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

Lenny looked less convinced than Tina did. But it was too late for that.

“Mr. Stern?” Eleanor Cosworth said. “Come with me, please.”

22

Most of the white chairs were filled as Eleanor Cosworth approached the podium, with Lenny Stern a few steps behind.

“Welcome to Humbug’s Bookstore,” she said. “I hope you’re as excited today as I am.” If Eleanor was nervous about the danger on the street, she offered no evidence of it. Her introduction of the bookstore’s special guest was succinct, interesting and, happily, brief.

“Good afternoon,” Lenny said as he absentmindedly straightened his skinny black tie. “Thank you for coming to Humbug’s on this beautiful summer day.”

I eased my way to the window and stood off to one side. Henri had taken up a position at a small table on the patio of Café Java across the street. He sat with a mug of coffee, looking no different than any other patron. Henri casually glanced in both directions as he sipped coffee.

The heart of downtown stretched three blocks, from Johan’s Bakery at the corner of State and Main to Turkey’s Café at the east end of the street. Between here and there, small two-story clapboard-sided buildings, painted white or a variety of pastels, housed mostly retail shops featuring trendy clothing, high-end sports gear, and glamorous jewelry. Most of them had recessed doorways that could hide one or two men. The newer buildings, red brick structures, housed banks and the real estate office. No one would loiter around a bank. Too suspicious.

Henri had done his homework. He knew where to look, which nooks and doorways would help shooters blend in with a street full of tourists.

I glanced out the window. Waves of heat slowly climbed off the pavement. Tourists, wearing odd hats and colorful shorts, moved deliberately from store to store, eating ice cream, sipping cold drinks.

If the gunmen came, would they tote an automatic pistol in one hand, a Coke in the other?

“This seems like the perfect day to talk about mayhem and murder, doesn’t it?” Lenny said with a broad smile and a wave of the arms. He’d resumed the role of engaging entertainer I’d witnessed at the Carnegie Library. Better he should focus on his audience than any looming threat from the street.

“I covered the Mafia for more than ten years …”

I waited and listened as Lenny drew his audience into his tale of corruption.

“This is the most explosive story in years,” he said. “Heads will roll, careers will end.” I sure hoped Lenny’s career — or head — wasn’t one of them.

My phone buzzed. I glanced at the screen.

“Heads up.”

I moved to the edge of the window. Something had caught Henry’s eye. He was looking down the sidewalk, his hand close to his chest, a finger pointing east. Not sure what … then I saw him, too. He stood in front of Regency Jewelers, a half block down, looking at the window display.

The man wore a loose-fitting print shirt hanging over the waist. One hand was wrapped around a can of Pepsi, the other was in a jeans pocket.

I tapped a thumbs-up emoji to Henri. He remained at the table, not wanting to make himself too obvious until we found out if our man was alone. Experience taught us that, more often than not, a second man was nearby.

I tapped, “One?”

“So far.”

Lenny was almost through with his presentation. Forty minutes or so left for questions and signing books before I could yank him away from the front of the store and move his twelve-person audience elsewhere.

Tina Lawson paced from side to side at the back of the store. Not sure she was even listening to her client. I looked around, but Eleanor Cosworth was nowhere to be seen. Good.

“Thank you for the kind applause,” Lenny said, “and for being so attentive. I’d be happy to take a few questions.”

I strained my neck as best I could to see down the street. It was too soon to leave the store. I didn’t want a second man to see me before we found him.

“Got him,” my screen read. I figured Henri would spot the other shooter first.

“Claxton’s,” he wrote. The women’s clothing boutique was two shops down from the bookstore, my side of the street.

“Can’t see him.”

Henri called this time.

“He’s tucked into the doorway,” Henri said, “like he’s waiting for somebody inside.”

“Another baggy shirt?”

“No. Skinny black T-shirt.”

“How do you hide a gun underneath a T-shirt?”

“You don’t,” Henri said. “He’s carrying a small attaché case.”

“What do you think?”

“I think it’s a break-away Uzi.”

“Thank you for your interesting questions,” Lenny said as he wrapped up the second portion of the afternoon. “Some thoughtful insights, too. Well, I’d be delighted to inscribe my book for anyone who’s interested.”

“Kill a lot of people with an Uzi,” I said.

“Right about that,” Henri said. “My baggy shirt likely has a pistol.”

“My guy still there?” I said, straining to see out the window.

“Yeah. Same doorway. He’s been in one place too long.”

“Professionals haven’t used the Uzi in years. Think they’re amateurs?”

“Be my guess,” Henri said. “Get an Uzi pretty cheap these days.”

“Big trouble anyway you look at it. Amateurs panic at the worst times.”

“Hold on,” Henri said. “Baggy shirt’s on the move.”

I looked hard. “I see him. He’s still on your side of the street. Walking your way.”

“How do you want to play this?”

“Let’s see where your guy goes first. If he moves to the bookstore, that’s one problem. Might be … wait, he’s just about to you.”

Henri put down the phone and unzipped his nylon windbreaker as the man walked by.

“He’s a kid,” Henri said.

Baggy shirt stopped across Main Street from his buddy on my side.

“Okay,” Henri said. “One on each side of the street. What do you think?”

“I can’t see them both.”

“I got good lines, Russo. I could take them both quick, right now. But bad shit could happen fast.”

Henri paused. “Don’t want to wait too long, they might have itchy trigger fingers.”

“Let’s run a two-man on