The Third Talmage Powell Crime MEGAPACK™: 25 Classic Mysteries

“Don’t act cute, bub! You know I’m talking about the prosecutor.”

“Mr. Wood, please,” Eddie sighed, “give me a little credit. When the prosecutor quizzes the jurymen, you think I’ll let him see anything other than an alert, open-minded young man without anti-Establishment hangups?”

A faint hint of friendliness tugged the corners of Wood’s mouth. “I swear, bub, I’m beginning to think you could pull it off.”

“Trust me, Mr. Wood.”

“But no money in advance, see?”

Eddie endured a small, inward groan, letting the hope fade of talking Wood into a binder.

“The terms are fine, Mr. Wood,” he said blandly. “The day Richie is freed I drop by and pick up twenty-five in the privacy of your home.”

“You got a deal bub!” Wood said, leaning back.

“We’ve got a deal,” Eddie amended. As Wood started to rise, Eddie said softly, “I trust your honesty, but if you shattered my faith, we’d both go to jail, on a charge of jury fixing. I’d just have to spill the beans, and you got so much more to lose than I have. Big trouble for yourself. Not to mention Richie standing trial again after a blaze of terrible publicity.”

Halfway to his feet, Wood paused. He gravelled a laugh. “That’s good, bub. You covered all the angles.” He reached across and plumped Eddie on the shoulder. “You deliver, you’ll get paid. We got what you might say is a perfect business understanding.”

“We mustn’t be seen together,” Eddie reminded. “You won’t hear from me again until the trial is over.”

“Sure, bub. Total strangers fill the jury box.” He knuckled Eddie lightly on the jaw. “Keep your nose clean. Stay out of drafts so you don’t come down with a virus. I’d feel terrible if you broke a leg or something and missed the trial.”

With that bit of advice, Wood turned and barged out of the bar.

Two down, Eddie thought.

It took Eddie until three o’clock to track down Fleschetti. He found the lean, swarthy man in the bookie joint behind Rudeen’s tavern. Fleschetti was sitting propped back against the dirty wall in a straight chair, his outthrust feet resting on the chair’s twin. He was watching the tote board and chewing on a cigar.

Eddie threaded his way through the crowded, smoke-filled room.

“Hi, Mr. Fleschetti.”

Fleschetti glanced up. He was about as attractive as a dagger-thrower for the Mafia, but he said pleasantly enough, “How ya, Eddie?”

There wasn’t a vacant chair and Fleschetti didn’t offer the one he was using for a hassock. Eddie bent a knee and half-sat, the wall supporting his back.

“I need a loan, Mr. Fleschetti.”

“Sure, Eddie. You always paid up in the past, one way or another.”

“Then my record ought to be good for a big chunk of bread this time.”

“Yeah?” Fleschetti took the wet, ragtag, chewed end of the cigar from his mouth. “How big?”

“A thou.”

Fleschetti squinted, absently waving away a short, fat man who was hobbling over to talk to him.

“That’s pretty big for a guru in your shoes, Eddie. How come?”

“I got a sure fire deal. But it’ll keep me tied up for a few days starting Monday morning. Meantime, there’s a long weekend.”

“And a chick?” Fleschetti shook his narrow, oily face. “Always a chick with a guy like you, Eddie.”

Fleschetti shrugged, dropped his feet to the floor. He reached inside his jacket pocket and took out a pad of printed forms about the size of a letter envelop. He scribbled in an amount with a ballpoint pen and handed pen and promissory note to Eddie for him to sign.

“You’re borrowing twelve hundred, Eddie. You get a thou. Service charges, two hundred. Interest five percent per week, compounded weekly. Note payable by the week with the interest taken out first.”

“I know,” Eddie murmured. His eager fingers dashed his signature across the bottom of the note.

“I hope she’s worth it, Eddie.”

“She is,” Eddie said, exchanging the note for ten one-hundred dollar bills Fleschetti counted from a scuffed, bedraggled, two-inches-thick wallet.

“You asked for it, Eddie. I didn’t make a pitch to sell you. I never do with my customers.”

“Sure,” Eddie said, cramming the money in his pocket.

Fleschetti swung his feet back up on the chair. “Don’t forget I always collect, Eddie. I know a tough old shiv what’s out of work. I’d hate the expense of putting him on the payroll and sending him around for a collection.”

Eddie laughed. “Don’t be such a worrier, Mr. Fleschetti. I always been good for it. This time I got a deal that’ll make twelve c-notes look like chicken feed.”

“Plus interest,” Fleschetti reminded.

Out of the bar, Eddie dialed the courthouse and got Clara on her extension.

“Kitten, I just had some terrible news,” he choked the words into the phone. “My aunt Hilgred, she’s almost like a mother—” His voice broke.