Dead Certain

Frankenstein’s bride. It had taken a stiff brush and a strong arm to get things back to normal.
    Once I was dressed, I called Leo to have him bring me my car. Luckily I managed to catch him before he and Angel left for church, which meant that I was treated to a glimpse of Leo in his Sunday best. When he stepped out of the Jag in his double-breasted suit with a matching fedora hat, it occurred to me that the gangsters in Capone’s day hadn’t dressed much differently—except for the fact that Leo’s entire outfit, from shoes to chapeau, was mustard yellow. As I got behind the wheel I slipped him a twenty for the collection plate.
    “I’ll make sure they say a prayer for you,” he said with a slow grin.
    “Good,” I replied. “Today I’m going to need it.”
     
    Making my way north, I stopped and had breakfast at the University Club with a sober and repentant Mark Millman. Of the two of them it was Jeff Tannenbaum who looked the worse for the wear and gratefully seized the opportunity of my presence to go home. From the look on his face, I could tell he’d found baby-sitting Millman a less-than-congenial assignment. I didn’t blame him. Making sure the client stayed away from the bottle wasn’t what people went to law school for.
    Upstairs in the dining room only a handful of tables were taken. The University Club was so far from exclusive that it was sometimes referred to snidely as the Ubiquitous Club, which was probably why I liked it. But except for the athletic facilities, on weekends it was pretty much deserted. Only a smattering of the guest rooms were occupied, mostly by members temporarily on the outs with their wives.
    We were ushered to a table by the window that overlooked Buckingham Fountain, which had just recently been turned on for the season. Millman still looked a little green around the gills, a condition I knew was unlikely to be improved by the University Club’s indifferent kitchen. Serves him right, I thought to myself savagely. Cheryl had sent him over some fresh duds—a navy blazer and khaki pants from Brooks Brothers—clothes that if we didn’t manage to make a deal with Icon, I’d end up paying for out of my own pocket. After we ordered, I asked Millman about Delius. I was glad to hear that he and Jeff had gone to Prescott Memorial to look in on him the night before. I’m sure it was just how Jeff had planned on spending his Saturday night.
    “I still can’t believe that of the two of us, it was Bill who had the heart attack,” declared his partner, shaking his head over his coffee cup. “Look at me. I’m forty pounds overweight—at least—eat red meat, drink like a fish, and haven’t seen the inside of a gym in the last ten years except to watch my six-year-old play basketball. So who gets it in the chest? Professor wheat germ of the Nordic Track. Go figure.”
    “So how’s he doing?”
    “They’ve got him hooked up to so much electronic equipment I bet he can pick up the Cubs game without an antenna.”
    “Is he awake? Is he talking at all?”
    “When we were there, all he did was moan,” said Millman. “I don’t think he even knew we were there. But I did talk to one of the doctors, and he told me that his recovery was progressing normally and he’s going to end up being fine.”
    “Did he say when?” I asked, knowing that I must sound callous. The arrival of our eggs, served on chargers of antique silver and predictably cold, delayed his answer.
    “Why? Does it matter?” asked Millman miserably.
    “Gabriel Hurt came to see me Friday night.” I raised my hand up, signaling that he should let me finish. “He’s still interested in making a deal for the input driver, but he wants to sit down face-to-face with Delius.”
    “Shit!” exclaimed Millman under his breath as he slammed his hand on the edge of the table, making the silverware jump. “I can’t believe it!”
    “I’m afraid you can’t swear in this club,” I informed him calmly, helping myself to a sip of my coffee. “Better keep that in mind when I tell you the rest of it. Apparently, Hurt’s also been talking to another group that’s developed a similar product.”
    “Whatever the other guys are willing to give him, we’ll give him double,” he said without a moment’s hesitation. With his partner in the hospital, unable to make the case for maintaining control, all Millman could see were dollar signs.
    “I’m afraid that’s not the issue,” I replied. “Icon’s