Exactly at ten the squad from the DA's office arrived, four of them walking two abreast. They walked in formation, but they weren't in step, and all I could think of was why government lawyers have to look like a toy mechanical rabbit advertising batteries on TV. They could have carried signs, at least.

Florence Lake led the pack. Her suit matched the others except for the skirt and she didn't seem too happy about being different. When she saw the mob scene in the office the outrage hit her face with a deep flush and the cords in her neck showed as they pulled her face into a wooden mask. The others were junior executive types and didn't seem to mind at all. Any coverage was good publicity for them.

The TV teams and reporters had already been alerted and were d.a.m.n well aware of the confrontation. They were going to enjoy this, especially if somebody could stick a needle in the DA lady's behind.

Florence Lake knew the angles too. She was all smiles and politeness and asked for a few minutes alone with me inside my private quarters and seemed very pleased when everybody was glad to agree. Pleased? She was burning up.

I glanced over at Velda. She was holding back a grin and gave me the knife-across-the-throat gesture to lay on the Lake broad during the interview. And that was easy to do. I gave her a lot of color and nothing she didn't already know. But she was a lawyer and she was smart enough to know that there was something more to be had, but she didn't know where to probe.

Florence Lake didn't take notes. Her a.s.sistant did that. She gave me an intimidating look and said, "Your reason for being there doesn't seem quite valid, Mr. Hammer."

"Look," I told her, "you know how it is when you get a tip. You want to check it out first to make sure it hasn't got a spin on it."

"Your informant wasn't reliable?"

"He could tell you where the nearest bar was, or how to scrounge up enough for a drink on a rainy day. It was a tip given offhand and I wasn't concerned with reliability."

"Then what did concern you?"

"Having those hard cases think I might have set Lorenzo Ponti up for a hit."

"Your altercation with him was that serious?"

"Only to his ego, ma'am. It wasn't physical and it didn't cost him any money, but some of these old-country types have a lot of misplaced pride and you don't want to mess with that."

"So you only went to the waterfront to warn him?"

"Yes."

Her expression said she didn't believe me at all. "What made you think Mr. Ponti would take your word for it?"

"He wasn't dumb, ma'am."

She changed the subject abruptly. "Who shot you?"

I wasn't under oath, so I could tell her anything I wanted. I did it in a noncommittal way with a shrug of my shoulders. I said, "It was dark. The area is hardly lit, as you know."

"Yes." There was another pause. "Did you fire your gun?"

"Why do you a.s.sume I had a gun?"

"Because you are licensed to carry one."

"A lot of private investigators don't carry them."

"But you're Mike Hammer," she said lightly When I let a grin crease my mouth she didn't like it a bit. "True," I said. "But I got shot right in the beginning of that mess. Two hits in soft, deadly places."

Florence Lake was looking at me as if I were the biggest liar in the world and she was about to expose me to the world. Before she could, I pulled the shirt out of my pants and lifted it up, my fingers going under the bandage I had lightly taped down, and when I leaned back in my chair she got a good look at the scarred, ugly mess on my belly that was still runny with a pinkish discharge and dotted with tiny st.i.tch marks that held it all together. Right now, it needed a lot of taking care of, but it looked worse than it was, disgusting enough to make the lady DA's face contort with a spasm as her guts churned and she d.a.m.n near vomited on her own feet. It didn't bother the other three. They all leaned forward in curiosity, like they were appreciating some artwork.

I put my shirt back and I thought she was going to thank me.

She had only lost her composure momentarily. As if nothing happened, she asked, "Who took care of that wound?"

Again, the shrug. "I didn't gain consciousness for over a week."

"You knew where you were?"

"Uh-huh. In a medical facility somewhere. I really didn't care."

"Who attended you?"

"I knew it was a male. He wasn't young, at least that was my impression."

"You do have a bill for services."

"No. I will probably get one. I said probably. Somebody could have taken care of me out of the goodness of his heart."

"And probably not," she said, then added, "At least none that I know."

"What difference does it make?"

"He could be a witness to a murder."

"Whose?"

"The man who shot you."

"Lady, I don't know who that was." I lied, but there was no way she could prove it. "Besides, I don't have the slugs that got me."

"The doctor should. A legitimate doctor wouldn't destroy evidence like that."

I didn't back off. "He could have been a vet, ma'am, or a medical student. Or maybe some old retired guy who decided to keep his hand in but was a little shook up about what had happened." At least I was closer to the truth there. "I already told you, I was out of it. I was moved down to Florida into something like a rental beach house. Most of the time I was sedated. I was alone for a long while, just healing up."

"What made you come back?"

Another white lie. "I read The Daily News somebody had dropped near the house. A good friend of mine had been murdered. We had been in the army together and I wanted to go to the funeral."

"Who was the person?" she asked me.

"Marcos Dooley." Her a.s.sistant wrote the name down. Later he would check it out.

For half a minute it was quiet. n.o.body spoke and she never took her eyes off me. She retracted the tip of the ballpoint pen she kept in her fingers for effect, then said, "You know, of course, we could take you downtown and hammer all this out in great detail."

I nodded. "Sure, I know that, but I wouldn't tell you anything more or different. Besides . . ." and I gave her a big grin again, "with all those cameras doing the local color out there and ready to catch all the action they can get, I don't think it would be a good idea, do you?"

She forced a smile and stood up. The rest of the coterie was on its feet immediately. "I didn't know this was going to be a press conference, Mr. Hammer," she said. "The next time we'll make it more private."

You didn't have to spell it out for the newssharks. They got the picture right away. When the door opened the buzz of conversation died down and the little tight-lipped smiles began. A couple of floodlights went on and their cameras turned, but it was for file copy only unless something really big came out of my return.

When I went out there it wasn't like that at all and we had a swinging press conference. I told them nothing different or new, but laid it on the way an audience would enjoy it. They got twelve minutes on tape before I ran out of steam and my belly started to hurt again. It showed in my face and they closed the show down with big smiles.

It was great to be back.

I showered unhurriedly, letting the hot water from the needle spray ma.s.sage fresh life back into me. When I dried off I climbed into fresh underwear and opened the closet door to a rack of suits cleaned and pressed, shoes shined and laid out on the floor rack, shirts and ties in the right places and a new trench coat with a wintery lining still zipped in. All I could think of was that my secretary really knew how to take care of a guy. Then, for a few seconds I just froze, wondering if I could stand all that attention, then thought, what the heck, we both have to give in a little.

Velda never knew where I kept my guns in a built-in hidden compartment inside the closet and they were just as I had left them. The Gold Cup .45 and the Colt Combat Commander lay wrapped side by side, four full clips of ammo ready to go. All the accessories were waiting, but it wasn't gun time anymore. That hurting place in my gut told me that. I picked up a loaded clip with chrome-cast .45s and slipped it into my pocket. It wasn't much, but I felt a little more normal with some weight on that side.

But who was I kidding? Carrying slugs without a gun was like wearing a yachting hat without having a boat. Ah, h.e.l.l, I thought, I felt better so I did it anyway.

Outside, it was cool enough for the trench coat, but without the lining. Florida had gotten me spoiled. For a few minutes I stood in front of the building and watched the traffic go by. It was only six-thirty and the traffic flow seemed normal. I turned right, walking toward the corner where the angled window of a dress shop did a mirror reflection of what was behind me.

n.o.body was there at all. I flagged down a cab and gave Velda's address.

A half hour before I had taken the pill dosage on Frank Morgan's list. The day had been hectic enough that I felt like I could use the two little pink ones he suggested for the purpose. The only trouble was, he didn't tell me to stay home afterward. Whatever those little b.u.g.g.e.rs were, they were giving me a funny feeling. I called Velda from the lobby of her building and she came down within two minutes, a big, luscious woman who could turn any man's head and give every woman a touch of envy. She didn't have that touch of youthful naivete any longer. She wore sheer full-bloomed womanhood like a cape, her eyes that same deep brown, reflecting an intelligence that was beautifully female.

We didn't kiss. She simply hooked her arm under mine and gave me a squeeze that said a lot of things, a muscular, sensual gesture that made me go all shaky. "Cut that out," I said softly.

"I didn't do anything," she answered.

"The heck you didn't."

Her smile had a provocative touch to it. "Boy," she told me, "are you going to be easy to please."

There's no answering a newly engaged woman who's filled with gut-churning love. A man can't seem to respond to that kind of emotion, so I just opened the door to the cab that drove up to the canopy, helped her in and told the cabbie to take us to Le Cirque.

Velda moved closer to me and said, "We're going fancy tonight, aren't we?"

"Don't get too used to it, kitten."

In ten minutes we were on Sixty-fifth Street and joined the early dinner crowd edging up to the door. Out of habit I took one last look around before we went in, just in time to see two men stepping out of a black limousine, one on each side, speaking to others who hadn't emerged yet. Both guys were in their early forties, well dressed and styled with cla.s.s. They were loaded with money and welcome at any place in town, but these two b.u.ms worked the legitimate side of Lorenzo Ponti's business in Manhattan. They had come over the line from the old muscle days when they were young hoods and into an area well protected by professional business personnel and all the legal machinery that money could buy. One was Howie Drago and the other one was Leonard Patterson. But they were still punks.

The captain was an old friend and held out his hand to me. His first look at Velda almost floored him, but his att.i.tude was very appreciative and he gave me one of those how do you do it looks and I just winked at him. We got a table upstairs, picking one in a far corner. The early evening news would have splashed me all over the tube again, but Le Cirque's customers saw enough people on TV sitting next to them and wouldn't make a big thing of it.

Then while the waiter was taking our drink orders I saw Velda frown, her eyes catching something behind my back. I didn't look. I waited until she said, "Patterson and Drago just came in. They're three tables over."

"I wonder if the company is coincidental or deliberate."

"Think they come in here often?" Velda queried.

"Maybe," I told her, "I could ask."

"Who did you tell about us coming here, Mike?"

"n.o.body. I called and got a reservation, that's all."

The drinks came, we toasted each other silently, tasted the iced tea and stared at each other, thinking the same thing. As we looked down at the menu she said, "The office phone could have been tapped. Someone in the TV bunch could be doing a big favor."

"It's nice to be wanted," I said. "Somebody is working fast. They're quicker than the IRS."

Supper was served and I enjoyed my homecoming meal like turkey on a major holiday. Florida may have a lot of sun and some great seafood restaurants, but this was real New York eating at its best. We went through dessert and were working on the coffee when Velda said, "Can you hear them, Mike?"

"Who?"

"The group who came in the limo."

There was a quiet hum of conversation going on in the room. The early crowd never was very boisterous so I didn't have to listen hard to pick them out. It had to be deliberate. Not loud enough to be told to keep it down, but just enough so I would overhear what was being said. My name was clear enough. The nastiness that went with it was even clearer.

I said, "They drinking?"

"Martinis. They've been hard at it since they got here."

"How are the girls taking it?"

"They look a little nervous."

"I imagine so," I said.

She reached out and put her hand on top of mine. "Mike . . . what are you going to do?"

"Nothing."

She was scared now. "Mike, stop it. You never do nothing."

But I couldn't stop it. I was pushing back my chair and was on my feet before she could say anything else. I took it nice and easy walking across the room to that table and I knew they were watching every step I took. Howie's face was plain to read. I was just a washed-up PI with a hole in his gut and not enough left to tangle with someone a lot younger. Leonard Patterson was the big mouth and he wore a silent sneer because I had lost a lot of weight and was drained out from the medical treatment.

This had to be a good one. Velda was watching and the hard boys were ready to move. Their two women sat stiff and still, but the panic showed in their immobility. It wasn't supposed to be like this at all. When I stood over Patterson I saw his expression get a little wary and knew I had him. He had heard too many stories about me. He had read too many newspapers and what was happening right now was putting everything right on the edge.

I didn't say a word. I slid my hand into my jacket pocket and let them see the clip, then flipped out a chrome-cased .45, turned it in my fingers and set it down on its primer base beside his hand. I looked at Howie, then at Patterson, grinned so they could see the edges of my teeth then walked back to my table.

When I sat down I waved for my check. At the other table the foursome was already getting ready to go. The women seemed furious. The men weren't looking our way at all. They went out without looking back.

The waiter came with my check and I laid a nice tip on him and picked it up. We detoured past their empty table on the way out. Velda asked, "What did you say to them?"

"Nothing," I told her. The .45 slug was still there where I left it. I picked it up and dropped it back into my pocket.

"I didn't have to say a thing."

She knew what had happened then. All she said to me was, "d.a.m.n!"

I had the driver wait while I walked Velda to the apartment. When I gave her a light good night kiss her eyes were asking for more. But I said, "It isn't going to be easy getting through this engagement, kitten, but let's keep it cool until we do."

"I hope you're saying that because you're still weak."

I gave her another grin, flipped out Patterson's .45 and pressed it into her palm. "Sure I am, doll, sure I am," I said.

She looked at the slug, smiled and dropped it in her cleavage where it fell into her bra. I suppose.

By the time I got home I knew it was a lie. The day had washed me out and even pushing the b.u.t.ton in the elevator was hard work. The pain in my belly was coming back, sharp jabs of it with each beat of my pulse. When I got inside I started the bathwater going, then got undressed so there would be no waiting period before I got covered by the soothing warmth of the suds.