Free Margaret Truman's Experiment in Murder by Margaret Truman

back and said, “A relaxing drink is good for headaches, huh?”
    â€œYes, I would like a drink,” Itani said.
    â€œCome, then,” Borger said, “my treat at one of my favorite bars in the city, at the Huntington Hotel.”
    â€œI have to change my clothes,” Itani said, looking down at his sweat-stained gray workout gear.
    â€œYes, you do that, Iskander,” Puhlman said. “Take your time.”
    Borger used Itani’s absence to further question Puhlman about the young man. “What’s his family situation?” he asked.
    â€œHe lives with two brothers and his mother in a neighborhood just outside the city. There’s no money. The brothers work at whatever jobs they can find. The mother isn’t well, according to Iskander, cancer that’s been treated but left her unable to work.”
    â€œThe father?”
    â€œHe abandoned the family years ago. Iskander thought that he’d become a famous fighter and support the family, but it didn’t work out that way.”
    â€œYou told me when you called that he has strong political beliefs.”
    â€œHe occasionally rants about politics and politicians. He’s especially angry with George Mortinson.”
    Mortinson was the Democratic candidate for the presidency. With the election weeks away, the photogenic, charming Mortinson led the incumbent Republican president Allan Swayze in most polls by almost ten points. Swayze had been swept into office on a wave of protest against the previous Democratic administration. But the country fell into a deep recession during Swayze’s tenure in the White House, and his chances for reelection were further reduced by attempts on the part of the Republican-controlled Congress to eviscerate funding for Social Security, Medicare, and Medicaid.
    â€œHe follows politics?” Borger asked.
    â€œNot in any depth. He curses Mortinson for his pro-Israel policies and his hard stance on Iran. Typical Arab view.”
    Itani’s return ended the discussion. He’d changed into a yellow-and-brown sport shirt, dark brown jeans, and sneakers.
    â€œAll set?” Borger asked.
    â€œYes,” Itani replied.
    They drove to the Huntington Hotel in Borger’s silver Jaguar, which he’d parked just outside the gym. The uniformed doorman greeted Borger by name as they entered the opulent lobby and headed for the Big 4 Restaurant, the 4 referring to four industrial and financial giants of yesteryear who’d left their marks on the city’s posh Nob Hill area. Once settled in the handsome wood-paneled bar with forest-green banquettes and lead-glass mirrors—and after Itani ordered a Tom Collins, Borger a Diet Coke, Puhlman white wine—Borger brought up the subject of Itani’s headaches.
    â€œHow often do you have them, Iskander?”
    â€œOften. Sometimes worse than other times.”
    Itani, drinking through a straw, drained his glass. He looked up at Borger and said sheepishly, “I was thirsty.”
    â€œWould you like another?”
    â€œYes … please.”
    â€œTell me about when the headaches started,” Borger probed.
    â€œAfter my last fight. No, after the one before that.”
    â€œHow many fights have you had?”
    Itani looked to Puhlman.
    â€œHe’s had fourteen professional bouts and a half dozen amateur fights.”
    â€œAnd you were beaten in your last fight?” Borger asked.
    â€œYes. He was a dirty fighter, an Irish fighter.”
    Borger sat back and smiled. “Do Irish fighters have a reputation for being dirty fighters?”
    â€œYes,” was Itani’s reply. “I was knocked out. I went to the hospital.”
    â€œYou’ve seen doctors, I assume. I mean, aside from the ones you saw in the hospital.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWell,” said Borger, “I usually don’t meet new patients in a gym or a bar, but I might be able to help you. I’ve