Read Online The Manipulated (Joe Portugal Mysteries) by Nathan Walpow - Free Book Online Page B

shouldn’t take up any more of your time.”
    “Wasn’t her.”
    “No. But I see how my friend could have made the mistake. She looks kind of like his wife.”
    “Glad I could help.”
    “So I’ll be getting out of your—”
    “And you can help me sometime.”
    “I don’t know how, but, yeah, if I can ever do you a favor …”
    “That’s the way of the world, isn’t it?”
    “I suppose.” His world, maybe.
    “Good. I’ll call Vito. He’ll let you out.”
    Vito? A name you don’t hear too often. Unless you’re watching a gangster movie.
    And speaking of gangsters … “How do you know my father?”
    He smiled, like we were sharing a secret. “Long time ago, we were business associates.”
    “How long ago?”
    “Jeez, let me think. Early, mid-sixties, I guess.”
    “Business associates, huh?”
    “Well, yeah. I’m taking from the look on your face that you know what kind of business your old man was in back in those days.”
    “I do.”
    “Well, me too.”
    “Back in those days.”
    “Yeah. Back in those days.”
    He seemed to be daring me to push it. Idiot that I am, I did. “What about these days?”
    He took off those bulky glasses, squinted through them at the window, went to his desk and jerked a tissue from its box. Rubbing the glasses without looking at them, he said,“I’m a legitimate businessman.”
    “No one says they’re a legitimate businessman unless they’re something else.”
    “You’re a pretty brave little shit, aren’t you?”
    Sanity kicked in. I pictured myself at the bottom of the Los Angeles River, wearing a pair of concrete overshoes. Given the average depth of the L.A. River, I’d be more likely to die of sunstroke than to drown, but still …
    “Look,” I said. “This conversation is going somewhere it doesn’t need to. If I’ve said anything to offend you, I apologize.”
    He took a step toward me. I flinched. Then we were back like we’d been when I first came in, right hands clasped, his left on my shoulder. “Nothing to worry about, kid.”
    “That’s good.”
    “Course it is.”
    The door opened. There stood Vito. Santini hadn’t called him, had he?
    “Say hello to your old man for me,” Santini said.“Tell him to give me a call sometime. Tell him I’ll treat him to lunch at Phil’s. He’ll know.”
    “I’ll do that.”
    I’d been maneuvered into the hall. The door closed and Santini was gone. I followed Vito down the hall, down the stairs, to the front door. He opened it.
    “I didn’t hear him call you,” I said.
    “No,” Vito said. “You didn’t.” He gestured with his chin. Outside. I took his suggestion.
     
    That night. I sat on the bed. Tried to remember Mike’s number. Couldn’t. Looked it up. Dialed.
    “Hello?”
    “It’s Joe.”
    “Hey. How you doin’?”
    “Good. You?”
    “You know.” So far, a typical guy conversation.
    But not for long.
    “Find anything out?” he said. “As a matter of fact, I did.”
    “You found out who has those tickets?”
    “Better than that.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I met her. I met the woman.” Nothing.
    “It’s not her. It’s a woman named Alma Rodriguez. She looks a little like Donna. Across Staples, yeah, you could have thought it was her.”
    “You sure?”
    “Positive.”
    A sigh, loud enough to hear over the phone.“It was worth a shot.”
    “Sure it was.”
    Another sigh.
    “Mike?”
    “Yeah?”
    “You okay?”
    “Sure. Hey, thanks, Joe. Thanks for checking it out for me. You’re a hell of a friend. If I can ever do anything for you—”
    “Then you will. That’s what friends do. It doesn’t need to be said.” Unless the person saying it was, quite possibly, a gangster.
And you can help me sometime.
“Hey, you got plans for Thanksgiving?”
    “Huh? No. I was just gonna rent a couple videos and watch football.”
    “You want to come to my father’s?”
    “Thanks, Joe, but—”
    “Plenty of room, plenty of food. My dad’s a kick. You’ll