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

“I didn’t mean were you going as a reporter.”

“Maury’ll be there, too,” she said, sidestepping my comment. “Charles Bigelow flies in tomorrow morning.”

I didn’t care about Bigelow’s travel schedule, not right now.

“Okay, well, I need to eat,” I said, having little else to say.

“Me, too.”

We said a halfhearted, uncomfortable good-bye. Like Harold Pinter had written the lines.

I dropped the phone on the desk, pushed my chair back and spun around. The deep blue water of Little Traverse Bay gave off wavy trails of late-day heat. A catamaran, all gleaming red and silver, caught the wind and slid effortlessly west toward the sun. I reached down, grabbed my holster from the bottom left drawer of the desk, and clipped it under my shirt.

I needed a glass of wine, or a nice single malt. And food. I locked the office, went down the stairs and up Lake Street.

How did our wires get so crossed? Was it AJ? Me? Did it matter? Sandy thought something was wrong. Henri did, too, although his concern was as much professional as personal.

Henri analyzed matters from every possible angle while I, more often than not, trusted my instincts. I usually did all right by trusting them, but they didn’t help much on the phone with AJ.

I’d only walked half a block when the professional, experienced side of my gut instincts kicked in.

I’d picked up a tail.

He was out there, but where? Across the street? In the alcove behind Symon’s General Store? I turned the corner at Cutler’s and went down Howard. I kept a steady pace. No need to tip him off. Haven’t spotted him yet, and I’m good at spotting a tail.

I’d chosen not to take the short way through the parking lot. I wanted the fresh air of a longer walk to help me let go of the tension. Now it also gave me more time to spot the tail. The holster on my hip didn’t feel as bulky as it did a few moments ago.

I stopped at Mettler’s, just another shopper checking out men’s clothing in the window. I glanced over my shoulder. Nothing. I slowly moved to Fustini’s window and tried again. Nothing. But I wasn’t wrong. The tail was good, knew what he was doing. Anybody that good was a pro, and not likely to try anything stupid on a busy day in the Gaslight District.

I walked into Palette Bistro, a contemporary restaurant on two levels featuring huge windows for gawking at the activity on the bay while dining. Tourists often snapped up the window tables, which left the lounge for locals. I took a seat at the end of the bar near the front window. The room was empty except for two women at a small table. They were in their twenties, dressed for business and enjoying each other’s company while sipping from long-stemmed glasses with little umbrellas in them.

I had a clear view of the patio and the street. If he was out there, I’d spot him sooner or later.

“Good evening,” the bartender said, placing a small napkin in front of me.

“What can I get you?”

I ordered an Oban and asked for a menu. I sat slightly turned on the stool to give me an easier view of the door and out the window.

“Here you go, an Oban, neat. Small plates on this side,” she said, pointing at the menu.

“What are they drinking?” I said, nodding in the direction of the two women.

“Fru-fru drinks.” And before I asked, “Fruit juices with a bolt of alcohol at the bottom,” she said, and walked away.

I tasted the first soothing drink of scotch and put the glass back. A couple with a small child in a stroller braved the heat and humidity to sit outside. The sidewalks of Bay Street were less crowded than Mitchell, so it was more difficult for a tail to hide. I still didn’t spot him.

“Any decision on food yet?” the bartender said, leaving a setup and a glass of water.

I ordered the crab cakes and a side salad.

“Shouldn’t take long,” she said, and went to check on the umbrella drinks.

I enjoyed the first bites of crab cake and ordered a second drink. About the time I wondered if my instincts had failed me, a familiar figure slid his way into the bar. He was tall, six feet at least, and skinny as a pencil; you had to wonder if he’d had a good meal recently. A gaudy print shirt at least two sizes too big hung well below his hips. He wore the same shirt the last time I saw him. At Ristorante Enzo.

“Well, hello, Jimmy Erwin.”

28

“Mind if I sit down?” Jimmy Erwin said. He stood perfectly still, keeping his hands where I could see them. He knew I’d be watching.

I nodded, and Erwin took the stool next to mine.

“Doesn’t seem like your kind of place, Jimmy.”

His eyes did a quick reconnoiter of the room, stopping briefly on the businesswomen.

“Never been here.”

“Buy you a drink?” I said, when the bartender arrived.

“Labatt Blue.”

After the bartender left, I said, “See anyone following me out there?”

I already knew the answer, but I couldn’t resist.

“Keep the glass,” Jimmy said to the bartender when she dropped off the Labatt’s.

Jimmy smiled. “When’d you pick me up?”

“On the corner, by Cutler’s.”

He nodded slowly. “But you didn’t really see me, did you?”

I shook my head.

He took a short pull on the beer. “You just knew I was there.”

I nodded.

Jimmy smiled. “You’re good, Russo. Give you that.”

“Joey DeMio tell you to tail me?”

Jimmy shook his head.

“Then what’re you doing here, Jimmy?”

Jimmy took another short pull on his Labatt’s. Either this guy didn’t drink much, or he was being very cautious. My money was on cautious. Gunmen are always cautious if they want to live longer than the next guy.

“Wanted to give you a heads-up,” he said.

“That so.” I took the last bite of my crab cakes and pushed the plate away.

“Thought you might be interested …”

“Why were you following me, Jimmy?”