Read Online Margaret Truman's Experiment in Murder by Margaret Truman - Free Book Online Page B

his dress that set him apart. He wore an Italian white silk sport jacket, a designer shirt with vivid vertical stripes of blue, green, and yellow open at the collar, beige slacks with a razor crease, and tasseled brown loafers, five thousand dollars’ worth of clothing, all of it meticulously tailored to his trim body. He was often mistaken for one of those former actors you’ve seen in movies but whose name escapes you.
    Seated next to him was Peter Puhlman, whose sartorial approach was considerably less expensive. Puhlman’s stout physique didn’t support trendy, tailored clothing, and his drab gray suit testified to it. His gray pallor, perpetually furrowed brow, and pronounced jowls gave him a sad look, as though he’d just received bad news.
    â€œThat’s him,” Puhlman told Borger.
    Their attention was not focused on the young fighters in the ring. They were more interested in another young man who held a heavy bag while an aspiring prizefighter peppered it with lefts and rights, his hands taped, perspiration flowing freely down his sculptured body.
    â€œWhat does he do here?” Borger asked.
    â€œOdd jobs,” Puhlman answered. “He works to pay for gym time.”
    â€œHe’s a fighter?”
    â€œHe was, although he thinks he can still fight. Very paranoid, believes that managers and promoters have blackballed him.”
    â€œHave they?” Borger asked.
    â€œFor good reason. He took pretty severe beatings in his last few fights, left him with persistent headaches. Getting in the ring again would put him at risk.”
    Borger watched as the young man who’d been holding the heavy bag walked away and disappeared through a doorway.
    â€œHis name is Itani?” Borger said.
    â€œThat’s right, Iskander Itani. His father was Lebanese, mother Italian. He tells me that his last name means that God gave him something special.”
    â€œYou say he’s paranoid.”
    â€œAnd angry. He believes that the Jews control the fight game and don’t want an Arab winning fights.”
    Borger grunted and observed the two fighters finish their sparring session and leave the ring.
    â€œDid he leave?” Borger asked.
    His question was answered when Itani reappeared. Puhlman stood and motioned for him to join them.
    â€œIskander, say hello to Dr. Sheldon Borger.”
    Borger also stood and extended his hand, his smile wide and welcoming. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
    Itani looked at Borger with dead eyes as he took his hand without enthusiasm.
    â€œI understand that you’re a fighter,” Borger said.
    Itani nodded.
    â€œA good one, too,” Puhlman said. “How are the headaches, Iskander?”
    He grimaced as though the mention of a headache brought one on. “Not so good,” the young man said, closing his eyes tightly and then opening them. “Sometimes it is worse than others.”
    Puhlman said, “I thought you’d want to meet Dr. Borger, Iskander. He’s an expert in pain management and can help you get rid of those headaches—and possibly get you back in the ring.”
    Borger laughed away the compliment. “I’ve always thought I’d like to manage a fighter,” he said. “I know it takes money to keep a fighter healthy and well trained.”
    â€œThe promoters,” Itani said to himself.
    â€œYes?” Borger said.
    Puhlman interrupted. “How much longer will you be working today?”
    Itani looked up at a large clock on the wall that read four o’clock. “I am finished now.”
    â€œI thought maybe the three of us could enjoy a drink together,” Puhlman said.
    Borger looked at Puhlman quizzically. Should he be suggesting a drink to an Arab? He wasn’t aware that Itani’s father was a Christian Arab and that Puhlman had had drinks with him before.
    Itani seemed unsure whether to accept the offer, but Puhlman slapped him on the