The next morning, a Wednesday, I filled Velda in on the Winters meeting and got her take on it.
Despite her secretary designation, she is first and foremost my partner in the private eye business. Her pre-MICHAEL HAMMER INVESTIGATIONS past includes a wartime stint with military intelligence and vice squad work on the NYPD— both before she was old enough to vote.
She packs a variety of deadly little revolvers and automatics, depending on which purse she selects for her day- or nighttime ensemble. Sometimes there’s a sharp little knife in a sheath on the inside of a lovely thigh. She has custom-designed evening gowns with a slit up the front for easy access. To the sharp little knife, I mean.
Her ensemble that morning was nothing so exotic—a white silk blouse, a black pencil skirt, nylons, with low-riding black-and-white heels, her shoes the only real fashion touch at work. She doesn’t wear much make-up—doesn’t need to, though the candy-apple red of her lipstick carries quite a punch. She wears an engagement ring with a rock that would choke a horse, which tells you when I say she’s my partner, I’m covering several bases. We haven’t set the date yet. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves—we’ve only been together since just after the war.
Let’s get this out of the way. I am hovering around sixty— which side of that is my business—and Velda’s only a little younger, though you would make her for no more than forty. She has hair in a timeless, shoulder-length pageboy style as black as Edgar Allan’s raven and eyes so big and brown you can get lost in them. She is damn near as tall as me and built like Cyd Charisse and just as lovely.
“The Winters woman wore a black leather catsuit to a business meeting?” she asked, both eyebrows climbing.
She was sitting at her desk, opposite the entry of the office, which is roomy enough for a few reception chairs on either side and a table for coffee and snacks under a window. Behind her and to her right a little is the door to the inner office—my domain.
The Hackard Building had been around since the original Vankemp’s day, but a while back it got a wholesale facelift. But we were still occupying the same eighth-floor space we’d been in forever, just spruced up and modernized some.
“Nicole Vankemp always did have a reputation,” I said, “as a wild child.”
“With a social conscience,” Velda amended. “But she’s married now, to a United States senator, with presidential ambitions. She’ll have to change her ways. Or anyway her style.”
I was sitting on half a hip on a corner of her desk, sipping coffee from the cup that says MIKE. I’m a cream-and-sugar guy. A real pansy.
“Maybe not,” I said. “Times are changing.”
She hiked just one eyebrow. “Not enough to get an open marriage past the Bible Belt.”
“You’re probably right about that. And you may see her and her hubby change their style as that White House try gathers steam. For the moment, it’s enough to see if this blackmail thing can be quashed.”
She was shaking her head, the long arcs of shimmering black swinging like pretty scythes. “If they pay the blackmailer off,” she said, “they’re only inviting another scandal.”
I nodded. “Not to mention an ongoing payday for the extortionist.”
She looked at me with eyes as wide as they were beautiful. “So what’s your approach, Big Boy? Threaten the blackmailer? Rough him up and generally terrorize him?”
“There was a time,” I admitted. “I think we start with getting that tape and destroying it.”
“Even if you lay hands on it, how can you be sure there aren’t copies?”
“That’s when terrorizing the blackmailer becomes a real option.”
The rest of the morning was spent on some insurance work, billing, and me dictating a few letters—the exciting fare that doesn’t make it into these narratives but pays the bills. Business as usual, only Velda now had a personal computer and printer to work with. It wasn’t till after our usual lunch at the deli down the street that Nicole Vankemp-Winters blew in.
No black leather catsuit today—but her slacks were just as tight and black, and her emerald double-breasted blazer with shoulder pads, over a lacy white blouse, hit the red of her hair like a slap. She had an oversize matching-color purse that was leather, slung over her shoulder on a strap. Her make-up was as heavy as Velda’s wasn’t, yet skillfully applied, from the turquoise eye shadow to the dark crimson lipstick.
She said, breathless, “Hope it’s okay I drop in like this, Mike.”
I was standing next to Velda’s desk, handing her some field notes of mine to work up. For a moment Nicole seemed not to see Velda—which was sort of like Sophia Loren not noticing Gina Lollobrigida—but she remedied that by going straight to Velda with an outstretched hand.
The two beauties clasped pretty palms and Velda was soon smiling because Nicole was saying, “And you’re the famous Velda! You’ve been in the news almost as much as your notorious boss. Your pictures don’t do you justice—they’re only gorgeous.”
I don’t figure Velda really bought that flattery, but she liked hearing it anyway, and appreciated the effort.
Like an operative reporting in, Nicole stood before Velda’s desk and fished a handful of manila folders out of the big green leather purse.
“I know I really should have called and set a specific time,” Nicole said to both of us. “But I’ve been running around gathering intel for you. That’s the word, isn’t it? Intel?”
“That’s the word,” I said.
The redhead held out the manila folders—three of them— and glanced from me to Velda and back again, not sure who to hand them to.
I took them and nodded toward the inner office door. “Let’s go into my sanctum sanctorum. Velda, your notebook? Nicole, would you like coffee? A soft drink?”
Our client smiled a little. “Not beer? You disappoint me, Mr. Hammer.”
“We do have beer,” I said with a grin, holding the door open for her, “and I’ll be glad to fetch you one. There’s a little fridge near my desk. But I’ve weaned myself off the stuff during business hours.”
Her laugh was throaty, too. “No beer, thanks. But you’re not living up to your reputation very well.”
“I’ll work at it harder.”
Nicole went into my office and I watched the nice rear view, then glanced at Velda, already on her feet with her notepad and pencil poised, and giving me a look that said I had better not live up to my reputation….
I settled behind my desk. Nicole had already taken the client’s chair. Velda sat behind Nicole and to one side, her legs crossed and reminding me how damn lucky I was.
Right now Velda was watching me close to see if I’d slip my hand under the desk to work the switch that starts the tape recorder in my bottom desk drawer. I shook my head just a little to signal I wouldn’t be. Our clients had specifically asked for discretion and we’d give it to them.
Nicole got right to it. She handed me one of the three folders and hung onto the other two. She watched as I flipped it open.
An attractive brunette looked back at me, her hair short and permed, her features pretty if not distinctive; in business attire, she sat at a desk, posing for a photo suitable for an employee publication or company roster.
“That’s Helen Wayne,” Nicole said. “Jamie’s secretary.”
I frowned, photo in hand. “I thought Lisa Long was your husband’s secretary.”
“Lisa is his current secretary. The Wayne woman worked for him for two years and a few months. She left in March and the Long woman took over the position.”
Probably multiple positions.
I asked, “Has that been a habit with Mr. Winters? Affairs with secretaries?”
“No,” she said. Nothing defensive in her tone. If she cared about him cheating, she didn’t show it.
I looked over what had been written up. It was a dispassionate report—material culled from employment records.
I asked, “You wrote and typed this yourself?”
“I did. Well, I use a word processor.”
“This information came from your husband’s files? The job application she filled out, annual employee evaluations and so on?”
She nodded, the red hair bouncing. “And I asked Jamie what he knew about her.”
Her attitude seemed damn near clinical.
I returned my attention to the folder.
Helen Wayne was from Granville, Ohio. She attended Antioch College. Took business. Went to New York and got a job as secretary to Senator Winters in the office he maintained in Manhattan when he wasn’t in Washington, D.C. It had been her first job. Her work record, in the senator’s employ, was stellar.
Since leaving, she was taking graduate courses at NYU, studying to be a legal secretary, working part-time as a clerk in a bookstore in the East Village, where she lived. She and the senator had broken their relationship off amicably and had not been in touch since.
I handed the folder out for Velda. She got up, took it, and returned to her chair.
As Velda perused the pages, I said to Nicole, “You consider yours an open marriage.”
It wasn’t exactly a question.
Nicole flicked a look at Velda, engrossed in the folder, then her eyes went to me with unspoken worry.
I answered it: “Miss Sterling… that’s Velda… has been briefed on everything you and your husband shared with me last night. We are a two-person firm and have no secrets from each other. My apologies if I should have made that clear.”
She raised a palm. “No, no… that’s fine. You were saying?”
“This open marriage of yours and your husband’s. That implies… really, more than implies… that you are not faithful to Jamie in the traditional sense.”
She took that just fine. “We are faithful,” Nicole said, “in that we too have no secrets.” She threw a little smile in Velda’s direction, without turning to her, Velda still absorbed in her reading.
I said, “Your list of extracurricular encounters… is it similar to Jamie’s? Counting Lisa Long, we’re talking four playmates. What is your…” I searched for a word.
“Box score?” Nicole asked, impishly.
Velda caught that, looking up with an open-mouthed smile.
“Considerably higher,” Nicole said. “I go clubbing on my own. I have many friends. No stranger at cocktail parties and fund-raisers, attend Broadway openings.” She shrugged elaborately. “Jamie isn’t any more jealous than I am. We just follow different paths.”
“In what sense?”
She shrugged, the red mane bouncing once. “He has his little flings. Affairs. Relationships. I’m more a… one-night stand kind of girl. My man is my man. That’s the relationship in my life. The rest are just…” Now she looked for a word.
Velda offered, “The spice of life.”
Nicole smiled back at her. “Yes. Precisely.” She spoke to us both, looking back and forth. “I am not careless. In the current climate, I take precautions. Safe sex only.”
Velda asked, “Does that go for the senator as well?”
“Very much so. We tell each other about our various adventures. Laugh. Excite each other with our… reports back to the home front.”
Velda gave me a wide-eyed look.
“You mentioned clubbing,” I said to Nicole. “Those are notorious venues for illegal narcotics.”
Nicole shook her head; every time she did that, the red hair got more tousled and sexy, as if somebody like Vidal Sassoon had just touched her up.
She said, “Never my thing, the consciousness-expanding bit. Not even grass. Recreational drugs are of no interest to me. I like to feel in control. And before you ask… I have put all that behind me. The discos, that is. The parties. As we discussed last night, Jamie and I are a married couple and our sexual activities will henceforth be confined to ye olde marital bed.”
I nodded. “Good to hear. But what about blackmail from that side of your life? That side of your night life?”
“It could happen,” she admitted. “But I am a known quantity. In my modest way, I am famous. My sins will be forgiven where my husband’s would not. Particularly if I become a one-man gal.”
Velda smiled at that, then asked, “Were any of your casual liaisons with individuals who might have deeper feelings for you than you intended to, uh… stir?”
The red mane shook again. “Very doubtful… if by that you mean the blackmailer plaguing Jamie and me might be some bitter ex-lover. As I said, I was never into prolonged affairs.”
“Just the same,” I said, “you should give us a rundown on your sexual partners, specifically those since you became the wife of a senator.”
She nodded. “Understood. Something like what I’ve given you today on Jamie’s playthings?”
“Yes,” I said. “If that doesn’t require writing War and Peace.”
She smirked. “How are you spelling that?”
Everyone laughed a little.
Then we went over the other two folders.
Judith McGuire—Judy—had been a campaign worker of the senator’s. That was a relationship that began before Nicole and Jamie got married, and continued for several months thereafter.
A pretty little blonde, caught in a snapshot at campaign HQ, Judy was an admirer of the senator and never had any stated designs on him beyond the fun and excitement of being desired by such an important man. (Whose words those were—Judy’s or Jamie’s or Nicole’s—I didn’t know and didn’t ask.)
She was from upstate New York, had gone to a community college for two years, and was now at NYU. She too was living in Greenwich Village, and worked as a waitress.
The third young woman on the senator’s to-do list was Nora Kent, who also lived in the Village. Was that a coincidence or something significant? I filed that thought away. For now, I knew she was an old-fashioned cabaret singer who had a regular gig at a piano bar on Grove Street. She was from the Bronx and had taken jazz studies at Julliard.
The folders provided current addresses and phone numbers for all three women.
Velda, finishing up her look at the third folder, asked, “Should I phone them?”
I thought for a moment, then said, “No. Make in-person cold calls. Start out saying you’re an investigator working with a Daily News reporter on rumors of extramarital affairs involving the senator.”
“What?” Nicole blurted.
I held up a hand. Continued giving Velda her instructions.
“Get their reactions. Get your own read on each. Then tell them the truth—that we’re really working for the senator, and he’s being blackmailed over his sexual indiscretions. Nothing about the tape with the Long woman, though.”
Velda, sitting forward on her chair, the folders in her lap, said to Nicole, “Lisa Long still works for your husband, as his secretary?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t work up a folder on her?”
Nicole shook her head and all that red hair came along for a ride. “No—I can if you like, but you should be able to get anything you need directly from her.”
I said, “She doesn’t know about the blackmail threat?”
Nicole shrugged. “I wasn’t sure we’d want to involve her.”
Velda goggled at me, and I said to our client, “I’d say she’s already involved.”
The redhead didn’t seem concerned. “Whatever you think is best.”
Velda sat forward. “Mike, should I talk to her?”
“No,” I said. “I’ll handle that.”
Velda nodded, stood, and tucked the folders under her arm. “I think I should get started.”
I said I thought so, too.
The two women exchanged their nice-to-meet-yous and goodbyes, and then Velda was gone and I was alone with my client. Or anyway one of my two clients on this job.
“Quite a woman,” Nicole said, raising an eyebrow in much the same fashion Velda was prone to.
“No argument.”
She was slowly nodding. “Now it’s clear to me.”
“What is?”
Nicole rose and shut the inner office door, then came over and perched on a corner of my desk. Like I had perched on Velda’s desk, earlier. She looked down at me with a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile.
She said, “I understand why you took Jamie and me on. Part of why, anyhow. Why you didn’t disapprove of our ways. I mean, you have your own code of morality, and not everybody fits it.”
“You lost me.”
“I don’t think so.” She touched the tip of my nose with an orange-red-nailed finger, very lightly. “I’ll be honest with you. I did hear about you two. Velda something and Mike Hammer.”
“You did, huh? Not on the society page.”
Nicole shrugged, worked up an impish smile. “Another part of the paper. Cindy Adams. Liz Smith.”
She slipped off the desk and came around and sat in my lap and put her arms around my neck. “You could identify with us. Because you two have an open relationship, too.”
I started to say something, but she leaned in and kissed my mouth, a lipsticky kiss, warm, almost hot; it lasted a while, as she tasted me, then she flicked her tongue into my mouth, just a snake’s flick.
“If I have to behave, from now on,” she said, “I’m going to have to cultivate a few good friends I can trust.”
“I’m a little old for you, aren’t I, doll?”
“Doll! Such ancient words come out of you, Mike. No, I like the idea of an older man. A man who’s experienced things I haven’t. Who’s killed. Who’s loved. Who knows how to be… discreet.” She ground herself into my lap. “And I can tell you’re interested.”
“Hell, baby, I’m old. I’m not dead.”
She kissed me again. Not a big deal this time. Just a friendly follow-up. A period on the end of a very sexy sentence.
“You got the tense wrong,” I said. “Earlier?”
“What tense?”
“It’s ‘had’ an open relationship. Velda and me. We had one for a lot of years.”
“Did you now?”
“Yeah. But it was one-sided.”
The green eyes flared. “Ah! You were a tomcat while she was a faithful feline.”
“Something like that.”
“So what closed it? Your open relationship.”
I shrugged. “I got tired of being an asshole.”
She ground her rump some more. “How’s that working out?”
Without leaving my chair, I picked her up by the waist and stood her on the floor.
“It’s working out fine,” I said.
Running fingers through some of that red mane, she nodded toward my lap and the contrary evidence. “Are you sure, Mike?”
“Damn sure.”
Nicole shrugged and headed for the door. “Your loss.”
She was halfway out when I gave her the kicker.
“See, I’m still an asshole,” I said. “Just a one-woman asshole now.”