Waiting for the client’s call
It’s dark by the time I got back to my corner of Manhattan. Nothing I could do about it being late — it’s been a busy day — but I settled into my office chair with the bet that even if I missed her first attempt, my lady would try to call again. I opened up the bottle of Scotch and waited for the phone to ring.
A half-inch into my glass, it did. I picked it up, and it’s her. “Any news?”
“Yeah, I got some, but it’s not all good. I found your boy.”
“That’s wonderful!”
“That’s the good, sweetie. The bad is he’s dead.”
A choking kind of sob came from her end of the line, then the clatter of the kitchen filled the receiver. “I’m real sorry for your loss, ma’am, and I—
I could hardly hear her question. “Who did it?”
“What?”
“Who killed Leonard?”
“Well, ma’am, seems like he ran into some with the Marizzano gang. You ever heard of them?”
“Marizzano.” I could hear her turning over the name in her head. “Yeah, but a couple years back. If I remember him right, a real Don Juan-y slimeball, skinny little Italian guy with a pencil-thin mustache. Gave me his name and address and everything, like we were going to keep in touch or something.”
“Well, it seems like he got in touch with your man, instead. They pulled him out of the East River on Wednesday.”
Her voice went as cold as a meat locker. “This Marizzano, I’d like to meet with him, if at all possible.”
“That can be arranged. Come to my office first thing in the morning.”
