Deadline for Lenny Stern by Peter Marabell (beautiful books to read TXT) 📕

on the left, tables large and small scattered in the rest of the space.

“Hey, Michael,” Jack said from behind the bar. He’d been serving drinks from that spot for as long as I could remember. “AJ’s already here.” He pointed to the back of the room.

AJ waved from a four-top in the corner, and I went to join her.

“Hello, darling,” she said.

I leaned over and kissed her. “Hello, back. What’s that?”

“Chardonnay.”

I turned toward the bar and pointed at the glass. Jack waved back.

“How’re you doing?” I said as I sat down.

“Work was fine, but Kate Hubbell was all anybody talked about. Most of them never met her, but that didn’t matter. She’s dead, we’re all feeling it.”

Our waiter, a short, stout man in his twenties, put down a napkin and my wine. “Another glass, Ms. Lester?”

“With dinner,” she said.

He nodded, and we ordered dinner, the duck breast for AJ, walleye for me.

“Any more news on Kate?”

I shook my head and described my trip to see Joey DeMio.

“Sandy’s right, Michael.”

“About what?” I said, sipping some wine.

AJ leaned in, her face taut, eyes narrow.

“Stop, just stop. Damn it. I’m not in the mood for your Sam Spade routine. I’m too tired, and Kate Hubbell’s too dead.

“I didn’t mean …”

“Bullshit. I know you too well. You always feign ignorance when danger’s in the air. You … you thrive on it, Michael. I just can’t stand to hear it right now. Kate’s murder …”

AJ sat back. She was done, for now, but the tension in her face remained.

I put my hands out, palms up, and nodded.

“All right,” I said. “I’m sorry …”

“Sorry doesn’t do it. Kate’s got a bullet in the back of her head. It hasn’t been twenty-four hours yet. Treat the risk seriously for a minute, will you? I don’t give a damn if Joey has new bodyguards. You made a serious mistake walking in there alone.”

I remained silent. I had no answer for her.

The waiter put our dinners on the table and left another glass of chardonnay for AJ. I cut off a piece of walleye. AJ picked up her fork and stared at it for a moment, like she wondered of what possible use it might be. We sat quietly and sampled our dinners.

“I accept how you earn a living, but … but there are times when I … I tolerate it, but right now, Kate’s dead.” She picked up her wine glass, but put it down before taking a sip. “Sometimes you shove it in my face, Michael. You do. That time … that time you and Henri went after Conrad North and his gang … walked down the middle of the fucking street like cowboys in a shootout. It wasn’t a goddamn movie, Michael. I wanted to yell at you … at both of you.”

I hesitated.

She caught it and glared at me. “Would it have done any good if I had?”

19

AJ and I sat at the table and were quiet. Odd for us. I ate some of my dinner while AJ moved food around her plate. We always had much to say, much to discuss, but words didn’t come easily this night. We didn’t even comment on our dinners. Not like us at all.

“I get scared, Michael. You scare me. Not you … exactly. Your life can be dangerous. Violent people. I know that. Then … I remember that call in the middle of the night, when you’d been knifed in an alley … !”

“I was attacked …”

“Just listen, will you? I need you to listen. I know damn well you were attacked, but in the hospital … you were groggy. I stood there and heard the doctor say if the goddamn knife went just two inches the other way …”

She sat back, pushed her plate to one side, picked up her wine and took a drink.

“Now you go to DeMio’s alone? You could have vanished, right there, in the middle of town, the middle of the day. The man’s capable of that with a snap of his fingers. I don’t know what makes me crazier, your movie-hero bravado or being afraid you’ll end up in Lake Michigan.”

I wanted to say something, anything. Anger was one thing, but listening to her fear was painful. But I kept my mouth shut. We’d treaded lightly over this territory before, without coming to any understanding or accommodation.

The front door opened, and Henri entered the restaurant. He waved greetings to the bartender as he walked over, pulling out a chair.

“Michael, AJ.”

Our waiter put a Molson Canadian down. “Anything to eat, Mr. LaCroix?”

“I’m fine,” Henri said, glancing at each of us. If he detected tension in the air, he said nothing. He knew us well enough, knew when it was best to leave it alone.

Henri took a long pull on the Molson and waited.

After a slow minute, I said, “What did you find out in Harbor?”

“You mean Humbug’s Bookstore? Or the street?”

“Both.”

“You’ve been to Humbug’s?” Henri said.

I shook my head.

“It’s a small store, square,” Henri said, moving his hands as if to create a diagram. “Two floor-to-ceiling windows on either side of the front door.”

“That’s not good,” I said.

“Shelves crammed with books lining the walls. Tables with bestsellers, local authors, Michigan history are arranged in the middle of the floor.”

“Any idea where they’ll put Lenny?”

“Uh-huh,” he said. “You’re not going to like it.”

“No?” I said.

“There’s a tall stool and a podium in the window to the left of the doorway.”

Henri was right, I didn’t like it. Lenny Stern was vulnerable enough. In stores, libraries, on the road. But placing him in the bookstore’s front window endangered our author, not to mention the audience that would come to listen or other customers in the store.

“One shooter with an automatic pistol could do a lot of damage,” Henri said.

“I’ll talk to the owner or manager tomorrow,” I said.

“Try to get Lenny out of the window.”

“See what I can do,” I said. “After you deliver Lenny to the store, you decided where you’ll be during his