Max Allan Collins and Mickey Spillane

So Long, Chief

The old man was dying, but there was nobody to see him off. In a few more days he’d get the royal farewell, a eulogy by the police chaplain, a cavalcade of motorcycle troops, and a final salute from the fresh young faces to whom he was nothing but a fading legend. He was the last of the old breed who had outlived his friends and his usefulness and he was all alone on his final assignment.

The nurse said, “Not too long, please.”

She was a cute brunette in her twenties, well worth flirting with, but I wasn’t in the mood.

I asked, “Pretty bad?”

Her answer was only slightly evasive: “He’s almost ninety, tires easily. Are you family?”

“No,” I said. “He doesn’t have any family.”

She gave me a little smile and nodded. “I see. Just don’t excite him.”

I could have told her that there wasn’t much that could ever excite him after the life he’d lived.

But I just said my thanks and went into the sterile little hospital room with the green walls and the automated bed that seemed to hold him like a waiter balancing a tray. Hard to believe that once he would have dominated a room of any size like the Colossus of Rhodes. Now he was just a textured form under the sheet.

But the unmistakable quality was there, a strange force as alive as ever, hovering like a protective screen around his withered face.

I walked to the bed, looked down at him, and said, “Hello, Chief.”

He didn’t open his eyes. He simply let the tone of my voice go through a mental computer check and when it didn’t register, he said, “You one of the new ones?”

“Not really.”

When he turned his head he let his eyes slide open and the old tiger was still in there. For a good five seconds he was riffling through the cerebral filing cabinet before he was satisfied that I was clean... at least up to a point.

“I don’t know you,” he stated in a curiously noncommittal voice.

“No reason why you should. It’s been a long time, Chief. Forty-some years.”

The voice still had strength, shrouded though it was in a growly rasp. “You’d have been a little kid then.”

“Uh-huh. About eleven. A wise-ass young punk in a lousy neighborhood who was prepping himself for all that beautiful mob action he saw around him... the rolls of dough, the fancy cars, a string of lovely broads, just the way Gino Madoni had it.”

The tiger stirred behind the eyes. It crouched, the lips curling back over huge shiny white fangs.

“I shot Madoni myself,” the Chief said.

“Yeah you did. You were a fresh-faced boyo who just made detective, wading into something way the hell over his head.”

“And you were...?”

“I was the little kid you rapped the living shit out of, the twerp who carried policy slips around in his school bag.”

He was remembering now, and letting the pieces fall into a knowable pattern. The tiger’s tail twitched. “The little kid never forgot, did he?”

I grinned at him. “Nope. It was a lesson that stuck with him.”

Maybe it was my grin that did it, but the tiger suddenly hesitated, poised to pounce but curious.

I said, “That punk kid never forgot a lot of things. Like how Gino tore that girl up in that cellar and then broke old man Kravitch’s arm for him. Or how Gino was always talking about how some day he was gonna kill himself a cop, only when one finally came in after him, for shooting a guard in a holdup, Gino went all to pieces. Grabbed that kid and held him in front of him, thinking the cop wouldn’t shoot with the kid as a shield, but forgetting the cop was a damn good shot who could take him out, kid or no kid. That cop, that young detective, put a slug in Gino’s head and that kid got splashed with the kind of memory you don’t forget.”

“Is that what you came here to say?”

“In part, Chief. There’s something else, too.”

“Say it then.”

“I just came to say so long.”

The tiger, as wary as age and experience could make it, was not quite sure what it was looking at. The fangs should have been yellowed and broken, but they weren’t. They were still shiny white.

For some reason, this old stick of a man felt he could still handle me, if need be.

His voice was like rough steel scraping rougher steel. “Why the visit, after half a lifetime?”

“Because that kid remembered his lesson and what the detective said.”

“What did the detective say?”

“Oh, nothing flowery. Just, ‘Don’t wind up like that dead dago, laddie-buck.’ He could’ve grabbed that kid and shook him till his teeth rattled, shoving fear up the kid’s ass just for the fun of it.”

“But he didn’t.”

I shook my head.

“So. Did the kid get the point?”

I shrugged. “Well, he didn’t turn out to be another Gino Madoni.”

“Good to hear. How did he turn out?”

“He went to the other side, and now he’s here to say thanks and so long to the guy who put him there.”

“And... that’s all?”

I shrugged again. “Why else? I’m glad I made it up here in time. We were two eras, Chief, that didn’t overlap that much. But I owe you. Funny, considering you retired before I even got on the job.”

“You were on the PD, son?”

“Briefly. Private now. For a long time. An old friend told me your situation, and where you were.”

“What old friend?”

“Captain Pat Chambers.”

Gently, the tiger withdrew, no longer hungry.

“You’re pretty big,” the Chief said. “You tough?”

“I manage.”

“Married?”

“No.”

With the tiger out of them, the eyes were those of an old fighter in his last round, still circling an adversary he knew he couldn’t beat, but wanting to get in one last lick anyway, before the bell rang.

“You appreciate that favor I did you?” He spoke the words as though he were tasting them.

“I’m here,” I reminded him.

His left hand came out from under the sheet and he pointed toward the closet across the room. “There’s a box in there. Get it.”

I could feel something funny happening, some odd charge flickering from the finger to the closet and back to me again. It was something I didn’t particularly like because it wasn’t new to me at all. It made my belly go tight and the skin crawl across my shoulders, but the finger was pointing and I went and got the old metal box and put it on the bed beside him. His fingers shook with age and fatigue as he turned the small combination dial to its three digits, then lifted the lid.

In the dim light, I could see the papers and knew what they were: select items from a thirty-five-year span of active duty, including the citation ribbons and the worn leather wallet that held the badge of the highest rank in the department.

He was watching my face and I saw a faint smile move his lips. Then he reached in the box, felt in a corner, and brought out a key. He looked at it a few seconds, then handed it to me. “This is for you.”

“What’s it open?”

“That’s for you to find out,” he said. He wasn’t smiling now. “A lot of people are going to be looking for that key. I thought that was what you came here for.”

“I only came to say so long, Chief.”

“Yeah. I know. That’s why I gave it to you. Now get the hell out of here. I’m tired.”

“Sure, Chief.” But I stood there for a moment, key in my fist, watching with the pride of knowing him, and was almost about to ask the question when he answered me first.

“They couldn’t have taken it from me,” he said.

Then he took his right hand out from under the covers, let me look at his old.38 Police Positive before he handed it to me and wrapped his fingers around mine as they held the weapon. “A good piece, son. Take care of it.”

I checked the load, closed the cylinder, and stuck it in my belt. The last time I had seen that gun was when it tore the head of a guy who was risking getting me killed to save his own hide. I started to tell the old boy thanks, but his eyes were closed and his hand slipped away from mine. The rhythm of his breathing was barely perceptible under the sheet.

Trying to be quiet, I walked to the door, but before I got there he said, “I didn’t get your name.”

“Mike,” I told him. “Mike Hammer.”

“I should have known. You... made your name after I retired.”

“I did. I never came around because, well...”

“You thought I might not approve of your tactics.”

“Yeah.”

His smile was a crease among the many creases in the gaunt face. “Guess again.”

I could hear him chuckling behind me as I closed the door.

The cute nurse at her counter said, “Does he need anything?”

“No. Not now.”

“He was a big man in this city, in his day, wasn’t he?”

“A great man. Great old guy.”

It was quiet in a ward that wasn’t the kind that attracted too many visitors. The smell of age and death made this pretty brunette nurse so full of life a vague insult, a shout of youth in a silence that came from being forgotten and left alone in a still place, alone until the priest came around, anyway.

I asked, “Anybody ever come to see him?”

“One old man in a wheelchair,” she said.

“Any idea who he was?”

“A retired policeman from the nursing home where the patient lived. A male attendant brought him around.”

“What nursing home?”

“Long Island Care Center.”

“Nobody else?”

“Like you said — he had no family.”

“Yes he has.”

“Oh?” Her psychological training was showing in the frown under her cap. Then her business administration side took over and she yanked a drawer open to check her files.

I saved her the trouble.

“I meant me,” I told her.

Her smile remained very businesslike and professional. If I were dying in a hospital ward, and she smiled at me any way at all, I’d bust out crying.

She said, “Oh, I’m sorry. Are you his son?”

For fun I gave her a big tiger grin like the Chief used to have.

“No, doll,” I said. “Just a great big fucking ghost out of the distant past.”

She blinked long lashes at me. “May I... may I... have your name?”

“Sure, honey. Mike. Mike Hammer.”

She frowned. “I’ve heard that name before.”

“Well, that’ll make me easier to remember, in case I didn’t make an impression.”

I went downstairs and got in my car.

Ten minutes later, somebody slipped into the Chief’s room and stuck a knife between his ribs, robbing him of the hours or maybe minutes he had left.

But at least they didn’t get the key.

“All this heat’s unnecessary, Pat,” I said to the Captain of Homicide, who was sucking himself back in the shadows of his office while the DA was riding me. “Tell this big shot I just got back from Florida, and I already have a tan.”

I’d made an impression on that cute nurse, all right. She’d remembered my name just fine, as her murdered patient’s last visitor, when the cops had asked.

I was sitting in a hard chair in Pat’s office, ankle on a knee, with my back to his desk where I’d tossed my hat. I gave the DA a tight-lipped smile that meant screw the politicians and turned back to Inspector Milroy, who had already read me my rights and was trying like hell to get a confession out of me.

I said, “Either charge me and book me, or let me go.”

The DA frowned. It gave his blankly handsome face a little character, at least. “Mr. Hammer...”

“Talk to my lawyer.”

He shook his head, threw up his hands, and stormed out, shutting the door behind him so hard it gave the window glass the shakes. But Milroy stayed at it. We’d tangled asses many times over the years, and which of us hated the other more was up for grabs. He was in his sixties but still dangerous, blond hair mingled with white now, husky and florid, with a scar across his forehead from an automobile crash. When his face got red, it stood out like a vertical lightning bolt. Like now.

“There was a metal box in that room,” Milroy said. “It was open, and the contents scattered about. Did you take something, Hammer?”

“What, after I killed him you mean? Yeah, there was a Cadillac in there. I drove it down the hall. Didn’t the nurse tell you?”

He bared teeth the color of sweet corn, but there wasn’t anything sweet about the two big fists he raised to his chest, hunching as he moved forward, lumbering closer.

“Please,” I said. “Please do it. I’ve been waiting years for this.”

Pat was behind him then, his hands latched onto the big cop’s shoulders, holding him back, speaking softly, gently, into his ear: “I know what the Chief meant to you. But you can’t do it this way, Inspector. You can’t throw thirty years away.”

When Milroy turned toward Pat, they were close enough to kiss, only Milroy was sputtering, spitting. “Why, if I take this monkey apart, you’ll testify on his behalf? Are you two really that tight, Chambers?”

“Yes,” Pat said.

Milroy shuddered, shaking his arms, and his fists turned into fingers. He seemed to relax, but his face was still bunched up. He straightened his tie. “Shit,” he said.

“Anyway,” Pat said, “you wouldn’t take him apart. He’s twenty years younger and fifty pounds lighter, Inspector, and I’d be trading this problem for a new one.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Mike would kill you, and I’d be very unpopular around here when I went on the record saying it was self-defense.”

I was rocking back in a hard chair, grinning. “I can step outside, if you girls want to be alone.”

“Some day, Hammer,” Milroy said. “Some day.”

“Better rush it. You’re retiring soon, right? Make sure I get an invite to the gold watch party.”

The inspector pushed Pat aside, hard enough that the Homicide Captain damn near lost his balance, and the door slammed again, giving that glass its second stress test in five minutes.

Pat sighed. Now it was his turn to straighten his tie. “You are a hobby I wish I didn’t have, Mike.”

“Interesting new interrogation technique. The cops yell at each other. Maybe you should take it up a notch. Rough each other up some.”

“Not funny, Mike. Not funny.” Pat got behind his desk and fired up a Lucky. He didn’t offer me one — he knew I’d quit. So had he — a dozen times. “Anything you want to tell me that you didn’t want the DA and my superior to know?”

“If that guy’s your ‘superior,’ Liberace’s a better ivory tickler than Van Cliburn.”

“Liberace’s more popular. Spill, Mike. What are you holding back?”

Nothing much — just a little metal key.

“Not a damn thing, Pat. Would I hold out on you?”

“You wouldn’t give me the time of day if my watch was broken.”

“Now that’s just unkind. So Milroy is taking this personally, huh? He was that close to the Chief?”

Pat nodded. “Working out of the Chief’s office till the old boy retired. What was the Chief to you, Mike? He retired before you made your rep. Did he even know who you were?”

“He didn’t recognize the face, but the name he knew.” I shrugged. “When I was a kid, and he wasn’t the Chief yet, he did me a favor.”

“So are you going on the warpath like Milroy? Will I have two Mike Hammers to deal with this time around?”

“Naw. But I am curious about why anybody on his death bed is worth a knife in the ribs.”

“I don’t have an answer yet.”

“Yeah, and that Milroy character will get the answer right after you find Judge Crater. Maybe I should take an interest.”

“No, Mike... no...”

I got to my feet. “Who would want to kill the Chief at this late date, Pat? What did he ever do in any of his yesterdays to buy what he got today?”

Pat sighed blue smoke. “He was a crusader, the Chief. Before you came along with your one-man war on the Evello outfit, he was the only guy who ever stood up against the mobsters. Put a shitload of ’em away. And before the Knapp Commission, he was the only official in the city to make a real effort at cleaning up the department. He fired and jailed dozens of bent cops, back before the war.”

“So he made enemies.” I slapped my hat on. “Enemies enough to kill him?”

“Oh yeah.”

I was almost out the door when I said, “What took them so long?”

And I took it easy on the glass, shutting it nice and gentle on the puzzled puss of Captain Patrick Chambers.

In the old Hackard Building, in the outer office of the door labeled MICHAEL HAMMER INVESTIGATIONS, my secretary Velda sat behind her desk studying the little key like it unlocked the secrets of life. In this case, the secret of a death was more likely.

She’s a big girl, my Velda, all curves and raven-wing hair in a pageboy that went out of style a long time ago, and to hell with style. She wore a simple pale pink blouse and a short navy skirt that with her in it put to shame anything Frederick’s of Hollywood ever came up with. And she’s my secretary like Watson is Holmes’ family practitioner — she has a PI license and packs a flat little automatic in her purse between her compact and her lipstick.

“Not a safe deposit box,” she said, turning it in tapering fingers with blood-red nails. “No numbers.”

“It’s old,” I said. “Something’s been locked away for a long time. So it’s not a bus station locker. They check those daily.”

“Did he maintain a membership at the police gym? Those lockers would be old enough.”

“Vel, he was eighty-nine. I don’t think he played intramural basketball anymore.”

“Maybe it’s to another metal box. Buried or hidden somewhere.”

“Maybe.”

She hefted it in her palm, up and down, up and down. “A little big to unlock a desk drawer. A little small to unlock a shed.”

“Doesn’t look like a padlock key.”

“No, or a file cabinet key, either. To me, it’s a locker key, but where? Boat club maybe?”

“You got me. He’s been living at a nursing home. Long Island Care Center. We should go out there.”

Velda nodded and got the Long Island book out of a drawer. I stood and perched myself on the edge of her desk. She had the book open and was about to dial when she asked, “But what did the Chief have locked away? Money?”

“Naw. He had something on somebody.”

She frowned. “Evidence? Of a crime? Would he withhold that? You said he was a straight arrow.”

“Straight arrows have been known to make deals with the devil.”

“You’re mixing your metaphors, Mike.”

“Maybe so, but the Chief made a lot of enemies, like Pat said. Why did one of ’em wait so long to take revenge? Whoever it was didn’t cheat the Grim Reaper out of much.”

She nodded, started to dial, then hung up abruptly, her dark eyes flaring.

“Mike, that’s it.”

“What is?”

“It’s evidence. He did have something on somebody. And he must have told that somebody that if anything ever happened to him, this evidence would come out.”

I slipped off the desk. “And for years and years that evidence... a gun, a ledger book, a signed statement... was safely tucked away where it could do no harm.”

She shook a lecturing finger at me. “But then the Chief was marked for death, not by some hit man, but by time and tide.”

I was nodding. “And on his death bed, the Chief would have been fine with that evidence finally catching up with whatever devil he’d made a deal with.”

She was shaking her head, the dark locks bouncing off her shoulders. “But what kind of deal would that be? What kind of crime would a straight shooter like the Chief conceal? Maybe you need to face it, Mike. Maybe he wasn’t the god you thought he was. Maybe he had feet of clay like the rest of us.”

“Clay is what I’ll have on the bottom of my shoes,” I said, “when I walk over the grave of the bastard who knifed him.”

“I can’t top that one,” Velda said with a smirk, and finally dialed that goddamn phone.

Leaving the steel-stone-and-glass tombstones of Manhattan behind, we had a pleasant drive in light traffic out to Long Island. The spring afternoon was so nice that when I spoke to retired Police Sergeant Carl Spooner, he and I sat outside on a cement patio, facing bushes and trees whose leaves shimmered with sunshine. I was in a kind of lawn chair, and the old sarge was in a wheelchair.

We knew each other just a little. He’d been the desk sergeant for a while at the precinct house Pat worked out of maybe twenty years ago. A nod-and-a-wave kind of friendship, not enough to justify a visit to a nursing home in the sticks.

“I bet this is about the Chief,” the sarge said.

He had been big once, but he’d shrunk, swimming in a white shirt and tan slacks, his big shoulders now just massive hunched bookends for a sunken chest. His cheeks were sunken, too, and his nose was like an Indian arrowhead stuck on there. His blue eyes were rheumy but still sharp.

“You should’ve gone for detective,” I said.

“Naw, not me. I was a born desk sergeant. It’s an art, you know. You got to deal with all kinds. Mostly not the cream of the crop, if you get my drift. You know what we used to say? We used to say, it ain’t the heat, it’s the humanity.”

“Yeah, but not a bad gig. Get to rule the roost.”

“Got that right. Where’d that big doll of yours go? The one that reminds me what it was I used to like about women. I saw her come in with you.”

“She’s talking to your head administrator.”

“About the Chief?”

“About the Chief. You and I have something in common, Sarge.”

“What would that be?”

“We were the last two people to see him alive.”

Not counting his killer.

“Is that right?” he said.

I nodded toward the wheelchair. “You went to a lot of trouble to visit him.”

“They got people here to help out. They got a van they drive you around in for doctor appointments and shit.” The big shoulders on the frail body lifted and dropped. “Anyway, the Chief, he was a buddy. You have to say so long to a buddy.”

“You two go back a long way?”

“Naw, not at all. Hell, he was the Chief. We never even met when I was on the job. I mean, I saw him on the stage at functions, handing out medals and such. Shook his hand in a receiving line once. It was out here we got to be buds. Two old coppers stuck in stir together.” He cackled.

“You got close, these last few years?”

“Damn straight. Look around you, Mike. You’ll learn an important lesson.”

“What’s that?”

“A man can live too long. The Chief outlived his two kids and a wife he adored. One of the most important men in the city, reduced to sittin’ around jawin’ with a lowly desk sergeant.”

“Nobody came out to see him?”

“Now and again, a few coppers who served under him. That inspector that worked for him. That captain you used to stop around the precinct house to visit.”

“Chambers?”

“Yeah. Pat Chambers! Man, I haven’t heard that name in years. You guys were asshole buddies, weren’t you?”

“Still are. Anybody else?”

“No. Like I said, he outlived his family. You know, the Chief was retired for over thirty years. He and his wife moved out here somewhere. Besides his family, the only thing he said he missed was playing golf. Him and some other retired department bigwigs used to go to the Oakland Golf Club in Queens. But they’re all dead, too.”

On the ride back, Velda shared what she’d learned from the nursing home’s top administrator.

“There’s something that Pat held back from you,” Velda said, green countryside gliding by behind her in the passenger window.

“Maybe you better give me a second to get over the shock of that.”

“Two big men, not young, maybe in their fifties or even sixties, were seen in the nursing home hallways yesterday. One asked where the Chief’s room was, but otherwise they had no contact with staff. They were in suit and tie, and the assumption was they were visitors or were scoping the place out for an elderly parent. The Long Island cops already gathered that info and passed it along to Pat.”

“So they searched the Chief’s room, came up empty... and tried again this morning, at the hospital?”

She nodded. “Where they found his metal box that he’d taken along with him... but not his gun and that key.”

Now I was nodding. “Only that sheaf of papers representing a career of dedication. Which was worthless to them.”

She hadn’t learned much else from the administrator. The Chief had been a resident for eight years. His income had been reduced to his pension and Social Security, and his meager possessions, mostly clothing, had been left to the facility for anybody who could use them. The scraps were all that remained of a great man and a fine life. The sarge was right — a man could live too long.

Then I filled Velda in on what the old desk sergeant had told me.

“A golf club,” she said, dark eyes flashing. “Damn. That could be it. There’s your locker! Where is the place? Let’s go over there.”

“We’re driving over it. It was knocked down to make room for the expressway.”

She frowned. “Mike — that means you might have a key to a locker that doesn’t exist anymore.”

“Maybe. But the Chief surely knew that Oakland was a victim of progress, and that was fifteen years ago. There’s a possibility he and his golfing buddies from the department found another course.”

She nodded. “We can only hope... What now?”

“Now I need to get back to the office. I’ll drop you at your apartment.”

Her frown was deep. “The office? Why? It’s not like you handle the paperwork.”

“Your Mike has his reasons.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

But she didn’t push it. She knew I was up to something, but she also knew that if I wanted her in on it, I’d tell her. Still, her lovely dark eyes were on me the rest of the way back.

I stretched out in my shirtsleeves on the black leather couch in my inner office. When I’d got back around dusk, I left the lights off, took the carryout paper bag to my desk, and sat there making a corned beef sandwich and a cup of coffee disappear.

Soon I was on the couch in the near dark, the city outside the window behind my desk fighting the night with a million lights. I could have shut that out by adjusting the blinds, but I wasn’t anxious to go to sleep. Now, on my back with my suit coat and shoes off, I lay there staring at a ceiling I could barely see with my.45 on the floor next to me.

Was the key to the mystery the key in my pocket? Was the only way to figure out who killed the Chief to find out what that little scrap of ancient metal unlocked?

Were the two men who had searched the Chief’s nursing home room looking for that key, or did they even know of its existence? Did they seek instead whatever evidence the Chief had hidden away, for the key to unlock?

One thing I did know was why someone had bothered murdering a man who was already inches from death — they needed to silence the Chief while looking for the key or what the key represented. The contents of that metal box had been strewn around, that inspector said, indicating the Chief’s only slightly premature death had bought his killer or killers time to toss his hospital room.

Where there had been nothing to find.

Because I had that key, didn’t I?

But whatever it unlocked seemed out of reach — in an old locker somewhere, at a golf club maybe... if it wasn’t under tons of concrete. Possibly at some other locker or storage facility — who the hell knew?

That’s for you to find out, the Chief had told me.

Which meant Velda and I should be able to track it down. The Chief had lived a lot of life, and lives could always be sifted through — we did it all the time. Of course, most of the people the Chief had shared that life with were gone.

So we were facing a long investigation both exhaustive and exhausting, with no guarantee we’d come up with a damn thing. But what other option was there?

There was one.

I could camp out here in my office and wait for the answer to walk through my door. That I had been the last to see the Chief alive before his killer — or killers — was no secret. The hospital knew. The cops knew. The press would probably know by now.

I would almost certainly have after-hours visitors.

Despite my best intentions, I did drift off, but nothing deep, nothing with dreams in it, and I sure as hell wasn’t dreaming when a click announced somebody picking the lock on my office door.

I reached down for the.45, its cold rough grip comforting in my grasp.

They were talking out there, too muffled for me to make out, but they weren’t bothering to whisper. A glance at my wristwatch said it was almost ten o’clock. Nobody in the building at this hour but cleaning staff, their routine an hour away from the eighth floor, anyway.

The couch was against the side wall, so I would have a perfect view of my callers when they came through my inner office door. But they were tossing the outer area first. Bold bastards — another click sent glow crawling under my inner-office door, meaning they had switched the lights on out there. I heard file cabinet and desk drawers opening. Some occasional talk. Not working at making no noise, but not making a racket, either.

I could have waited for them to finish out there, but it just wasn’t my way. Who the hell knew what kind of mess they’d make if I didn’t put a stop to this? I slipped off the couch, padded over in my socks to the door connecting the inner and outer office.

I opened it, fast.

“Nobody has to die,” I said.

Velda’s desk was just a few feet forward, and one guy was behind it, with a drawer open. He looked back at me with the expression of an adulterer caught by a cuckold. He was maybe four feet away to my immediate right, his pal across the room at the row of file cabinets to my left, still working on the top drawer, its contents spilled on the floor.

In that split second I knew them — they were old-time thugs, Mafia boys with plenty of years on me, and unlikely soldiers to be sent on any mission. Their suits were baggy and their ties were wide, their clothes as out of date as they were. I hadn’t seen them around in years — one’s last name was Rossi, the other’s first name Salvo, which was the best my brain could come up with on short notice.

They were frozen, almost comically so, Rossi nearby at Velda’s desk, half-turned to me, a once handsome guy gone badly to seed, his eyebrows black but his hair gray against dark skin tanned deep brown. Over at the file cabinet, Salvo stood sideways, as pale as his partner was dark, a string bean with a healthy head of curly black hair, though the pouchy face looking at me had the kind of miles on it that got you replaced if you were a Firestone.

My voice was calm and my gun hand was steady. “There are two chairs over by the wall. Go over there slow and sit. We’re gonna talk. I might not even call the cops if you cooperate.”

This was much better treatment than they deserved, breaking into my fucking office at ten o’clock at night, but I wanted information not satisfaction.

Too bad Salvo thought he had the advantage on me. He thought I hadn’t noticed he’d set a revolver down on the file cabinet top, and when he went for it, I put one in his head and bloody brain matter glopped onto the far wall. Goddamnit, there went the information I wanted, dripping down the plaster.

Ears ringing from the rattling roar of the gunshot, I swung the.45 over toward Rossi, to see if he was smart enough to hold up his hands. But he was going for a rod in a holster under his shoulder, figuring that me killing his partner would give him time. I wondered when he’d last been sent out on a real job, because if he’d been any slower, I could have just slapped the thing out of his hand. Instead, he was just fast enough to get himself killed. The bullet in his forehead shut his life off like a switch and he thudded sideways into Velda’s desk, knocking over and shattering her favorite vase.

There would be hell to pay for that.

When he slid down, he accidentally shut the drawer he’d opened, then sat there, legs straight out in front of him, staring into nothing, his right hand still open and reaching for the gun he never even touched.

“OK, then,” I said. “We’ll do it your way.”

Salvo was similarly situated by the file cabinet, and I got one piece of information out of him, anyway — that black curly hair had shifted, revealing itself as a wig.

I shook my head, holstered the.45, and walked back to Velda’s desk, stepping around the bloody array of brains that had showered our new carpet. So much for preventing a mess in the outer office.

I reached for the phone, to call Pat at home.

“Leonardo Rossi,” Pat said, “and Salvatore Ferraro.”

I was sitting behind my desk, the big rangy homicide captain in the client chair opposite, while in the outer office his elves were scurrying — a crime lab team, a photographer, and a plainclothes dick, with a couple of uniformed men in the hall. The bodies hadn’t been hauled away yet.

“I better call Velda,” I said absently. “If she comes into work tomorrow and finds crime scene tape blocking the way, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Pat leaned forward and the gray-blue eyes narrowed. “Don’t duck me, buddy. What brought these two long-in-the-tooth goombahs away from the bocce ball court and into your little trap?”

“My what?”

“Come on, Mike. Don’t shit a shitter. You were waiting for them. How, why, did you know they were coming?”

“Why don’t you tell me, Pat?”

Now he leaned back and his smile was cold. “When you visited the Chief, he gave you something. Or you took it. What, Mike? This is an investigation into the homicide of one of this city’s great chiefs of police. Don’t hold out.”

“Like you held out on me?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

I grunted at him. “You knew two guys had searched the Chief’s nursing home room last night. Guys matching the description of those two overripe lasagna lads, right? And I bet they were seen at the hospital this morning, too. You knew that when you hauled me in for the DA and Milroy to roast.”

He sighed heavily. Searched his pockets for a deck of smokes and came up with an empty package; he crumpled it up in a crinkly wad and tossed it on my desk. “Why the hell did you have to quit smoking?”

“Your concern for my health is touching, good buddy. Of course, you might have told me a couple of old-time Mafia cannons were on the prowl.”

He shook his head. “I didn’t know that’s who they were till just now. They do go way back. Before the war. Vito Madoni’s crew, if you can believe that.”

I showed no reaction. “Gino Madoni’s little brother.”

“Yeah. Here’s a piece of history I bet you didn’t know — the Chief, back when he was a rookie detective, shot Gino and killed his ass. Had him cold on a bank guard killing.”

“You don’t say. Man, no detail slips past you, does it, Pat?”

“The Chief’s also the guy who sent brother Vito to jail, ‘41 I think it was, and after that, the Madoni family was never a major mob player. If I remember, those two in your reception area are Bonetti boys now, or were until they retired a year or so back.”

I rocked in my chair, saying nothing.

Pat said, “What?”

“A couple of Mafia enforcers come out of retirement, to kill the Chief. Suggest anything to you, Pat?”

“Sure it does. Revenge.”

“When he’s almost dead anyway? No. I think this has more to do with there being no statute of limitations on murder.”

“What murder?”

“I don’t know. But I got a feeling that over there at Homicide, you may have a few unsolved ones on the books.”

“Mike, we have thousands of unsolved homicides, dating to Prohibition. You know that.”

“Well, I should let you go back home then, and catch some Zs, so you can get to work on them tomorrow, nice and fresh.”

“Mike, unless you cop to the Chief giving you some item that those two were looking for, this case will be closed by noon tomorrow. You may not like revenge as a motive, but everybody else will.”

“You know what they say — a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.” I got to my feet, yawned. Busy evening. “I’m surprised your buddy Milroy wasn’t along for the ride.”

Pat shrugged as he stood. “Me too, actually. I called him and gave him the opportunity. He made me promise to keep him in the loop on this one.”

“He passed up an opportunity to bust my balls?”

“Yup. Said I could fill him in tomorrow. Maybe he’s mellowing in his old age... Listen, you’re free to go, Mike.”

“You mean I can leave my own office? Why are you so good to me?”

He just smirked and batted a wave at me, letting me have the exit line.

Only I didn’t exit. I sat back down at my desk and thought some more, while some morgue wagon attendants in the outer office were taking out the trash.

The next morning I caught a cab over to One Police Plaza, near City Hall and the Brooklyn Bridge, a thirteen-story pyramidal glass-and-concrete tribute to the Holiday Inn school of architecture. The baroque old building on Centre Street had been good enough for the Chief, but the army of button-down bureaucrats who had replaced him, and who were making the likes of Captain Pat Chambers obsolete, required more modern digs.

Milroy, on the eleventh floor, had a civilian secretary/receptionist seated outside his glassed-in office. I could see the inspector at his desk and he could see me. The secretary, attractive despite horn-rimmed glasses and pinned-up hair, wanted to know if I had an appointment, and I just nodded to where her boss was waving at me to come in.

I did so, shutting the door behind me. I stuck my hat on the coat tree. Milroy didn’t rise, just sat there going over a stack of computer printouts. Without looking at me, he gestured to the chair opposite him, and I sat. As I waited for him to grant me his attention, I took the office in.

It was twice the size of Pat’s glassed-in cubicle, with a round table off to one side for conferences. Industrial carpet. A coffee machine. The walls were filled with framed citations of merit and photographs of Milroy with various NYPD chiefs of police over the years, as well as every mayor from the last three decades. His desk was neat and arrayed with framed family photos — his pleasant-looking wife and their two clean-cut sons at various ages, the boys as young as grade school and as old as college.

He put the printouts down and worked up something like a smile, one of the few he’d given me over the years. He’d been a good-looking man in his younger days, a freckled, broad-shouldered blond. After his automobile accident twenty years ago, he began to get heavier and his face took on the reddish cast and slightly exploded features of the heavy drinker. Still, his record as a police inspector was commendable, as all the citations attested.

“I hear you pulled one of your fancy self-defense plays last night,” he said, his growl more good-natured than usual.

“I did. I’m surprised you didn’t come around with Pat to look for loopholes.”

He shook his head. “For once I’m on your side, Hammer. Captain Chambers says those two over-the-hill wiseguys were seen at the Chief’s nursing home and at the hospital. He feels they were responsible for our friend’s murder.”

“No question one of them used a knife on the Chief. We’ll never know which.”

A small smile flashed. “Actually, when you talk to Captain Chambers next, he’ll tell you — Rossi had a switchblade in his pocket, and forensics ties it to the Chief’s wound. So I guess I owe you a debt of thanks.”

“For what?”

“For wrapping this thing up.”

“There’s still a bow that needs tying on.”

“Oh?”

I leaned in. “You see, Inspector... the Chief gave me something. Entrusted me with it, you might say. And now I have to make a decision.”

His frown was curious, not hostile. “A decision?”

“Yeah. About what to do with it. I’ll probably give it twenty-four hours.”

The frown deepened into confusion. “Give what twenty-four hours?”

“Before deciding what to do. Better to give it to the current chief, or hand it over to the media? I wonder.”

“Hand what over?”

I glanced around, smiled pleasantly. “Nice office, Inspector. You just moved in, right? And now you’re retiring soon, lot of trouble and bother for such a short stay. Still, I guess you gotta enjoy it while you’ve got it.”

“What the hell are you getting at, Hammer?”

I sat back, folded my arms, put an ankle on a knee and got comfy. “I have a little story to share with you, Inspector.”

“Hammer, I’m not retiring today. I’m still a busy man.”

“Just... humor me, OK? Our friend the Chief, back before the war, took on the mob like nobody who sat in his chair ever dared before. And at the same time, he cleaned out a whole passel of bent cops.”

“Not a new story, Hammer. It’s well-known.”

“The broad outlines are. But how did he manage it? One thing he would’ve needed was somebody on the inside — a crooked cop, particularly one close to the mob, who could feed him names and information. He had something on this cop, or else he wouldn’t have been able to put the squeeze on. And the Chief filed that away, as a kind of life insurance policy. If anything happened to him, that evidence would come out.”

Thick fingers drummed on the desk. “Interesting theory. But also ancient history.”

“Some history never gets ancient. Like I was saying to Pat, there’s no statute of limitations on murder, for example.”

His eyes, a bloodshot sky blue, flared.

I went on: “The Chief, of course, never fully trusted that cop. He couldn’t fire him without giving away both of their secrets. They had each made their respective deals with their respective devils. So the Chief kept this cop on staff, kept him close — you know the old saying, ‘Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.’”

Very softly he said, “You don’t have anything on me, Hammer.”

I looked toward the little desk altar of framed family photos. “The ironic thing is, that crooked cop kept his act clean after that. Never was his reputation sullied thereafter. Won himself a wall full of awards, medals, commendations. Even after the Chief retired, that cop stayed on the straight and narrow. But I bet he never proved himself to the old boy. Never good enough for the Chief to feel he could either turn that evidence over to the now reformed cop, or just destroy it. So that evidence, that sword of Damocles, it just hung over that poor bastard’s head — an old sin that all the new good deeds in the world just couldn’t make go away. And as the Chief neared the natural death at a ripe old age that his life insurance policy had bought him, the cop was worried it would all come out. Disgrace. Maybe even jail time. A hero who was suddenly a villain. A proud man with two sons would find that hard to take. Don’t blame the guy.”

His jaw was set but trembling. “What did he give you, Hammer?”

“So the cop reaches out to some old mob cronies and convinces them that what the Chief is holding back is going to ruin what little is left of their own sad sorry lives. I’m going to guess that the cop didn’t tell them to kill the Chief. I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt that they ad-libbed that one. But, hell, it should have occurred to him what they would do — that they’d have to shut the old guy up before making their search.”

He was getting flushed. “What did he give you, Hammer? Where is it?”

I got the old.38 Police Positive out of my suit coat pocket and I set in on the desk, right on top of that pile of printouts he’d been reading.

“That’s one of the things he gave me,” I said. “I think he probably wanted you to have it.”

Milroy stared down at the old revolver.

“I saw the Chief shoot Gino Madoni with that piece,” I said, “when I was a kid. First bad guy that I ever saw shot. And it was up close and personal, let me tell you.”

I went over and got my hat and placed a hand on the doorknob. “You have several choices, Inspector, including coming after me. Hell, I’ve even provided the gun. If you want to find me, I’ll be at my office this afternoon, the Blue Ribbon restaurant for supper with Captain Chambers, and at my apartment after that. I’m in the book.”

His hand was on the gun — not gripping it, just resting on it, like a fire-and-brimstone preacher laying on a healing hand. His face was red now and the lightning bolt scar stood out starkly.

“Tomorrow morning,” I said, “I’ll turn over what I have to the current chief. That gives you another option — take your chances and take your medicine.”

Very quietly he said, “But there’s another option.”

“There is. A lot of good cops have taken it, for all kinds of reasons. Depression. Family problems. A fatal illness. Men who live by the gun... you know the rest. You make the right decision, Inspector, and I won’t have to come forward. And I’ll get rid of the evidence once and for all.”

He glanced up at me. “You’d do that for me?”

“You have my word. But you know something? I believe the Chief wouldn’t have hung you out to dry, not after all these years... unless you reverted to form and came after him. That gun there? He had it in his hand, under the sheet, in that hospital room. Ready to do what he had to.”

Milroy sighed. “Yeah. He was a hell of a guy. I came to respect him. I don’t think... I don’t think I was ever able to gain his.”

I shrugged. “Never too late to try.”

And I left him there with his thoughts and the gun and all the rest of it.

The gunmetal sky was grumbling. Cloud cover was low and dark with lightning bolts shorting in and out. I was in my raincoat and hat standing outside the Blue Ribbon, as if I were waiting for it to come down after me.

Really, I was waiting for Pat, having already sent Velda inside to grab our regular table. My stomach was grumbling worse than the sky, but some of George’s knockwurst would cure my ills, whereas the sky would have to bust itself apart to get over its lousy attitude.

As if the sky had already done that, Pat came running from somewhere, also in raincoat and hat. When he saw me, he slowed and then we stood there while he lit up a Lucky. He was the kind of gentleman who didn’t like to smoke at a table in a restaurant when a lady was in the party. But this was something else.

“I’m sorry I’m late, Mike,” he said. “All hell’s broken loose at the Plaza.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re not going to believe this, but Milroy went home this afternoon and blew his brains out in his den.”

“No.”

“He used a gun that once belonged to the Chief. They were really tight, you know. It was probably a gift to him.”

“Probably.”

Pat drew in smoke, exhaled it, sending a small blue cloud up to join the big bad black ones. “He left a note. Turns out he had a brain tumor. Been having blinding headaches and just couldn’t take it anymore.”

“Pity. Will there be an autopsy?”

“No. What the hell for?” Then he eyed me sideways with the usual suspicion. “You don’t sniff foul play, do you, Mike? Some suicides really are suicides, you know.”

“No, no. You’re right.”

“Probably the Chief’s murder sent him over the edge. You never really know people, do you?” He sighed and pitched the cigarette sparking toward the street. “Velda inside?”

“Yeah. Go in and join her, will you? Something I need to take care of.”

“Sure.”

Pat went in.

The sky came apart in pieces, thunder like cannon fire, rain sheeting down. I slipped under the Blue Ribbon canopy and still got wet, watching jagged white streaks carve the deep black smoke of it.

I walked through the downpour to the curb, let the key bounce in the palm of my hand a few times, then tossed it into the gutter, where the rush of water carried it to the sewer and gone.

“So long, Chief,” I said, and went inside.

Content

Max Allan Collins and Mickey Spillane
So Long, Chief