Pit Bull Peter Geller 03 - Pit and the Pendulum

weren’t in danger. Very good, Mr. Geller. Very good indeed.”
    “Not in danger? You understate your abilities, Mr. Tortelli.”
    He half shrugged modestly. “Perhaps.”
    I came in and closed the door. Casually I glanced around the room, taking inventory … not that I owned anything worth stealing. Every object in the room had been moved slightly out of place; it would take hours to put them back. And the changes were so slight that few others would have noticed — or cared.
    “Why the search?” I asked. “What were you hoping to find?”
    “You knew my name,” he said. “My old name. I haven’t used it in nearly three years. I need to know how.”
    “We met in Atlantic City when you worked at the Golden Nugget.” I eased myself into a chair, wincing a bit. Then I told him my casino-enlightenment story. “Of course,” I went on, “your hair is a bit different, and your clothes are vastly better these days. You’ve really come up in the world.”
    “And you remembered me, even after all these years?” He looked surprised. “I must have made quite an impression on you.”
    “No.” I leaned forward. “I remember everything and everyone, Mr. Tortelli. It’s a curse. Oh, sorry, I’m a bad host. If you’d like a drink, please help yourself. Beer in the fridge, hard stuff over the sink. I’m not up to waiting on anyone. Need to catch my breath.”
    “Still …” He rose and began to pace. “It took quite a bit of effort to find out about you, Mr. Geller. Or may I call you Pit?”
    “If you like. Charles? Or Charlie?”
    “Cal.”
    “Ah.” So much for ‘C. Tortelli’ on his nametag. “See? I don’t know everything.”
    “I don’t like loose ends, Pit. I imagine you don’t, either.”
    “Sometimes I do.” I tensed, but tried not to show it. Was I a loose end, to be rubbed out in my own apartment?
    He seemed to sense my unease and chuckled. “I like you, ‘Pit-Bull’ Peter Geller. You have a unique style.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, almost square bit of plastic, which he flipped onto the coffee table.
    It was a flash memory card for a digital camera. I leaned forward with interest.
    “From the blackmailers?”
    “Yes. As far as I can tell, it contains the originals of their pictures. There don’t appear to be any copies.”
    “Thank you,” I said.
    He nodded once, then rose started for the door. Halfway out, he paused. “You turned down Hunt’s offer of a car. May I ask why?”
    How did he know that? My phone had to be bugged. I’d deal with it later.
    I said, “I don’t need a car. The insurance premiums would eat me alive. And this isn’t the right neighborhood for a BMW, anyway. Wouldn’t last a week on the street.”
    He nodded. “Interesting. Thank you, Pit. I’ll be in touch.”
    A shiver ran through me at those words. But then he closed the door and was gone. And somehow, I didn’t feel like drinking.

    THE END

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
    John Gregory Betancourt wrote science fiction and fantasy books for a living for many years, before pursuing a full-time career in the editorial end of publishing. Today he runs Wildside Press, one of the most successful independent publishers in the science fiction, fantasy, and mystery fields. Find him and his company at wildsidepress.com.