Hard Knocks by Carr Howie

Author:Carr, Howie [Carr, Howie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Published: 2012-01-03T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

NOW THAT I finally had what the two guys had been looking for, I wasn’t going to have much time to off-load it before Magoo Sullivan reported back to the Ace of Hearts.

But no way was I going to skip my lunch with Katy Bemis, not because I had a death wish, but because I’d decided to cut her in on this. If I gave her a set of the ledgers, that would be my insurance policy—one of them, anyway. Because the two guys would never dare snatch a reporter, would they? In Slip’s inner office, I stuffed one set of the copies into an oversize envelope. That would be Katy’s set. Then I put another set of copies, and the original, into a second envelope. Those I would keep with me. Then I put another set of duplicates into a third envelope, which I sealed.

I thanked Slip, said quick good-byes to his girls, and then headed across the street to the Government Center post office, where I bought twice as many stamps as I needed out of the machine. I addressed the third envelope, put the postage on it, and then dropped it in the chute for B. Bennett at PO Box 3889, Government Center 02114. Maybe Combover would intercept the missive, but probably not. If he got caught, it would cost him his pension. I doubted he’d take the chance, even if he saw the package.

Then I headed east, to the Long Wharf Marriott. Katy Bemis was waiting for me in the lobby at the Legal Sea Foods there. She was wearing leather boots, and a short denim skirt. Over her blouse she wore a tweed business jacket. Her brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail, of all things. She was dressed like a million bucks—a million bucks in a trust fund packed full of tax-free municipal bonds and governed by an ironclad, irrevocable set of codicils that prohibited any of the heirs from ever touching the principal.

There’s money, and then there’s … old money. Katy Bemis was old money. She was dressed preppy, but not I-don’t-give-a-damn preppy, a fashion statement more commonly associated with the likes of, say, Michael Skakel, or any of the other third-generation now middle-aged Kennedy riffraff. Katy Bemis was dressed appropriately. She was not unbecoming, as Governor Romney used to say.

As I approached Katy at the restaurant entrance, I wasn’t sure how to greet her. Everybody on TV nowadays, from D-list celebs to the president, slobbers on each other with a big wet kiss like they’re great pals. But Katy Bemis and I weren’t great pals. She was a reporter and I was a source. As I reached her, I extended my hand and she took it perfunctorily, as her eyes trained on something else.

“What’s in the envelopes?” she said, and I liked that. Business first, even before mentioning my bruised, puffy face. She wanted to know about the envelopes—if there was something there for her.

“We’ll get to that,” I said,

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