raised an eyebrow, which for him is about one step below yelling. "Really?"
"Truly and honestly."
“With what?"
“When I got hammered in my chest, I fell over a table, knocking everything off. Part of the everything was a bag of silverware. I grabbed a dinner knife, and I'm glad it wasn't a butter knife, and poked him in the leg."
Felix said not a word. I looked at him and said, "Look, he plowed me over, was trying to kick my head in. Least I could do was return the favor."
His lips moved some, and it looked like he was trying to hold in either a smile or some laughter. He said, "Excuse me."
"Yes?"
"Who the hell are you, and what have you done with my friend, Lewis?”
It was my turn to smile. "Surprised?"
"Very. I know you and how you think. Times like those, your biggest problem is that you analyze too much, try to think through all of the options and repercussions. That was part of your innocent charm. Now, I don't know what the hell to think. Somebody attacks you and instead of engaging him or her in a thoughtful discussion of why they're being mean to you, you stab them. Maybe I've been a bad influence on you."
"Probably."
We ate some more and I said, "I was thinking of something back there, before that tire iron or baseball bat or whatever went sailing into my chest."
"What's that?"
"The whole store ... it didn't seem like a store at all. There were no records I could find, no sense of any kind of record keeping at all. It was like everything in that place was for show."
"Go on," Felix said.
"For lack of a better phrase, I think that place is a front for something. I don't know what for. But whatever is going on there, it doesn't involve selling antiques."
"Yeah. Which leads me to what I found upstairs, taped to the refrigerator, before our hidden friend bolted from the bathroom."
"And what's that?"
He reached into an inside pocket of his coat, pulled out a thin stack of postcards. He fanned them across the countertop and I gave them a look. There were six of them and all of them were advertising Florida. They were that hokey type that showed a rear shot of an attractive woman in a skimpy thong bikini at the beach, with the phrase, "Getting behind in our vacation!" That sort of thing. After I had given them a quick glance, Felix --- acting like a conjurer --- flipped them over. All were addressed to Ray Ericson at Seacoast Antiques, Route I-A, Porter, NH 03801, and I noted three interesting things: The postmark was from St. Petersburg, the dates on the postmark were about two weeks apart, and the message side of each card was blank.
"Well?" Felix asked.
"A code," I said.
"Go on."
"Ray getting this postcard meant he was supposed to do something. Pick somebody up at the airport, go on a trip somewhere, rob a bank, scratch his left buttock, I don't know. But that's what this tells me. A code."
"Very good. Your Pentagon training has served you well."
I didn't take the bait, which I think disappointed Felix some. He has always pressed me on my prior service at the Department of Defense, and I've never given in. He said, "Anybody or anything you know down in St. Petersburg?"
"Just that they have a hell of a nice newspaper, that's about it.
“You?
"A little more. Let's just say that St. Pete is a favorite for retirees from a variety of different occupations."
"Let's see, loansharking, knee breaking, bookmaking ... Leave anything out?"
"Cooking schools, of course," he said dryly. "What I mean is that I can make a few calls, see what I can find."
"Thanks."
We finished up our meal, which seemed too late for dinner and still too early for breakfast. While we were waiting for the check, Felix said, "All right, truth-telling time."
"Okay."
"What the hell is going on with you?"
Felix was now sitting, arms folded across his chest, and I shrugged. "Just trying to find out who killed my friend."
Felix said, "Oh, you're doing much more than that, and we both know it. My question is, what's driving
"Truly and honestly."
“With what?"
“When I got hammered in my chest, I fell over a table, knocking everything off. Part of the everything was a bag of silverware. I grabbed a dinner knife, and I'm glad it wasn't a butter knife, and poked him in the leg."
Felix said not a word. I looked at him and said, "Look, he plowed me over, was trying to kick my head in. Least I could do was return the favor."
His lips moved some, and it looked like he was trying to hold in either a smile or some laughter. He said, "Excuse me."
"Yes?"
"Who the hell are you, and what have you done with my friend, Lewis?”
It was my turn to smile. "Surprised?"
"Very. I know you and how you think. Times like those, your biggest problem is that you analyze too much, try to think through all of the options and repercussions. That was part of your innocent charm. Now, I don't know what the hell to think. Somebody attacks you and instead of engaging him or her in a thoughtful discussion of why they're being mean to you, you stab them. Maybe I've been a bad influence on you."
"Probably."
We ate some more and I said, "I was thinking of something back there, before that tire iron or baseball bat or whatever went sailing into my chest."
"What's that?"
"The whole store ... it didn't seem like a store at all. There were no records I could find, no sense of any kind of record keeping at all. It was like everything in that place was for show."
"Go on," Felix said.
"For lack of a better phrase, I think that place is a front for something. I don't know what for. But whatever is going on there, it doesn't involve selling antiques."
"Yeah. Which leads me to what I found upstairs, taped to the refrigerator, before our hidden friend bolted from the bathroom."
"And what's that?"
He reached into an inside pocket of his coat, pulled out a thin stack of postcards. He fanned them across the countertop and I gave them a look. There were six of them and all of them were advertising Florida. They were that hokey type that showed a rear shot of an attractive woman in a skimpy thong bikini at the beach, with the phrase, "Getting behind in our vacation!" That sort of thing. After I had given them a quick glance, Felix --- acting like a conjurer --- flipped them over. All were addressed to Ray Ericson at Seacoast Antiques, Route I-A, Porter, NH 03801, and I noted three interesting things: The postmark was from St. Petersburg, the dates on the postmark were about two weeks apart, and the message side of each card was blank.
"Well?" Felix asked.
"A code," I said.
"Go on."
"Ray getting this postcard meant he was supposed to do something. Pick somebody up at the airport, go on a trip somewhere, rob a bank, scratch his left buttock, I don't know. But that's what this tells me. A code."
"Very good. Your Pentagon training has served you well."
I didn't take the bait, which I think disappointed Felix some. He has always pressed me on my prior service at the Department of Defense, and I've never given in. He said, "Anybody or anything you know down in St. Petersburg?"
"Just that they have a hell of a nice newspaper, that's about it.
“You?
"A little more. Let's just say that St. Pete is a favorite for retirees from a variety of different occupations."
"Let's see, loansharking, knee breaking, bookmaking ... Leave anything out?"
"Cooking schools, of course," he said dryly. "What I mean is that I can make a few calls, see what I can find."
"Thanks."
We finished up our meal, which seemed too late for dinner and still too early for breakfast. While we were waiting for the check, Felix said, "All right, truth-telling time."
"Okay."
"What the hell is going on with you?"
Felix was now sitting, arms folded across his chest, and I shrugged. "Just trying to find out who killed my friend."
Felix said, "Oh, you're doing much more than that, and we both know it. My question is, what's driving
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