AHMM, Jul-Aug 2005

by Dell Magazine Authors

  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 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 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."

  "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.

  "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 IOU 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 T. 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 printout 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.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  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

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  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 Alpha 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 IOU, 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. I had traded in my cane for a silver-handled walking stick. 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 t
o 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 the 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.