Pit and the Pendulum. John Gregory Betancourt

gamble, Mr. Geller?” he asked unexpectedly.

      “Now and again, Mr. Tortelli.”

      He didn’t react to my using his real name. Instead, he handed me a small piece of paper.

      “What’s this?” I asked. It had “10K - S” written on it.

      Instead of answering, he pressed a hidden button under his desktop. A second later, the door opened. Goon number two stood there.

      “Sir?”

      “Mr. Geller has a chit for ten thousand dollars. Make sure he has a good time. He’s going to be my guest tonight.” Then he turned back to me. “I suggest you play at table number five. Find a comfortable seat and relax.”

      * * * *

      Smith’s personal invitation opened all the right doors. The goon smiled a perfect shark’s smile as he escorted me through several hallways to a cavernous casino done all in reds and golds. Roulette, baccarat, blackjack, poker, craps, and other table games occupied the center of the room. Jangling slot machines lined the walls. Cashier’s stations at both ends of the room doled out a steady supply of chips, while scantily clad women circulated with trays of drinks. Keep the alcohol flowing and the money will follow: it seemed like a sound business plan. A hundred or so people were already inside, moving from game to game.

      “This is table 5,” said the goon, halting at a low-rent blackjack table. The dealer, a middle-aged woman, was shuffling eight fresh decks in preparation for filling a card shoe. Three of the five seats were already taken.

      “Thanks.” When I settled onto one of the empty stools, I found I had a nice view of the whole room. I put Tortelli’s chit in front of me, and without batting an eye the dealer slid over several tall stacks of red, blue, and black chips. They had values stamped in gold from $5 to $100. I didn’t bother to count them.

      For the next few hours, I played slowly and conservatively, adding more chips than I lost to my stacks. I kept my eyes open and my mouth shut. This was business, I told myself. Tortelli wouldn’t have put me here without cause. With half my attention on the game, I surveyed the crowds and began picking out plainclothes security. I found six of them. And a couple I suspected, but couldn’t quite confirm.

      Then I saw him—mustache-man! He strutted in with a middle-aged woman on his arm. Both of them dressed conservatively, with bland haircuts and dull watches, rings, and jewelry. No one would have looked at them twice.

      The dealer placed a king and a five in front of me.

      “Hit,” I said, tapping the table.

      She dealt me an eight—busted. While she finished out the other players’ hands, I leaned back and watched as a subtle change came over the movements of the crowd. Three people converged on my blackmail suspects.

      A passing woman deliberately spilled her drink on mustache-man and—though I couldn’t hear her voice over the noise of the room—began to apologize profusely, brushing him off with a cocktail napkin. A couple of security guards appeared and, with sympathy, escorted the pair off, I assumed under the pretense of getting the man dried off. Perhaps even promises of free chips to help ease the distress…anything to keep a regular happy.

      I rose and tossed the blackjack dealer a $50 chip. “Thanks,” I said. “Cashing out now.”

      “Thank you!” she replied, smiling for the first time since I’d sat down. She handed me a small dish, and I scooped my winnings into it.

      Then I headed after mustache-man and his date. But Goon One and Goon Two cut me off before I reached the door. They simply blocked my way, folded their arms, and smiled their sharky smiles.

      “Hello again, boys,” I said, smiling back. I could play the polite game, too.

      “Mr. Smith says you should go back and gamble,” Two said, tapping the little brown earplug he now wore.

      “And miss the fun?” I leaned forward and spoke into Two’s lapel. He had to have a microphone in there somewhere. “I have a vindictive streak, Mr. Tortelli. I like to see things properly finished. No loose ends.”

      Goon Two said, “Mr. Smith doesn’t think you should be an accessory to what’s happening. Play cards or go home. This isn’t a game now.”

      That’s what I needed to hear. I nodded and spoke again to his lapel.

      “Very well. I’m done, and thanks.”

      Tortelli had it wrong. It was a game. Mustache-man was one player, and Davy was the other. All the rest of us…we were merely pawns on the board.

      I handed Two my tray of chips. Turning, I limped toward the door. It was one thing to orchestrate Davy’s victory, but quite another to actually execute it. Or see it executed.

      I did not want to know the details.

      * * * *

      I had thought to simply return to my old life after that, but—as they say—events conspired against me. The next morning Davy phoned, and I assured him that his problem had been taken care of.

      “Thanks,” he said, sounding relieved. “Then it went well?”

      “Better than I had hoped. I don’t think we’ll be hearing from the blackmailers again.”

      “How did you like the car?”

      I laughed. “Nice. Took me a few minutes to get back into driving stick, but don’t worry, the transmission’s fine.”

      He chuckled. “Good. Stop by my office. I have some paperwork for you.”

      “What sort?” I couldn’t imagine needing paperwork for eliminating a blackmail threat.

      “Sometimes, Pit, you’re pretty dense for a genius. I told you I’d take care of you. I’m giving you the car, with my thanks. Just a matter of signing the registration over.”

      My heart skipped. That had to be a forty thousand dollar vehicle.

      “I can’t accept,” I said. “It’s too much, and I’m a public transit sort of guy. Buy me lunch sometime instead, okay?”

      “Pit…”

      “I mean it,” I said firmly. “I enjoyed helping, Davy. I don’t get out enough. Give me your address, and I’ll drop the car off this afternoon.”

      * * * *

      That should have ended matters. I dropped off the car at the center city office building where Davy had his office, accepted his invitation for dinner that Sunday (Cree apparently liked to cook; she didn’t eat, but she was a master of Cajun cuisine).

      The train ride home was uneventful. I got my favorite corner seat after a couple of stops, and I even managed to look out the window as we headed for the Frankfort station. So much for being a cripple. I had accomplished my mission with flying colors.

      I limped to my apartment five blocks from the El station, unlocked the deadbolt, and paused in the doorway. Something was wrong. I always left a light on in the kitchen, and it was off. Instead, the bedroom light was on. Someone had been here. I paused, listening, and heard a slight creak from my sofa. Broken springs could be useful sometimes.

      Then I caught a faint whiff of lavender.

      “Reach out to your right,” I said, “and turn on the lamp, Mr. Tortelli. I like to see my guests.”

      There followed a half-second silence, then two sharp clicks as he turned the switch. A dim yellow bulb came on, revealing my Spartan living room: worn yellow sofa, two white-and-yellow wingback chairs, wooden coffee table, two tall bookcases mostly devoted to bric-a-brac. As the lamp’s fluorescent bulb began to warm, the light steadily increased.

      Tortelli leaned back, watching me. He wore another silk suit, dark blue this time with pin stripes. His tie glistened faintly, like sharkskin. Even his black shoes had an enviable shine.

      “Two