Pit and the Pendulum. John Gregory Betancourt

took a deep breath, then sagged a little and seemed to give in. “Okay. But—”

      I cut him off. “Start at the beginning and tell me everything. I assume there’s a letter with payment instructions. If so, I want to see it.”

      “Here.” He pulled another piece of paper from his jacket pocket and slid it across the table. I unfolded it carefully. It had been written on a computer, typed in twelve-point Arial, and printed on the type of generic white copier paper you could get at any Staples or OfficeMax.

      david

      you can redeem your marker for two hundred thousand dollars if you agree place an ad in the inquirer that reads single white elephant named dumbo seeking mate you will get a voice mail with delivery instructions

      a friend

      I retrieved the printout of the pictures, spread it flat on the table, and studied each image one at a time, committing faces to memory.

      “What about this Cree woman?” I asked.

      “I’ve dated her off and on for two years. She’s a bit shallow, but okay. Focused on her career. Expects to marry me in a year or two. At least, we’ve been talking about it.”

      “So you don’t think she’s behind it?”

      “For a mere two hundred thou? Come on, I’m worth fifty million all by myself. If she waits, she’ll have it all.”

      “Not with a prenuptial agreement.”

      He chuckled. “The jewelry I bought her last month is worth more than that!”

      “All right. It’s not her. Was there anything else? A threat to send everything to the newspapers? Or your company’s Board of Directors?”

      “Nothing specific. But I know that’s what they’ll do if I don’t pay up.”

      I chewed my lip. “Did you save the envelope the letter came in, by any chance?”

      “No. Why? Is it important?”

      “I want to know where it was mailed from.”

      “Sorry, no return address.”

      “Postmark?”

      “Philadelphia.”

      “Zip code?”

      “I didn’t notice.”

      Not much help; it’s a big city.

      I asked, “When does the ad run?”

      He tapped the newspaper on the table. “It’s in today’s classifieds. I just looked it up.”

      “Any voice mails yet?”

      He nodded. “A few ladies looking for dates so far. The Dumbo part seems to have tickled their fancy.”

      I rotated the page with the pictures and pointed to the one where Davy stood by the roulette table. A man in the background had caught my eye: a little older than us, salt-and-pepper hair, small mustache…the sort you’d never look at twice.

      “Do you recognize him?” I asked.

      Davy leaned forward, squinted. “No. Why?”

      “He’s looking straight at whoever took the picture. And look—he’s standing behind you and Cree at the blackjack table, too. And in this shot—you can’t see his face, but that’s clearly his suit. He was stalking you.”

      “Say, I think you’re right! But it still doesn’t help. I don’t know him.”

      I nodded. “All right.” My mind was already turning through the possibilities. Too bad I didn’t know anyone at the police department or the FBI. Face-recognition software was the latest thing. A name would be helpful. Who else might know him? The gambling club’s 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 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