Deadline for Lenny Stern, Peter Marabell [sneezy the snowman read aloud .TXT] 📗

doesn’t scare easily.”

“Which is why it took him a while to catch on.”

“And he’s seen worse,” Henri said.

We rode patiently in the single line of vehicles along the bottom of Little Traverse Bay.

“It’s just … I don’t know, Russo. It’s just … something bothers me.”

“About Lenny?”

“Not Lenny,” Henri said as the road widened to two lanes. He edged his way into the right lane as we passed the Country Club and turned into the Side Door parking lot.

“The end of this row,” I said, pointing straight ahead.

Henri pulled up behind my car.

“Then what’s bothering you?”

“This afternoon, here, in the parking lot.”

“The two guys in the Chevy?”

“They were two young guys,” Henri said.

“Barely out of their teens,” I said. “Still think you can ID one of them?”

“I’ll know the driver, I see him again,” Henri said. “That’s not it.”

Henri paused, and I waited. The hum of the A/C fan droned on pleasantly inside the SUV.

“Remember when Lenny told us he’d been attacked?”

“Finally got around to telling us, you mean.”

“Yeah, yeah. Forget that. But what did he say?”

I thought for a minute. “That he got beat up, a couple of guys roughed him up. What about it?”

“What else, about the guys?”

“He said they were young punks, I think.”

“And today,” Henri said, “in this parking lot, a couple of young punks shout ‘you’re dead.’”

“You think they’re the same guys?”

Henri shook his head. “Nah, Lenny said he’d remember who attacked him.”

“What’s on your mind, Henri?”

“Four kids have come at our favorite reporter.”

“Okay.”

He looked over at me. “When’s the last time the mob hired teenagers to do their dirty work?”

11

“Let me see if I have this right,” Sandy said from her usual chair in my office. I was already on my second bottle of water after an easy, early morning run. The temperature dropped overnight, but the humidity hadn’t gotten the memo.

“Have what right?” Henri said, his face hidden behind my copy of the Times.

“That the guys who threatened Lenny walked out of a Hallmark movie instead of The Godfather. Why does every tough guy have to look like Luca Brasi?”

Henri put down the newspaper. “Only the ones who work for Joey DeMio.”

“I think you two distinguished gentlemen might have missed something, god forbid.”

“You think she’s talking about us, Russo?”

Sandy rolled her eyes. “All I’m saying is that maybe good help is hard to find, even for Joey DeMio. Maybe all the tough guys these days don’t fit the mobster stereotype.”

“Joey and his father,” Henri said, “have relied on Santino Cicci

and Gino Rosato to rough up people and deliver threats.”

“Then along comes Don Harper,” Sandy said.

“Good point,” I said. “DeMio’s new lawyer is Ivy League, top to bottom with a wardrobe to match. He delivers the threats these days.”

“But Cicci and Rosato still do the killing,” Henri said. “Those two kids in the parking lot, however tough they think they are, they’re not killers. It doesn’t fit.”

“Maybe Joey DeMio didn’t hire them to be killers,” I said.

“Then what did he hire them for?” Henri said.

“Maybe he didn’t hire them at all,” Sandy said.

“Not the first time you’ve wondered that,” I said.

She shrugged. “Maybe it’s time to rethink what we’re doing here.”

I checked the time on the monitor. “Well, you two keep right on rethinking if you want, but I’ve got to go. Can’t be late, since I’m about to throw a scare into the nice folks at the library.”

The Petoskey District Library consisted of two buildings. The historic Carnegie was reserved for special events. On the other side of East Mitchell sat the new Petoskey Library, a two-story Georgian colonial, all red brick and white trim with a stately copper-topped cupola.

I went through the front doors into the main room, stopping at the circulation desk.

“Mr. Russo.”

I turned around as Pam Wiecek crossed the large, airy room in long strides with a bright smile and an outstretched arm. She was five-six, a little thinner than the last time I saw her, wearing a pale green cardigan sweater over her shoulders as defense against the air conditioning.

“Hello, Pam,” I said. We shook hands, and she leaned in and kissed my cheek.

“It’s good to see you,” my former client said. “Has it been four or five years?”

“Something like that, yeah. How are you?”

She nodded. “Good, very good.”

But her bright eyes and broad smile told me that.

“Well, you helped turn my life around,” she said. “But you’re here on business.”

She took me by the arm. “The periodical room’s down here.”

We went around the corner, past the main doors and into a square room lined with newspapers and magazines. Tall, narrow windows, tinted against the sun, let plenty of natural light into the room.

A woman was standing over a long, rectangular table sifting through a stack of magazines.

“Andrea?” Pam said to the woman who turned out to be the library director.

Andrea McHale turned around. She looked to be in her late forties, with soft features, an earnest face, and sensible shoes. Like Pam, a cardigan sweater was draped over her shoulders, held in place by a small chain like my grandmother used to wear.

We shook hands.

“Thank you for making time,” I said.

“We can sit here,” McHale said as Pam left the room. We pulled out two chairs at a corner of the long table.

“I’m not sure how much Pam told you,” I said.

“Well, she said you were a private investigator, and you have some security concerns about Mr. Stern’s talk.” Her head tilted slightly as “security concerns” came out of her mouth.

I nodded. “All true.”

“If you could explain …” she said, her voice trailing off.

I did explain. About Lenny, the threats, about Henri and me.

“I see,” McHale said, but she was still absorbing the news. “I suppose you have an idea …” she paused. “First, I have to ask. Do you think something violent will happen at the Carnegie, Mr. Russo?”

I chose my words carefully. McHale had a right to know if her library and its people were in danger. But I didn’t want to overstate it.

“There’s a possibility that