“Why not hire somebody else if you need to ask that question?” I said.
“Somebody else already quit,” Lenny said, grinning.
I took a moment, not that I needed one. Lenny was a good friend, after all.
“Maury, if I take the job, who do I work for?”
“You’d work for Gloucester Publishing,” Bigelow said, interrupting again. “We pay the bills.”
“I’m not interested,” I said, and looked at Lenny. “No offense.”
“None taken, Russo.”
“Why’d you waste our time?” Bigelow said to Weston with a sharp wave of the arm.
“Since it’s my ass on the line,” Lenny said, loudly enough, “anyone want my two cents worth?”
“I would,” Weston said, sounding relieved.
“I trust Russo with my life,” Lenny said, “and it is my life we’re talking about.”
“If Mr. Russo’s good enough for Lenny,” Tina Lawson said, finally jumping into the conversation, “he’s good enough for me. What about it, Charles?”
Bigelow hesitated, then nodded slowly, but he wasn’t happy about it.
“What do you charge?” Bigelow said.
I told him. Fees, expenses, a retainer.
“Questions, Michael?” Weston said.
I leaned forward and turned toward Weston.
“Arranging protection is the easy part. I’ll bring in a couple of people and set it up.”
“Okay,” Weston said.
“Finding out who’s behind it is more difficult. Not impossible, but more difficult.”
“What do you need from us?” Weston said.
“First, I want to know about the threats. Lenny?”
He shrugged. “I’ve had worse. A bad guy wants you dead, he usually doesn’t give a heads-up.”
“We can’t take that chance,” Bigelow said.
The man finally offered something sensible.
“No, we can’t,” I said. “You have a file on the threats, I assume?”
“Right here,” Weston said. “And the schedule for the book tour.” He handed me a manila folder.
“Do you think the Mafia is behind the threats, Russo?” Weston said.
“Be the first place I’d look.”
“Then you’ll take the job?”
I nodded, picking up the file.
“Oh, Mr. Bigelow?” I said.
He raised his chin in my direction, to make it easier to look down his nose at me, I’m sure.
“Leave my retainer with Maury, will you. On your way out.”
2
“You really told that blowhard to leave a retainer?” AJ said, and laughed.
I’d gone back across the hall to her office. It was a smaller version of Weston’s, with wood floors and an Oriental rug, but no conference table. I sat in one of two heavy captain’s chairs in front of her desk.
Always the professional, AJ wore a navy suit over an ecru blouse. Her black hair curled softly above the collar. Her eyes sparkled when she laughed.
I nodded and smiled. “Better than he deserved.”
“The man’s just doing his job, Michael.”
“He does it with a nice blend of arrogance and annoyance.”
“True,” AJ said, leaning back in her chair.
“You knew about the death threats?”
“When Lenny got the first ones, yeah,” she said, “not much after that. After Bigelow took over.”
“You think the threats are serious?” I said.
“You’re the hotshot PI, what do you think?”
“Maury just gave me this,” I said, and put the manila folder on her desk. “I want to read through it first, but I think Lenny sized up the threats pretty well.”
“What’d I do pretty well?” Lenny Stern said from the doorway.
He was wiry, five-four, and nearly bald but for a few unruly tufts of gray hair above the ears. Lenny’s face was lightly tanned and lined with experience. He wore a single-breasted, narrow lapel black suit, a white cotton shirt (not ironed), and a skinny black tie. It was his standard outfit, except for casual Fridays when he switched up for a light gray suit.
He took the other chair.
“You da man,” I said, clapping my hands.
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Your novel, Lenny,” I said, “that’s terrific. You worked on the manuscript for what, three, four years?”
“Longer than that,” he said, nodding.
“Good job,” I said.
A small grin appeared. “Yeah, unless somebody shoots me.”
I looked over at AJ. “Did you know about his book?”
She shook her head. “No. I mean, we all knew Lenny was writing, but news about the book came all at once.”
“I didn’t want to say anything until the deal was done,” Lenny said.
“So you haven’t read it?” I said to AJ.
“Nope.”
“Would you have told me if you’d read it?”
“Sure.”
“You didn’t tell me about the death threats.”
“That was …”
“Sure you guys aren’t married?” Lenny said. “You sound like you’re married. You ought to hear yourselves.”
I glanced at AJ, who looked vaguely startled.
“Well, I’ve got work to do,” Lenny said, starting to get up.
“Not yet,” I said.
“What?” he said, dropping back into the chair.
“Is your book really dangerous?”
“Apparently someone thinks so.”
“But it’s fiction, right?” AJ said.
“Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood. You know it?”
“Sure, the nonfiction novel.”
“Well, my version’s called Corruption on Trial,” he said, and reprised the details.
AJ leaned forward, elbows on the desk.
“Help me here,” she said. “A lot of books have been written about the Mafia, especially in Chicago. Historically accurate, real names, but nobody gets death threats. So why you, why your book? It was a long time ago.”
Lenny smiled and put his hands out, palms up. “Just lucky, I guess.”
“Not funny, Lenny, you end up in Lake Michigan like the mob guys,” I said.
“Guess not,” he said. “Look, it was a great story for a crime reporter, my story from the start. The newspaper pieces, op-ed columns, covering the Senate hearings in Springfield … everybody knew the prosecutor had been bribed.”
“Was he?” AJ said.
“I found evidence he took a bribe.”
AJ had that look in her eyes; her reporter’s instincts had kicked in.
“You were the first?”
“Yep.”
“But you didn’t have evidence at the time it happened?”
“Nope,” Lenny said. “I stumbled on it a couple of years ago. I was working on another story when, bang, there it was.”
“Hard evidence?” AJ said.
“Oh, yeah,” Lenny said. “Prosceutor took a bundle of cash for his wife and two boys. Proof he rigged the cover story, too. Good plan — until the guy was killed in his prison cell.”
“But isn’t the book out,” I said, “on its way to bookstores?”
“Not quite,” Lenny said. “Gloucester released excerpts, announced the stops for the tour, pre-publication stuff
