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

I wasn’t sure what he meant. Jimmy didn’t have much of a sense of humor.

“I’ll be here,” Jimmy said, “when you get back to the mainland.”

“So you can keep an eye on us.”

Jimmy smiled. “To keep an eye out for the shooters.”

I nodded, and went to catch up with the others on the ferry.

36

I’ve crossed the Straits to “the land of the great turtle” regularly since that first time when I was four years old. I’ve never tired of it, not once. The deep blue water with a scattering of whitecaps, the elegant Mackinac Bridge, and the quaint charm of the harbor at Mackinac Island.

The deckhand left the bow door open, allowing cool, refreshing air to push through the passenger’s cabin. As we rounded the west breakwater, the captain sounded the horn and cut the throttle. The Wyandot slowed, settling into the water.

“Are we taking a taxi?” Lenny asked.

“No need,” I said. “The hotel is a block away.”

“Ah, too bad. How often can you ride in a taxi pulled by horses?”

The ferry pulled up to the ramp, and lines, fore and aft, were secured to the dock. Once the luggage carts were removed, a deckhand shouted, “All ashore folks. Watch your step.”

We made our way slowly up the dock, through the crowd of people waiting to catch a ferry back to the mainland. At the top of the dock, the chaos of Main Street Mackinac Island opened up in front of us. Bicycles, horse-drawn taxis and drays, and people all competed for space on the street or sidewalk. Somehow, they managed to fit. Most of the time.

Across the street, leaning next to the Carriage Tours ticket window, I noticed a familiar figure, Santino Cicci, a lean six feet, with a weathered, chiseled face and a neatly trimmed goatee. I quickly understood Jimmy Erwin’s quip that we’d be in “good hands” on the island. Cicci and his partner, Gino Rosato, were longtime bodyguards, first for Carmine DeMio and then his son. Joey brought in Jimmy Erwin and Bobbie Lampone when Carmine retired and he required his own protection.

“Henri,” I said.

“I see him. Think something’s up?”

“Well, why don’t I find out? I’ll meet you at the hotel.”

Henri nodded, then set off down the street with Lenny and Tina.

Cicci watched me carefully as I crossed Main Street.

“People watching your new hobby, Santino?” I said.

Cicci fingered his goatee. “Always the smart-ass, aren’t you, Russo?”

“Do the best I can. You our welcoming committee?”

“Something like that,” he said.

Cicci kept an eye on Henri and the others as they slowly moved down the sidewalk.

“They’re headed to the Iroquois,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said, and started across Hoban Street. “You coming, smart-ass?”

Being a savvy private eye, I assumed he was talking to me. “You bet.”

We waited at the edge of the sidewalk for two dock porters, baskets piled precariously high with luggage, to pass by.

The Iroquois Hotel was built in 1900 as a private home by island blacksmith Robert Benjamin, whose descendants still call Mackinac home. In 1904, the Benjamin House was converted into Hotel Iroquois, which was eventually bought by the McIntire family, who managed the intimate 45-room hotel until 2020.

Cicci and I took the long brick walkway to the hotel’s Carriage House Dining Room, site of Lenny Stern’s luncheon presentation. The peaceful, spacious room, with large windows on three sides, offered a spectacular view of the Straits of Mackinac and the Round Island Lighthouse.

I went over, near the bar, and picked a spot with a good view of the room. Cicci remained at the entrance.

A few people were milling about, others enjoyed salads or sandwiches at brightly decorated tables. Women, mostly older, outnumbered men in the dining room, but all were dressed appropriately for a luncheon at the Iroquois (rather than, say, a hot dog at a picnic table next door at Windemere Point). Lenny chatted with two women near the bar. They held wine glasses, Lenny a cup of coffee. The two women smiled a lot and seemed to be doing most of the talking.

It was almost showtime. I looked over at Henri, who stood at the back of the dining room, near the kitchen. He nodded toward the door. I looked over.

Carmine DeMio.

The retired Don of the Baldini crime family was older now, perhaps slower, but he still commanded attention, standing erect, face tanned, in an elegant black suit, his thinning gray hair combed straight back. He surveyed the dining room as if he were a general about to issue orders to his troops.

A few feet behind Carmine stood Gino Rosato, longtime bodyguard for Carmine and partner of Santino Cicci.

Rosato was Oliver Hardy to Cicci’s Stan Laural, overweight not trim, unkempt not fastidious, with a puffy red face and nose to match. Take it from me, the man knew his way around a .45 automatic.

Carmine gestured discretely. Rosato lumbered over to the windows and stood by the only open table, a four-top with a small silver stand on one corner. It held an elegantly written sign, which read, “Reserved.” I’d seen this one-act play before, choreographed to perfection and implemented wherever other people were around, even in the dining room of Carmine’s own hotel. Bob Fosse would have been proud.

When he was satisfied it was safe, Rosato nodded, and he was joined at the table by Carmine and Santino Cicci.

Lenny Stern, still with the chatty women, watched Carmine’s table. He spoke to the women, handed off his coffee cup to a waiter, and made his way toward Carmine.

When Lenny reached the table, Carmine stood. I’d never seen that before. Other people stood for Carmine out of respect, or fear. But not this time.

“Well,” Henri said as he came up, “what do you think of that?”

“It’s a good bet there’s more between them than just sharing gangland information in the old Windy City days.”

The clock edged its way toward the noon starting time. Waitstaff cleared tables. Coffee was being consumed, along with an occasional glass of wine and slices of peanut butter pie.

“Good