Pit Bull Peter Geller 03 - Pit and the Pendulum

management?
    Davy leaned forward and touched my hand. “Listen to me, Pit,” he said seriously. “I didn’t ask you here to solve a crime. This isn’t a puzzle to work out. Your job is to be a courier. That’s it. Once the payoff is made, you have to drop it.”
    I smiled. “I understand, Davy. I’m just naturally curious.”
    “I don’t want you doing anything stupid and getting hurt. Don’t be a pit-bull. Just help me out — I’ll make it worth your while.”
    He slid a cell phone across to me, along with a set of car keys. “Just hit redial. The password on the account is 9-1-1-9.”
    “What are the keys for?”
    “My car. It’s valet parked — the claim check is on the key-ring, see? That plastic chit on the end. Uh, you can still drive, can’t you?”
    “Sure, I just have to be careful.”
    “Good.”
    “And the money?”
    “In the trunk,” he said, “in a briefcase.”
    I stared at him in disbelief. “Are you crazy? What if the parking attendant rips you off?”
    He grinned. “I gave him a valet key — it only opens the driver’s door and starts the ignition. No way for him to open the trunk.”
    I nodded and said: “So I take them the money, get back your marker, and see that all the files for the digital pictures are destroyed. Is that the plan?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “One last question.”
    “Shoot.”
    “Where is this gambling club?”
    “Why?”
    “Just curious. I like to gamble, and it’s closer than Atlantic City. It’s not like they can blackmail me !”
    Grudgingly, he told me. Then he glanced at his watch and frowned.
    “Some place you have to be?” I asked.
    “Yeah. Dad’s giving a dinner in my honor tonight. The whole Board will be there. I have to get going or I’m going to be late. Cree is picking me up in about two minutes. Can you handle things?”
    “Sure.” I gave a quick grin. “You can count on me, Davy. I’ll take care of everything.”
    “I know.” He smiled — a bit wistfully, I thought. “You haven’t even asked what’s in it for you. You’d make a bad businessman, Pit.”
    I laughed. “Must be our old Alpha Kappa Alpha bond. You don’t owe me a thing, Davy-boy. I’ll help because I can.”
    “Thanks. I mean it, Pit. Thanks .”
    * * * *
    He left, stopping briefly at the bar to pay our tab. I waited till he was gone, then eased myself out of the booth with the help of my cane, scooped up keys and cell phone, and headed for the lobby.
    Already a plan was forming in the back of my mind. There was a small barber shop off the hotel lobby, next to the gift store: forty bucks for a simple haircut, but I needed to look my best tonight. I was going to pay the gambling club a visit.
    The barber did an adequate job of neatening me up. Then I went to the men’s room and used wet paper towels to clean all the hairs off my face, neck, and ears that he missed.
    After that, I went to the gift shop and poked around until I found a travel kit that included a small pair of scissors. I paid for it, pocketed the scissors, then threw out the nail clippers and everything else. I paused long enough by a trash can to cut mustache-man’s picture out of the printout. Maybe I’d get lucky and find out his name when I asked around at the gambling club tonight. That’s where I intended to go … straight to the heart of the problem.
    Then I exited the hotel. Instead of retrieving Davy’s car from the parking attendant, I headed for the men’s clothing shop I’d passed a block or so down. Time for a suit … something expensive and Italian, maybe silk. And a flashy tie. I wanted to look like I had a million bucks tonight.
    It seemed to me Davy’s situation had two possible causes. One, blackmailers had recognized him, picked him as an easy mark, and surreptitiously photographed him at the gambling club. Two, the management of the gambling club had set him up and was conducting this sting. To get him deep enough in debt to leave an I.O.U., they would probably have to be running crooked games. And I counted on my own skills with numbers and general mental abilities to be able to spot bad dice, rigged tables, or marked cards. Either way, the casino seemed the logical place to start.
    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