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

delighted that you’re here tonight, that you’ve chosen to spend a glorious summer evening at the Carnegie Library.

“Tonight …” Lenny paused for effect, then raised his voice and said, “Murder, mayhem, and the Mafia in Chicago. What’s not to like?” He spread his arms wide like he was about to give someone a big hug. He grinned broadly, his eyes sparkling.

Scattered applause broke out. There was an air of expectancy in the room.

This was a Lenny Stern I’d never seen before, in private or in public. Never heard him use “glorious” before. Never seen him so interested in talking to people who weren’t criminals or the cops who chased them. My friend, the cantankerous crime reporter, was a charming public speaker. Of course, I’d never seen him perform — and that was the right word, in a setting like the Carnegie.

“It’s essential to remember that this is a true story, with real people living corrupt, dangerous lives.” Lenny was off and running, revealing gruesome details and taking us along for the ride.

“So you can just imagine, can you not,” he said, “the reaction of the citizenry when two bodies washed up on a pristine beach at Grand Haven, Michigan.”

The way Lenny told it, I was sure the rapt audience pictured every sordid detail.

Occasionally someone got out of a chair and walked past Henri toward the restrooms. My eyes followed when that happened. I’d glance at Henri, and he’d watch, too.

“So that’s my tale of crime in the city of Chicago,” Lenny said, and the crowd broke into a loud and sustained applause. He smiled and nodded. After a few moments he raised an arm, quieting them down.

“It’s time for questions,” he said, and several hands shot into the air.

“Yes, ma-am,” Lenny said.

A head of fluffy gray hair rose in the front row. She was short enough so that’s about all I saw, but I had no trouble hearing her.

“Mr. Stern,” the woman said. “I lived in the Windy City for thirty-five years before I retired. I remember reading you in the Tribune, the trouble you got yourself into …” Lenny laughed at that one. “Aren’t you frightened, writing a book like this, you know, with names … accusing politicians and mobsters of murder?”

There it was. The perfect start for the Q&A. There wasn’t a sound in the room. They waited for Lenny’s answer. Even I wanted to hear it.

“I made a decision,” he said, “that some things are too important …”

Lenny spent almost thirty-five of his allotted fifteen minutes taking question after question, until Andrea McHale moved to the podium and politely drew this portion of the evening’s event to a close.

“Give us a few minutes,” she said, “to rearrange the room, and Mr. Stern will be delighted to sign copies of his book.”

Staff people, who’d obviously done this before, took over. Most of the chairs went out, replaced by two tables and several cartons of books. A few people approached Lenny at the podium. Henri had already moved forward to be closer.

“Michael,” AJ said when she came over, “did you know Lenny was that good?”

I shook my head. “Not a clue.”

“I’m as surprised as you.”

Maury Weston and Charles Bigelow were standing close to Lenny’s table.

“Have you seen Tina or Kate?” I said.

“They told me they’d be right back.” AJ chuckled.

“What?”

“I’m sure I heard the word ‘cabernet’ as they walked away.”

Over the next hour, a steady stream of people came through the doors and stood in line at the table.

Two teenagers, one male and one female, both white, wearing jeans and T-shirts, entered through the side door, walking right past Henri. He caught my eye as he moved in behind them while they approached Lenny.

We’d been caught off guard by teens before, so I eased in closer.

The two huddled off to one side of the table, talking quietly. When they decided to get in line, Henri moved around behind Lenny to get a better look.

As the pair approached the table, Henri caught my eye and waved me off with a slight shake of his head. I nodded, returning to my spot next to AJ on the sidewall.

The teenagers turned from the table with their very own signed copy of Corruption on Trial and left by the side door, clutching each other and the book with equal vigor.

Frank Marshall and Wardcliff Griswold left the table, each with a book, and walked toward us. Frank stopped, but Griswold kept right on going, never glancing our way.

“Well, it was good to see both of you,” Marshall said.

“You like Lenny’s talk?” AJ said.

“Very much. I’m eager to read his book.” Marshall glanced over his shoulder. “I have to catch up,” he said, pointing at the front door.

With less than thirty minutes left, Henri and I remained in our positions, relieved that our services were unneeded. We were waiting to wrap up as Tina Lawson and Kate Hubbell entered the rotunda and went past Henri. They laughed quietly and found two unused chairs.

“You may have been right about going for wine,” I said to AJ.

Andrea McHale edged her way over. “As soon as those folks leave, we’ll be finished, and I’ll lock the doors.” She gave a casual wave to her people stationed at the doors.

“Well,” AJ said, “it looks as if the tour’s off to a quiet start.”

I nodded. “Be nice if it stayed quiet.”

With the visitors gone, the library staff removed the last reminders of the evening’s event. Lenny came over to us to get out of their way.

“You can be quite the charmer,” AJ said, smiling. “The audience loved you.”

Lenny came as close as I’d ever seen him to an “ah, shucks” look on his face. But he rescued himself with a shrug.

“Told you I liked doing this,” he said.

“Mr. Stern,” Charles Bigelow said in a booming voice, and we turned as he walked up with Maury, Tina and Kate pulling up the rear.

“You were superb,” Bigelow said. “I’ve seen plenty of book talks in my day. You were right up there