The Bootleggers (3 page)

"I needed to use the men's room," I lied. "I still do. But your merry men refuse to let
anyone go downstairs."

"Me, too," Maurice chimed in, making a show of squirming uncomfortably on the bar
stool. In point of fact, over the course of the evening, we had both sneaked into the little private
bathroom located in the Back Room, but there was no way Stone could know that.

"Tough!" he snarled. "The basement is off limits."

I swiveled slowly and deliberately. "Let us use the men's room. From what I've
picked up sitting here, it's nowhere near the site of the bomb. Don't make a second foolish
mistake tonight."

Catching the edge in my voice, Stone regarded me for a full fifteen seconds. Then he
jerked his head toward the staircase. "Go on, White. Larsen, you stay here. You can go when he
gets back."

Maurice and I avoided exchanging glances. If Stone got even an inkling we were up
to something, he'd stop us dead in our tracks. Maurice carelessly grabbed his ski parka and
headed toward the stairs that led down to the basement.

Stone leaned against the bar while I nursed my drink. After a while, I said, "I assume
you haven't found the missing object?" Since there were other people around, I deliberately
didn't say what object I was referring to.

"You know damn well we haven't."

"Too bad," I said in a sympathetic tone. I glanced meaningfully at my wristwatch.
"You're running out of time." Trying to make it sound casual, I commented, "Incidentally,
Maurice and I have a brief due on Thursday in Federal court. We'd like to use tomorrow morning
to—"

"Tough! You stay put."

Again, I gazed at my wrist watch, this time for a full ten seconds. "Tick tock, tick
tock."

Knowing Stone, I figured he was going to explode at me. Instead, he just stood there,
looking agonized. That was a sign of how desperate he was getting. "It has to be here! One of
those three scumbags killed that busboy."

"Tick tock, tick tock."

"Stop that!" he said.

Heaving an elaborate sigh, I said, "All right. I suppose I'm going to have to solve
another one of your cases for you." I added, "If, that is, you'll agree to let us go home. Especially
Maurice. I need him to pull our exhibits together."

He worked his jaw three times before asking, "You know which one of those three
did it?"

I smiled. "Have you thought about where the transmitter was when the bomb went
off?"

"Of course, I have. It could have been anywhere."

"Not anywhere," I said. "The murderer would want to be at a nice, safe distance.
Otherwise, he might blow himself up—or get trampled in the ensuing chaos. But he also had to
know when to set it off."

Stone eyed me suspiciously. "Keep talking."

I gestured toward the glass in front of me. "I'm having scotch and water. Would you
care to join me?"

His face colored and he grabbed my shirt, pulling me to my feet. "Why you—"

I didn't move a muscle. "Let go of me, Stone."

He held on. We stood, glaring at each other. Through the corner of my eye, I spotted
Maurice emerging from the basement. He was wearing his thick jacket, with the zipper pulled all
the way up. Stone saw him too and released me.

Maurice shivered. "Boy, it's cold down there."

"Is everything okay?" I asked.

He nodded with satisfaction. "Just peachy."

I made a show of straightening my shirt. "I have a proposition for you, Stone. You
want your murder solved. I want my legal assistant to go home and get some sleep. Let him leave
and I'll solve your case for you."

"Yeah? Well, I have a deal of my own. You give me whatever information you're
withholding, and I won't arrest you. Or get you disbarred."

"Make all the threats you want. Those are my terms." Calmly and deliberately, I took
another sip of scotch and water. "Tick tock, tick tock."

"Stop that," he flared.

I shrugged. "Whatever you say."

I returned to my place on the bar stool. During the long silence that followed, Stone's
hands slowly began to fidget. I knew I had him. Finally, he jerked his head toward the door. "All
right, White. Get the hell out of here!"

A look of relief flitted across Maurice's eyes, but he said nothing. He just started
walking. I watched him lumber out of The Bootleggers. Even taking into account the padding of
his ski parka, his muscular torso looked much bulkier than usual.

Fortunately, Stone didn't notice.

He was too busy glaring at me.

"All right, who is it? The boxer, the burglar or the bailbondsman?" He gestured to
McKeever, who had just returned to the room with the three suspects.

As the young officer led them over to the bar to join us, I told Stone, "Actually, I
made a slight miscalculation earlier this evening. But I've made a mid-course correction."

"You better have." When McKeever and the others had joined us, Stone announced,
"Mr. Larsen here has something to say."

The three B's stared at me.

None of them looked eager to hear from me.

I turned to Stone. "You still don't get it, do you?" I lifted my glass. "Margot, my
drink could use freshening."

Without bothering to lift her head off the bar, she called out, "Jimmy, give him
another drink. Hell, give him the whole damn bottle."

The bartender obligingly replenished my scotch and water.

I raised the glass. "This is my third one since the explosion, Stone. Highland
Mist."

He squinted murderously at me. "Okay, so you're a lush. Which one of them killed
the busboy?"

"Ask Margot. She can tell you who set off that bomb."

She lifted her head, taking a sudden interest in our conversation.

I remarked, "Tell me something, Stone. How did the murderer know when to push
the button to set off the bomb? Mr. Meeker was in the next room, playing pool." I shifted my
eyes to Meeker. "Right?"

He nodded firmly. "That's right."

"And Mr. Grant was sitting with his back to us. He had no way of knowing when the
busboy went down to the basement."

"Yeah!" the boxer agreed.

All eyes suddenly focused on Christianson. He protested, "I was upstairs in the
office. I can prove it."

I told Stone, "Unless you can shake their alibis, all three of your suspects are
eliminated."

Once again, I made a show of sipping my Highland Mist. "As Margot can attest, I
normally drink Johnny Walker Black."

Stone wouldn't have gotten it even then, but a look of realization suddenly energized
Margot's face. As though she had been jolted by an electric shock.

She turned accusingly to the bartender. "Hey, Jimmy, you told me to tell Rudy we
were all out of bar scotch."

I raised my drink to her, in a silent salute. "Excellent, Margot. You've solved the
mystery. There's your answer, Stone: Not the boxer, not the bailbondsman, and not the burglar."
For Meeker's benefit, I corrected myself. "Reputed burglar. In this case, 'B' is for Bartender.
Right, Jimmy?"

The bartender cursed. Then he made a dash for the front door. I leaped off my bar
stool, catching up with him about three feet from the exit. It wasn't a proper shoulder tackle like
Maurice would have made, but it held him until McKeever and the other officers could catch up
with us.

* * * *

Fuming, Stone paced in front of the bar, while McKeever searched me for the third
time. Jimmy Washburn, now in handcuffs and under the careful scrutiny of two uniformed cops,
watched sullenly. A rectangular device sat on the bar, having been found buried in the ice
compartment where he'd hidden it after triggering the explosion.

I said, "Look, Stone, you've found the transmitter. You're going to find Washburn's
fingerprints all over it. Why is McKeever searching me again?"

"You know damn well why, Larsen! The busboy said there were two hundred
thousand dollars in cash somewhere in the building. What did you do with that money?"

"Search me," I said. With an elaborate shrug, I added, "Oh, you just did that, didn't
you?"

McKeever had to bite his lip to avoid laughing.

Stone wasn't amused. "I want that money, Larsen."

"The busboy is dead. You can't even prove there was ever any money."

"Oh, yeah? I heard what he said. I can testify—"

"Sorry. Anything he told you is hearsay. Not admissible in a court of law. Right, Mr.
Christenson? "

The former lawyer smiled. "I believe that's correct."

"Larsen, that money belongs to—"

"To whom?" I demanded. Turning, I addressed the bartender. "Jimmy, did you have
any illicit drug money in your locker downstairs?"

Washburn's face smoldered with fury. "No."

"And while we're at it, I suppose you didn't know Michelle Collardine, either, did
you?"

His eyes narrowed with concern, as he considered the implications of what I had just
said.

After that, his jaw remained clamped shut.

Meeker stepped forward. "What's this about Michelle? Are you saying Jimmy killed
her?"

"It sure looks that way. I'll leave it to the police to prove it."

Stone snapped his fingers. "White! That's why you were in such a hurry for him to
leave. McKeever, get a search warrant. I want—"

I sighed wearily. "I know, I know. The ever-faithful Inspector Javert, endlessly
tracking poor Jean Valjean, whose only crime was stealing a loaf of bread. I told you I came here
to collect damages for my client. As an added benefit, I solved your murder for you. Two
murders. Isn't that enough for one night?"

Stone sputtered, "That money is—"

With an air of finality, I stood and said, "Good night, Stone. Good night, McKeever.
Good night, Margot. Happy New Year, one and all."

As I strolled out of The Bootleggers, I could hear Stone muttering, "One of these
days, Larsen! One of these days..."

Kenneth L. Levinson is the managing partner of the law firm of Balaban, Levinson & Costigan,
P.C., focusing upon real estate, litigation and the defense of professional liability claims. An avid collector
of early mystery novels, he is also a guitarist and songwriter who has written more than 500 songs. The
Bootleggers is the fourth story in the Adam Larsen mystery series. The fifth,
A Knight At The
Opera
, will be released in January 2013.

* * * *

Uncial Press brings you extraordinary fiction, non-fiction and poetry. Put a world of reading in your
pocket.

www.uncialpress.com