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.
I said, “Bump me up a step on the food chain, and I’ll get myself invited.” I gave him a smile. “Besides, won’t you get in trouble if you let me walk away with all this money? I’m sure others are watching on your security cameras.”
The window slammed shut. For a moment, I wondered if I’d pissed him off. Finally, though, I heard a deadbolt slide over and the door swung out. My personal charms must have worked.
Jersey-boy was about forty, of Mediterranean descent, and built like a brick wall. He wore his hair short and slicked back, and a thin white scar ran from his left ear to his chin. From the bulge under his suit jacket, I knew he sported a shoulder holster. I got the impression he could have torn me in half without really trying. This definitely wasn’t the sort of person I wanted to tangle with.
“In,” he said with a jerk of his thumb.
“Thanks.”
I shut the briefcase and strolled into a richly decorated antechamber perhaps ten feet deep and twenty feet wide. From plush red carpet to oak paneled walls to the crystal chandelier overhead, everything felt rich and inviting. Even the paintings on the walls were tasteful country landscapes. The air had the well-scrubbed feel of industrial air conditioning.
“Sit,” he said, indicating a low bench, its seat done in crushed red velvet the same shade as the carpet.
I sat, briefcase beside me, cane across my knees. It hurt, but I kept my legs folded back. A small table held recent issues of Newsweek, Cosmopolitan, and Sports Illustrated. None looked like it had ever been read. I picked through them. The subscription address labels had been meticulously clipped out.
After a couple of minutes, four people trooped through after me: two middle-aged men in tuxedos, two women in evening gowns. Jersey-boy greeted them warmly. I felt underdressed until I recalled the photos Davy had shown me. Most men in the club had been wearing suits. Gambling wasn’t necessarily a black-tie event here.
The newcomers passed through a doorway to my left, into a short windowless hallway. Jersey-boy resumed his post by the entrance.
Then the door on the other end of the room opened, and an older man in a gray silk suit appeared. White hair, brushed straight back, dark Mediterranean complexion, trim and wiry looking—and I knew him. Somehow, somewhere, we had met before. But where? I began to search my memories.
He gave a slight nod to the muscle on duty.
“Mr. Smith will see you now,” Jersey-boy told me.
“Thanks.” I used my cane and limped toward Smith. He turned to lead the way up another red-carpeted hall.
As I passed through the doorway, I caught a whiff of Smith’s lavender cologne. Then beefy men on either side grabbed my arms in vicelike grips. I gave a startled yelp and dropped both cane and briefcase. They half carried, half dragged me forward.
I should have seen the trap. Davy’s money made a very tempting target.
When I glanced back, a fourth man was picking up my briefcase and cane. He trailed us.
The two goons brought me to a small room with a chest-high wooden table pushed up against the back wall. Handheld metal detectors and other equipment sat there. Of course—they had to check me out to make sure I wasn’t an FBI agent of some sort. I let myself relax a bit. Maybe this wouldn’t take long and we could get down to business.
The fourth man set my cane and briefcase down next to the table, then frisked me. He removed Davy’s cell phone and my billfold, then turned to the table and selected one of the metal detectors. Switching it on with his thumb, he stepped forward and ran it over my body