure in show business in search of the redemption that can only be brought by success.”

That had come out of nowhere, and sounded like a line he’d worked up for the newspapers.

I asked, “Is it shelved now, the project?”

“Temporarily. But I have Johnny Mercer on board for the music, and I’ve got Larry Gelbart on the hook for the book—he wrote
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum
.”

“I saw that. Some good laughs. Lots of pretty girls. Do that again.”

He chuckled. “I’ll try. I
can
guarantee you one thing.”

“Which is?”

He sipped his Scotch. “We’ll have a hell of a fantastic leading lady.”

As promised, Gwen was there in her silly red puffy hat and nicely snug jeans, waiting to see me back out. She and Borensen shared a quick kiss before he disappeared back into the study. Then she batted the big blue eyes at me as she took my arm.

“So, Mike. What do you think of my man?”

“He’s well-preserved.”

She smiled smirkily. “You don’t approve of a girl in her twenties marrying a man in his fifties?”

“Maybe you should consider a younger man. I’m in my thirties, for example. And will be for another month.”

That got a musical laugh from her.

Soon we were down the wide endless corridor and through the marble-floored foyer and at the door.

“Seriously,” she said, “what’s your impression of Leif? I imagine, in your business, you have to be a really good judge of character.”

“I liked him fine,” I said. “And I just love his retainer.”

* * *

Outside the apartment building, I flagged a Yellow Cab and opened the back door, leaning in. I gave the cabbie the address of the Blue Ribbon, where I was meeting Velda and Hy in half an hour for a post-game report. My driver was a friendly black guy who automatically craned around to give me a smile.

I was half-way through my sentence when dampness spattered my face and tiny stinging shards flecked my cheeks while something metallic hit my chest, not enough to break the skin, just a thump.

As the rifle’s crack reached my ears, I had a flash of the bloody irregular hole the size of a quarter in the cabbie’s forehead before he fell back over the seat onto the rider’s side, the smile still there.

My face was splashed with blood and my cheeks nicked by skull fragments and my chest hurting just a little from the thump of a slowed-down bullet, its velocity cut into harmlessness by travelling through all that bone.

Scrambling, I backed out of the cab crouching onto the sidewalk, the vehicle between me and the shooter, if he was still in position, and I yanked the .45 from under my arm and clicked off the safety. The sidewalks weren’t crowded in a high-class neighborhood like this, but an old gal walking two poodles started screaming and a few other pedestrians did, too. Whether they’d heard the shot and were reacting to that or just saw my scarlet splattered face, I had no idea.

I did know who the target was here, and it wasn’t the smiling cabbie. Somebody with a rifle had propped himself behind and on the edge of the Central Park wall opposite and taken a tricky shot that would have hit home if that friendly cabbie hadn’t suddenly turned to make human contact with me.

I duck-walked around the cab and into the street, the snout of the .45 angled up. Traffic was unaware of the gunshot and kept moving, and was fairly light anyway and not fast either, so I was able to stay low and weave between cars, getting some wide eyes and a few squealing brakes from drivers when they saw a wild-eyed bloody-faced guy in a well-tailored business suit on the prowl with a big automatic in his mitt.

I could already see that no shooter was in place now along the thick stone wall with its touches of green in crevices and overhanging trees spotted along.

Hell—could he have taken his shot from one of these trees?

No, that was stupid. But unless he was a giant, he’d used something to get up over the five-foot high, foot-thick barrier, and take his shot.

I was across the pavement now, still staying low, and onto the wide, tree-shaded brick walkway. What few pedestrians had been around were gone now. Very little impresses New Yorkers, but gunfire gets their attention and summons respect.

I cut left to jump up and grab a low-hanging branch and pulled myself up and over the wall, skirting its pyramidal top, dropping to the grass, landing fairly light, and again keeping low. To my right as I faced the park was a bench against the wall, either a providential aid for my would-be assassin or something he’d moved into place, likely ahead of time. A spent cartridge winked sunlight at me from the grass. I didn’t take time to pick it up.

No one suspicious-looking or otherwise was in sight near that bench, but to my left a man was walking very quickly away—a man wearing a gray topcoat unnecessary on this unseasonably balmy day. No one seemed to be in this part of the park right now, possibly because Manhattanites out strolling through it knew a gunshot when they heard it. They were tucked behind trees or had hit the dirt behind bushes.