by Peter Colt
“I was your oldest friend. You betrayed me for some silver, nothing more. You are being naïve. You said yourself you can’t reason with them. You had to know that they would send a hired killer. You knew that I would probably be killed. You had to make sure your masters got their man.”
“Andy.”
I finished the expensive scotch and took out a buff-colored envelope and handed it to Danny.
“Here are my case notes and summary. I have already given Mrs. Swift hers.” I then explained the elaborate precautions I had taken in case something happened to me. “Danny, you also have to know that Hammond had a safe deposit box in New York. I was curious. You should tell your friends that he left a lot of very incriminating stuff in there. That is my insurance policy. Tell your masters that it is in everyone’s best interest that I lead a long, long life. I have no interest in hurting anyone, and they can count on my discretion as long as I am alive. If they are worried, you can tell them that they hired me and that I always keep my clients’ secrets. That is what they pay me to do.”
“Andy . . .”
“Danny, you and I are done. Over. All the years of friendship . . . you sold them to your mob friends. All those Christmases, all those Easters with the girls. No more trips to bars; no more friendship. You sold it all and sold it cheap. If I see you again, I will remember how cheaply you tried to sell me and I will kill you.” I brought my free hand flat down on the table; it was loud enough to make people look. Danny looked sick and scared; he had never seen the Andy Roark who had run down the Ho Chi Minh Trail toward death. My face was hot, but not from the burning trucks and exploding grenades.
“Andy . . .”
“Goodbye, Danny.”
I stood up and walked out into the lobby of the Ritz. I slid the raincoat on and the .38 into my left pocket. I was now one friend poorer and a little sadder but wiser. I stepped outside into the Boston dusk and whatever was waiting for me.
