Now You See It: A Toby Peters Mystery by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B

one, watching the entrance to the dining room, and tables one, two, and three.”
    “I understand,” said Gunther.
    “Minck, you’ll be at seven, watching that table and eight plus the exit behind you.”
    “Why do I only get two tables?” Shelly asked. “The others get three.”
    I knew what Phil was thinking. He paused, held it in. He didn’t want Shelly watching any tables, but we were running thin on free help.
    “Those two tables are the most likely ones to have people who might want to hurt Blackstone,” Phil lied.
    He had been a cop for nearly thirty years. He was a better liar than I was, and I’m pretty damned good.
    Shelly nudged Pancho Vanderhoff, who was working on his fourth taco. Pancho nodded.
    “Toby?”
    “Wear tuxes,” I said. “If you don’t own one, rent one. Blackstone will pay.”
    I knew Gunther had a tux. I knew Phil and I didn’t. I didn’t know about the others.
    “Pancho will be there,” said Shelly.
    “This dinner is for magicians,” Phil said.
    “Something might happen,” said Shelly. “It could be a big scene in Dentist in Disguise . I’ll pay for his ticket and his tux.”
    “It is a dinner, isn’t it?” asked Pancho, cheeks full.
    “Yes,” I said.
    “Do you happen to know what will be on the menu?” asked Pancho.
    “No,” Phil said.
    I knew he was close to throwing them all out. There was the voice of a demon ominously lurking behind his words. I got up.
    “Other questions?” I asked.
    “What do we do if we see something happen?” asked Gunther.
    “Stop it,” said Phil.
    “Where will you and Toby be?” asked Jeremy.
    “Here and here,” said Phil, pointing to a spot next to the kitchen and another one at table six. This last was directly in front of the rectangle that marked the platform on which Ott and Blackstone would be sitting.
    “We’ll be watching Ott and Blackstone,” he said.
    “You’ll have guns?” asked Pancho, sensing the meeting was almost over and pocketing a wrapped taco.
    “You don’t need to know that,” said Phil.
    We would be armed, though there was almost no chance that I would shoot with a room full of people. I’m not a bad shot, I’m a terrible one. I’ve accidentally shot myself twice on cases. Phil was a good shot, but he far preferred to use his hands and fists. Phil took crime very personally.
    “We meet in the Roosevelt lobby at seven-thirty,” Phil said. “Come earlier, if you like, but no later. That’s it.”
    I took a final bite of the taco I had been working on and bit into something hard. I fished what looked like a small gray pebble from my mouth and dropped it in the wastebasket near the table.
    Everyone rose. Shelly whispered to Pancho as they left. Gunther and Jeremy, as unlikely a pair as a man could imagine, left together.
    When the door closed, I started to gather taco wrappers, bags, napkins, and coffee cups.
    “If Cawelti gets wind of this, of me working with them …” Phil said, looking at the closed door and shaking his head.
    “He’ll make some stupid jokes,” I said.
    “If he does, I’ll punch a hole in his stomach,” said Phil, moving to his desk and sitting.
    There were three small framed photographs on his desk facing his chair. One was of him, his dead wife Ruth, his two sons, and his baby daughter. The baby, Lucy, was in Ruth’s arms. They were all smiling. There was a wedding photograph of Phil and Ruth and one more photograph he never explained to me. That last photograph which had turned a brownish color, showed three men in muddy uniforms looking down at a square box in a muddy field. All three men held helmets in their hands. Phil had been in the First World War. He had come back making it clear that he was not going to talk about what he had seen and done.
    “You check the waiters, the kitchen staff for weapons,” Phil said.
    “Right.”
    “I’ll be at the door to the dining room,” he said. “I’ll check the magicians for weapons.”
    I knew Phil had no