The Downtown Deal by Mike Dennis Page B

waiting in front of eight windows, of
which only two will be manned. What's more, of those two working windows, one
will invariably be tied up for forty-five minutes by someone who doesn't speak
good English, with an armload of packages and a request for a dozen money
orders, each for odd amounts, to be sent to forbidden places like Libya and
Iran.
    I'd much
rather go to the dentist.
    Anyway,
despite the blow of losing that big hand to Fong at Binion's, I did manage to
recover later in the night and I wound up winning a couple of hundred, so I
used that to take care of some of these little items on my agenda.
    Plus, I
still had Blake's ten dimes, or most of it anyway. But so far, I had only spent
that money on expenses directly related to the case. Not only that, after
getting sapped at Ryan Farrow's house and waking up with it still in my pocket,
I decided not to push my luck and carry it around with me anymore, so I kept
most of it hidden in my apartment from that night forward. Whatever was left
over after this case was finished, plus the additional twelve-five Blake would
owe me for finding Sandra's killer and for holding the wine, I was going to put
away in some kind of investment.
    I
didn't know shit about that kind of thing, but I had a line on an investment
counselor, I think they call them, who could steer me in the right direction. I
was tired of living off the cash in my pocket, tired of not having anything put
back for my future, you know, because when I get there, there won't be any
pension or any kind of retirement package waiting for me.
    That
was how it was in PI work, and that's how it is in the poker world.
    I was
due to turn thirty-seven in January, and even though my retirement was still
quite a ways off, I was getting a little nervous just thinking about it. I
didn't want to eat up the years between now and then diddling around with no
preparations.
    Back
in February, I gave back over eighty-five grand to Blake, which was actually
his money to begin with. I got it under unusual circumstances, which I won't go
into here, but suffice it to say I could've kept it without his ever knowing. I
don't really regret giving it back to him, because I know it was the right
thing to do, but now, with the anxieties I've been feeling lately concerning my
future, well, I just don't know. It damn sure would've provided me a nice nest
egg.
    So,
this money Blake was paying me to find Sandra's killer was sailing straight
into my retirement fund. I wasn't exactly wild about doing PI work again
— I really wanted to put all that behind me — but I decided that if
any of these other odd jobs came my way for money I couldn't refuse, said money
would go toward my future.
    I
poured a Dalmore and turned on the TV. The Yankees had won their game earlier
against Boston, earning their ticket to the World Series, so I picked up the
middle innings of the Cubs-Marlins game in Chicago. According to the
announcers, the Cubs were the "team of destiny", absolutely
predetermined to go on to the World Series, where they would vanquish the evil
Yankees for their first championship in nearly a hundred years, blah, blah,
blah. Being a Yankee fan, I didn't really care for that kind of cheerleading
from guys who were paid to be impartial, but I watched the game anyway.
    By the
top of the eighth inning, the Cubs were winning 3-0 and seemed to have
everything well under control, being just a few outs away from their
long-awaited trip to the World Series, so I turned the channel to a movie.

 
    ≈≈≈

 
    I called Colby Farrow
first thing the next morning, trying him at work first. I was surprised to find
him there, given that his brother's funeral was scheduled for the following day.
He'd been pretty cooperative during our little meeting the other day at Ryan's
house, despite having just learned of the murder, so I thought I'd try pushing
him a little further.
    "Colby,
Jack Barnett."
    "Yes,
what can I do for you."
    "I
need to know whatever