Free The Equalizer by Michael Sloan Page B

mine.”
    â€œHave you called the police?”
    Moses shrugged. “I call the police, perhaps they go and find these men and say something to them. Perhaps these men leave me alone. Then I pay the police.”
    â€œMost cops don’t take graft.”
    â€œIt does not matter who is my protector. I pay one group, or the other. It gives me peace of mind. It is the way it is.”
    â€œIt shouldn’t be.”
    Moses smiled. “I shouldn’t be ending my days in a musty antiques store, watching people look and touch, but not buy. I should be able to run home and back to the store. I once batted .368 in the Appalachian League, the Greeneville Astros, in Tennessee. Tennessee of all places! Can you believe that? With seventeen triples that season. Even Mickey Mantle never had seventeen triples in a season! Now I take a walk around the block once in the morning, once in the afternoon, so I don’t end up in a wheelchair. I kiss my wife when I get home and she cooks the greatest kasha for me. You know what kasha is?”
    â€œBuckwheat grouts cooked in water, like rice, mixed with oil, fried onions, and mushrooms. Kasha varnishtas is good, too.”
    â€œYes, my wife makes the farfalle with a touch of ginger. Luigi should eat his heart out. Do not worry about me, Mr. McCall. Life is good.”
    â€œIt could be better.”
    He shrugged. “Always.” The old man put a gentle hand on McCall’s arm. “Be at peace with yourself.”
    Easier said than done, McCall thought.
    He glanced at his watch.
    â€œI’ve got to get to work.”
    He walked to the front door, opened it, turned back.
    â€œIf I wanted to find those men, where would I go?”
    Moses shrugged. “I do not leave the store. I wouldn’t know.”
    â€œYou know.”
    The old man shrugged again.
    â€œAlways so good to see you, Mr. McCall.”
    McCall nodded and closed out the past behind him.
    *   *   *
    It was a good lunchtime crowd. McCall was behind the bar, mixing drinks with deft hands as fast as the servers put down their chits. But then, Bentleys Bar & Grill was always packed. It had long windows looking out on West Broadway with the name BENTLEYS inscribed on them in flowing gold script. The booths were dark red leather with black trim, lots of tables, Tiffany lamps on counters, the whole place oozing warmth and camaraderie. Most of the crowd was young, from the financial district, lots of stockbrokers, paralegals, attorneys, bankers, and a good smattering of tourists. McCall knew Bentleys paid no protection. The owner, Harvey, was a close friend of the mayor of New York. Not worth the trouble to extort money from. Small business owners were the neighborhood ticket.
    The long mahogany bar went along the back wall, glasses hanging from the racks above, bottles in niches and in wells beside the sinks. Two bartenders worked it, one of them serving the patrons who sat at the bar or who couldn’t wait for one of the servers to find their table, the other just mixing the server’s orders. Right now, that was McCall. But he made an exception for the blond, curvaceous young woman who now eased her way between two occupied stools and gave him a big smile. The two men sitting at the stools didn’t seem to mind. In fact, they’d died and gone to Heaven.
    McCall knew her name was Karen Armstrong because he’d asked for her ID when she’d first come in months before, right after Thanksgiving, with her friends. She looked borderline twenty-one, but the license had assured him she had been twenty-two on February 19 that prior year. She was wearing a blue blouse, unbuttoned to show enough cleavage just short of arrest, a gray miniskirt, black shoes with one-inch heels. He hadn’t been able to place her perfume, but it was something from Dior.
    Elena Petrov had worn the same perfume.
    â€œI can’t find my server, Bobby,” she said,