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Authors: Robert J. Randisi

Tags: #Suspense

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BOOK: Fly Me to the Morgue
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‘Mr Gianelli and Mr Epstein.' I didn't have a choice. ‘The appointment was arranged by his sister, Adrienne.'
‘I'll tell him.'
She stood up, walked to one of two doors behind her, knocked and entered.
‘Why didn't she use her intercom thing?' Jerry wondered.
‘Maybe it's not workin',' I said.
The door opened again and she reappeared. She leaned against the open door with her hands behind her back. The position made her pert breasts even perter. And she knew it.
‘You can go in,' she said, looking Jerry up and down. ‘You're big,' she said, as we passed her.
‘Yeah,' he said, ducking his head, as if that would make him smaller.
She closed the door behind us.
Eric Arnold stood up from behind his desk. He was tall, like his sister, but slender, a little younger. Bore no resemblance to the hulking Philip. He was wearing a blue suit, white shirt, blue-and-red tie.
‘Mr Gianelli?' he asked.
‘That's right.'
‘Adrienne said you'd be by,' he said, putting out his hand. ‘And this is your friend?'
‘Jerry Epstein,' I said, shaking the accountant's hand.
He didn't shake Jerry's hand.
‘You're the guy who found my brother,' Eric said.
‘Yes,' Jerry said. ‘Sorry.'
‘Hey, I'm glad you found him,' Eric said. ‘Have a seat. Tell me what I can do for you. Adrienne didn't say. Do you need legal advice?'
‘No, Mr Arnold,' I said, ‘that's not what we're here for.'
Eric spread his arms expansively and asked, ‘Well, what then?'
‘Adrienne said you might be able to tell us something about your brother Philip.'
‘My brother Philip?' he said. ‘What could I tell you . . .'
‘Something about his business practices.'
He frowned.
‘I don't understand,' he said, looking back and forth at us. ‘Why would I tell the two of you anything about my brother?'
‘Let me put this another way, Mr Arnold,' I said. ‘We drove out to Red Rock earlier today to have a look around, see if we could find out anything about your brother Chris's death. While we were there somebody took some shots at us.'
‘You're not the police,' he said. ‘Why would you be looking into my brother's death? I really don't have to talk to you.'
‘Yeah, you do,' Jerry said.
‘Oh? Why's that?' Eric asked, looking at Jerry.
‘
Because
we're not the cops.'
Eric Arnold looked at me, a helpless expression on his face.
‘What is he talking about?'
‘I think he means since we're not the cops we can do what we want,' I said. ‘We don't have any bosses to answer to.'
The accountant swallowed and asked, ‘Whataya mean, you can do anything?'
‘I think Jerry's referring to the fact that he could break one of your arms or legs if you don't talk to us,' I said, ‘and beat you to death with it, and nobody could stop him.'
‘What?' Arnold asked, shrinking back in his chair. ‘What?'
‘Adrienne told you we were going out to Red Rock,' I said. ‘I don't think she sent somebody out there to shoot us. That leaves you, and maybe anybody that you told.' I leaned forward in my chair. Jerry was sitting relaxed in his, one leg crossed over the other knee. ‘Who did you tell, Eric?'
‘I didn't tell anybody!'
‘Then
you
sent the shooter out there to try to kill us.'
‘What? No!'
‘Well,' I said, ‘it's one or the other.'
Jerry put his leg down and leaned forward.
‘Wait, wait—' Eric said.
‘I'm thinking Adrienne asked you for help with Philip, who's trying to queer the deal with Bing Crosby to buy your dead brother's horse,' I said. ‘Only I don't think she knows that you and Philip are workin' together. Am I close?'
‘Philip's my brother,' Eric said. ‘Sometimes I help him with . . . with his books . . .'
‘And what else?' I asked.
‘Look . . . wait . . .' Eric stammered. ‘I've gotta think.'
‘We need less thinkin',' Jerry said, ‘and more talkin'.'
Eric had a heavy oak desk, and Jerry wanted to make an impression on him. He put his right hand on the edge of the desk and, in one motion, shoved the heavy piece of furniture across the room, like it weighed nothing. That left space between Eric and us. The move even impressed
me
.
‘Jesus!' Eric said, his eyes wide as the only buffer between him and Jerry disappeared.
‘Start talkin',' Jerry said.
FORTY-EIGHT
‘All I know,' Eric said, ‘is that my brother Philip didn't want Chris to sell that horse.'
‘Why not?'
‘Philip saw ways of making a lot of money with it.'
‘And Chris didn't?'
‘Chris thought small,' Eric said, ‘Philip thinks big.'
‘And how do you think, Eric?' I asked.
‘What?'
‘Do you think big or small?'
Eric spread his arms.
‘Look where I am. What do you think?'
‘I think you're a blackjack player who keeps himself close to the action.'
‘So I'm a gambler,' Eric said. ‘Sue me.'
I studied him for a few seconds, then asked, ‘Your brother Philip promised to cut you in, didn't he?'
‘Cut me in on what?'
‘On whatever he was plannin',' I answered. ‘He wanted you to side with him against Chris and Adrienne.'
He didn't answer, but the look on his face said it all.
‘Did you know he was gonna have your brother Chris killed?' Jerry asked.
‘Hey, hey,' Eric said, waving his hands, ‘Phil wouldn't do that.'
‘Oh yeah,' I said, ‘a brother wouldn't kill a brother? Not over a lot of money?'
‘Philip has money,' Eric said. ‘He wouldn't need to kill Chris for more.'
‘Then maybe it was you,' I said.
‘Me . . . what?'
‘Maybe it was you who killed your brother for money,' I said. ‘I'll bet you need it. I mean, after all –' I spread my hands, ‘– look where you are.'
‘I never . . . I wouldn't . . .' He stopped short when Jerry put his big hand on his chest, pressed him back into the chair.
‘When Adrienne told you Jerry and I were goin' out there, you called your brother Phil, right?'
‘R-right.'
‘And he sent someone out there to kill us, so we wouldn't find out he killed Chris. Or had him killed.'
‘No,' he said, ‘I don't know . . . if he sent somebody to shoot at you, but . . . but I can't believe he killed our brother. I won't believe that of Phil.'
‘Why not?' I asked. ‘Is he offering you that much money?'
‘I'm . . . I'm . . . I do need a lot of money,' he said. ‘You'd find that out if you tried. I'm not denying that. And Philip is going to help me. B-but he didn't kill Chris. He didn't!'
I reached out and touched Jerry's tree trunk of an arm. He removed his hand from Eric's chest.
‘I believe you.'
He relaxed his shoulders a bit.
‘I believe that you don't think Philip killed Chris,' I said.
‘You . . . you think he did?'
‘I can't think of anybody else with a motive,' I said, ‘can you?'
‘Well . . .'
‘Come on, Eric,' I said. ‘Don't clam up now.'
Jerry showed Eric Arnold his big hand, fingers splayed.
‘Yeah, all right,' he said, quickly, ‘Philip is in business with . . . some people.'
‘Some people?' I asked. ‘What people, Eric?'
‘Um, the mob,' Eric said. ‘Phil's in business with the mob.'
I looked at Jerry.
‘Why doesn't it surprise me that we're gonna end up dealin' with the mob?'
FORTY-NINE
‘His name's Vincent DeStefano,' Eric said.
‘What does he do?' I asked.
‘I-I don't know.'
‘You do your brother's books, right?' I asked. ‘You must know something.'
‘Well, yeah, but—'
‘They're phony books, right?'
‘R-right,' he admitted, reluctantly. He looked pained, but somehow relieved at having said it.
‘So where are his real books?'
‘I-I don't know.'
‘He doesn't trust you, his own brother, with his real book?' I asked.
‘N-No, it's not that . . . exactly . . . it's just that . . .'
‘Yeah, it is,' Jerry said. He looked at me, but pointed at Eric. ‘This guy's a boob, and his brother knows it.'
‘Yeah,' I said, ‘I think you're right.'
‘Hey . . .' Eric said.
‘So where do we find Mr Vincent DeStefano, Eric?' I asked.
‘I-I don't know . . .'
‘You must have an address for him?' I reasoned. ‘In your brother's papers?'
‘Yeah, but the papers are phony.'
‘I'm bettin' the numbers are phony, but the addresses are real.'
He shrugged and said, ‘OK. I-I'll get it.'
He got up and went to a file cabinet, took peeks over his shoulder a few times to see if we were watching him. We were.
‘You come out of there with anything but paperwork and I'll make you eat it,' Jerry said, but with an easy-going smile on his face. Somehow, the smile made the threat even more menacing.
‘I don't have anything . . .'
‘Just get the info,' Jerry said.
Eric finally fumbled a file out of the drawer and brought it back to where we were sitting.
‘Give that to me and something to write on,' I told him.
‘And siddown,' Jerry said.
Eric sat, gave me the file and gave a pad and pen over to me. I found an address for DeStefano in Las Vegas. I also took down the phone number. I trusted myself more than him to write it down correctly.
‘Here,' I said, and tossed the file back into Eric's lap, along with the pad. ‘Now write down your brother's address and phone number.'
He hesitated.
‘Do it, asshole!' Jerry snapped.
Eric wrote quickly, gave me back the pad. I stood up, looked at Jerry.
‘He's gonna call his brother the minute we leave,' I said. ‘Or DeStefano.'
Jerry looked at Eric.
‘You gonna do that, you little puke?'
‘N-no,' Eric said, blinking rapidly. ‘I-I don't even know Mr DeStefano.'
Jerry felt he needed to reinforce the fear a little more so he produced his .45. Eric's blinking increased.
‘If I hear you called your brother,' Jerry said, pressing his gun to Eric's forehead, ‘or DeStefano, I'll come right back here and pull this trigger.' He pressed the gun harder against Eric's forehead. ‘You got that, Mr Accountant?'
‘Yeah, yeah, I got it,' Eric said, ‘I got it.'
‘I'm serious, asshole,' Jerry said. ‘I don't care how scared you are of your big bad brother, or of Vincent DeStefano. I'll come back here and blow your brains all over the wall.'
Eric nodded jerkily.
‘Tell me you believe me!'
‘I believe you! I believe you!'
‘Good man.'
Jerry removed his gun. The barrel left a round indentation on Eric's forehead. I wondered how long it would last as a reminder? We went back out into the reception area. The cute little receptionist was still there. She looked Jerry up and down again. She apparently liked big men.
‘Here,' she said, holding out a slip of paper to him.
‘What's this?' he asked.
‘My number,' she said, ‘in case you wanna ask
me
any questions.'
‘Uh . . .'
‘He says thanks,' I said, grabbing the slip.
‘I like a big man of few words,' she said.
Out in the hall I said, ‘Here ya go,' and gave him the slip.
‘What am I supposed ta do with this, Mr G?'
‘Come on, Jerry,' I said. ‘Don't tell me a girl never gave you her number before.'
‘No,' he said, ‘I don't get that kinda thing. You and Danny maybe, but not me.'
‘Well . . . this is Vegas,' I said. ‘Anything's possible.'
‘So what do I do with it?'
‘Put it in your pocket, just in case you end up with some free time.'
‘You know,' he said, as we exited the building, ‘with real girls, not whores, ya gotta talk to 'em. I ain't good at that.'
‘Don't worry,' I said. ‘I doubt that would be a problem with this girl.'
FIFTY
‘Are we gonna go and see Philip now?' Jerry asked.
‘Sure, why not?' I asked. ‘There's no point in waiting, is there? Especially since he still might call ahead.'
‘Maybe,' Jerry said, ‘we should go and see DeStefano first?'
‘Do you recognize the name?'
‘No.'
‘I think maybe we should find out just how connected DeStefano is before we go and see him,' I suggested. ‘So let's see big brother first.'
He started the car and said, ‘I gotta warn ya, Mr G. I'm gonna wanna smash his face in as soon as he opens his mouth.'
‘I gotta warn you, Jerry,' I said. ‘I'll probably let you.'
Philip Arnold had offices in a more businesslike section of town. His building was surrounded by other office buildings.
BOOK: Fly Me to the Morgue
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