Read Online The Blackmail Club by David Bishop - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Bishop
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said. But, as was true for many men, Jack’s color vocabulary only included light blue and dark blue.
“Is Max coming?”
“No,” Nora said. “He hasn’t filled his crew yet so he’s on the Donny stakeout.”
“That’s a shame,” Jack said. “He’s a character. I like him.”
Police Chief Mandrake arrived a few minutes later. He had brought along Patrick Molloy, the mayor of DC. Nora greeted them at the door and called to Jack. “Come meet Mayor Molloy.”
After twenty years as a covert operative for the U.S. intelligence community, Jack was more chameleon than peacock, but he obeyed Nora’s summons. The mayor had a build like Santa Claus, including the squishy, red-veined nose. Time had furrowed his forehead but not touched his greenish-gray eyes or their youthful-looking lids. The politician’s acumen spoke for itself. He was a two-term Irish mayor in DC, not Boston.
Jack shook hands with the mayor, and asked, “Join me in a Scotch, straight, on shaved ice with a twist of lemon?” Nora had somehow learned that was Molloy’s favorite drink. When His Honor nodded, Jack steered him in a wide turn toward the bartender set up in their conference room.
“You go schmooze with your other guests, Jack. I’ll get our drinks.” Molloy headed for the bar with two other guests carrying empty glasses trailing in his wake.
Most of the guests not elbowing near the bar were gathering at the rear of their eighteen-hundred-square-foot office. Rachel and Nora had furnished the back area with cherry wood tables and overstuffed seating to give the feel of a living room.
“Thanks for bringing Mayor Molloy,” Jack said to Chief Mandrake. “We had invited him but got no confirmation from his office. I owe you one.”
“I’ll hold your IOU,” Mandrake said, while grinning from under bushy eyebrows that gave the impression caterpillars were nesting on his forehead.
“It’s my guess you know everyone here, Chief, so I’ll leave you to mingle. The bar is to your left and hors d’oeuvres are near the back wall. Enjoy.”
Mayor Molloy handed Jack a scotch and water, then headed across the room toward two congressmen whose synchronized wattles indicated an intense verbal battle was underway.
Eric Dunn, the writer of the nationally syndicated column Dunn in D.C. , strolled over with a cold Corona in his left hand, and what Chris Andujar used to call a shit-eating grin on his face. “Remember me?” he asked.
Jack hadn’t been sure the journalist would come after he had used Dunn’s name to suggest that anyone, even Dunn himself, could be a killer. That was during The Third Coincidence case Jack had handled the prior year while still employed by the government.
“I hope you’re not still angry at me?” Jack asked.
“I was really ticked at the time, but the next week eleven more newspapers picked up my column and two political talk shows invited me on as a guest. All of which graduated you to hero status.”
While spearing a Swedish meatball, Jack watched Art Tyson, a man with brown eyes surrounded by dirty whites. He had a face like one of those karate guys who impressed others by trying to break cement blocks with his forehead, and kept losing. Jack glanced at the bartender who held up three fingers; it was Tyson’s third double. The bulky Tyson walked away from the bar in his rumpled light-blue seersucker, with his fresh drink in hand, and went face up with Mayor Molloy. A moment later, the mayor was shaking his head no—an emphatic no.
Jack walked over to Nora. “What’s the skinny on your friend Tyson?”
“Arthur Tyson is no friend of mine.” Her mouth twisted as if she had bitten into something bitter. “He quit the force a few years back after having been suspended several times for either drinking on the job or the use of excessive force. Now he’s a PI specializing in cases involving cheating husbands.” Her upper lip rose like she wanted say yuck. “The story is, not all his
“Is Max coming?”
“No,” Nora said. “He hasn’t filled his crew yet so he’s on the Donny stakeout.”
“That’s a shame,” Jack said. “He’s a character. I like him.”
Police Chief Mandrake arrived a few minutes later. He had brought along Patrick Molloy, the mayor of DC. Nora greeted them at the door and called to Jack. “Come meet Mayor Molloy.”
After twenty years as a covert operative for the U.S. intelligence community, Jack was more chameleon than peacock, but he obeyed Nora’s summons. The mayor had a build like Santa Claus, including the squishy, red-veined nose. Time had furrowed his forehead but not touched his greenish-gray eyes or their youthful-looking lids. The politician’s acumen spoke for itself. He was a two-term Irish mayor in DC, not Boston.
Jack shook hands with the mayor, and asked, “Join me in a Scotch, straight, on shaved ice with a twist of lemon?” Nora had somehow learned that was Molloy’s favorite drink. When His Honor nodded, Jack steered him in a wide turn toward the bartender set up in their conference room.
“You go schmooze with your other guests, Jack. I’ll get our drinks.” Molloy headed for the bar with two other guests carrying empty glasses trailing in his wake.
Most of the guests not elbowing near the bar were gathering at the rear of their eighteen-hundred-square-foot office. Rachel and Nora had furnished the back area with cherry wood tables and overstuffed seating to give the feel of a living room.
“Thanks for bringing Mayor Molloy,” Jack said to Chief Mandrake. “We had invited him but got no confirmation from his office. I owe you one.”
“I’ll hold your IOU,” Mandrake said, while grinning from under bushy eyebrows that gave the impression caterpillars were nesting on his forehead.
“It’s my guess you know everyone here, Chief, so I’ll leave you to mingle. The bar is to your left and hors d’oeuvres are near the back wall. Enjoy.”
Mayor Molloy handed Jack a scotch and water, then headed across the room toward two congressmen whose synchronized wattles indicated an intense verbal battle was underway.
Eric Dunn, the writer of the nationally syndicated column Dunn in D.C. , strolled over with a cold Corona in his left hand, and what Chris Andujar used to call a shit-eating grin on his face. “Remember me?” he asked.
Jack hadn’t been sure the journalist would come after he had used Dunn’s name to suggest that anyone, even Dunn himself, could be a killer. That was during The Third Coincidence case Jack had handled the prior year while still employed by the government.
“I hope you’re not still angry at me?” Jack asked.
“I was really ticked at the time, but the next week eleven more newspapers picked up my column and two political talk shows invited me on as a guest. All of which graduated you to hero status.”
While spearing a Swedish meatball, Jack watched Art Tyson, a man with brown eyes surrounded by dirty whites. He had a face like one of those karate guys who impressed others by trying to break cement blocks with his forehead, and kept losing. Jack glanced at the bartender who held up three fingers; it was Tyson’s third double. The bulky Tyson walked away from the bar in his rumpled light-blue seersucker, with his fresh drink in hand, and went face up with Mayor Molloy. A moment later, the mayor was shaking his head no—an emphatic no.
Jack walked over to Nora. “What’s the skinny on your friend Tyson?”
“Arthur Tyson is no friend of mine.” Her mouth twisted as if she had bitten into something bitter. “He quit the force a few years back after having been suspended several times for either drinking on the job or the use of excessive force. Now he’s a PI specializing in cases involving cheating husbands.” Her upper lip rose like she wanted say yuck. “The story is, not all his
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