The Best American Mystery Stories 2003

  “You probably don’t remember me, Tobin,” Hammett said, leaning into the MP, “but I remember when you were just a kid on the black-and-blue squad in San Francisco. I heard you did something that got you thrown out of the cops just before the war. I don’t remember what. What was it you did to get tossed off the force?”

  “Fuck you,” the MP said. “How do you know so much, anyway?”

  “I was with the Pinks for a while,” Hammett said. “I know some people.”

  “You can relax now, son,” the marshal said to the MP. “Nobody roughs up Zulu when I’m around. You go tell your major that if he wants to be involved in this investigation he should speak to me directly. Now beat it.”

  “I’m too old for this nonsense,” Hammett said after the MP left, “but you can’t have people beating up your partner. It’s bad for business.”

  “There ain’t going to be any business for a while,” the marshal said. “Until we get to the bottom of this, you’re closed, Zulu. I’ll roust somebody out and have ‘em collect the body. Otherwise, keep people out of that room until I tell you different.”

  With that, he left.

  “I believe I’ll have a drink now, Zulu,” Hammett said.

  “You heard the marshal,” the black woman said. “We’re closed.”

  “But I’m your partner,” Hammett said, grinning.

  “Silent partner,” she said. “I guess you forgot the silent part.”

  “Now there’s gratitude for you, Clarence,” Hammett said. “She begs me for money to open this place, and now that she has my money she doesn’t want anything to do with me. Think what I’m risking. Why, if my friends in Hollywood knew I was half owner of a cathouse ...”

  “They’d all be lining up three deep for free booze and free nooky,” Zulu said. “Now you two skedaddle. I’ve got to get Daphne moved to another room, and I’ll have big, clumsy white folk tracking in and out of here all night. I’ll be speaking to you later, Mister Sam.”

  The two men went back out into the cold.

  “Little Sugar Delight?” the black man said. “Tony Zale? Why do you want to be telling such stories?”

  “Why, Clarence,” Hammett said, “think how boring life would be if we didn’t all make up stories.”

  The black man slid behind the wheel and punched the starter. The engine whirred and whined and exploded into life.

  “You can drop me back at the Lido Gardens,” Hammett said. “I have a weekend pass, and I believe there’s a nurse who’s just about drunk enough by now.”

  ~ * ~

  Hammett awoke the next morning alone, sprawled fully clothed on the bed of a small, spare hotel room. One boot lay on its side on the floor. The other was still on his left foot. He raised himself slowly to a sitting position. The steam radiator hissed, and somewhere outside the frosted-over window a horn honked. Hammett groaned loudly as he bent down to remove his boot. He pulled off both socks, then took two steps across the bare, cold floor to a small table, poured himself a glass of water from a pitcher, and drank it. Then another. He took the empty glass over to where his coat dangled from the back of a chair and rummaged around in the pockets until he came up with a small bottle of whiskey. He poured some into the glass, drank it, and shuddered.

  “The beginning of another perfect day,” he said aloud.

  He walked to the washstand and peered into the mirror. The face that looked back was pale and narrow, topped by crew-cut gray hair. He had baggy, hound-dog brown eyes and a full, salt-and-pepper mustache trimmed at the corners of a wide mouth. He took off his shirt and regarded his pipe-stem arms and sunken chest.

  “Look out, Tojo,” he said.

  He walked to the other side of the bed, opened a small leather valise, and took out a musette bag. Back at the washstand, he reached into his mouth and removed a full set of false teeth. His cheeks, already sunken, collapsed completely. He brushed the false teeth vigorously and replaced them in his mouth. He shaved. Then he took clean underwear from the valise, left the room, and walked down the hall toward the bathroom. About halfway down the hall, a small, dark-haired man lay snoring on the floor. He smelled of alcohol and vomit. Hammett stepped over him and continued to the bathroom.

  After bathing, Hammett returned to his room, put on a clean shirt, and walked down a flight of stairs to the lobby. He went through a door marked CAFÉ and sat at the counter. A clock next to the cash register read 11:45. A hard-faced woman put a thick cup down in front of him and filled it with coffee. Hammett took a pair of eyeglasses out of his shirt pocket and consulted the gravy-stained menu.

  “Breakfast or lunch?” he asked the hard-faced woman.

  “Suit yourself,” she said.

  “I’ll have the sourdough pancakes, a couple of eggs over easy, and orange juice,” Hammett said. “Coffee, too.”

  “Hey, are these real eggs?” asked a well-dressed, middle-aged man sitting a few stools down. The left arm of his suit coat was empty and pinned to his lapel.

  The hard-faced women blew air through her lips.

  “Cheechakos,” she said. “A course they’re real eggs. Real butter, too. This here’s a war zone, you know.”

  She yelled Hammett’s order through a serving hatch to the Indian cook.

  “Can’t get this food back home?” Hammett asked the one-armed man.

  “Ration cards,” the man replied. “Or the black market.”

  “Much money in the black market?” Hammett asked.

  The one-armed man made a sour face.

  “Guess so,” he said. “You can get most anything off the back of a truck, most of it with military markings. And they say the high society parties are all catered by Uncle Sam. But I wouldn’t know for certain.” He flicked his empty sleeve. “Got this at Midway. I’m not buying at no goddamn black market.”

  A boy selling newspapers came in off the street. Hammett gave him a dime and took a newspaper, which was cold to the touch.

  “Budapest Surrenders!” the headline proclaimed.

  A small article said the previous night’s temperature had reached twenty-eight below zero, the coldest of the winter. In the lower right-hand corner of the front page was a table headed “Road to Berlin.” It showed that allied troops were 32 miles away at Zellin on the eastern front, 304 miles away at Kleve on the western front, and 504 miles away at the Reno River on the Italian front.

  The hard-faced woman put a plate of pancakes and eggs in front of Hammett. As he ate them, he read that the Ice Carnival had donated $1,100 in proceeds to the Infantile Paralysis Fund, the Pribilof Five — two guitars, a banjo, an accordion, and a fiddle — had played at the USO log cabin, and Jimmy Foxx had re-signed with the Phillies. He finished his meal, put a 50-cent piece next to his plate, and stood up.

  “Where do you think you are, mister?” the hard-faced woman said. “Seattle? That’ll be one dollar.”

  “Whew!” the one-armed man said.

  Hammett dug out a dollar, handed it to the woman, and left the 50-cent piece on the counter.

  “Wait’ll you have a drink,” he said to the one-armed man.

  Hammett walked across the lobby to the hotel desk and asked the clerk for the telephone. He consulted the slim telephone book, dialed, identified himself, and waited.

  “Oscar,” he said. “Sam Hammett. Has the doctor looked at that corpse from last night? Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Was I right about him? I see. You found out his name yet and where he was assigned? A sergeant? That kid was a sergeant? What’s this man’s army coming to? And he was in supply? Nope, I don’t know anybody over there. But if you want, I can have a word with General Johnson. Okay. How about the Carolina Moon? Can Zulu open up again? Come on, Oscar. Be reasonable. They didn’t have anything to do with the killing. All right then. I guess we’d better hope you find the killer soon. See you. Oscar. ‘Bye.”

  Hammett returned to his room, put on his overcoat, and went out of the hotel. The air was warmer than it had been the night before, but not warm. He walked several bloc
ks along the street, moving slowly over the hard-packed snow. He passed mostly one- or two-story wooden buildings, many of them hotels, bars, or cafes. He counted seven buildings under construction. A few automobiles of prewar vintage passed him, along with several Jeeps and a new, olive-drab staff car. He passed many people on foot, most of them men in work clothes or uniforms. When his cheeks began to get numb, he turned left, then left again, and walked back toward the hotel. A couple of blocks short of his destination, he turned left again, crossed the street, and went into a small shop with BOOK CACHE painted on its window. He browsed among the tables of books, picked one up, and walked to the counter.

  “Whatya got there?” the woman behind the counter asked. Her hair was nearly as gray as Hammett’s. “Theoretical Principles of Marxism by V. I. Lenin.” She smiled. “That sounds like a thriller. Buy or rent?”

  “Rent,” Hammett said.

  “Probably won’t get much call for this,” the woman said. “How about ten cents for a week?”

  “Better make it two weeks,” Hammett said, handing her a quarter. “This isn’t easy reading.”

  The woman wrote the book’s title, Hammett’s name and barracks number, and the rental period down in a register, gave him a nickel back, and smiled again.

  “Aren’t you a little old to be a soldier?” she asked.

  “I was twenty-one when I enlisted,” he said, grinning. “War ages a man.”

  When it came time to turn for his hotel, Hammett walked on. Two blocks later he was at a small wooden building with a sign over the door that read military police.

  “I’m looking for the duty officer,” he told the MP on the desk. A young lieutenant came out of an office in the back.

  “Sam Hammett of General Johnson’s staff,” Hammett said. “I’m working on a piece for Army Up North about military policing, and I need some information.”

  “Don’t you salute officers on General Johnson’s staff?” the lieutenant snapped.

  “Not when we’re off duty and out of uniform, sir,” Hammett said. “As I’m certain they taught you in OCS, sir.”

  The two men looked at one another for a minute, then the lieutenant blinked and said, “What can I do for you, Sergeant?”

  “I need some information on staffing levels, sir,” Hammett said. “For instance, how many men did you have on duty here in Anchorage last night, sir?”

  Each successive “sir” seemed to make the lieutenant more at ease.

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “But if you’d like to step back into the office, we can look at the duty roster.”

  Hammett looked at the roster. Tobin’s name wasn’t on it. He took a notebook out of his coat pocket and wrote in it.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said. “Now I’ll need your name and hometown. For the article.”

  Back at the hotel, Hammett removed his coat and boots. He poured some whiskey into the glass, filled it with water, lay down on the bed, and began writing a letter.

  “Dear Lillian,” it began. “I am back in Anchorage and have probably seen the end of my posting to the Aleutians.”

  When he’d finished the letter, he made himself another drink and picked up his book. Within five minutes he was snoring.

  He dreamed he was working for the Pinkerton National Detective Agency again, paired with a big Irish kid named Michael Carey on the Fatty Arbuckle case. He dreamed he was at the Stork Club, arguing with Hemingway about the Spanish Civil War. He dreamed he was in a watering hole on Lombard with an older Carey, who pointed out red-haired Billy Tobin and said something Hammett couldn’t make out. He dreamed he was locked in his room on Post Street, drinking and writing The Big Knockover. His wife, Josie, was pounding on the door, asking for more money for herself and his daughters.

  “Hey mister, wake up.” It was the desk clerk’s voice. He pounded on the door again. “Wake up, mister.”

  “What do you want?” Hammett called.

  “You got a visitor downstairs. A shine.”

  Hammett got up from the bed and pulled the door open.

  “Go get my visitor and bring him up,” he said.

  The desk clerk returned with the black man right behind him.

  “Clarence, this is the desk clerk,” Hammett said. “What’s your name?”

  “Joe,” the desk clerk said.

  “Joe,” Hammett said, “this is Clarence ‘Big Stick’ LeBeau. Until the war came along, he played third base for the Birmingham Black Barons of the Negro league. Hit thirty home runs or more in seven — it was seven, wasn’t it, Clarence? — straight seasons. If it weren’t for the color line, he’d have been playing for the Yankees. Not bad for a shine, huh?”

  “I didn’t mean nothing by that, mister,” the desk clerk said. “You neither, Clarence.” His eyes darted this way and that. “I got to get back to the desk,” he said, and scurried off.

  “Welcome to my castle,” Hammett said, stepping aside to let the black man in. “What brings you here?”

  “I’ve got to get started to Florida for spring training,” the black man said. “The things you come up with. I didn’t know white folk knew anything about the Birmingham Black Barons. And why do you keep calling me Clarence?”

  “It suits you better than Don Miller,” Hammett said. “And it keeps everybody guessing. Confusion to the enemy.”

  “You been drinking?” Miller said.

  “A little,” Hammett said. “You want a nip?” Miller shook his head. “But I’ve been sleeping more. The old need their sleep. What brings you here?”

  “I was at the magazine office working on the illustrations for that frostbite article when I was called into the presence of Major General Davenport Johnson himself. He said you’d promised to go to a party tonight at some banker’s house, and since he knew what an irresponsible s.o.b. you were — those were his words — he was ordering me to make sure you got there. Party starts in half an hour, so you’d better get cleaned up.”

  “I’m not going to any goddamn party at any goddamn banker’s house,” Hammett said. “I’m going to the Lido Gardens and the South Seas and maybe the Owl Club.”

  “This is Little Sugar Delight you’re talking to, remember,” Miller said. “You’re going to the party if I have to carry you. General’s orders.”

  “General’s orders,” Hammett said, and laughed. “That’ll teach me to be famous.” He took off his shirt, washed his face and hands, put the shirt back on, knotted a tie around his neck, put on his uniform jacket and a pair of glistening black shoes that he took from the valise, and picked up his overcoat.

  “All right, Little Sugar,” he said, “let’s go entertain the cream of Anchorage society. “

  ~ * ~

  Hammett got out of the Jeep in front of a two-story wooden house. Light spilled from all the windows, and the cold air carried the muffled murmur of voices.

  “You can go on about your business,” he told Miller. “I’ll walk back to town.”

  “It must be twenty below, Sam,” Miller said.

  “Nearer thirty, I expect,” Hammett said. “But it’s only a half-dozen blocks, and I like to walk. “

  Indoors, the temperature was 110 degrees warmer. Men in suits and uniforms stood around drinking, talking, and sweating. Among them was a sprinkling of overdressed women with carefully done-up hair. A horse-faced woman wearing what might have been real diamonds and showing a lot of cleavage walked up to Hammett.

  “Aren’t you Dashiell Hammett, the writer?” she asked.

  Hammett stared down the front of her dress.

  “Actually, I’m Samuel Hammett, the drunkard,” he said after several seconds. “Where might I find a drink?”

  Hammett quickly downed a drink and picked up another. The woman led him to where a large group, all wearing civilian clothes, was talking about the war.

  “I tell you,” a big, bluff man with dark, wavy hair was saying, “we are winning this war because we believe in freedom and democracy.”

  Everyone nodded.
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  “And free enterprise, whatever Roosevelt might think,” said another man.

  Everyone nodded again.

  “What do you think, Dashiell?” the woman asked.

  Hammett finished his drink. His eyes were bright, and he had a little smile on his lips.

  “I think I need another drink,” he said.

  “No,” the woman said, “about the war.”

  “Oh, that,” Hammett said. “First of all, we’re not winning the war. Not by ourselves. We’ve got a lot of help. The Soviets, for example, have done much of the dying for us. Second, the part of the war we are winning we’re winning because we can make more tanks and airplanes and bombs than the Germans and the Japs can. We’re not winning because our ideas are better than theirs. We’re winning because we’re drowning the sonsabitches in metal.”