Hammett (Crime Masterworks) by Joe Gores Page A

ahead, and a lot of details to remember, and he was already getting a heat on.
    Only it wasn’t a heat. He started clumsily to his feet as he realized what was happening to him. The bitter edge to the Scotch! He cursed the heavy, grinning, distorted face. He reached across the table for it. Tear it off its fat neck. But the floor moved sideways under his feet to spill him over so his chin struck the edge of the table.

    Through waves of nausea, Vic Atkinson could hear a voice that sounded vaguely familiar. Then he placed it. Dominic Pronzini. It came back to him. Like a rube from the sticks. The real stuff, Tony. The
real
stuff.
    ‘. . . he used to hang around North Beach in the old days when I was a kid . . . Huh?’
    Atkinson realized Pronzini was on the phone. ‘Naw, I don’t know his grift, nothing in his poke but a few bucks . . . Yeah. No. Sure. He ain’t going nowhere . . .’
    Atkinson tried to move his head, but the waves of nausea swept over him again. Chloral hydrate. Probably would have knocked him out for hours if he’d been a smaller man. As it was, hitting his chin had knocked him out. The Mickey Finn had him drifting . . . paralyzed . . .
    He came back again, maybe a little stronger. Pronzini was back on the phone with the same guy and a different conversation.
    ‘Who you sending to – no, check that, I don’t want to know. The alley door’ll be open for him. But what difference does it make
who
this guy is? My boys can make sure he gets the message. He wakes up in an alley somewhere with his teeth in his pocket . . .’
    Away again, drifting. Try to move the head, so he’d know if he was . . . gently.
Gently
, goddamn you! Ohh-h-h . . .
    Sound of door opening. Footsteps approaching. He realized he didn’t even know if he was lying on his back or his face. No feeling. But better now, even so. Not going away and coming back.
    Above him, a grunt of surprise. On his back then. The newcomer seeing his face and recognizng him. Had to get eyes open, see who it was had come in from the downstairs alley door Pronzini had left open.
Had
to. It could be the man.
The
man. Crack his case before he even got started on it.
    Now!
    With a supreme effort, Vic Atkinson forced his eyelids open. He was flat on his back, staring straight up. Up, high as themoon, at the elongated, distorted image his eyes gave his foggy brain.
    The
man, all right. But opening his eyes had been a mistake.
    ‘Yes, well, that’s it, isn’t it?’ said the man looking down at him. Turned away, regret in his eyes, Atkinson could see him go to the door, open it six inches, call Pronzini and shut it again.
    He was standing at the window, overcoat collar turned up, hat pulled low on his head, when Pronzini came in.
    ‘Yeah?’
    ‘He opened his eyes. He saw my face.’
    Goddamn chloral hydrate. If only Dash had come with him, none of this would have . . .
    ‘I’ll need . . . something . . . to—’
    ‘In the closet,’ said Pronzini quickly. ‘I don’t want to know about it.’
    ‘Just so you get rid of it later,’ said the deliberately muffled voice.
    Pronzini’s footsteps, going away. Door closing. Other footsteps to same door, key turning in lock, then footsteps to closet.
In the closet
. Coming at him.
    Atkinson tried, despairing, to move. Couldn’t. God, so sick. Meet it.
    With a supreme effort, Vic Atkinson raised his head three inches and opened his eyes.
    The bulky man swung the baseball bat. The arc ended with a sickening abruptness on the bridge of the detective’s nose. As the home run exploded against Atkinson’s eyes and into his brain, his bladder and sphincter let loose. The killer leaped back with a little exclamation to avoid the mess. And the blood. Then he stepped back in to use the bat some more. As long as it had to be done, he might as well enjoy it.

8
    I t was coming right, now. Felix Weber, the ex-con, was gone. The Primrose Hotel was gone. Hammett’s typewriter clacked. The ashtray was overflowing;