Free Pit Bull Peter Geller 03 - Pit and the Pendulum by John Gregory Betancourt Page B

sorry, Pit. Peter. If I’d known —”
    “Really, Davy, I don’t mind.” I sat beside him and stretched out my legs. They hurt less that way. “Want to tell me about it? I’ll help if I can. I didn’t have anything else planned for today.” Or ever.
    “I — I can’t ask you —”
    “Sure you can. Isn’t that what frat brothers are for?” I didn’t add: even second-class ones like me? “So. Tell me what’s wrong.”
    His ice-blue eyes searched mine for a minute. He must really have been desperate, since he gave a nod. I smiled encouragingly.
    “Blackmail,” he whispered. His shoulders hunched. “I’m being blackmailed.”
    “Oh?” I raised my eyebrows. “Start at the beginning,” I said. So much for the squeaky-clean kid I’d known in college. What had he gotten himself into?
    “Okay, Pit.” He looked around. “But not here.”
    “Where, then? Your home? Or your office? You do have an office?”
    He glanced at the lobby bar — Mack’s Place — which was open and doing a modest business with the pre-dinner crowd. But then he hesitated. Probably didn’t want to throw fuel on the fire of my alcoholism, so to speak.
    “Come on,” I said, levering myself upright with my cane. Best get things moving. “You can buy me a ginger ale while you fill me in.”
    “Are you doing that seven-step thing?” he asked carefully.
    “It’s twelve steps, and no.” I grinned back at him over my shoulder. “I’m quite happy being a drunk. Alcohol kills the pain better than Tylenol and morphine. But I can take a day off for an old friend.”
    “Um. Thanks.” Clearly that disconcerted him.
    He grabbed his newspaper and trailed me into Mack’s. Most of the customers sat at the bar, so I picked a booth at the rear. When a waitress appeared (Cindy, said her nametag: bleached blond hair, fake fingernails, maybe twenty, looked like a college student from the University of Pennsylvania) I kept my word and ordered ginger ale, even though I felt the shakes coming on. Davy asked for scotch and soda. We sat in silence until Cindy served us.
    “So?” I said again. I leaned back and sucked soda through a thin red straw. Nasty stuff. “Fill me in. How can I help?”
    Davy folded his hands and leaned forward. “I told you I was being blackmailed.”
    “Sex, drugs, or murder?” I asked lightly. It was hard keeping a straight face. I couldn’t imagine the David Hunt I’d known involved in anything shady.
    “Gambling. There’s a private club out on the Main Line. I was there with a girl a few weeks back …” He shrugged. “Had a few too many drinks, and before I knew it, I was twenty thousand in the hole. I left a marker for it. Didn’t want it showing up on my credit card statement — you understand.”
    “Just pay it off. You have the cash, don’t you?”
    “Sure. But I can’t pay it off. Someone beat me to it.”
    Davy reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulled out a piece of paper, and slid it across the table. When I unfolded it, I found a color laser printout of a series of eight small pictures, four on each side. From the graininess, the shots must have been taken with one of those hide-in-your-palm micro cameras. Seven showed Davy gambling: craps, roulette, blackjack. In half of them, he had a drop-dead gorgeous blonde on his arm. The eighth was a picture of an I.O.U. to the Greens Club bearing his signature — $20,000.
    “Who’s the lady?” I scrutinized the blonde’s face, but I had never seen her before.
    “A friend of mine. Her name’s Cree.”
    “Actress-slash-model?” She had that undernourished look. And breasts that defied gravity.
    He shifted uneasily. “Yes.”
    “You aren’t wearing a wedding ring. She’s not your wife. So that can’t be the problem.”
    He stared at me. “You don’t read the Inquirer , do you?”
    “Not often.” Not in the last four years, anyway.
    “Here.” He picked up his newspaper, opened it to the second page of the business section,