Deadline for Lenny Stern by Peter Marabell (easy books to read in english .txt) 📗

Bob Berg (1943-2019)

Mary Maurer (1951-2020)

It’s likely just a coincidence that these two spent much of their professional lives with newspapers. But it’s no coincidence at all that that Bob Berg and Mary Maurer were thoughtful, decent people who gave to the citizens of their respective communities, time, energy, and support. I will miss their friendship. I will miss the easy, relaxed times sharing dinner and a glass of wine. I will especially miss the times that were not relaxing or easy, when they stirred my mind, challenged my political perspectives, and pushed me to rethink my view of the world.

“Better to more than to know less.”— Lenny Stern, reporter, The Petoskey Post Dispatch

“Revenge is an act of passion, vengeance of justice. Injuries are revenged; crimes are avenged.”

— Samuel Johnson

1

Maury Weston called this morning, said he needed me for a dangerous job. I was betting the publisher of the Petoskey Post Dispatch didn’t want to hire me as a reporter. I told him I’d walk over.

It was a hot, steamy day even for the middle of July, so the sidewalks were crowded with tourists, eager to shop before heading to the beach. I snaked my way through them as best I could. Once out of the Gaslight District shopping area foot traffic lightened up, and I moved more easily.

The newspaper offices were packed into a two-story frame house in the middle of State Street, a short three blocks from my Lake Street office. Only a large sign on the front lawn distinguished it from so many other houses around town built in the 1930s.

I entered the building and took the stairs to the second floor. Maury Weston’s office was across from AJ Lester’s office. AJ was editor of PPD Wired, the online edition of the Post Dispatch, and the most important person in my life. I stuck my head in her door.

“Morning, AJ.”

“Good morning,” she said, smiling.

“Any idea what’s going on?”

She nodded slowly. “Let Maury tell you,” she said. “I love you, but this is business.”

“Whatever you say, darling.”

“I’ll be here when you’re done,” she said. “Come see me.”

I went across the hall to Weston’s office. The door was ajar, but I knocked anyway.

“Michael,” Weston said. Maury Weston was an influential member of the community, respected both for his civic contributions and for keeping the Post Dispatch in business (and focused on local issues).

His office had been a large front bedroom in an earlier life. Off to the side of the room was a long, rectangular cherry conference table. Three other people sat around the table. None of them looked happy.

“Let me introduce you,” he said as he hauled his lanky six-six frame out of the chair at the head of the table.

First was Charles Bigelow, six feet tall, forty-something with a pencil-thin mustache on a narrow face.

“Charles is assistant to the president of Gloucester Publishing Company in Chicago.”

“How are you?” Bigelow said, in a way that was both dismissive and uninterested.

“This is Tina Lawson,” Weston said. Lawson was thirty or thirty-one, five-six, straight shoulder-length black hair, with green eyes.

“Tina is Lenny’s agent at Gloucester.”

Lenny Stern, a veteran reporter for the Post Dispatch, nodded when I glanced his way. Over the years, I’d given him solid leads for some juicy stories.

“Agent?” I said, and sat down. “You finally publish your book, Lenny?”

“Of course, he’s published, Mr. Russo,” Bigelow said. “We have a book tour scheduled. That’s why you’re here. I assumed you would have been told of the problem.”

“I’m always late to the party,” I said. “What’s the problem?”

Weston jumped in ahead of Bigelow. “Lenny’s received death threats, Michael.”

I glanced at Lenny. “Death threats?”

He shrugged. Lenny Stern had spent enough years as a crime reporter in Chicago and Detroit to recognize a real threat when he got one.

“Because of the book?” I said.

Lenny nodded.

“Why?” I said.

Everyone was silent. I took care of that.

“Lenny?”

He hesitated, then said, “You know In Cold Blood by Truman Capote?”

I nodded.

“Capote called it a ‘nonfiction novel.’ That’s what I did. All the details are accurate. The creative part is weaving it together in a book with the dramatic flair of a novel. To make it a better read.”

“Understood,” I said. “What’s your book about?”

“A mob killing in Chicago, 1995,” Lenny said. “I covered the story as a reporter from the start. The name Alberto Genco ring a bell?”

“Vaguely,” I said. “Mafia Don who went missing?”

Lenny nodded. “Until his body floated to the surface of Lake Michigan near Grand Haven one September afternoon. They found his gunman’s body a day later.”

“They ever solve the case?”

“You bet they did. But the prosecutor said there wasn’t enough evidence for a jury to convict. If he’d gone to trial, it would have gutted a powerful crime family and all its political connections. The mob paid him off, Russo. He invented a story to cover the bribe. Pled guilty to a low-level felony, got five years. Should have been out in eighteen months, but he was killed in his prison cell. Raped and beaten to death.”

“And you spelled all that out?”

“I did,” Lenny said. “I focused on the prosecutor who didn’t prosecute, named the public officials who helped him, and the mob family who did the killing.”

“That was a long time ago, Lenny, 1995,” I said. “You’re being threatened now? After all these years?”

Lenny shrugged again.

“We need two things, Michael,” Weston said, holding up two fingers of his right hand in a “V” shape. “Arrange protection for Lenny, especially on the book tour, and find out who’s behind the threats.”

“Just a moment, Mr. Weston,” Bigelow said, “Gloucester needs Mr. Stern’s book to be a success. We need him out there, we need the tour. Has Mr. Russo the experience, the temperament for this assignment? Can he handle it?”

“I’m right here,” I said, “talk to me.”

Bigelow put his hands flat on the table, as if he were about to leap up. He didn’t. “All right, Mr. Russo, can you?”

“Can I what?” I didn’t have the willpower to resist that one.

“Can you handle