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

shoulder toward the front door.

Eleanor was close to sixty, with a cheap haircut and sad green eyes. The badge clipped to the breast pocket of her maroon blazer displayed her name, and below it, “Manager.”

“Where is he?”

“Who?”

“Who? Leonard Stern, that’s who.”

“He’ll be here in a few minutes. He’s with my associate, they’re on the way.”

“He’s our first bestselling author, you know. Right here in the store. This is our chance to make a name for Humbug’s. Do you understand?”

“Understood. Yes, ma’am.”

“We begin at three sharp, you know.”

“He’ll be here on time. Promise.”

“The talk will last about thirty minutes, Q&A another twenty, the rest for signing books.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Now, Mr. Russo, you must be no more than a fly on the wall.”

“A fly on the wall?”

“Yes, yes. Out of the way,” she said, with a dismissive flick of the wrist. “We don’t want you to interfere with our customers, after all.”

“Look …” I took a quick glance at her name badge again.

“Look, Ms. Cosworth, what plans do you have for your customers if trouble starts?”

She straightened her shoulders. “Trouble?”

“Yes, trouble.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Ms. Cosworth, you know that Lenny Stern has received death threats?”

“Certainly.”

“Do you understand what that means?”

“Of course I do,” she said. “Gloucester Publishing wants to gin up sales, get better press coverage for the book tour. Good marketing, I’d say.”

Ms. Eleanor Cosworth, manager of Humbug’s Bookstore in downtown Harbor Springs, was in for a shock.

“The threats are very real, Ms. Cosworth.”

She looked at me, but said nothing, just a small twist of the head.

Reality was about to sink in.

“You’re telling me … this … this isn’t the marketing department?”

“No, ma’am,” I said. “Lenny Stern wrote a book about a Mafia killing.”

“I read his book, Mr. Russo,” she said, in a voice that was condescending. “I’m not sure the world needs another yarn about the Mafia.”

“Since you read it, Ms. Cosworth, remember he named names, accused mobsters, public officials, candidates for office. And he’s got evidence that might put some of them in jail.”

Eleanor absentmindedly began scratching a small spot on her forehead.

“The bad guys will make a run at him,” I said.

“You mean, try to kill him?”

I nodded. “Yes, ma’am. It will happen. We just don’t know when. At one of the stops maybe, on the road. The men coming for him want only two things, to kill Lenny and get away.”

Cosworth took a deep breath. “So shooting a few of our customers wouldn’t matter to them?”

I shook my head. “I’m afraid not.”

“I saw the news … does this have anything to do with the woman they found dead?”

The grim news had made its way through the fog of selling books.

“Her name was Kate Hubbell. She edited Lenny’s book.”

Eleanor’s left hand went to her mouth. “Dear god,” she said. “Can you stop this?”

“I can cut the odds of people being hurt, but if you’re looking for guarantees, there are none.”

“So was that woman killed because she was a threat like Mr. Stern, or was she in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

I shrugged. “We’re not sure.” Even as I said it, my gut was uneasy with her question. I wasn’t sure why.

“What are you going to do?” Eleanor said.

“I make myself visible. They see me or my associate, better if they see both of us. They know if they try to hurt Lenny, they’ll pay a price.”

“You’ll kill them?”

“If I have to, yes. Better if I don’t have to.”

“You mean that might be enough to scare them off?”

“It might be, yes, if we’re lucky.”

“But wouldn’t they try to kill him at the next stop on the tour, or the stop after that?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You just have to wait for it?”

“Well,” I said. “We try to be ready, but yes, ma’am.”

“You live a dangerous life, Mr. Russo.”

21

I poured a cup of coffee from a small carafe at the back of the store, sat in one of the white chairs, and waited for Henri and Lenny. Eleanor’s question stuck in my head. Was Kate Hubbell simply in the wrong place, or was she a threat to the bad guys, too? I pushed the question aside. My concern had to be Lenny Stern.

I still didn’t like putting Lenny at that podium in the front window. Maybe we had time to change things up. I took my coffee and went to the sales counter.

“Ms. Cosworth?”

Eleanor looked up.

“I’m worried about the front window.”

She nodded, but didn’t say anything.

“Can we move the podium and the chairs?” I said. “Away from the window, I mean. It shouldn’t take long.”

“It wouldn’t take long at all, but where would you suggest I move them? This is a small store,” she said, like she wondered why I needed to be told. “Floor space is very valuable.”

“I appreciate the complexities of retailing,” I said.

“I doubt that you do, but it was nice of you to say that.”

“It’s only while Lenny’s here,” I said. “I’ll help you move them all back.”

“I know you’re trying to be nice,” she said, “but you’ll just have to work with what we have.”

I looked around again, as if the podium and chairs had rearranged themselves. They had not. I thought — not for very long — about constructing another line of persuasion. The neat, orderly world of Eleanor Cosworth did not appreciate disruption.

“Mr. Russo? I have a question with … ah, all due respect. Do you have any help, or are you on your own?”

With his usual sense of good timing, Henri LaCroix entered the bookstore.

“The front door,” I said with a tilt of the head. Cosworth turned around.

A few steps behind Henri were Lenny Stern and Tina Lawson. They were dressed professionally in honor of the occasion, but their demeanor suggested caution. And neither of them was smiling.

I introduced Eleanor Cosworth, and greetings were shared all around. Eleanor stared at Henri, probably wondering why he wore a green nylon windbreaker on such a hot day. She’d finally caught on why I needed a loose shirt. Of course, she might have been sizing up Henri