Free Walk a Black Wind by Michael Collins Page B

chair. Tabor sat down in the easy chair, his eyes fixed toward the TV set. He waved me to a seat. I sat down.
    â€œThe Jets are ahead,” Tabor said. “Fourth quarter.”
    On the TV the quarterback completed a long pass. Tabor sipped his beer, leaned forward to watch the dark-shirted defenders swarm down the white-shirted receiver.
    I said, “You worked with Leland on the Black Mountain Lake project? Investigating it?”
    â€œI don’t know what Mark was working on,” he said. “Damn!”
    The damn was for an interception on the TV. The Jets had been stopped. Tabor watched the teams change.
    â€œHis partner?” I said. “And you don’t know his work?”
    â€œWe need linebackers,” Tabor said as the enemy gained five yards up center on the TV. “Mark wanted publicity, had ideas of running for office. He was working on his own.”
    â€œNot working for any client? Any group?”
    There was time out on the screen, but Tabor continued to watch. “No,” he said.
    â€œYou know that much? Negative, but nothing positive?”
    â€œMark didn’t tell me what he was doing, or what he’d found if anything,” Tabor said, drank his beer, watched the TV screen where the Jets had the ball now.
    â€œWhy did he go to Francesca Crawford?”
    â€œI don’t know he did,” Tabor said, moved forward in his chair as the Jets acted. “Look at that? What a catch! Go, go, go! He’s loose! He … damn! It’s okay, we’ll score soon.”
    I said, “You can’t help me at all?”
    â€œThere! Off-tackle, right, right—” Eager in his chair, battling through the line with the ball carrier. “I’m in all private practice now. Corporation stuff. No politics.”
    â€œLeland’s work dropped? That was fast.”
    â€œTouchdown!” Tabor cried, turned to me with glittering eyes. I didn’t even look at the screen. His eyes looked away. “I’m no hero, Mr. Fortune. Mark is dead, buried.”
    â€œDead and forgotten?”
    Tabor watched the kickoff on the screen. Behind us the outer door opened. Tabor didn’t turn. I had heard no key in the door lock, it had been left open. I turned. Abram Zaremba stood in the room, the door shut behind him. He was alone.
    â€œOut,” Abram Zaremba said.
    He wasn’t talking to me. George Tabor went to a closet, got a coat, and walked out of his apartment. Zaremba went to the TV set and turned it off.
    â€œJets win by two touchdowns,” he said, sat down facing me. “Who are you working for, Fortune?”
    â€œSo you got to Tabor? Gave him some business work?”
    â€œI got to Tabor,” he said. “Now I get to you. How much?”
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œFor your client’s name, and for walking away.”
    â€œI don’t have a client. I liked Francesca Crawford.”
    â€œYou never met the girl until a morgue slab.”
    â€œIf you know that, you know what she was doing in New York. You knew who she was, all about her. You were watching her.”
    â€œI watch what concerns my business.”
    â€œLike Mark Leland, Zaremba?”
    â€œCommissioner to you,” he said. “Don’t talk too much.”
    He leaned, and slapped me across the mouth. I jumped up, my one fist balled, ready to hit him. An automatic response. But I didn’t hit him. I just stood there. He was smiling.
    â€œYou want to hit me, Fortune?” he said. “Go ahead. Look, I don’t carry a weapon,” and he opened his elegant suit coat to show me. “I’m alone, right? Sure, I am. Go ahead.”
    I didn’t move. Suddenly, there seemed to be doors all around me, open windows, other rooms where his men could be hidden and watching. My neck crawled. He almost purred, he was so pleased with himself, with his power.
    â€œI’m no match for you, even with that one arm. You’ve got a