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

me from the street, knew my writing.”

Lenny came off the car. He took his hands from the pockets and ran them over the top of his head like he was smoothing hair he didn’t have.

“I’ve never forgotten that night,” Lenny said. “Everything’s measured by what happened that night. Today, we get a couple of kids in a car?” Lenny stretched his arm out, pointing to the street. “Emmet County is not Cook County, never will be.”

I started to say something, but he stopped me.

“I’m convinced, Russo, all right?” He turned to Henri. “You hear me, Henri? I’ll do what you tell me from now on.”

“No arguments?”

“No arguments,” Lenny said. “This may not be Chicago, but that kid could have stuck a gun out the window. You guys got your ass on the line for me. Doesn’t matter if I like it. No, Henri, no arguments.”

We stood there, next to Lenny’s Honda, in the late afternoon sun. A small black SUV pulled into the lot and parked across from us. We watched. The doors opened. Out came a woman and a man in their sixties, wearing shorts and T-shirts, both with gray hair. They grabbed each other’s hand like a couple of teenagers and disappeared happily into the Side Door Saloon.

“Did you recognize the men in the car?” Henri said to Lenny.

“It all happened so fast,” Lenny said. “They were young and white, at least the driver was.”

“Both white, both young,” I said. “Twenty, twenty-one, maybe. I might recognize the driver, not the other one.”

“I think I’d know the driver, too,” Henri said. “And I caught something else. A tattoo.”

“You were looking at a tatt?” Lenny said.

“I was looking for a gun,” Henri said, “when the driver’s arm came out the window. It was here …” He tapped his arm just above the wrist. “The number ‘44’ inside a circle.”

“Think that means anything?” Lenny said.

Henri shrugged. “Could be gang-related, could be nothing, but it’s worth remembering.”

“Kid had a narrow face,” I said, “close-cut hair.”

“The driver?” Henri said.

“Uh-huh. The other one was white. That’s all I can tell you.”

Two sedans entered the parking lot, drove slowly past us.

“Tourists,” I said. “But it’s too busy here. Time to go.”

“How do you want to do this?” Henri said.

“I’ll ride with Lenny,” I said. “You follow.”

“Do you think that’s necessary?” Lenny said. “Two of you? I’m not arguing. Just asking.”

“It is today,” I said. “You still live in the house over on Jackson?”

“Same place, Russo,” Lenny said. “I don’t like buying houses.”

“Know where we’re going?” I said to Henri.

He nodded. “Across the highway from the hospital?”

“That’s it,” Lenny said.

I climbed into the Accord with Lenny, and we left the Side Door parking lot with Henri close behind. We talked very little on the way. Now that Lenny had agreed to let Henri call the shots, there was nothing to argue about. Lenny mostly grumbled about the heavy summer traffic.

“You going through Bay View?” I said when Lenny turned off the highway.

“Shortcut,” he said. “I do this all the time.”

“If you say so.”

We meandered our way past the colorful Victorian cottages of the Bay View Association. I’ve been up and down these crowded streets for years, but always as a runner. Given the constant snarl of cars, delivery vans and construction vehicles, I moved faster on my feet.

Lenny turned away from the commercial area. The streets quickly turned residential. Most of the clapboard-sided houses were built in the 1930s, some single floor, some two floors. The yards were small, no wider than the house and driveway.

Lenny’s place on Jackson was a square two-story with weathered tan paint in need of freshening up, brown shutters and a one-car garage at the back of the lot.

Lenny turned into his driveway and stopped, but Henri went past us, turned around, and parked a safe distance down the street.

“You’re not going to walk me to the door, are you?”

I shot him a look.

“Just trying to lighten the mood, Russo. I’ll do what you want.”

“We go to the door together, but I go in first and check the house. Got it?”

“Like I said, no arguments.”

We exited the Honda, and I watched the street while we walked to the front door. I took my gun out and held it close to my side.

“Unlock the door and wait here.”

The house was small, with a living room in front, the dining room and kitchen in back. I toured those rooms, then climbed the stairs to the second floor. Two small bedrooms and a bath didn’t take long to search.

“All set, Lenny.”

“Okay.”

“Probably a good idea to keep a sense of humor, Lenny. You might need it before we’re through. You ready for the Carnegie?”

“If you mean am I ready for my presentation …” Lenny shrugged. “Sure, I’ve talked to audiences before, I like doing it. If you mean am I ready to be a target because the public can come and go, how are you ever ready for that? That’s stressful even here in calm, relaxed Petoskey.”

“We’ll do our best to keep it calm.”

“Is seven-thirty in the morning good for Henri?” Lenny said.

“It will be,” I said. “I’ll tell him.”

Henri’s SUV was now in front of the house. I never took my eyes off the street as I walked across the parched brown grass and climbed in the passenger side.

“Everything okay?” Henri said.

“Yeah. He’s in for the night.”

Henri pulled away from Stern’s house. He turned on 31, and we rode in the welcome cool of his SUV to retrieve my car at the Side Door Saloon.

“You think the struggle with Lenny is over?” he asked me.

“I do. We’ve seen this movie before. Lenny’s not the first guy we’ve protected who takes a while to understand the situation. Maybe they get scared, maybe not, but no matter, they finally do what we tell them to do.”

Henri stayed on 31 around downtown. Traffic was thick everywhere, but we were in no hurry.

“Same question to you,” I said. “Think Lenny’ll give us any more trouble?”

“He’s good. Besides, he