Billy had me sold—both that those cops were dumb and that he wasn’t, not about cars anyway.

  So I asked, “A specific Ferrari how, Billy?”

  He wagged a forefinger at me. “That was a F40. Built to satisfy Enzo Ferrari’s dyin’ wish—ol’ Enzo said he wanted to create the best car on planet earth! He took his cue from the 288 GTO—know it? That F40’s one fast, powerful ride, my friend. Did you notice the spoiler on the back of that baby, when that guy got clipped?”

  “I did,” I said, nodding. “Takes away from the sleek look of it. But I could learn to live with that, if somebody gave me one for Christmas.”

  “Well, without that spoiler, Mike, in a ride with a top cruisin’ speed pushing 200 miles per hour like that? It wouldn’t be a bullet took Mike Hammer out, but metal and fire and asphalt. It’s simple aerodynamics, y’know. No spoiler and you could take off like a rocket—goin’ straight up! And what goes up, goes you-know-where.”

  He sold another Times.

  I put a hand on his shoulder again. “All the years I’ve known you, Billy, and I never picked up on you being a car buff. What do you drive, anyway?”

  I figured it would be bad taste to ask him if he had to use blocks for his feet to reach the pedals.

  Billy Batson batted the air, made a face, which with that mug was saying something.

  “Oh, hell, Mike, I can’t drive! Never bothered to learn. What’s the point, in the city?”

  * * *

  I took Velda out for lunch at Charlie’s Deli. It was one of those gimmick places with lots of ’50s nostalgia by way of Elvis on the jukebox, vintage advertising signs on the walls, and gum-snapping waitresses in poodle skirts.

  But the food was authentic, even if the atmosphere was ersatz. Velda had a salad with chicken and I chowed down on a pastrami, corned beef and Swiss on rye, coleslaw on the sandwich. Billy might be right that it wouldn’t be a bullet that took Mike Hammer out.

  I filled her in on my conversation with Pat, and shared what I’d learned from Billy, including that the pride of Singer’s Midgets still had a tall yen for her.

  “Opinion,” I said, between bites.

  She shrugged. “I think I’ll stick with you, Mike. Billy has a nice business going there, but you may make the grade one of these days.”

  I tried not to smile and failed. “No. I mean, do I share what Billy told me with Pat?”

  “That the Ferrari in question is a special model? Possibly rare?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s what a good citizen would do.”

  “So—no, then.”

  She smiled, spearing a piece of broiled chicken from the salad. “I didn’t say that exactly. But you’re not wrong. If Pat goes to the Accident Squad clowns who caught the hit-and-run, they might track those leads down…maybe…but who knows what they’ll do with it, if they do?”

  I sighed deep. “It’s been over two weeks. That ride’s had its bodywork done on the q.t. by now. Maybe the NYPD’s finest will prove it’s been worked on, but even so, we’re still looking at a hit-and-run with no real description of the driver, no license plate number, and a victim who spent a single night in the hospital.”

  “Right. Or,” she said, and chewed chicken, then swallowed it, and continued, “I can call my contact at Motor Vehicles and ask her to run a check on how many…what’s that model called again?”

  “An F40.”

  She shrugged; her silk blouse was pink today and she did a bang-up job filling it. “I could call my friend and see how many red F40 Ferraris are in Manhattan, and the state of New York. I’ll also ask if either one has been reported stolen, and then perhaps turned up on the street somewhere, either with some slight damage or no damage at all…because it was repaired before being dumped somewhere to be easily found.”

  The Platters started singing “Only You,” and they could have been talking about Velda.

  “I oughta marry you, doll,” I said.

  “You think?”

  The answer was two.

  Two red F40 Ferraris in Manhattan, and that constituted every one of them in the state of New York.

  CHAPTER SIX

  That afternoon I found myself, more than a little unexpectedly, back on the thirty-seventh floor of the Financial District building that housed the offices of Colby, Daltree & Levine. Once again I moved largely unnoticed through the boiler room of cold-calling young brokers basking in that green aquarium luster of computer monitors. The murmur of hard sell pretending to be soft sell followed me as I made my way through.

  I took the right toward the row of glassed-in offices of the Yuppies who had climbed up a few rungs; in that central, twice-the-size office for the CEO’s son, company president Vincent Colby, the massive desk was unattended. Off to my left was a receptionist, a blonde babe in a red blazer with shoulders wider than mine, her tresses up, her glasses round-framed and big-lensed, the better to see me with.

  She was seated at a small dark-wood desk and looking formidable for a girl of maybe twenty-two.

  “I’m Mr. Hammer,” I said.

  A mouth worth looking at, its deep-red lipstick outlined in black, smiled in a businesslike fashion. “Mr. Owens is expecting you. May I take your coat and hat?”

  “Sure.”

  She did, stowing them in a nearby closet, then returned to her desk and used her phone to say Mr. Hammer was here. She listened, said, “Yes sir,” and hung up. Very sweetly she told me, “Just knock and you’ll be admitted.”

  “Should I say Joe sent me?”

  She frowned in confusion. “Why would you say that?”

  “A joke. Little before your time.” Damn. I had to get newer material.

  “Knocking will be sufficient,” she said, and gestured toward a specific office; her nails were the color of her mouth. Even with a doll like Velda at home, I couldn’t help wondering what being twenty years younger for an afternoon would be like.

  Off to my right, down the hall of exec VP offices leading to the CEO’s, another receptionist was looking my way—the old man’s forty-something guardian at the gate, that no-nonsense brunette in the black-framed masculine specs. Snugly curvy in a brown striped power suit, the Ice Queen with the glass-cutter cheeks apparently remembered I’d been a welcome guest yesterday, because she granted me a slight nod and slighter smile.

  I grinned and waved at her enthusiastically like a kid from a back seat. It actually made her smile broaden a little and maybe she even stifled a laugh. You still got it, Hammer, I thought—if they were over forty, anyway.

  The inhabitant of the office labeled WILLIAM J. OWENS, MANAGING DIRECTOR saw me approaching—a blond Yuppie under thirty in the mandatory shirt sleeves and bright suspenders (dark orange). He was just hanging up his phone, and motioning me in.

  I did so.

  He was handsome in a Beach Boys Go to College way, hair tousled on purpose and frozen that way with product. His eyes were blue and heavy-lidded, making me think grass not coke was his likely recreational drug of choice; his nose was misshapen as a result of a break or two that indicated he had once been athletic. Maybe he still was. His mouth was small and clenched. If I were a cruder man, I’d say it reminded me of an anus.

  “Mr. Hammer,” he said, half-rising, extending a hand for me to shake. I did. It was slippery. He gestured for me to sit in the client’s chair. I did.

  “Appreciate you seeing me, Mr. Owens,” I said, “at such short notice.”

  When he spoke, the little mouth sort of blew a kiss; combined with the other thing that orifice reminded me of, that was disturbing.

  He said, “I was intrigued when I heard who it was. Who you are. My father used to get a kick out of reading about you in the papers, back when you stirred things up around town.”

  I just smiled and nodded. Everybody’s father seemed impressed with me.

  He sat forward, cocked his head and folded his hands; on the low-slung cabinet behind him, a trio of green monitor screens glowed, their cursors pulsing. “What’s this about my Ferrari?”

  Yes, one of the two F40 Ferraris in Manhattan had turned out to belong to an employee of the Colby brokerage firm—this young exec, in fact.

  I had called the other F40 owner, an attorney named Randall with Weiss & Lambrusa, a firm with a pricey Broadway office and a big reputation. The attorney had told me that his vehicle was housed at a private garage and that he’d used it just this past weekend. It hadn’t been stolen and he had not noticed signs of damage. I took down the information about where he stowed the wheels, to see if somebody there might have “borrowed” the Ferrari.

  But that could wait.

  An F40 owner who worked at Colby, Daltree & Levine seemed a more logical priority, and a higher one.

  Despite what Captain Chambers had said about my thriving on coincidences, really I was just as wary about them as the next detective. I just didn’t view every coincidence as an impossibility or, for that matter, a conspiracy.

  After all, this young exec had a high-paying enough job to be one of that elite group of Manhattanites who could afford to own a Ferrari F40.

  I had made this appointment by phone through that Red Riding Hood out there. The receptionist had checked with Mr. Owens while I waited on the line; all she had available to pass along were my name and my desire to talk to Owens about his Ferrari. I hadn’t expected that paltry info would lead to him getting on to talk to me directly, and was surprised when I got the go-ahead to come around. Right around, if possible.

  Which I had.

  “Obviously you’re aware,” I said to my mysteriously cooperative host, “that your associate, Vincent Colby, had a narrow scrape with a hit-and-run recently.”

  His shrug was a tossed-off thing. “Of course. And I’m relieved, all of us are, that Vincent wasn’t badly hurt, although…well, we’re all relieved.”

  I put an ankle on a knee. “If you were about to say that you’re concerned about the aftereffects of his concussion, that’s no surprise to me. I’m working for Vincent’s father, looking into the ‘accident.’”

  The tiny mouth tightened. “Yes…I know.”

  I frowned. “Vance Colby told you?”

  Owens widened his eyes but they didn’t lose their sleepy look. “Well…I work closely with Vincent. He’s more the big-picture guy around here. I’m essentially the office manager. We’re friends since college. Not a lot of secrets.”

  “So you know about his fits of temper.”

  His laugh was abrupt, cutting itself off. “Recent days, I’ve been on the wrong end of them, yes, a few times. And let me tell you, Mr. Hammer, this is something very new, and most disturbing. I’ve known some cool cats in my time, but few cats are as cool, and collected, as Vincent.”

  “That’s the impression I got from his father. Losing that cool of his seems out of character for Vincent Colby.”

  The blond broker squinted at me, as if trying to bring me into focus. “So what’s the connection here between Vincent’s hit-and-run and my Ferrari? You can’t be implying that it was my car that gave him that narrow escape. My F40 is in the shop and has been for a good month.”

  That didn’t mean someone else couldn’t have used it.

  But I kept that thought to myself and instead asked, “Did Vincent mention to you that a red Ferrari was the vehicle in question?”

  Frowning, nodding, Owens said, “He did, actually. He…he even kidded me about it. ‘Where were you at the night of November whatever-it-was?’ But, Mr. Hammer, there must be a hundred red Ferraris in New York!”

  “Actually, four hundred and seventeen.”

  His head rocked back a little. “Wow. Well, I admit I’m surprised. I thought I was in rather select company.”

  “You are. There are only two F40s in Manhattan.”

  His eyebrows went up; they were so blond, they were barely there. “Oh. Well. I can see why you’re here, then.”

  “Would Vincent be familiar with your car? Has he ridden in it?”

  With a slow, thoughtful shake of his head, Owens said, “No. Not that I can think of…no, never.”

  “You said a few moments ago you’re friends.”

  Now he nodded, giving it a little more than was necessary. “We are. But we work together. Rarely socialize these days. And when we do, it’s in the city. The only time I drive that car in town is when I’m heading out into the country. And Vincent hates the country.”

  “So he wouldn’t have recognized the F40, even if he’d seen it coming.”

  His eyes tightened as he thought about that, or pretended to.

  “I don’t know that he’s ever seen it,” Owens said, “but he’s heard me talk about it enough. The way a proud father talks about his kid, I suppose. I don’t have any…kids I mean. Mr. Hammer, that vehicle is being worked on. It’s a fantastic machine in many ways, but the brakes are frankly shitty.”

  Some proud father.

  He went on: “The rotors and calipers, too, aren’t what you’d expect from something so high-end. I’ve had to have a frustrating amount of maintenance done on it. But I have a top guy who does the work for me.”

  “High-maintenance ride, huh?”

  “Afraid so, but worth it.” He grinned puckishly. “Like some females—worth the misery.”

  I gave that more of a smile than it had coming. “It’s in your mechanic’s possession now?”

  “It is. His name is Roger Kraft.” He reached for a notepad and pen, started scribbling. “I’ll give you the address.”

  He tore off the slip of paper and passed it to me across the desk.

  “I appreciate this, Mr. Owens,” I said, pocketing it. “What does Kraft look like, by the way?”

  “Look like? Well, he’s about forty. Your size, a little heavier.”

  “Pony tail? Beard?”

  “Heavens no. Neither! Not Roger. He’s an ex-Marine.” That pinched mouth managed a grin. “He would gladly pummel any man who wore a pony tail.”

  “If that ever comes up,” I said, “I’ll know who to ask.”

  I thanked him and stood.

  He got to his feet as well and said, “I can’t imagine how or why my F40 could have been used in that despicable way. But on the very long shot that it was, Mr. Hammer, would you please let me know?”

  “You’ll be the first,” I said.

  I was barely out the door when the Ice Queen guarding Vance Colby’s gate called out, “Mr. Hammer! A moment please!”

  I walked down to her desk. She’d pretty well melted by now, and seemed downright pleasant, saying, “If it’s at all convenient, Mr. Colby would like a few words.”

  “Any particular ones?”

  That got a real smile out of her. Every secretary and receptionist in town loved me now.

  She said, “You can go right in.”

  I did.

  Vance Colby was seated on one of the facing couches near the fireplace again, flames going full-throttle. People his age get cold easy—really cold when they stop breathing.

  “Please join me, Mr. Hammer.”

  I went over and did that, sitting opposite him. He had a snifter of brandy waiting. We’d graduated from coffee. He poured me a glass and I accepted it. Tasted fine, although what does a beer guy know about brandy?

  The plump little man with the trim mustache, wrapped up in another well-tailored pinstripe, poured himself some brandy but set the glass down.

  “I am surprised to see you back at Colby so soon,” my client said. “Have you something to report?”

  I hadn’t come to report at all, of course, but he did have ten grand’s worth of my time.

  So I said, “Just an interesting wrinkle or two.”

  I told him that I’d confirmed the NYPD was not exactly setting up roadblocks to nab the hit-and-runner; his assumption that they were blowing off the incident would seem to be right on. I also let him know that a specific, rare model of Ferrari had been the vehicle.

  Then I informed him of the Ferrari F40 whose owner was parked down the hall.

  “You’ll most likely find,” the old man said, unimpressed, “that’s merely a coincidence.”

  Everybody today was telling me what to think about coincidences.

  “William Owens is a good boy,” he said, as if I’d suggested otherwise. “He and Vincent were at Harvard together. Met on the rugby team. They think the world of each other. Those two are the future of this firm.”

  “Well, it’s an odd turn of events,” I said, then sipped the sweet stuff he’d poured me. “I’ll have to look into it.”

  The faded blue eyes popped. “By all means! I just…when I heard you were on the premises, I assumed you must have come to see me. To bring me up to speed.”

  “If that Ferrari had been up to speed,” I said, “I doubt your son would be alive. Those babies do nearly 200 miles per hour.”

  “Disturbing. Disturbing.”

  I nodded toward the door. “Where is your son, by the way? I notice he isn’t in his office.”

  “Psychiatrist. Every day, for now at least. He had a bad one last night. Blew up at me again.”

  “What set him off?”

  He flipped a hand. “I suggested he take a leave of absence. Just for a few weeks or at most months…until his psychiatrist and physician give him a clean bill of health.”

  Clean bill of mental health.

  I finished my brandy. Stood. “Thank you, Mr. Colby. I’m glad to have a chance to touch bases with you…but these are early days.”

  He stood, frowning a little. “Will this take days?”

  “Figure of speech. But it could take days, yes. My advice is put this out of your mind. Help your son as best you can, and meanwhile I’ll find that Ferrari and its driver for you.”

  A smile blossomed under the skimpy mustache. “You do that, Mr. Hammer, and there will be a handsome bonus in it for you!”

  “And I’ll accept it.”

  We shook hands and I went out.

  The brunette with the mannish glasses gave me a smile as I passed, nothing icy about her now, though she still had a certain regal air.

  But I already had a good-looking brunette in my life for a secretary. And being greedy only got a guy in trouble.