I hadn’t heard him at all. He was already framed in the doorway when I noticed him. But then, he was the kind you didn’t notice. Eight stories down, on the streets of New York, there were thousands like him, quiet people, utterly uncommanding souls who could pass unnoticed anywhere. They could be next to you on the sidewalk, or maybe behind you, without being seen, and speaking without being heard. Their faces and their actions would never be remembered except vaguely at best. Just part of the crowd. That made him anonymous. It also pegged him a pro. Because such unremarkable people make the best killers. This one might have been a lower level drone from Wall Street—nice gray topcoat but off the rack, a darker gray trilby hat, gray complexion, too. The only thing that stood out were the black-rimmed glasses on his narrow soft-jawed face, and the eyes behind them were gray, too. His voice was a soft monotone, but there was something off in it. “Mike Hammer. In person. In the flesh.
