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

“Been a long since we did that,” Henri said. “I might be out of practice.”

“You’re never out of practice. It might just keep them from shooting. But if they do …”

“I’ll kill them both,” Henri said.

“You ready?”

Henri clicked off, left the café and started down the sidewalk, walking fast, straight toward baggy shirt. When he got close enough, I went out the door and turned right, walking fast toward my man with the attaché case.

They spotted us.

Henri pulled up ten feet short of his man and stared at him. I did the same with my guy. We made sure our guns were visible, not drawn, but very visible. That’s all.

My guy blinked first. He backed up two steps, then spun and ran. I followed.

Henri’s guy took off down a side street and out of sight, with Henri close behind.

I was ten, twelve feet behind my guy when he turned on Spring Street heading toward the harbor. I cut the corner tight at Graham Real Estate, and collided with a middle-aged couple I never saw. The three of us landed hard on the cement. A large paper shopping bag exploded, and its contents slid across the sidewalk into the street.

“Sorry, sorry,” I said as I struggled to get on my feet. I glanced down Spring Street. My guy was already a block away and moving fast.

“I got to go,” I said, pointing. “Sorry.”

The man, on his knees, pulled at my khakis. “Not so fast, you sonofabitch.” He grabbed a handful of my shirt, and the buttons tore away.

The woman screamed. “He’s got a gun, Harry!” Then, even louder, “It’s a gun, Harry!”

I heard another voice — male — loud, deep, harsh.

“Stop. Right there, stop. Hands over your head. Now.”

The voice wore a uniform.

I raised my hands.

“I’m a private investigator licensed to carry firearms in the state of Michigan.”

23

“I want this hooligan arrested,” the man said. On his feet, he was angrier and bolder with a cop around. He shouted at the officer, “He attacked us!”

The officer, handgun at his side, never took his eyes off me. He was medium height, stocky, with a serious face. His nameplate read, “Leon Flores.”

A second officer, taller and leaner than the first, came up quickly. He moved beside the frightened couple, easing them a few steps away.

“That man has a gun, officer,” the woman said, her voice trembling as she edged closer to him.

“Yes, ma’am. Stay here, please,” the tall cop said as he moved toward me.

“I called for backup,” the tall one said.

“The sheriff?” Leon Flores said.

“Yeah.”

“Against the wall,” Officer Flores said. I stretched out, hands on the wall of the real estate office.

His partner reached under my torn shirt, carefully pulling my .38 out of its holster.

All the excitement had drawn a small crowd of spectators. They kept a discrete distance.

“ID?” Flores said.

“Left rear pants.”

“Slowly,” he said, “so we can see your hands.”

I came off the wall, held my shirt out with one hand and reached for my wallet with the other.

Flores holstered his gun and took my wallet. He found what he was looking for. “He really is a PI, Harry,” he said, showing the documents to his lanky partner.

A sheriff’s SUV stopped across the street, near our audience. A deputy eased himself out from behind the wheel and crossed the street to join the fun.

“Gentlemen,” the deputy said.

“Leon Flores and Harry Bales,” my cop said.

“Here for the summer, officers?” the deputy said. The Harbor Springs police brought in additional officers each summer to help during the busy tourist season.

Flores and Bales nodded in unison.

“Hands down,” the deputy said to me. Then addressing the police, “So, what do we have here, officers?”

Flores held up my gun, and explained how all of us ended up on a Harbor Springs street corner on a humid July afternoon. He handed my wallet to the deputy. His nameplate read, “Isaac Lasher.”

“So …” he glanced at the license, “Mr. Russo … Petoskey, huh. I’ve heard of you.” He pulled out a notebook and flipped a couple of pages, then said, “Hold on.”

Deputy Lasher walked a few steps away, took out his phone and tapped the screen. When he finished, he came back to us.

“Now, Mr. Russo, why were you running so hard? Somebody chasing you?”

“I was doing the chasing. The guy went around the corner.” I pointed down the side street.

“There was nobody else.” It was the man again, not shouting, but still angry at having been knocked over. “He attacked us, plain and simple.”

“Please, sir,” Officer Bales said, turning toward the man.

“You want to tell us why you were running after somebody?” the deputy said.

I needed to leave Henri out of this. I wondered if he’d caught the kid he went after.

“I’m on the job. Hired to protect a man named Leonard Stern …”

“The reporter?” Deputy Lasher said.

“The same.”

He looked around. “Then where’s Stern?” He sounded skeptical.

I pointed down Main Street. “At Humbug’s Bookstore.”

“But you’re here,” the deputy said.

He listened patiently as I told him about Lenny, the bookstore, and why I was running.

Deputy Lasher looked at the tourist couple, then at his colleagues and said, “Officer Flores, how ‘bout you go to the bookstore. Collect Mr. Stern and bring him back here.”

“Will do.” Flores turned on his heels and left.

“Officer,” the deputy said. “Keep our private eye here company, will you? I want to chat with these nice folks.” He nodded in the direction of the couple.

“Not planning on running off, are you?” Officer Bales said.

I shook my head. “Hadn’t thought about it.”

He smiled, and put his hands behind his back, rocking gently back-and-forth on his heels.

After a few minutes, Deputy Lasher waved at the couple as they ambled off down the street.

“They calmed down now?” Officer Bales said.

Lasher shrugged. “Think so.”

“Think they’ll file a complaint,” Officer Bales said.

“I doubt it,” Deputy Lasher said. “I apologized for the city and told them Mr. Russo, here, was just doing his job.”

“Which job was that?” I said.

“Keeping the good city of Harbor Springs safe for