Pit and the Pendulum. John Gregory Betancourt

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

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