Dead Game by Michael Avallone

Author:Michael Avallone [Avallone, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Story Merchant Books
Published: 2012-06-14T05:00:00+00:00

FOURTEEN

I parked the Buick just off Jerome Avenue and walked the rest of the way to Lake’s hotel. The afternoon sun stayed behind a big white fluffy cloud. I drew a parallel between it and the missing twenty grand. Just like the sun, it was in existence but it was hiding. Maybe right under everybody’s nose.

I also spent some time thinking about how to contact Banjo Brice without getting a Headquarters man down on our necks. It was a lead-pipe cinch that every player on the club was under police surveillance. If they weren’t, then the book is all wrong.

When I had it figured, I strode into the nearest bar, ordered a martini, left it, and took up a seat in one of the phone booths. The bartender grinned after me for no good reason. I grinned right back at him for no good reason.

I dialed the hotel’s number and waited. When I got the desk, I asked for Mr. Banjo Brice’s room. The connection came through pretty fast.

“Yah, Banjo Brice at bat. Who’s pitchin’?”

For the routine I was going to give him, he was just the man for me. He sounded like a guy who spent a lot of time laughing and drinking.

“Banjo, you old bastard! How the hell are you?” I made sure I sounded like I was on my fifth drink, reaching for my sixth.

He hesitated; then his voice got a shade cooler. “Who the hell is this?”

“Why, Banjo. It’s Owley Dowd. You remember old Owley, don’t you, boy? Come on down, drinks on me …”

Now his voice got suspicious.

“I don’t know any Owley Dowd. Look, buddy, if you’re drunk, God bless you. Some other time …” He hung up.

Grinning, I got the hotel back on the wire, asked for his room again. When I got him, his voice had a grain of irritation in it.

“Yeah, who is it?”

I clucked disapprovingly, the way many a friendly drunk will.

“Why, you old blue nose! S’hat any way to treat an old pal? Hang up on Owley Dowd after all we been through? We really hung some good ones on, eh, Banjo? Me, you, and old Larry. Shay—come on down. Buy you a drink …”

“Look, mister.” His voice was real edgy now. “Go somewhere and sober up. I don’t know you. You don’t know me. Now stop pestering me or I’ll call a cop …”

“Banjo, whashamatter with you? After all we been through, you goin’ for the high hat? That’s not like you, Banjo …”

“Look, buddy. Hang up, will you? I’m busy.”

“Banjo, I’m in the bar just around the corner and if you don’t come down, I’m comin’ up. Is this the way you treat a pal? Where’s Lake—I wanna talk to good old Larry …”

There was a pause that can only be described as pregnant.

“Okay, Owley Dowd.” He sighed. “Be down in ten minutes.”

“Shmore like it, Banjo old pal.” I hung up.

I squeezed out of the booth and went back to my drink. I took the olive out of it and chewed thoughtfully.

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