"Nah, it's too good a piece for a punk like you. I want a souvenir."

So I put the .32 up against his neck while Velda swung around in her seat and pointed the automatic at the skinny guy and his whine was a tinny nasal sound he had trouble making. He handed over the .45 real easy, licking his lips and trying to say something. The one beside me said, "Look, Mac . . ."

"I never come easy, buddy. You tell them all."

His eyes showed white all the way around and he knew. He knew all right. The car pulled away with a squeal of tires and I looked at Velda and laughed. "You play it that way by accident, honey?"

"I've had to read a lot of minds the past seven years. I knew how it would work. I just wanted you ready."

"I don't know whether to kiss you or smack your a.s.s."

She grinned impishly. "You can always always kiss me." kiss me."

"Don't ask for it."

"Why not? It's the only way I'm going to get it, I think."

Teddy's place is a lush restaurant about as far downtown as it's possible to get without falling in the river. It seemed an unlikely spot for good food and celebrities, but there you got both. Hy Gardner was having a late supper with Joey and Cindy Adams, and when he spotted us, waved us over to the table.

Before we could talk he ordered up scampi and a steak for both of us, then: "You come down for supper or information?"

"Both."

"You got Joey really researching. He comes to me, I go to somebody else, and little by little I'm beginning to get some mighty curious ideas. When are you going to recite for publication?"

"When I have it where it should be."

"So what's the pitch on Sally Devon?"

"All yours, Joey," I said.

He could hardly wait to get it out. "Boy, what a deal you handed me. You threw an old broad my way. There was more dust on her records than a Joe Miller joke. Then you know who comes up with the answers?"

"Sure, Cindy."

"How'd you know?"

"Who else?"

"Drop dead. Anyway, we contacted some of the kids who worked with her only like now they're ready for the old ladies' home. Sure, she was in show business, but with her it didn't last long and was more of a front. Her old friends wouldn't say too much, being old friends and all, but you knew what they were thinking. Sally Devon was a high-priced wh.o.r.e. She ran with some of the big ones for a while, then got busted and wound up with some of the racket boys."

Velda looked at me, puzzled. "If she was involved with the rackets, how'd she end up with Sim Torrence, who was supposed to be so clean? That doesn't make sense."

"Sure it does," Hy told her. "He got her off a hook when he was still an a.s.sistant D.A. Look, she was still a beautiful doll then and you know the power of a doll. So they became friends. Later he married her. I can name a couple other top politicos who are married to women who used to be in the business. It isn't as uncommon as you think."

He put his fork down and sipped at his drink. "What do you make of it now?" When I didn't answer he said, "Blackmail?"

"I don't know," I admitted.

"Well, what else do you want?"

For a moment I sat there thinking. "Torrence is a pretty big wheel now, isn't he?"

"As big as they get without being in office."

"Okay, he said repeated threats were made on him by guys he helped put away."

"Ah, they all get that."

"They all don't have a mess like this either."

"So what?"

"This, Hy . . . I'd like a rundown on his big cases, on everyone who ever laid a threat on him. You ought to have that much in your morgue."

Hy shrugged and grinned at me. "I suppose you want it tonight." "Why not?"

"So we'll finish the party in my office. Come on."

Hy's file on Sim Torrence was a thick one composed of hundreds of clippings. We all took a handful and found desk s.p.a.ce to look them over. A little after one we had everything cla.s.sified and cross-indexed. Joey had four cases of threats on Sim's life, Cindy had six, Velda and I both had three, and Hy one. He put all the clips in a Thermofax machine, pulled copies, handed them over, and put the files back.

"Now can we go home?" he said.

Joey wanted to go on with it until Cindy gave him a poke in the ribs.

"So let's all go home," I told him.

We said so-long downstairs and Velda and I headed back toward the Stem. In the lower Forties I checked both of us into a hotel, kissed her at the door, and went down to my room. She didn't like it, but I still had work to do.

After a shower I sat on the bed and started through the clips. One by one I threw them all down until I had four left. All the rest who had threatened Sim Torrence were either dead or back in prison. Four were free, three on parole, and one having served a life sentence of thirty years.

Life.

Thirty years.

He was forty-two when he went in, seventy-two when he came out. His name was Sonny Motley and there was a picture of him in a shoe repair shop he ran on Amsterdam Avenue. I put the clips in the discard pile and looked at the others.

Sherman Buff, a two-time loser that Sim had put the screws to in court so that he caught a big fall. He threatened everybody including the judge, but Torrence in particular.

Arnold Goodwin who liked to be called Stud. s.e.x artist. Rapist. He put the full blame for his fall on Torrence, who not only prosecuted his case but processed it from the first complaint until his capture. No known address, but his parole officer could supply that.

Nicholas Beckhaus, burglar with a record who wound up cutting a cop during his capture. He and two others broke out of a police van during a routine transfer and it was Sim Torrence's office who ran him down until he was trapped in a rooming house. He shot a cop in that capture too. He promised to kill Torrence on sight when he got out. Address unknown, but he would have a parole officer too.

I folded the clips, put three in my pants pocket, and leaned back on the bed. Then there was a knock on the door.

I had the .45 in my hand, threw the bolt back, and moved to the side. Velda walked in grinning, closed the door, and stood there with her back against it. "Going to shoot me, Mike?"

"You crazy?"

"Uh-uh."

"What do you want?"

"You don't know?"

I reached out and pulled her in close, kissed her hair, then felt the fire of her mouth again. She leaned against me, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s firm and insistent against my naked chest, her body forming itself to mine.

"I'm going to treat you rough, my love . . . until you break down."

"You're going back to bed."

"To bed, yes, but not back." She smiled, pulled away, and walked to my sack. Little by little, slowly, every motion a time-honored motion, she took off her clothes. Then she stood there naked and smiling a moment before sliding into the bed where she lay there waiting.

"Let's see who's the roughest," I said, and lay down beside her. I punched out the light, got between the top sheet and the cover, turned on my side and closed my eyes.

"You big b.a.s.t.a.r.d," she said softly. "If I didn't love you I'd kill you."

CHAPTER 5.

I was up and dressed before eight. The big, beautiful, tousled blackhaired thing who had lain so comfortably against me all night stirred and looked at me through sleepy-lidded eyes, then stretched languidly and smiled. was up and dressed before eight. The big, beautiful, tousled blackhaired thing who had lain so comfortably against me all night stirred and looked at me through sleepy-lidded eyes, then stretched languidly and smiled.

"Frustrated?" I asked her.

"Determined." She stuck her tongue out at me. "You'll pay for last night."

"Get out of the sack. We have plenty to do."

"Watch."

I turned toward the mirror and put on my tie. "No, d.a.m.n it."

But I couldn't help seeing her, either. It wasn't something you could take your eyes off very easily. She was too big, too lovely, her body a pattern of symmetry that was frightening. She posed deliberately, knowing I would watch her, then walked into the shower without bothering to close the door. And this time I saw something new. There was a fine, livid scar that ran diagonally across one hip and several parallel lines that traced themselves across the small of her back. I had seen those kind of marks before. Knives made them. Whips made them. My hands knotted up for a second and I yanked at my tie.

When she came out she had a towel wrapped sarong-fashion around her, smelling of soap and hot water, and this time I didn't watch her. Instead I pulled the clips out, made a pretense of reading them until she was dressed, gave them to her to keep in her handbag, and led her out the door.

At the elevator I punched the down b.u.t.ton and put my hand through her arm. "Don't do that to me again, kitten."

Her teeth flashed through the smile. "Oh no, Mike. You've kept me waiting too long. I'll do anything to get you. You see . . . I'm not done with you yet. You can marry me right now or put up with some persecution."

"We haven't got time right now."

"Then get ready to suffer, gentleman." She gave my arm a squeeze and got on the elevator.

After breakfast I bypa.s.sed Pat's office to get a line on the parole officers handling Buff, Goodwin, and Beckhaus. Both Buff and Beckhaus were reporting to the same officer and he was glad to give me a rundown on their histories.

Sherman Buff was married, lived in Brooklyn, and operated a successful electronics shop that subcontracted jobs from larger companies. His address was good, his income sizable, and he had a woman he was crazy about and no desire to go back to the old life. The parole officer considered him a totally rehabilitated man.

Nicholas Beckhaus reported regularly, but he had to come in on the arm of his brother, a dentist, who supported him. At some time in prison he had been a.s.saulted and his back permanently damaged so that he was a partial cripple. But more than that, there was brain damage too, so that his mental status was reduced to that of a ten-year-old.

The officer who handled Arnold Goodwin was more than anxious to talk about his charge. Goodwin had been trouble all the way and had stopped reporting in three months ago. Any information we could dig up on his whereabouts he'd appreciate. He was afraid of only one thing . . . that before Goodwin was found he'd kill somebody.

Arnold Goodwin looked like a good bet.

Velda said, "Did you want to see the other probable?"

"Sonny Motley?"

"It will only take a few minutes."

"He's in his seventies. Why?"

She moved her shoulders in thought. "He was a good story. The three-million-dollar killer."

"He wasn't in for murder. He was a three-time loser when they caught him in that robbery and he drew an automatic life sentence."

"That could make a man pretty mad," she reminded me.

"Sure, but guys in their seventies aren't going to hustle on a kill after thirty years in the pen. Be reasonable."

"Okay, but it wouldn't take long."

"Oh, h.e.l.l," I said.

Sonny Motley's shoe repair shop had been open at seven as usual, the newsboy said, and pointed the place out to us. He was sitting in the window, a tired-looking old man bent over a metal foot a woman's shoe was fitted to, tapping on a heel. He nodded, peering up over his gla.s.ses at us like a shaven and partially bald Santa Claus.

Velda and I got up in the chairs and he put down his work to shuffle over to us, automatically beginning the routine of a shine. It wasn't a new place and the rack to one side of the machines was filled with completed and new jobs.

When he finished I gave him a buck and said, "Been here long?"

He rang the money up and smiled when I refused the change. "Year and a half." Then he pulled his gla.s.ses down a little more and looked at me closely. "Reporter?"

"Nope."

"Well, you look like a cop, but cops aren't interested in me anymore. Not city cops. So that makes you independent, doesn't it?"

When I didn't answer him he chuckled. "I've had lots of experience with cops, son. Don't let it discourage you. What do you want to know?"

"You own this place?"