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

in a long white terrycloth robe, her black hair glistening from the shower. She poured a mug of coffee. “Want me to drop you at home?”

“Thanks, I’d rather walk.” My apartment was downtown, a pleasant ten-minute walk through the neighborhood.

“Okay. Call me later,” she said, and went back upstairs.

I put my mug in the sink and left by the kitchen door. A wall of heat hit me the second I stepped outside. If the temperature dropped overnight, it wasn’t obvious at AJ’s house. The July sun hung well above the trees as I moved along Bay Street. It would be another splendid day for the legion of tourists who escaped to northern Michigan each summer for a week or two, hoping someday to “live the dream” and do it “up north.”

A few people had other, more dangerous plans in mind.

7

It was almost nine by the time I got to the office, a three-block walk from my apartment. I cut through Roast & Toast, picked up a New York Times at McLean & Eakin, and went up the stairs.

“Morning, boss,” Sandy said when I came in the door. “No messages, coffee’s hot.”

“Thanks,” I said, “but on my way to Lenny’s office.”

“The black blazer is a nice touch with the khakis. Aren’t you warm?”

“Of course,” I said. “It’s July. Hear from Henri?”

“Nope.”

“Me, either. He probably tagged along when Lenny went to work this morning.”

“That was a good idea,” Sandy said.

“Text me if anything comes up.” I picked up my brief bag, left the jacket behind, and headed outside.

It was still early, and most of the shops in the Gaslight District had yet to open for the day. Tourists were someplace else, sipping coffee. I walked through downtown over to State Street.

Henri’s SUV was parked across the street from the Post Dispatch. The side window edged down as I walked up.

“Morning,” he said.

“Good morning. Is our man inside?”

“He better be,” Henri said. “Told him to use the front door, in or out.”

“Think he’ll listen?”

Henri shrugged. “Guess we’ll find out.”

“Shall we go?” I said.

Henri eased himself out of the SUV and beeped the door locks.

We entered the newspaper building and walked straight down the hall to the newsroom at the rear of the recent addition. The newsroom featured larger windows and a much higher ceiling than the original residential house. Gray metal desks covered in printouts and computer monitors lined the walls. A large, square table occupied the center of the room. Fluorescent lights sprayed a harsh, bright light over the entire space. The buzz of the lights mixed with the din of voices.

Lenny’s desk was off to one side, away from the door. The noise of talking dropped off as the other reporters watched us approach Lenny. Rumors had no doubt spread around the newsroom long before we arrived.

Lenny put down his phone when he saw us.

“You’re late,” he said. “You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago.”

I decided to let that go. Henri folded his arms across his chest at glared at Lenny.

“Aren’t you hot in that jacket?” Lenny asked Henri.

Before Henri could respond, I jumped in. “Is Tina Lawson here?”

“Of course, she’s here,” he said. “I told you she’d be here. She’s here.”

This wasn’t going well. Be interested to know why.

“I don’t want to be here forever,” Lenny said. “Let’s get this over with.”

With that, he sprung out of his chair and headed from the room. He looked back.

“You going to stand there all day?” he said without breaking stride.

We followed him. By the time we were through the newsroom door, Lenny was standing twenty feet down the hall in front of another room.

“In here,” he said.

It was a small square room, without windows. In the center stood a round, dark wood table and eight high-backed wooden chairs. Tina Lawson sat in one of them with a mug of coffee in front of her, both of her hands wrapped tightly around the mug like it might jump off the table. She had a blank look on her face, as if she were bored, or annoyed.

I introduced Henri to Tina. They shook hands as Lenny slammed the door. We took seats, but Lenny remained standing.

“All right,” he said, “let’s hear it.”

He folded his arms, daring us to so much as say one word.

“The hell’s the matter with you?” I said. “You’ve been barking since we walked in …”

“Damn,” Tina said. “I’m glad I’m not the only one. He’s …” she flung her arm in Lenny’s direction. “Been yelling at me since I got in this morning. Who knows why?”

Lenny remained rigidly at attention.

“Come on, Lenny,” I said. “Right now, talk to us.”

“This is bullshit,” he said, “bullshit.”

“Okay,” I said, “now that we’ve established that, the hell’s going on?”

Lenny didn’t move, but he finally looked at me.

“I don’t like being handled, Russo. Don’t want you telling me how to do my job, how to live my life. It’s bullshit.”

I shook my head slowly. “Got a job to do, Lenny.”

He leaned in just a bit — for emphasis, I guessed. He didn’t need it.

“Not just the tour. Every day and night. All the time. Have I got that right?”

I nodded. “Yeah, you got it right.”

“It’s bullshit.”

“You made that clear already,” I said, “doesn’t change a thing.”

Lenny started to say something else, but stopped when Henri stood up. He came around the table and stood in front of Lenny, a few inches away.

“A few minutes ago, you asked me if I was too hot,” Henri said, as he slowly unzipped his nylon jacket. He took it off and dropped in on a chair.

Henri reached in his shoulder holster and pulled out a long-barreled .357. He held it tight, close to his body, pointed at the ceiling.

“Jesus,” Tina said. “Holy shit.”

“Listen to the woman, Lenny,” Henri said. “This is why we’re here.”

Lenny grinned ever so slightly. “A little melodramatic, don’t you think?”

Henri holstered the handgun. “Got your attention, didn’t it?”

“Lenny,” I said, and he looked in my direction.

“You’re a good reporter, you have a