Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2006
- Автор: Бетанкур Джон Грегори, Jr. William J. Carroll,
- Год: 2006
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines/Crosstown Publications
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2006». Краткое содержание книги:
At last, just when I couldn’t take it any more, my stomach growled, announcing dinner time. Another chance to gouge my assassin-bodyguard? I’d see how far I could run up his credit cards before letting him off the hook.
“I don’t think Davy would mind springing for dinner instead of breakfast,” I told Bob, closing Offshore Flight: Where and How to Take Your Money.
“Probably not,” he said.
“There’s a little seafood house around the corner called Charley’s Red. Supposed to be pretty good too.”
He perked up. “I could go for some surf and turf.”
“You won’t be disappointed.”
How could he be? It was a four-star restaurant with a wine list to die for.
Dinner was sublime. I ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon Rosé 1988 with my caviar-and-truffle-stuffed lobster á lá Charley. As I kept telling Bob throughout the meal, “Don’t worry, it’s on Davy.”
Bob could only grin and nod. Finally, after a delightful chocolate soufflé followed by a glass of aged port, I could eat no more. I leaned back and patted my too-full belly.
Bob received the check and blanched. Dinner for the two of us came to almost seven hundred and fifty dollars, I saw. Not including tip.
“They expect a twenty-five percent gratuity,” I told him, feeling generous: service had been exceptional.
“I... I’m afraid I can’t, sir.” He gulped. “There’s only a couple of hundred left on my credit card. David was going to reimburse me!”
“Oh.” So much for running up Bob’s credit cards. The possibility that my bodyguard might be broke had never occurred to me. “I’ll handle it, then.”
I pulled out my Amex. At least I knew Bob’s finances now. Could I somehow use that to my advantage? I would have to think on it.
After I signed the credit card receipt, I found I could barely stand. So much for keeping my head clear. I had no choice but to agree to a taxi, which Bob said he would pay for, to make up for dinner. We rode in warmth and comfort back to my apartment.
There, I set my trap. I accidentally “forgot” to remove the robbery article when I tossed my shirt into the bathroom hamper. I carefully left the lid up and the article in plain sight. Neat freak that he was, I knew Bob would rush to close the hamper’s lid, and when he did, he would spot the printout.
If he didn’t conclude that my father had been in on the armored car heist, he was dumber than he looked. That, plus the research on offshore tax havens, painted me as a criminal at work... something he could try to turn to his advantage.
“Good night!” I said, heading to my bedroom with a fresh bottle of whiskey. I carried it mostly for show; I had no intention of clouding my mind further tonight. “Oh, I’ll be up early — we have to go to Atlantic City tomorrow.”
“Want me to drive?” he offered.
“No need. Casinos return your bus fare in quarters when you get there, plus they sometimes throw in coupons for lunch and other freebies.” I had a drawer full of Golden Nugget T-shirts to prove it.
As I lay in bed, thoughts racing, I mentally reviewed the recording Mr. Smith had played for me — and realized I had made a huge mistake.
Every button on a telephone keypad has a different sound. Since I remembered each tone on Mr. Smith’s recording perfectly, it was a simple matter to match them up to numbers. Two seconds later, I had Janice’s phone number. If I’d thought of it in time, I could have used a reverse directory at the library to look up her name and address.
Calling myself a drunken idiot, I picked up my phone’s receiver, punched number 4 so the dial tone went away, and said in a low voice: “Please tell Mr. Smith I’m going to the Azteca Casino on the nine o’clock bus tomorrow morning. When I get there, I’d like my bodyguard’s complimentary drink spiked — something that will tie him up in the bathroom for an hour or so. I’m going to win a million dollars at the blackjack tables. Don’t worry, I’ll give it back. If Mr. Smith is willing to help, I’ll owe him another favor. If not — well, I’ll manage on my own.”
I hung up. Then I opened my night table’s drawer and removed four pens from the neat row inside, along with an unused pocket notebook. In tiny, cribbed lettering, I began making lists of fictional transactions using several different colors of ink and alternating between sloppy and neat handwriting. First came dates, then names of various casinos and amounts I had won. At the bottom of each page, I noted the anonymous Swiss or Brazilian bank account into which the money had been wired. My fictional net worth climbed rapidly into the millions.
Of course, I included all the secret passcodes anyone might need to get the money out. I emphasized that part on the inside front cover: Funds not accessible without account numbers and passcodes. Bob would read those words first when he opened the notebook.
My legs and back ached fiercely the next morning. When I couldn’t take the pain any more, I rose and stumbled into the bathroom. I gulped four aspirins with a glass of tepid tap water. God, I needed a real drink.
Someone had lowered the hamper’s lid. I peeked inside. The printout in my shirt pocket had been removed, then put back, but not quite folded properly. Sloppy, sloppy work.
Returning to my room, chuckling to myself, I dressed in black Dockers and a navy blue shirt — more leftovers from my Wall Street days — then took a small suitcase from my closet and began to pack... underwear, socks, shirts, pants. Everything I’d need for an extended trip. I needed to convince Bob I planned on fleeing the country.
My bodyguard appeared in the doorway. “Going somewhere?”
“In case I decide to spend the night.”
He nodded. “I’ll bring my bag too.”
An hour later we were on the bus. The drone of wheels on pavement, the murmur of little old ladies on their weekly gambling junket, the soft hiss of recycled air from the blowers overhead — I found it all curiously soothing. As I let myself relax, I began to open up and chat confidentially with Bob... part two of my plan.
“My father used to be involved with organized crime,” I confessed in a low voice. Never mind that he had been a plumber. “He hijacked that armored car on the Brooklyn Bridge. The one I read about yesterday.”
“What happened?” Bob asked. “Was he caught?”
“Not caught,” I said. “Killed. His body turned up in the New Jersey wetlands near where Giants Stadium stands today. He had a bullet in his head, mob execution-style. I don’t know what happened to the money, but I found out who did the hit a few years ago.”
“Who?”
“Well... let’s just say he’s come a long way in the last thirty years. He runs the Azteca Casino. That’s why I gamble there a lot. Every dollar I take away is a little piece of my revenge.”
He looked puzzled. “I thought odds favored the house.”
“For most games.” I chuckled. “You’d never guess I’m worth nearly as much as Davy Hunt, would you?”
He gaped at me. “Then why are you stuck in that shabby little apartment? You should live like a king!”
I lowered my voice confidentially. “Because,” I said, “I don’t want to attract the attention of the IRS. If I started spending hundreds of thousands of dollars, they’d want to know where I got it.”
“The tax havens,” he said slowly. “That’s why you were researching them!”
“Bingo.”
He frowned. “Why are you telling me?”
“Because,” I said grandly, “this is it. Today is my final day. I’m going to make one last big score and retire to Brazil while I wait for the statute of limitations on income tax evasion to pass. I want you to come with me as my bodyguard and assistant. I’ll need help, and I think you’re the man for the job.”