CHAPTER 1.

You walk down the street at night. It's raining out. The only sound is that of your own feet. There are city sounds too, but these you don't hear because at the end of the street is the woman you've been waiting for for seven long years and each m.u.f.fled tread of your footsteps takes you closer and closer and the sound of them marks off seconds and days and months of waiting.

Then, suddenly, you're there, outside a dark-faced building, a brownstone anachronism that stares back dully with the defiant expression of the moronic and you have an impending sense of being challenged.

What would it be like? I thought I thought. Was she still beautiful? Had seven years of h.e.l.l changed her as it had me? And what did you say to a woman you loved and thought was killed because you pulled a stupid play? How do you go from seven years ago to now?

Only a little while ago a lot of other feet were pointing this way, searching for this one house on this one street, but now mine were the only ones left to find it because the rest belonged to dead men or those about to die.

The woman inside was important now. Perhaps the most important in the world. What she knew would help destroy an enemy when she told it. My hands in my pockets balled into hard knots to keep from shaking and for a moment the throbbing ache of the welts and cuts that laced my skin stopped.

And I took the first step.

There were five more, then the V code on the doorbell marked Case Case, the automatic clicking of the lock and I was in the vestibule of the building under a dim yellow light from a single overhead bulb and down the shadowed hallway to the rear was the big door. Behind it lay seven years ago.

I tapped out a Y on the panel and waited, then tapped a slow R and the bolt slid back and the k.n.o.b turned and there she stood with the gun still ready if something had gone wrong.

Even in that pale light I could see that she was more beautiful than ever, the black shadow of her hair framing a face I had seen every night in the misery of sleep for so long. Those deep brown eyes still had that hungry look when they watched mine and the lush fullness of her mouth glistened with a damp warmth of invitation.

Then, as though there had never been those seven years, I said, "h.e.l.lo, Velda."

For a long second she just stood there, somehow telling me that it was only the now now that counted and with that same rich voice that could make music with a simple word, she answered, "Mike . . ." that counted and with that same rich voice that could make music with a simple word, she answered, "Mike . . ."

She came into my arms with a rush and buried her face in my neck, barely able to whisper my name over and over because my arms were so tight around her. Even though I knew I was hurting her I couldn't stop and she didn't ask me to. It was like we were trying to get inside each other and in the frenzy of it found a way when our mouths met in a predatory coupling we had never known before. I tasted the fire and beauty of her, my fingers probing the flesh of her back and arms and shoulders, leaving marks wherever they touched. That familiar resiliency was still in her body, tightening gradually into a pa.s.sionate tautness that rippled and quivered, crying out soundlessly for more, more, more.

I took the gun from her hand, dropped it in a chair, then pushed the door closed with my foot and felt for the light switch. A lamp on the table seemed to come alive with the unreal slowness of a movie prop, gradually highlighting the cla.s.sic beauty of her face and the provocative thrust of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

There was a subtle leanness about her now, like you saw in those fresh from a battle area, every gesture a precision movement, every sense totally alert. And now she was just beginning to realize that it was over and she could be free again.

"h.e.l.lo, kitten," I said, and watched her smile.

There wasn't much we could say. That would take time, but now we had all the time in the world. She looked at me, talking through those crazy eyes, then her expression went soft and a frown made small creases across her forehead. Her fingers went out and touched my face and the white edge of her teeth went into her lip.

"Mike . . .?"

"It's okay, baby."

"You're not . . . hurt?"

I shook my head. "Not anymore."

"There's something about you now . . . I can't quite tell what . . ."

"Seven years, Velda," I interrupted. "It was downhill all the way until I found out you were still alive. It leaves marks, but none that can't be wiped out."

Her eyes blurred under tears that came too quickly to control. "Mike darling . . . I couldn't reach you. It was all too impossible and big . . ."

"I know it, kid. You don't have to explain."

Her hair swirled in a dark arc when she shook her head. "But I do."

"Later."

"Now." Her fingers touched my mouth to silence me and I let them. "It took seven years to learn a man's secret and escape Communist Europe with information that will keep us equal or better than they are. I know I could have . . . gotten away earlier . . . but I had to make a choice."

"You made the right one."

"There was no way to tell you."

"I know it."

"Truly . . ."

"I understand, kitten."

She wouldn't listen. Her voice was softly insistent, almost pleading. "I could have, Mike. I know I could have some way, but I couldn't afford the chance. There were millions of lives at stake." She paused a second, then pulled my cheek against hers. "I know how you must have felt, thinking you had me killed. I thought of it so often I nearly went out of my mind, but I still couldn't have changed things."

"Forget it," I told her.

"What did happen to you, Mike?"

She pushed away, holding me at arm's length to study me.

"I got to be a drunk," I said.

"You?"

"Me, kitten."

Her expression was one of curious bewilderment. "But when I told them . . . they had to find you . . . only you could do it . . ."

"One mentioned your name and I changed, honey. When you came alive again, so did I."

"Oh, Mike . . ."

As big as she was, I picked her up easily, kissed her again, and took her across the room to the gaudy mohair couch that nestled in the bay of an airshaft window. She quivered against me, smiled when I laid her down, then pulled my mouth to hers with a desperation that told me of the loneliness of seven years and the gnawing wanting inside her now.

Finally she said, "I'm a virgin, Mike."

"I know."

"I've always waited for you. It's been a pretty long wait."

I grinned down at her. "I was crazy to make you wait."

"And now?"

Then I wasn't grinning anymore. She was all mine whenever I wanted her, a big, beautiful animal of a woman who loved me and was ready to be taken now now, now now. Even touching was a painful emotion and the fire that had been dormant was one I didn't want to put out.

I said, "Can you wait a little bit more?"

"Mike?" There was a quick hurt in her eyes, then the question.

"Let's do it right, kitten. Always I do the wrong things. Let's make this one right." Before she could answer I said, "Don't argue. Don't even talk about it. We do it, that's all, then we can explode into a million pieces. We do the bit at City Hall with the license and do it right."

Velda smiled back impishly, the happiness of knowing what I wanted plain in her face. "That really doesn't matter," she told me. "First I want you. Now. More than ever."

"Crazy broad," I said, then fought her mouth with mine, knowing we were both going to win. My hand drifted across the satiny expanse of her naked shoulder, feeling the minute trembling throughout her body. She twisted so she pressed against me, moaning softly, demanding things we never had from each other.

"Pretty," he said from the door. he said from the door. "Real pretty." "Real pretty."

I still had the .45 in my belt but I never could have made it. Velda's convulsive grip around my neck slowed the action enough so that I saw the Police Positive in his hand and didn't get killed after all. The hammer was back for faster shooting and the look on his face was one I had seen before on other cheap killers and knew that he'd drop me the second he thought I might be trouble.

"Go on, don't stop," he said. "I like good shows."

I made my grin as simpering as I could, rolling away from Velda until I sat perched on the edge of the couch. I was going wild inside and fought to keep my hands dangling at my sides while I tried to look like an idiot caught in the act until I could think my way past this thing.

"I didn't know there'd be two but it figures a babe like you'd have something going for her." He nudged the gun toward me. "But why grab off a mutt like this, baby?"

When she spoke from behind me her voice was completely changed. "When I could have had you?"

"That's the way, baby. I've been watching you through that window four days and right now I'm ready. How about that?"

I would have gone for the rod right then, but I felt the pressure of her knee against my back.

"How about that?" Velda repeated.

The guy let out a jerky laugh and looked at me through slitted eyes. "So maybe we'll make music after all, kid. Just as soon as I dump the mutt here."

Then I couldn't keep quiet any longer. "You're going to have to do it the hard way."

The gun shifted just enough so it pointed straight at my head. "That's the way I always do things, mutt."

He was ready. The gun was tight in his hand and the look was there and he was ready. Velda said, "Once that gun goes off you won't have me."

It wasn't enough. The guy laughed again and nodded. "That's okay too, baby. This is what I came for anyway."

"Why?" she asked him.

"Games, baby?" The gun swung gently toward her, then back to me, ready to take either or both of us when he wanted to. I tried to let fear bust through the hate inside me and hoped it showed like that when I slumped a little on the couch. My hand was an inch nearer the .45 now, but still too far away.

"I want the kid, baby, ya know?" he said. "So no games. Trot her out, I take off, and you stay alive."

"Maybe," I said.

His eyes roved over me. "Yeah, maybe." He grinned. "You know something, mutt? You ain't scared enough. You're thinking."

"Why not?"

"Sure, why not? But whatever you think it just ain't there for you, mutt. This ain't your day."

There were only seconds now. He was past being ready and his eyes said it was as good as done and I was dead and he started that final squeeze as Velda and I moved together.

We never would have made it if the door hadn't slammed open into him and knocked his arm up. The shot went into the ceiling and with a startled yell he spun around toward the two guys in the doorway, dropping as he fired, but the smaller guy got him first with two quick shots in the chest and he started to tumble backwards with the blood bubbling in his throat.

I was tangled in the raincoat trying to get at my gun when the bigger one saw me, streaked off a shot that went by my head, and in the light of the blast I knew they weren't cops because I recognized a face of a hood I knew a long time. It was the last shot he ever made. I caught him head-on with a .45 that pitched him back through the door. The other one tried to nail me while I was rolling away from Velda and forgot about the guy dying on the floor. The mug let one go from the Police Positive that ripped into the hood's belly and with a choking yell he tumbled out the door, tripped, and hobbled off out of sight, calling to someone that he'd been hit.

I kicked the gun out of the hand of the guy on the floor, stepped over him, and went out in the hall gun first. It was too late. The car was pulling away from the curb and all that was left was the peculiar silence of the street.

He was on his way out when I got back to him, the sag of death in his face. There were things I wanted to ask him, but I never got the chance. Through b.l.o.o.d.y froth he said, "You'll . . . get yours, mutt."

I didn't want him to die happy. I said, "No chance, punk. This is my day after all."

His mouth opened in a grimace of hate and frustration that was the last living thing he ever did.

From where to where? I thought I thought. Why are there always dead men around me? I came back, all right. Just like in the old days. Love and death going hand in hand.

There was something familiar about his face. I turned his head with my toe, looked at him closely and caught it. Velda said, "Do you know him?"

"Yeah. His name is Basil Levitt. He used to be a private d.i.c.k until he tried a shakedown on somebody who wouldn't take it, then he did time for second-degree murder."

"What about the other one?"

"They call him Kid Hand. He was a freelance gun that did muscle for small bookies on bettors who didn't want to pay off. He's had a fall before too."

I looked at Velda and saw the way she was breathing and the set expression on her face. There was a strange sort of wildness there you find on animals suddenly having to fight for their lives. I said, "They aren't from the other side, kitten. These are new ones. These want something different." I waited a moment, then: "Who's the kid, honey?"

"Mike . . ."

I pointed to the one on the floor. "He came for a kid. He came here ready to shoot you up. Now who's the kid?"

Again, she gave me an anguished glance. "A girl . . . she's only a young girl."

I snapped my fingers impatiently. "Come on, give me, d.a.m.n it. You know where you stand! How many people have died because of what you know? And right now you haven't got rid of it. You want to get killed after everything that happened for some stupid reason?"

"All right, Mike." Anguish gave way to concern then and she glanced upward. "Right now she's in an empty room on the top floor. Directly over this one."

"Okay, who is she?"

"I . . . don't know. She came here the day after . . . I was brought here. I heard her crying outside and took her in."

"That wasn't very smart."

"Mike . . . there were times when I wish someone had done that to me."

"Sorr y."