Deadline for Lenny Stern Peter Marabell (best ereader for comics .TXT) 📖

Henri unzipped the nylon windbreaker that hid his shoulder holster and walked casually across the room, smiling, as if he were about to meet friends. I went around the bar and took the empty stool next to Lenny.

He glanced at me. “Hiya, Russo. What took you so long?” he said, and drank some beer.

“You think this is funny?”

He nodded. “A little bit. You want a beer?”

Henri sat at a two-top about twenty feet away. He already had a beer in hand. When I looked over, he shrugged. He hadn’t spotted any trouble yet.

“Come on, Russo,” Lenny said, “have a beer. It’s on me. Zack, hey, Zack,” Lenny shouted at the bartender over the din of the crowd. “A draft for my friend, here.”

“You have to take this seriously, Lenny. Remember the threats?”

He waved me off. “I do take it seriously, but I’ve been threatened before. Remember me saying that?”

“Yeah, I remember,” I said, “but this is now, Lenny. It’s our job to keep you alive.”

“Our job? Right. Where is my shadow?”

“Small table on the wall,” I said, and Lenny glanced in Henri’s direction.

“I know what your job is, Russo, but I know half the people in this room.”

“It’s the other half I’m worried about.”

Bartender Zack put a tall glass with foam on top in front of me. He was in his mid-thirties, with olive skin, a shaved head and the friendly grin of everyone’s most trusted listener.

“Zack,” Lenny said, “you know the people here tonight?”

The bartender looked down the bar.

“Folks at the bar, all regulars,” he said with a wave of the hand. “The after-work crowd.” He looked out at the room. “Tables are mostly summer people. They don’t like jamming elbows with strangers.”

I took a drink as Zack went down the bar.

“We need to get a few things clear, Lenny. About how this is supposed to go.”

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you, Russo. But I need some flexibility to move around, to do my job.”

“Are you working right now?” I said. “Are you doing your job in here?”

“How about one more?” Lenny said. “Get Henri over here, we’ll figure out how to keep me alive over another beer. How’s that sound?”

“Finish your beer, Lenny. It’s time to go.”

I waved discreetly at Henri, who drained the last of his beer and walked over.

“Hiya, Henri,” Lenny said.

Henri moved closer to Lenny, giving him little room to move. He put his hands on his hips.

“That was a bullshit move, Lenny.”

“Where was I gonna go you wouldn’t track me down?” Lenny said.“Yeah, I’d track you down,” Henri said. “Dead or alive is the question.”

I took the beer from Lenny’s hand, put the bottle on the bar.

“You’re finished,” I said. “Let’s get out of here.”

Lenny started to protest, but Henri grabbed him by the arm and led him to the door before he could say a word. He moved Lenny through the hungry people crowded around the entrance. I dropped a couple of twenties on the bar and followed them.

“Where’s your car?” I said once we were outdoors.

“Other side of the handicap spots.”

“Walk,” Henri said, “in front of us.”

Lenny did as he was told, not that he had much room to argue. He stopped at a maroon Honda Accord. I stayed with Lenny, but Henri moved away from us toward the front of the car. He leaned back against the fender, getting a good view of the parking lot.

“In a minute,” I said, “we’re taking you home. I’ll ride with you.” I looked over at Henri. “Anything?”

He came around the car and walked up to us. “Not sure. Over there, the beater Chevy, faded red. See it?”

I glanced casually in the direction of the Chevy.

“Two heads in the car,” Henri said. “Spot them?”

“Barely,” I said. “What are you thinking?”

“Just being careful.”

“All right, Lenny,” I said, “let’s go.”

Before he moved a step, I heard the noxious sound of a motor in need of a new muffler roaring to life. We looked up.

The Chevy came out of its parking spot in a big hurry. It moved fast our way, slamming on its brakes in a flurry of smoke and screeching tires a few inches from where we stood.

I pushed Lenny behind me. Henri dropped behind the Accord and drew his gun.

The driver pushed his arm out the side window and gave us his middle finger.

“You’re dead, you piece of shit,” he yelled as he hit the gas and went for the street.

10

Henri came around the front of Lenny’s Accord, holstered his gun and walked a few steps away to get a better look. He scanned the parking lot, moving between a few parked cars, just to be sure there was no ambush vehicle waiting to catch us off guard.

“Clear,” he said, but his eyes kept moving.

I turned to Lenny. “You convinced now?”

Lenny stood staring at the street, but remained silent.

“Well if he isn’t,” Henri said, “he ought to be.”

Lenny stuffed his hands into his pants pockets and leaned back against the car. He looked at me.

“When I told you I’d been threatened before, by really nasty guys, that was true. More than once over the years.”

Lenny cleared his throat.

“One night, somewhere west of the Loop, I was chasing a story. Another mob killing. I’d written several pieces for the Tribune with names … politicians, local mobsters. Chicago PD loved it. Brought a lot of rats out of the sewer. But a lot of other people were pissed.”

He cleared his throat again. “They caught me in an alley one night. Two of them. This wise guy stuck a .45 right here …” Lenny put an index finger between his eyes. “Backed me up against a wall. I held my breath, waiting for it, one hand going for the .38 I used to carry.”

Lenny paused, his face frozen, eyes full of remembrance.

“The crack of a gun … so loud in that alley … one shot to the side of the head. Somebody put the wise guy went down. His buddy ran.”

“Cops?” I said.

“Yep,” Lenny said, nodding. “Undercover. They knew