Mickey Spillane - [Mike Hammer 13] by Black Alley Page B

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 attitude 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?”
    “Nobody. 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