Free Kiss Her Goodbye by Mickey Spillane Page A

all right, an undeniably perfect motive to call it quits on his own terms in his own special way—papers in order, music playing softly, his own weapon in his hand, and then kiss this life goodbye.
    And now I knew what was bugging me.
    Memory is a funny thing. You can recall in detail some insignificant afternoon of your childhood, but it takes a while to remember what you had for lunch yesterday. You meet an old pal and regale him with a shared experience that has stuck with you a lifetime, only he's forgotten all about it, then he shares his most vivid memory of the two of you, which stirs nothing at all.
    But sometimes something floats to the surface, jarred there—and my visit to Doolan's apartment had summoned a conversation he and I'd had not ten years before.
    We were having dinner in the old Blue Ribbon Restaurant when he said, "There is no motive for suicide, Mike me boy. It's a damn coward's way out."
    I had thrown him some bait. "Suppose you were trapped in a flaming car and had your gun with you."
    "Well, then, I'd burn, kiddo."
    "Why?"
    "Life's one of those precious things you don't toss away under any conditions."
    "You've put a few men down for the long count," I reminded him.
    "Only to preserve my own precious life. If somebody ever tries to sell you the bill of goods that I've snuffed myself out? You go look a little harder, Mike. There is
no
justifiable motive for suicide."
    Okay, pal,
I told his memory.
You made yourself clear. You're dead and you didn't do it, so who the hell did? And what
was
the motive?
    Life takes years to live, but only a few minutes to say goodbye. A eulogy like the one I'd delivered last night doesn't take long to wrap up an entire lifetime, lay it out in a few well-chosen sentences, and send the memory of that intense, complicated structure called a man drifting off to nowhere.
Before long, Bill Doolan would be forgotten.
But not by everyone.
Not by the person who killed him.
And not by me.
    The office that Doolan had shared with Peter Cummings looked like something out of
A Tale of Two Cities.
The corner building had opened in 1888, the year of the Great Blizzard, and had watched the city parade pass so long, it had itself become a monument of sorts, the kind two old men found comfortable toward the tail end of their lives.
    Ten years younger than Doolan, Cummings had been on the force with Doolan, retired, and become a P.I., specializing in credit-investigations work. Doolan helped his friend out, working only when he'd wanted to, picking and choosing. Two great old guys who didn't know how to quit and, hell, they were still enjoying life, so why should they?
    I knocked on the door, heard Cummings's gruff "It's open," and turned the knob.
    "I'll be damned," he said. "Mike Hammer."
    "Everybody's got to be somebody," I said.
    His hair was all gray now, short and bristly. The years had left lines on his face and thinned out his once-powerful frame, but somehow you knew he was still a cop, years away from his era, who still carried a retirement shield in a worn leather case in his pocket. He was in a white shirt with no tie and the sleeves rolled, black slacks, and stocking feet. Argyles.
    "I was wondering if you'd show up," he said. He was out from behind his desk, heading to a little fridge conveniently nearby. "Everybody else and his mother's been here. Come on in and sit down. Want a cold one?"
    "Sure." I deposited myself in the old walnut client's chair and caught the cold can of Miller. "Like old times."
    Back behind his desk, he held his can up. "Cheers."
    "Cheers." I popped the top. "You weren't at the funeral."
    "No. At my age you have to make a decision—how many funerals are you willing to go to, with friends dying left and right. I decided one more was plenty."
    "Your own."
    "That's right." He drank. "But don't think I don't feel it. Terrible about Doolan."
    "I figure you know the details."
    "Oh yeah. Pat laid everything out. He was real shook up over it."
    "How're you