Pit Bull Peter Geller 03 - Pit and the Pendulum

cane for a silver-handled walking stick. And a small blood-red carnation brightened my lapel. As I glanced at my reflection in the side windows of shops, I had to admit I didn’t look like the same seedy cripple who had agreed to do this job.
    I had a car to get … my first driving experience since the accident … and I had blackmailers to catch. Whether Davy wanted it or not, I intended to help him the best way I could. And that meant making sure his enemies couldn’t hold anything over him for the rest of his life. If he paid off this time, I knew they would be back in a few months for more … and more … and more.
    * * * *
    Davy’s car wasn’t the bright red Ferrari I’d half expected, but a black BMW sportscar, low-slung and sexy. It had a manual transmission, but after a few jerky starts the rhythm of driving one came back to me, and I pulled out onto Vine and accelerated smoothly toward the Main Line and the old-money towns west of Philadelphia.
    What should have been a twenty minute ride took nearly four times as long, thanks to an overwhelming volume of rush hour traffic on Route 76. When I finally pulled off at the proper exit, it was growing dark. I began scanning street signs. Half a dozen turns later, I found myself on a private road heading for what was marked as a members-only golf course. And sure enough it had acres of floodlit greens to the sides and back, along with a sprawling clubhouse, a catering hall and half a dozen other barnlike outbuildings, and ample parking lots lit by bright floodlights.
    It was still early for the fashionable set, but even so, the last building — which Davy claimed was the casino — seemed to be doing a lively business. Quite a few vehicles were parked outside its entrance, and a pair of teenage boys manned a valet station at the curb.
    I parked myself, retrieved the black leather briefcase from the trunk, flipped its latches, and peeked inside at bundles of crisp hundred dollar bills. Two thousand of them, if my math was right. And it was.
    Turning, I limped across the lot toward the casino. At the door, a security camera panned down slightly to take me in. There was no doorman waiting, so I tried the knob. Locked, of course. I pressed a small brass buzzer. Moments later, a window set in the door slid open.
    “Yeah?” said a man with brown eyes and weather-bronzed skin. “What is it?” He had a heavy New Jersey accent.
    “Swordfish?” I volunteered.
    “Don’t play with me.”
    He must not have seen many Marx Brothers movies. Or perhaps he’d heard the line so many times he no longer found it humorous.
    “Sorry,” I said. “I’d like in, please.”
    “This is a private club.”
    “I was invited by a member. Perhaps you know him.” I juggled my cane a second, then flipped the latches on the briefcase and held it up so he and the camera could see. “His name is cash.”
    The eyes widened slightly in surprise.
    “Who’s the real friend, wiseguy?” Jersey-boy demanded.
    “Well, if you must know, David Hunt.”
    “He’s not a member.”
    I shrugged. “He was here a few days ago and spoke glowingly of the action.”
    “He’s not a member.”
    “Then refer me to the sales department.”
    “Membership is by invitation only.” He seemed determined to make things difficult.
    I said, “Bump me up a step on the food chain, and I’ll get myself invited.” I gave him a smile. “Besides, won’t you get in trouble if you let walk away with all this money? I’m sure others are watching on your security cameras.”
    The window slammed shut. For a moment, I wondered if I’d pissed him off. Finally, though, I heard a deadbolt slide over and the door swung out. My personal charms must have worked.
    Jersey-boy was about forty, of Mediterranean descent, and built like a brick wall. He wore his hair short and slicked back, and a thin white scar ran from his left ear to his chin. From the bulge under his suit jacket, I knew he sported a shoulder holster. I got the impression he could have torn me in half without really trying. This definitely wasn’t the sort of person I wanted to tangle with.
    “In,” he said with a jerk of his thumb.
    “Thanks.”
    I shut the briefcase and strolled into a richly decorated antechamber perhaps ten feet deep and twenty feet wide. From plush red carpet to oak paneled walls to the crystal chandelier overhead, everything felt rich and inviting. Even the paintings on the walls were tasteful country landscapes. The