Читать книгу Pit and the Pendulum - John Gregory Betancourt - Страница 4

PIT AND THE PENDULUM

When the phone rang, I rolled over with a groan and reached for it. Who could possibly be calling me? I didn’t have any friends left, and all my bills were paid up, thanks to last month’s trip to Atlantic City’s casinos.

“’Lo?” I mumbled into the receiver. My head pounded something awful.

“Pit?” asked a man’s voice.

I blinked. Nobody had called me that in years. “Who is this?”

“Pit! Thank God I reached you—I need your help.”

“Huh.” I managed to sit up in bed. The room swayed; I felt sick and dizzy. “What? Help? Who is this?”

“God, Pit, it’s three o’clock! Aren’t you awake?”

“What? Three o’clock?” With my free hand, I rubbed at crusty-feeling eyes. It didn’t help. I felt old and tired and all fogged up inside…thirty years old and ready to die. “Call me in the daytime!”

The voice on the phone chuckled. It sounded forced.

“Come on, Pit,” the man said urgently. “It’s three o’clock in the afternoon. Wake up. You’re the sharpest guy I know. I need your help!”

Slowly I tried to think it through. Only frat brothers had ever called me Pit. Short for Pit-Bull—because I never let go. So that meant we had gone to college together, a lifetime or so ago. At most in any given year, our fraternity had thirty-two members. Times four…a lively selection of suspects.

“Pit? You still there?”

I frowned. A decade had deepened his voice, but it sounded familiar. Like a gear clicking into place, my brain started working and the name came to me: David Hunt. Tall, blond, and good-looking in a Calvin Klein-model sort of way, mostly skilled in partying and racket ball, but good enough academically to get his MBA without any special assistance from me. That was the only reason they let me into old Alpha Kappa, after all, to help the jocks and old-money frat boys keep up their GPAs. Sometimes I had resented it, being there to be used, but mostly I didn’t care, since the perks were great. I got into all the parties. I had my share of dates and fun and beer, and I still graduated at the top of our class. So what if I did a lot of tutoring and ghost-writing?

David had been…fifty-third? Yes, that was right. Fifty-third in our graduating class. More than respectable for a party-boy from Alpha Kappa.

“What is it, Davy?” I said. The haze was lifting now. “And I go by Peter these days.”

“Peter. Right. Come see me—I need your help. I’ll make it worth your while.”

I yawned again. “Where are you?”

“The Mackin Chase Hotel. I’ll be in the lobby. Twenty minutes okay?”

“Make it an hour.”

“If I have to. But hurry.” A frantic note crept into his voice. “My future depends on it.” He hung up.

Since he sounded desperate, I debated skipping a shower. But one look in the mirror and a sniff at my armpits changed my mind: I could live with bloodshot eyes and mussed-up hair, but popular society frowned on people who smelled like I did right now.

Heaving my legs over the side of the bed, I found a bottle of aspirin on the night table and dry-swallowed four tablets. My right foot bumped against a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the floor, and briefly I debated a wake-up shot. No, not now; I had an appointment to keep. Instead, I screwed the cap back on.

I spent the next fifteen minutes showering, shaving, and cleaning myself up for polite society. A gulp of half-flat Pepsi and a cold slice of pizza from the refrigerator made a very late breakfast. Then I found a shirt that wasn’t too rumpled and put it on with jeans and comfortable old loafers. Finished, I grabbed a cane from the umbrella stand by the door, left my little one-bedroom Northwood apartment, and limped out to the Frankford El station.

A train came almost immediately, luckily. It was mostly empty, so I flopped down in the corner—not the handicapped seat by the door, which I hate—and from there I proceeded to study the gum, scuff marks, and unidentifiable stains on the floor, trying not to look out the window at passing brick factories and endless lines of row-houses. Details tended to overwhelm me these days; that was partly what led to my nervous breakdown and retirement from a twenty-hours-a-day job at a Wall Street investment firm four years before. Now I kept to myself, tried not to leave my apartment when I didn’t have to, and drank to blunt the pain and keep the edge off my always-racing mind.

Already it was starting. Everything I knew about David Chatham Hunt came bubbling up through my subconscious, whether relevant or not. The two classes we’d both taken together (Comp 104 and Introduction to Analytical Writing). His family crest, which he’d once shown me (a griffin on a shield, surrounded by Masonic-looking symbols). I could even name all seventeen girls he’d dated (and the two he’d bedded) while living at the frat house.

What could David Hunt possibly want with me? He came from a rich old family; his life should have been golden. Mellow, easy-going, never-a-worry-in-the-world Davy Hunt’s greatest decision these days should have been which swimsuit model to date or which of his many Saabs and Porsches to drive.

The train tracks went underground, and the car got noisy and claustrophobic and dark. A dozen people joined me in the car. Almost there, almost there. I tried not to look at anyone else. I didn’t want to figure out life stories from their clothes, tattoos, body-piercings, and jewelry.

* * * *

I knew the Mackin Chase Hotel quite well, of course; it’s a Philadelphia landmark, a towering glass-and-steel building near the intersection of 20th and Vine, five minutes’ walk from the train station. Elevators ran up the outside of the building, and the roof had a helicopter pad. Several times I had wondered what the view would be like from up there. Several times I’d wondered what it would be like to jump.

I was ten minutes early for our appointment, but I strolled into the hotel lobby anyway. There, a modernistic fountain made of bent pieces of copper-colored sheet-metal splashed and burbled amidst carefully groomed ferns and bamboo. Pale yellow carp swam lazily through a series of interlocking shallow pools. Around me, orchestral music played an incongruously up-tempo version of the Beatles’ “Yesterday.” How appropriate.

Davy Hunt, dressed all in black from his handmade Italian leather shoes to his mock turtleneck sweater and stylish leisure jacket, folded up the newspaper he’d been pretending to read and rose from a marble bench by the fountain. He forced a sickly grin as I hobbled toward him. His blond hair had grown longer and he now wore it combed to one side, trying to hide a receding hairline. When I got close, I saw the fine web of wrinkles around his eyes. But if he looked his age, I knew I must look thirty years older than mine. Huffing a bit, I leaned on my cane and tried to look strong and brave. Or at least mentally competent.

“Pit—Peter, I mean. How are you doing?”

He stuck out his hand; I shook it automatically. His grip was a little too hard, and I rapidly extricated myself.

“I’m fine,” I lied.

“You look…well.” He swallowed hard, clearly shocked and appalled. Of course he remembered the old Peter Geller, the brilliant geek from college, who knew everything and never missed any detail, no matter how small. But those days were long gone.

“I know how I look, Davy-boy,” I said with a rueful grin. “And well it isn’t.”

“God, Pit!” he blurted out. “What happened?”

I shrugged. “Nervous breakdown. Spent six months in the psych ward. Got out, got hit by a taxi that ran a red light. I’m an alcoholic now—as well as a crip,” I added with wry humor. “How about you?”

He sank down on the bench and buried his face in his hands. For some reason, he seemed to be hyperventilating. His breath came in short gasps.

“God. I’m sorry, Pit. Peter. If I’d known—”

“Really, Davy, I don’t mind.” I sat beside him and stretched out my legs. They hurt less that way. “Want to tell me about it? I’ll help if I can. I didn’t have anything else planned for today.” Or ever.

“I—I can’t ask you—”

“Sure you can. Isn’t that what frat brothers are for?” I didn’t add: even second-class ones like me? “So. Tell me what’s wrong.”

His ice-blue eyes searched mine for a minute. He must really have been desperate, since he gave a nod. I smiled encouragingly.

“Blackmail,” he whispered. His shoulders hunched. “I’m being blackmailed.”

“Oh?” I raised my eyebrows. “Start at the beginning,” I said. So much for the squeaky-clean kid I’d known in college. What had he gotten himself into?

“Okay, Pit.” He looked around. “But not here.”

“Where, then? Your home? Or your office? You do have an office?”

He glanced at the lobby bar—Mack’s Place—which was open and doing a modest business with the pre-dinner crowd. But then he hesitated. Probably didn’t want to throw fuel on the fire of my alcoholism, so to speak.

“Come on,” I said, levering myself upright with my cane. Best get things moving. “You can buy me a ginger ale while you fill me in.”

“Are you doing that seven-step thing?” he asked carefully.

“It’s twelve steps, and no.” I grinned back at him over my shoulder. “I’m quite happy being a drunk. Alcohol kills the pain better than Tylenol and morphine. But I can take a day off for an old friend.”

“Um. Thanks.” Clearly that disconcerted him.

He grabbed his newspaper and trailed me into Mack’s. Most of the customers sat at the bar, so I picked a booth at the rear. When a waitress appeared (Cindy, said her nametag: bleached blond hair, fake fingernails, maybe twenty, looked like a college student from the University of Pennsylvania) I kept my word and ordered ginger ale, even though I felt the shakes coming on. Davy asked for scotch and soda. We sat in silence until Cindy served us.

“So?” I said again. I leaned back and sucked soda through a thin red straw. Nasty stuff. “Fill me in. How can I help?”

Davy folded his hands and leaned forward. “I told you I was being blackmailed.”

“Sex, drugs, or murder?” I asked lightly. It was hard keeping a straight face. I couldn’t imagine the David Hunt I’d known involved in anything shady.

“Gambling. There’s a private club out on the Main Line. I was there with a girl a few weeks back.…” He shrugged. “Had a few too many drinks, and before I knew it, I was twenty thousand in the hole. I left a marker for it. Didn’t want it showing up on my credit card statement—you understand.”

“Just pay it off. You have the cash, don’t you?”

“Sure. But I can’t pay it off. Someone beat me to it.”

Davy reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulled out a piece of paper, and slid it across the table. When I unfolded it, I found a color laser printout of a series of eight small pictures, four on each side. From the graininess, the shots must have been taken with one of those hide-in-your-palm micro cameras. Seven showed Davy gambling: craps, roulette, blackjack. In half of them, he had a drop-dead gorgeous blonde on his arm. The eighth was a picture of an I.O.U. to the Greens Club bearing his signature—$20,000.

“Who’s the lady?” I scrutinized the blonde’s face, but I had never seen her before.

“A friend of mine. Her name’s Cree.”

“Actress-slash-model?” She had that undernourished look. And breasts that defied gravity.

He shifted uneasily. “Yes.”

“You aren’t wearing a wedding ring. She’s not your wife. So that can’t be the problem.”

He stared at me. “You don’t read the Inquirer, do you?”

“Not often.” Not in the last four years, anyway.

“Here.” He picked up his newspaper, opened it to the second page of the business section, folded it back, and slid it across to me.

DRESHER NATIVE DAVID C. HUNT, JR. CONFIRMED FOR HUNT INDUSTRIES BOARD OF DIRECTORS

read a small headline. I skimmed the brief article. My friend Davy just joined the family business, it seemed.

Nodding, I looked up. “Congrats. But what does this have to do with blackmail?”

“Last year, there were…scandals in the company.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe you missed it. The chief financial officer is in jail. The chief operating officer plea-bargained his way to fines and probation. Half the accountants are under federal indictment. Dad barely fought off being forced out as CEO. He had to struggle to get me nominated to the Board of Directors last week. The merest hint of a scandal and they’ll yank me out. So…these pictures and my marker have to stay buried.”

“You should go to the police.” I added pointedly, “Blackmail is illegal.”

He lowered his voice. “So is gambling in unlicensed clubs. If investors think I’m financially irresponsible, I’ll be yanked off the board—and, well, that will crush Dad. There’s been a Hunt at the top of the company for a hundred and ten years. He’s counting on me to take over when I have more experience. This is the first step.”

“Point taken.” You couldn’t argue with parental expectations. “So what do you want me to do?”

“I need someone to handle the payoff for me. Someone I can trust who doesn’t have his own agenda. My friends—well, let’s say they’re friends of convenience. If they scent blood in the water…they’re as likely to turn me in to the tabloids as the blackmailer is.”

I nodded; that I could understand. “But why me?”

“I saw your name in that alumni rag a few weeks ago—it said you were back in Philadelphia.” He shrugged. “You were the most straight-as-an-arrow guy I ever met. That whole ‘moral compass’ thing they teach in business ethics—that’s you to a tee. I thought.…” He choked up.

“That was a long time ago, Davy-boy.”

“I know, Pit. I…I’m sorry to have bothered you.” He stood, snatching up the laser print-out and the newspaper.

I grabbed his arm. “Come back here. Geez, you’re touchy. Of course I’ll help.”

He hesitated a moment, then sat heavily. If he hadn’t been so desperate, I knew he would have run.

“Pit.…” He leaned forward, voice dropping. “Look at yourself. You’re a mess. Your hands are shaking. You can barely walk. This isn’t a game. I appreciate your offer, but—”

“I know I have problems,” I said, “but I can still help you. That’s what friends are for.” I looked at him, my eyes pleading. I needed this. Needed something to do, something special to distract me from the downswing toward unhappy oblivion that was my life.

He took a deep breath, then sagged a little and seemed to give in. “Okay. But—”

I cut him off. “Start at the beginning and tell me everything. I assume there’s a letter with payment instructions. If so, I want to see it.”

“Here.” He pulled another piece of paper from his jacket pocket and slid it across the table. I unfolded it carefully. It had been written on a computer, typed in twelve-point Arial, and printed on the type of generic white copier paper you could get at any Staples or OfficeMax.

david

you can redeem your marker for two hundred thousand dollars if you agree place an ad in the inquirer that reads single white elephant named dumbo seeking mate you will get a voice mail with delivery instructions

a friend

I retrieved the printout of the pictures, spread it flat on the table, and studied each image one at a time, committing faces to memory.

“What about this Cree woman?” I asked.

“I’ve dated her off and on for two years. She’s a bit shallow, but okay. Focused on her career. Expects to marry me in a year or two. At least, we’ve been talking about it.”

“So you don’t think she’s behind it?”

“For a mere two hundred thou? Come on, I’m worth fifty million all by myself. If she waits, she’ll have it all.”

“Not with a prenuptial agreement.”

He chuckled. “The jewelry I bought her last month is worth more than that!”

“All right. It’s not her. Was there anything else? A threat to send everything to the newspapers? Or your company’s Board of Directors?”

“Nothing specific. But I know that’s what they’ll do if I don’t pay up.”

I chewed my lip. “Did you save the envelope the letter came in, by any chance?”

“No. Why? Is it important?”

“I want to know where it was mailed from.”

“Sorry, no return address.”

“Postmark?”

“Philadelphia.”

“Zip code?”

“I didn’t notice.”

Not much help; it’s a big city.

I asked, “When does the ad run?”

He tapped the newspaper on the table. “It’s in today’s classifieds. I just looked it up.”

“Any voice mails yet?”

He nodded. “A few ladies looking for dates so far. The Dumbo part seems to have tickled their fancy.”

I rotated the page with the pictures and pointed to the one where Davy stood by the roulette table. A man in the background had caught my eye: a little older than us, salt-and-pepper hair, small mustache…the sort you’d never look at twice.

“Do you recognize him?” I asked.

Davy leaned forward, squinted. “No. Why?”

“He’s looking straight at whoever took the picture. And look—he’s standing behind you and Cree at the blackjack table, too. And in this shot—you can’t see his face, but that’s clearly his suit. He was stalking you.”

“Say, I think you’re right! But it still doesn’t help. I don’t know him.”

I nodded. “All right.” My mind was already turning through the possibilities. Too bad I didn’t know anyone at the police department or the FBI. Face-recognition software was the latest thing. A name would be helpful. Who else might know him? The gambling club’s management?

Davy leaned forward and touched my hand. “Listen to me, Pit,” he said seriously. “I didn’t ask you here to solve a crime. This isn’t a puzzle to work out. Your job is to be a courier. That’s it. Once the payoff is made, you have to drop it.”

I smiled. “I understand, Davy. I’m just naturally curious.”

“I don’t want you doing anything stupid and getting hurt. Don’t be a pit-bull. Just help me out—I’ll make it worth your while.”

He slid a cell phone across to me, along with a set of car keys. “Just hit redial. The password on the account is 9-1-1-9.”

“What are the keys for?”

“My car. It’s valet parked—the claim check is on the key-ring, see? That plastic chit on the end. Uh, you can still drive, can’t you?”

“Sure, I just have to be careful.”

“Good.”

“And the money?”

“In the trunk,” he said, “in a briefcase.”

I stared at him in disbelief. “Are you crazy? What if the parking attendant rips you off?”

He grinned. “I gave him a valet key—it only opens the driver’s door and starts the ignition. No way for him to open the trunk.”

I nodded and said: “So I take them the money, get back your marker, and see that all the files for the digital pictures are destroyed. Is that the plan?”

“Uh-huh.”

“One last question.”

“Shoot.”

“Where is this gambling club?”

“Why?”

“Just curious. I like to gamble, and it’s closer than Atlantic City. It’s not like they can blackmail me!”

Grudgingly, he told me. Then he glanced at his watch and frowned.

“Some place you have to be?” I asked.

“Yeah. Dad’s giving a dinner in my honor tonight. The whole Board will be there. I have to get going or I’m going to be late. Cree is picking me up in about two minutes. Can you handle things?”

“Sure.” I gave a quick grin. “You can count on me, Davy. I’ll take care of everything.”

“I know.” He smiled—a bit wistfully, I thought. “You haven’t even asked what’s in it for you. You’d make a bad businessman, Pit.”

I laughed. “Must be our old Alpha Kappa bond. You don’t owe me a thing, Davy-boy. I’ll help because I can.”

“Thanks. I mean it, Pit. Thanks.”

* * * *

He left, stopping briefly at the bar to pay our tab. I waited till he was gone, then eased myself out of the booth with the help of my cane, scooped up keys and cell phone, and headed for the lobby.

Already a plan was forming in the back of my mind. There was a small barber shop off the hotel lobby, next to the gift store: forty bucks for a simple haircut, but I needed to look my best tonight. I was going to pay the gambling club a visit.

The barber did an adequate job of neatening me up. Then I went to the men’s room and used wet paper towels to clean all the hairs off my face, neck, and ears that he missed.

After that, I went to the gift shop and poked around until I found a travel kit that included a small pair of scissors. I paid for it, pocketed the scissors, then threw out the nail clippers and everything else. I paused long enough by a trash can to cut mustache-man’s picture out of the printout. Maybe I’d get lucky and find out his name when I asked around at the gambling club tonight. That’s where I intended to go…straight to the heart of the problem.

Then I exited the hotel. Instead of retrieving Davy’s car from the parking attendant, I headed for the men’s clothing shop I’d passed a block or so down. Time for a suit…something expensive and Italian, maybe silk. And a flashy tie. I wanted to look like I had a million bucks tonight.

It seemed to me Davy’s situation had two possible causes. One, blackmailers had recognized him, picked him as an easy mark, and surreptitiously photographed him at the gambling club. Two, the management of the gambling club had set him up and was conducting this sting. To get him deep enough in debt to leave an I.O.U., they would probably have to be running crooked games. And I counted on my own skills with numbers and general mental abilities to be able to spot bad dice, rigged tables, or marked cards. Either way, the casino seemed the logical place to start.

As I walked, I used Davy’s cell phone to check for voice-mail messages. Nothing new.

* * * *

Two hours later, and $3,700 dollars poorer thanks to my credit cards and rush tailoring, I had an Armani suit that fit like a glove. Thank God for credit cards. I had traded in my cane for a silver-handled walking stick. And a small blood-red carnation brightened my lapel. As I glanced at my reflection in the side windows of shops, I had to admit I didn’t look like the same seedy cripple who had agreed to do this job.

I had a car to get…my first driving experience since the accident…and I had blackmailers to catch. Whether Davy wanted it or not, I intended to help him the best way I could. And that meant making sure his enemies couldn’t hold anything over him for the rest of his life. If he paid off this time, I knew they would be back in a few months for more…and more…and more.

* * * *

Davy’s car wasn’t the bright red Ferrari I’d half expected, but a black BMW sports car, low-slung and sexy. It had a manual transmission, but after a few jerky starts the rhythm of driving one came back to me, and I pulled out onto Vine and accelerated smoothly toward the Main Line and the old-money towns west of Philadelphia.

What should have been a twenty minute ride took nearly four times as long, thanks to an overwhelming volume of rush hour traffic on Route 76. When I finally pulled off at the proper exit, it was growing dark. I began scanning street signs. Half a dozen turns later, I found myself on a private road heading for what was marked as a members-only golf course. And sure enough it had acres of floodlit greens to the sides and back, along with a sprawling clubhouse, a catering hall and half a dozen other barnlike outbuildings, and ample parking lots lit by bright floodlights.

It was still early for the fashionable set, but even so, the last building—which Davy claimed was the casino—seemed to be doing a lively business. Quite a few vehicles were parked outside its entrance, and a pair of teenage boys manned a valet station at the curb.

I parked myself, retrieved the black leather briefcase from the trunk, flipped its latches, and peeked inside at bundles of crisp hundred dollar bills. Two thousand of them, if my math was right. And it was.

Turning, I limped across the lot toward the casino. At the door, a security camera panned down slightly to take me in. There was no doorman waiting, so I tried the knob. Locked, of course. I pressed a small brass buzzer. Moments later, a window set in the door slid open.

“Yeah?” said a man with brown eyes and weather-bronzed skin. “What is it?” He had a heavy New Jersey accent.

“Swordfish?” I volunteered.

“Don’t play with me.”

He must not have seen many Marx Brothers movies. Or perhaps he’d heard the line so many times he no longer found it humorous.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’d like in, please.”

“This is a private club.”

“I was invited by a member. Perhaps you know him.” I juggled my cane a second, then flipped the latches on the briefcase and held it up so he and the camera could see. “His name is cash.”

The eyes widened slightly in surprise.

“Who’s the real friend, wise guy?” Jersey-boy demanded.

“Well, if you must know, David Hunt.”

“He’s not a member.”

I shrugged. “He was here a few days ago and spoke glowingly of the action.”

“He’s not a member.”

“Then refer me to the sales department.”

“Membership is by invitation only.” He seemed determined to make things difficult.

I said, “Bump me up a step on the food chain, and I’ll get myself invited.” I gave him a smile. “Besides, won’t you get in trouble if you let me walk away with all this money? I’m sure others are watching on your security cameras.”

The window slammed shut. For a moment, I wondered if I’d pissed him off. Finally, though, I heard a deadbolt slide over and the door swung out. My personal charms must have worked.

Jersey-boy was about forty, of Mediterranean descent, and built like a brick wall. He wore his hair short and slicked back, and a thin white scar ran from his left ear to his chin. From the bulge under his suit jacket, I knew he sported a shoulder holster. I got the impression he could have torn me in half without really trying. This definitely wasn’t the sort of person I wanted to tangle with.

“In,” he said with a jerk of his thumb.

“Thanks.”

I shut the briefcase and strolled into a richly decorated antechamber perhaps ten feet deep and twenty feet wide. From plush red carpet to oak paneled walls to the crystal chandelier overhead, everything felt rich and inviting. Even the paintings on the walls were tasteful country landscapes. The air had the well-scrubbed feel of industrial air conditioning.

“Sit,” he said, indicating a low bench, its seat done in crushed red velvet the same shade as the carpet.

I sat, briefcase beside me, cane across my knees. It hurt, but I kept my legs folded back. A small table held recent issues of Newsweek, Cosmopolitan, and Sports Illustrated. None looked like it had ever been read. I picked through them. The subscription address labels had been meticulously clipped out.

After a couple of minutes, four people trooped through after me: two middle-aged men in tuxedos, two women in evening gowns. Jersey-boy greeted them warmly. I felt underdressed until I recalled the photos Davy had shown me. Most men in the club had been wearing suits. Gambling wasn’t necessarily a black-tie event here.

The newcomers passed through a doorway to my left, into a short windowless hallway. Jersey-boy resumed his post by the entrance.

Then the door on the other end of the room opened, and an older man in a gray silk suit appeared. White hair, brushed straight back, dark Mediterranean complexion, trim and wiry looking—and I knew him. Somehow, somewhere, we had met before. But where? I began to search my memories.

He gave a slight nod to the muscle on duty.

“Mr. Smith will see you now,” Jersey-boy told me.

“Thanks.” I used my cane and limped toward Smith. He turned to lead the way up another red-carpeted hall.

As I passed through the doorway, I caught a whiff of Smith’s lavender cologne. Then beefy men on either side grabbed my arms in vicelike grips. I gave a startled yelp and dropped both cane and briefcase. They half carried, half dragged me forward.

I should have seen the trap. Davy’s money made a very tempting target.

When I glanced back, a fourth man was picking up my briefcase and cane. He trailed us.

The two goons brought me to a small room with a chest-high wooden table pushed up against the back wall. Handheld metal detectors and other equipment sat there. Of course—they had to check me out to make sure I wasn’t an FBI agent of some sort. I let myself relax a bit. Maybe this wouldn’t take long and we could get down to business.

The fourth man set my cane and briefcase down next to the table, then frisked me. He removed Davy’s cell phone and my billfold, then turned to the table and selected one of the metal detectors. Switching it on with his thumb, he stepped forward and ran it over my body with practiced efficiency, starting at my head and working his way down. Each time the device beeped, one of the goons removed the offending bit of metal and tossed it onto the table: car keys, house keys, cufflinks. They even took my belt for its buckle.

As his men worked, Smith picked up my billfold and went through it item by item. Where had I seen him before? Strangely, the fact that I couldn’t identify him bothered me more than the search. I could usually place any name or face in a few seconds.

Several times Smith murmured, “Hmm.” Once was when he held my driver’s license—probably in reaction to my address. No one with money lived where I lived. He pulled a small notepad from his back pocket and jotted something down.

Then the metal detector hit my legs and went wild. Everyone jumped. The goons’ grip on my arms became painful.

“I have pins in my bones,” I gasped. “That’s why I need a cane.”

“Kick off your shoes and drop your pants,” the man with the metal detector said in a not-to-be-argued-with voice.

I did so. I could feel the tension go out of the room as their gazes dropped from my gray briefs to the hideously scarred, vaguely fleshy mess of my legs. I looked like something out of a freak show. Pity—oh how well I knew pity. And revulsion. I saw it now in their faces. It had taken six operations to make my lower limbs at all usable after the accident. For a while, every doctor I saw told me I’d need the right one amputated. Stubbornly, I had refused. They had also told me I’d never walk again.

“There are,” I continued to break the sudden and uncomfortable silence, “seventeen steel pins in my right leg and eight in my left. I can point them all out, if it’s helpful.”

“Not necessary.” The man with the metal detector ran it over my shoes. Apparently the nails were too small to register, or he had adjusted his equipment for them. Then he took my pants and searched them before giving them back.

“He’s clean,” he told Smith.

“Check the bag and the cane,” said Smith. He nodded to the goons, who released me. I had to lean against the wall to get my pants up. It hurt enough to make my eyes swim, but I kept my face calm and impassive.

“Mr. Geller,” said Smith. He tossed my billfold to me. “You have a most unusual way of making an entrance.”

“I realize that, sir.”

“You understand, we have to be careful about who we let in.”

“Of course.” I shuffled to the table, leaned on it heavily, and recovered my keys, cufflinks, and belt. Slowly I put everything back.

“His cane is fine,” said the man examining it. “So is his bag. Lots of money in it.”

“How much?” Smith asked.

“Want me to count it, sir?”

“Don’t bother,” I said. “It’s two hundred thousand even.”

Smith raised his eyebrows. “That’s quite a lot to carry around. Not that I’m complaining, of course. Games always work in the house’s favor.”

“I didn’t come to gamble,” I said. “I came to meet with the person in charge. I assume that’s you.”

He inclined his head slightly, eyes narrowing. “Yes.”

“So—” I smiled. Hopefully he would go for it. “How about a meeting?”

He studied me for a moment, undoubtedly trying to figure out my angle. Apparently he didn’t find me the least bit intimidating. I just wished I could remember where we had met.

Then, suddenly, it came back to me. At the Golden Nugget Casino in Atlantic City, right after they released me from rehab. I had braces on both legs and had to be helped onto my stool at the blackjack table by casino attendants. I was on pain killers, heavy ones, and I seemed to be viewing the world through a haze.

Smith had watched me play for half an hour, winning steadily. I had about forty thousand in chips in front of me when he approached, leaned forward, and whispered in my ear, “The house doesn’t mind regulars who win small amounts. It’s card-counters who try to take them for a fortune that gets the house upset.”

I had glanced at his nametag—“C. Tortelli”—as I nodded. “Thanks,” I said. Even through my painkiller haze, I understood.

Maybe it had been charity for a cripple. Maybe he had just been a good guy. But I took his suggestion.

The hospitals and doctors had sucked my insurance, then my savings dry at that point, and I needed money. A lot of it. And I needed a consistent source for more, too. If the casinos blacklisted me, I realized, I would never get back inside them.

I spent the next ten minutes losing steadily, like I’d had a run of luck that went sour. I left with twenty thousand instead of forty or fifty. And ever since, I kept my winnings to two thousand dollars, more or less, per casino per monthly visit. And so I managed to keep myself both afloat and under their radar.

All thanks to Mr. Smith here. Or “C. Tortelli,” as his nametag once said.

Now Smith/Tortelli said, “Very well. I’m intrigued, Mr. Geller. This way, please.”

* * * *

Two minutes later we sat in an office that might have belonged to any mid-level executive at any big corporation: heavy walnut desk, computer, pictures of wife and kids in silver frames, signed baseball on a little wooden stand. He even had an inbox and an outbox. Who knew organized crime had such amenities.

“Drink?” he asked.

“Water, please.”

He handed me a bottle of Poland Spring water from a tiny refrigerator in the corner, next to a small wet bar. I peeled the plastic wrapper off the spout and took a sip, spilling a little. My hands were shaking again.

“So,” he prompted, settling down behind his desk, “you say you’re not here to gamble.”

“That’s right.” Without preamble, I told him Davy Hunt’s blackmail story. “It occurred to me,” I said in conclusion, “that there are only three possibilities. One is that your little operation here is behind the blackmail scheme, and that you’re using the casino to set up unsuspecting men like David Hunt. In which case, I’ll just cut out the middleman and leave you the money now. Payment in full. Destroy the pictures and we’re done.”

He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “What’s the second possibility?” he asked.

“That rogue members of your staff are doing it on the sly. In which case, you need to be informed so you can act to stop it. Or, if you prefer, cut yourself in on the action. Once you remove David Hunt, of course, from the target list.”

He nodded slowly. “And the third?”

“That you and your staff are unwitting victims. After all, your club’s reputation will be severely damaged if word gets out that members are being photographed and blackmailed. This is my personal suspicion, of course.”

“Of course.” He looked off into the distance thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose you know who’s behind this blackmail plot.”

“Possibly.” I reached into my jacket pocket and fished out the clipped picture of mustache-man. “There are at least two people working the setup. One arranges the shots, the other snaps photos with one of those micro spy cameras.”

Smith took the picture. From the way his eyes widened slightly, I knew he recognized mustache-man. And he was trying hard not to show it.

“I’ve seen him,” he said slowly. “He comes in once or twice a week, and he drops a couple hundred each time. Not a big spender, but the sort of solid repeat customer we like.”

He put the clipped picture into his vest pocket instead of returning it. Then he rose.

“Thank you for coming to me,” he said. “I’ll handle things. You can tell Mr. Hunt that he won’t be bothered again.”

I nodded and rose. He did not offer to shake hands, nor did he offer to return Davy’s money. Quid pro quo; he could keep it with my blessing if it got Davy safely off the hook. Davy didn’t need the cash as much as he needed security.

“Do you gamble, Mr. Geller?” he asked unexpectedly.

“Now and again, Mr. Tortelli.”

He didn’t react to my using his real name. Instead, he handed me a small piece of paper.

“What’s this?” I asked. It had “10K - S” written on it.

Instead of answering, he pressed a hidden button under his desktop. A second later, the door opened. Goon number two stood there.

“Sir?”

“Mr. Geller has a chit for ten thousand dollars. Make sure he has a good time. He’s going to be my guest tonight.” Then he turned back to me. “I suggest you play at table number five. Find a comfortable seat and relax.”

* * * *

Smith’s personal invitation opened all the right doors. The goon smiled a perfect shark’s smile as he escorted me through several hallways to a cavernous casino done all in reds and golds. Roulette, baccarat, blackjack, poker, craps, and other table games occupied the center of the room. Jangling slot machines lined the walls. Cashier’s stations at both ends of the room doled out a steady supply of chips, while scantily clad women circulated with trays of drinks. Keep the alcohol flowing and the money will follow: it seemed like a sound business plan. A hundred or so people were already inside, moving from game to game.

“This is table 5,” said the goon, halting at a low-rent blackjack table. The dealer, a middle-aged woman, was shuffling eight fresh decks in preparation for filling a card shoe. Three of the five seats were already taken.

“Thanks.” When I settled onto one of the empty stools, I found I had a nice view of the whole room. I put Tortelli’s chit in front of me, and without batting an eye the dealer slid over several tall stacks of red, blue, and black chips. They had values stamped in gold from $5 to $100. I didn’t bother to count them.

For the next few hours, I played slowly and conservatively, adding more chips than I lost to my stacks. I kept my eyes open and my mouth shut. This was business, I told myself. Tortelli wouldn’t have put me here without cause. With half my attention on the game, I surveyed the crowds and began picking out plainclothes security. I found six of them. And a couple I suspected, but couldn’t quite confirm.

Then I saw him—mustache-man! He strutted in with a middle-aged woman on his arm. Both of them dressed conservatively, with bland haircuts and dull watches, rings, and jewelry. No one would have looked at them twice.

The dealer placed a king and a five in front of me.

“Hit,” I said, tapping the table.

She dealt me an eight—busted. While she finished out the other players’ hands, I leaned back and watched as a subtle change came over the movements of the crowd. Three people converged on my blackmail suspects.

A passing woman deliberately spilled her drink on mustache-man and—though I couldn’t hear her voice over the noise of the room—began to apologize profusely, brushing him off with a cocktail napkin. A couple of security guards appeared and, with sympathy, escorted the pair off, I assumed under the pretense of getting the man dried off. Perhaps even promises of free chips to help ease the distress…anything to keep a regular happy.

I rose and tossed the blackjack dealer a $50 chip. “Thanks,” I said. “Cashing out now.”

“Thank you!” she replied, smiling for the first time since I’d sat down. She handed me a small dish, and I scooped my winnings into it.

Then I headed after mustache-man and his date. But Goon One and Goon Two cut me off before I reached the door. They simply blocked my way, folded their arms, and smiled their sharky smiles.

“Hello again, boys,” I said, smiling back. I could play the polite game, too.

“Mr. Smith says you should go back and gamble,” Two said, tapping the little brown earplug he now wore.

“And miss the fun?” I leaned forward and spoke into Two’s lapel. He had to have a microphone in there somewhere. “I have a vindictive streak, Mr. Tortelli. I like to see things properly finished. No loose ends.”

Goon Two said, “Mr. Smith doesn’t think you should be an accessory to what’s happening. Play cards or go home. This isn’t a game now.”

That’s what I needed to hear. I nodded and spoke again to his lapel.

“Very well. I’m done, and thanks.”

Tortelli had it wrong. It was a game. Mustache-man was one player, and Davy was the other. All the rest of us…we were merely pawns on the board.

I handed Two my tray of chips. Turning, I limped toward the door. It was one thing to orchestrate Davy’s victory, but quite another to actually execute it. Or see it executed.

I did not want to know the details.

* * * *

I had thought to simply return to my old life after that, but—as they say—events conspired against me. The next morning Davy phoned, and I assured him that his problem had been taken care of.

“Thanks,” he said, sounding relieved. “Then it went well?”

“Better than I had hoped. I don’t think we’ll be hearing from the blackmailers again.”

“How did you like the car?”

I laughed. “Nice. Took me a few minutes to get back into driving stick, but don’t worry, the transmission’s fine.”

He chuckled. “Good. Stop by my office. I have some paperwork for you.”

“What sort?” I couldn’t imagine needing paperwork for eliminating a blackmail threat.

“Sometimes, Pit, you’re pretty dense for a genius. I told you I’d take care of you. I’m giving you the car, with my thanks. Just a matter of signing the registration over.”

My heart skipped. That had to be a forty thousand dollar vehicle.

“I can’t accept,” I said. “It’s too much, and I’m a public transit sort of guy. Buy me lunch sometime instead, okay?”

“Pit…”

“I mean it,” I said firmly. “I enjoyed helping, Davy. I don’t get out enough. Give me your address, and I’ll drop the car off this afternoon.”

* * * *

That should have ended matters. I dropped off the car at the center city office building where Davy had his office, accepted his invitation for dinner that Sunday (Cree apparently liked to cook; she didn’t eat, but she was a master of Cajun cuisine).

The train ride home was uneventful. I got my favorite corner seat after a couple of stops, and I even managed to look out the window as we headed for the Frankfort station. So much for being a cripple. I had accomplished my mission with flying colors.

I limped to my apartment five blocks from the El station, unlocked the deadbolt, and paused in the doorway. Something was wrong. I always left a light on in the kitchen, and it was off. Instead, the bedroom light was on. Someone had been here. I paused, listening, and heard a slight creak from my sofa. Broken springs could be useful sometimes.

Then I caught a faint whiff of lavender.

“Reach out to your right,” I said, “and turn on the lamp, Mr. Tortelli. I like to see my guests.”

There followed a half-second silence, then two sharp clicks as he turned the switch. A dim yellow bulb came on, revealing my Spartan living room: worn yellow sofa, two white-and-yellow wingback chairs, wooden coffee table, two tall bookcases mostly devoted to bric-a-brac. As the lamp’s fluorescent bulb began to warm, the light steadily increased.

Tortelli leaned back, watching me. He wore another silk suit, dark blue this time with pin stripes. His tie glistened faintly, like sharkskin. Even his black shoes had an enviable shine.

“Two seconds in the dark to realize you had an intruder, identify him, and conclude you weren’t in danger. Very good, Mr. Geller. Very good indeed.”

“Not in danger? You understate your abilities, Mr. Tortelli.”

He half shrugged modestly. “Perhaps.”

I came in and closed the door. Casually I glanced around the room, taking inventory…not that I owned anything worth stealing. Every object in the room had been moved slightly out of place; it would take hours to put them back. And the changes were so slight that few others would have noticed—or cared.

“Why the search?” I asked. “What were you hoping to find?”

“You knew my name,” he said. “My old name. I haven’t used it in nearly three years. I need to know how.”

“We met in Atlantic City when you worked at the Golden Nugget.” I eased myself into a chair, wincing a bit. Then I told him my casino-enlightenment story. “Of course,” I went on, “your hair is a bit different, and your clothes are vastly better these days. You’ve really come up in the world.”

“And you remembered me, even after all these years?” He looked surprised. “I must have made quite an impression on you.”

“No.” I leaned forward. “I remember everything and everyone, Mr. Tortelli. It’s a curse. Oh, sorry, I’m a bad host. If you’d like a drink, please help yourself. Beer in the fridge, hard stuff over the sink. I’m not up to waiting on anyone. Need to catch my breath.”

“Still…” He rose and began to pace. “It took quite a bit of effort to find out about you, Mr. Geller. Or may I call you Pit?”

“If you like. Charles? Or Charlie?”

“Cal.”

“Ah.” So much for ‘C. Tortelli’ on his nametag. “See? I don’t know everything.”

“I don’t like loose ends, Pit. I imagine you don’t, either.”

“Sometimes I do.” I tensed, but tried not to show it. Was I a loose end, to be rubbed out in my own apartment?

He seemed to sense my unease and chuckled. “I like you, ‘Pit-Bull’ Peter Geller. You have a unique style.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, almost square bit of plastic, which he flipped onto the coffee table.

It was a flash memory card for a digital camera. I leaned forward with interest.

“From the blackmailers?”

“Yes. As far as I can tell, it contains the originals of their pictures. There don’t appear to be any copies.”

“Thank you,” I said.

He nodded once, then rose and started for the door. Halfway out, he paused. “You turned down Hunt’s offer of a car. May I ask why?”

How did he know that? My phone had to be bugged. I’d deal with it later.

I said, “I don’t need a car. The insurance premiums would eat me alive. And this isn’t the right neighborhood for a BMW, anyway. Wouldn’t last a week on the street.”

He nodded. “Interesting. Thank you, Pit. I’ll be in touch.”

A shiver ran through me at those words. But then he closed the door and was gone. And somehow, I didn’t feel like drinking.