formal for a dump like this. Just as Quinn knew there was a gun under that pillow, he figured Zito probably had one or two firearms stashed in other places in the apartment as well. “Anything in there I should know about?”
“I got a .45 stashed next to the player. Just in case.”
Quinn slowly got out of his chair. He kept the .22 trained on Zito’s chest. He peeked behind the cabinet. No extra wires coming out of it. It didn’t look rigged or booby trapped.
Quinn opened the lid slowly. He found the .45 nestled against the turntable, just like Zito said. He also saw a small white envelope about the size of a calling card next to it. He pocketed Zito’s .45 and took the note back to his chair. He pulled the card out of the envelope with one hand.
The other still held the .22 on Zito.
The handwriting on the card was impressively neat. It read:
I have it on good authority that you are a man who knows how to solve problems. I have a problem that requires solving of a permanent nature. Please accept this one thousand dollars as a retainer for your services. Do a good job, and you shall receive twice this amount afterward.
Regrettably, it will be impossible to give you much advanced notice of when I may need you, and for what purpose. I shall give you all the notice I can. Please remain in your apartment each evening for the next three days so I will know how to find you.
You have a reputation for discretion, Mr. Zito. Please, keep it that way.
Talk soon,
Me.
Quinn re-read the note. The tone was fancy and stiff. He couldn’t understand why anyone would write down anything like this in the first place. “Any idea on who sent this?”
Zito shook his head. “Half the people who hire me can’t hardly read, much less write. I don’t exactly advertise, either, so I don’t know how they found me. Normally, I’d be steamed about someone sneaking into my place while I slept, but a thousand bucks does a lot to water down my temper, especially these days.”
Quinn pocketed the note. “So, you get the note and the money. Then what?”
“I waited, just like he told me to,” Zito said. “A grand is more money than I’ve seen in one place in a long time. But I wanted to be ready so that when the guy came back, I could grab him and find out how he found me.
Then yesterday, around five or so, someone bangs on my door. By the time I get over there, there was nobody in the hallway. Just a sack laying against my door. When I open it up, it has another grand in it and another note.” Zito took another note card from the table next to his Murphy bed and handed it to Quinn. “Here. Read it for yourself.”
The handwriting was completely different: bold, blocky letters. It read:
ames pool hall, tonight, 11:00 PM. get there early. give $500 to vinny ceretti at the bar. we know you know who he is. make sure he gets all the money or you don’t get the rest of yours. when vinnie leaves, kill the fat man playing pool. we’ll be watching.
Quinn re read the note. Two notes, two different people. No way of telling why or who wrote them. No sense in wasting time trying to figure it out yet.
“You knew Ceretti?” Quinn asked. “How’d they know that?”
Zito shrugged. “I don’t know. We wasn’t pals or nothing. I just knew
him from around. You know how it is.”
It made sense to Quinn. Ceretti was always sniffing around, looking to scrounge up a buck. He scurried a broad path. “What did you do next?” “I showed up early,” Zito continued. “I waited until Johnny the Kid started playing pool. I spotted Ceretti, stood behind him so he couldn’t see me. Ceretti’s a rat and he woulda given me up in five seconds flat after the shooting if he saw me. I gave him the money, told him to scram. I shot the fat guy playing pool, just like the note told me to do. It was too crowded for a head shot, so I got in close and shot him as best I could. If I knew the guy was that fat, I woulda brought the .45 instead to do
“I got a .45 stashed next to the player. Just in case.”
Quinn slowly got out of his chair. He kept the .22 trained on Zito’s chest. He peeked behind the cabinet. No extra wires coming out of it. It didn’t look rigged or booby trapped.
Quinn opened the lid slowly. He found the .45 nestled against the turntable, just like Zito said. He also saw a small white envelope about the size of a calling card next to it. He pocketed Zito’s .45 and took the note back to his chair. He pulled the card out of the envelope with one hand.
The other still held the .22 on Zito.
The handwriting on the card was impressively neat. It read:
I have it on good authority that you are a man who knows how to solve problems. I have a problem that requires solving of a permanent nature. Please accept this one thousand dollars as a retainer for your services. Do a good job, and you shall receive twice this amount afterward.
Regrettably, it will be impossible to give you much advanced notice of when I may need you, and for what purpose. I shall give you all the notice I can. Please remain in your apartment each evening for the next three days so I will know how to find you.
You have a reputation for discretion, Mr. Zito. Please, keep it that way.
Talk soon,
Me.
Quinn re-read the note. The tone was fancy and stiff. He couldn’t understand why anyone would write down anything like this in the first place. “Any idea on who sent this?”
Zito shook his head. “Half the people who hire me can’t hardly read, much less write. I don’t exactly advertise, either, so I don’t know how they found me. Normally, I’d be steamed about someone sneaking into my place while I slept, but a thousand bucks does a lot to water down my temper, especially these days.”
Quinn pocketed the note. “So, you get the note and the money. Then what?”
“I waited, just like he told me to,” Zito said. “A grand is more money than I’ve seen in one place in a long time. But I wanted to be ready so that when the guy came back, I could grab him and find out how he found me.
Then yesterday, around five or so, someone bangs on my door. By the time I get over there, there was nobody in the hallway. Just a sack laying against my door. When I open it up, it has another grand in it and another note.” Zito took another note card from the table next to his Murphy bed and handed it to Quinn. “Here. Read it for yourself.”
The handwriting was completely different: bold, blocky letters. It read:
ames pool hall, tonight, 11:00 PM. get there early. give $500 to vinny ceretti at the bar. we know you know who he is. make sure he gets all the money or you don’t get the rest of yours. when vinnie leaves, kill the fat man playing pool. we’ll be watching.
Quinn re read the note. Two notes, two different people. No way of telling why or who wrote them. No sense in wasting time trying to figure it out yet.
“You knew Ceretti?” Quinn asked. “How’d they know that?”
Zito shrugged. “I don’t know. We wasn’t pals or nothing. I just knew
him from around. You know how it is.”
It made sense to Quinn. Ceretti was always sniffing around, looking to scrounge up a buck. He scurried a broad path. “What did you do next?” “I showed up early,” Zito continued. “I waited until Johnny the Kid started playing pool. I spotted Ceretti, stood behind him so he couldn’t see me. Ceretti’s a rat and he woulda given me up in five seconds flat after the shooting if he saw me. I gave him the money, told him to scram. I shot the fat guy playing pool, just like the note told me to do. It was too crowded for a head shot, so I got in close and shot him as best I could. If I knew the guy was that fat, I woulda brought the .45 instead to do
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