A Scourge of Vipers by Bruce DeSilva Page B

asked.
    â€œIf you insist.”
    â€œI do.”
    â€œAll right,” I said.
    â€œIn that case, yeah.”
    â€œHe offered you a bribe to hold up the gambling bill until the governor agrees to turn sports betting over to private enterprise. Is that right?”
    â€œHe did.”
    â€œDid he specify who he had in mind to run things?” McCracken asked.
    â€œHe did not. He said he’d let me know who to throw my weight behind when the time came.”
    â€œCan you confirm the amount of the bribe offer?” I asked.
    â€œTwenty-five thousand dollars. But if the people he represented got the contract, he’d slip me another twenty-five on the back end.”
    â€œHow did he approach you?” McCracken asked.
    â€œHe walked into my company unannounced and placed several bundles of bills on my desk.”
    â€œThen what?” I asked.
    â€œHe told me what the money was for and threatened me when I declined to accept it.”
    â€œHow did he word the threat, exactly?” McCracken asked.
    â€œHe said things would go badly for me if I didn’t agree to his proposition.”
    â€œClever,” the P.I. said. “It could be explained away as a warning that things could go badly politically.”
    â€œYes, but I’m sure that’s not how he meant it,” Longo said. “From his tone of voice and the look on his face, I took it as a threat to do bodily harm.”
    â€œWhat happened next?” I asked.
    â€œI told him to leave, and I called the state police. I spoke to someone in the detective division. I forget the name. But a couple of hours later, Captain Parisi arrived to take my statement.”
    â€œAre you aware of anyone else getting similar bribe offers?” I asked.
    â€œNo, but I have my suspicions.”
    â€œTell me about that.”
    â€œA few weeks after I met with—what was that name again? Albano?”
    â€œAlfano.”
    â€œA few weeks later—it was after that website broke the news about the bill—a couple of legislators who initially voiced support for the governor changed their positions. Suddenly they were insisting that sports gambling should be privatized.”
    â€œCan you tell me their names?” I asked.
    â€œI’d rather not. They could have had legitimate reasons for changing their minds. I’m not one to publicly cast aspersions that I can’t prove.”
    â€œDid you tell Parisi about your suspicions?” I asked.
    â€œSomewhat hesitantly, but yes. It seemed to me it was something he should look into.”
    With that, we thanked him, and he led us to the door.
    â€œHe was helpful,” McCracken said as we settled into the Bronco.
    â€œHe was.”
    â€œSo I guess we’re going to go see my client now, huh?” he said.
    â€œYup.”
    â€œFine,” he said, “but can we grab an early dinner first?”
    We drove back north on 114 and stopped at Jack’s on Child Street in Warren for clam chowder, littlenecks, and beverages. As one Killian’s led to another, and then to several more, the conversation turned to my possible future as a McCracken & Associates operative. By the time McCracken ponied up for the tab, the sun was setting, and a steady rain had begun to fall.
    *   *   *
    Phil Templeton lived in a raised ranch on Pace Court in Lincoln, just a few miles from the North Central State Airport. I parked the Bronco in a turnaround at the end of the cul-de-sac and took a moment to study the dark house. Then I fetched my flashlight from the glove box, and together McCracken and I splashed up the flagstone walk.
    McCracken rang the bell, then spotted jimmy marks on the front door. He nudged it open with his shoe, and we stepped into the foyer.
    â€œMr. Templeton?” he called out. “Hello? Is anybody home?”
    We crept down a short hallway, and I swept the flashlight beam over the living room. The coffee table had