Read Online Vineyard Shadows by Philip R. Craig - Free Book Online

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    â€œThis is him,” said Quinn. “Mr. Jackson.”
    â€œMr. Jackson, perhaps you'll step into the gents for a moment?”
    â€œWhy not?”
    Another man was in the rest room when we went in. He just stood there, looking at me. He didn't seem to be there to use the facilities. The place was amazingly clean, unlike most of the heads I've seen in bars.
    â€œNothing personal, you understand,” said the first man. He patted me down briskly but thoroughly. “What's this?”
    â€œPocketknife.” I brought it out. He waved it back.
    â€œAll right, then,” he said. “Come on.”
    We went out and he led me to the last booth along the far wall. There was a door between the booth and the bar, and a waiter came out carrying a platter of good-smelling pub grub. Quinn was sitting in the booth across from two other men. One of them looked to be about fifty. He had an Irish face and very pale hair, eyes, and eyebrows. The man beside him was slim and expressionless and kept his hands out of sight under the table. I sat down beside Quinn, and the man who'd led me there went away. I didn't think he'd gone far.
    â€œThis is my friend J. W. Jackson, the guy I told you about,” said Quinn.
    â€œWhat do you want?” asked the man with pale hair.
    â€œFirst, I'd like to buy you a Guinness, if you're Sonny Whelen,” I said.
    The man beside the pale man looked at me. “You some kind of a joker?”
    â€œEasy, Todd,” said the pale man.
    â€œI've never seen Sonny Whelen,” I said to both men. “I don't want to talk with his twin or his stand-in, I want to talk with him.” I turned to Quinn. “Is this him?”
    â€œIt's him,” said Quinn. “Would a newspaperman lie?”
    â€œFine.” I looked back at Whelen. “Then, can I buy you that drink?”
    Whelen smiled. “Okay, Mr. Jackson.” He made a small gesture and a waiter appeared. “Three Guinnesses, Mike.” The waiter disappeared and Whelen nodded toward the man beside him, who was looking steadily at me. “Todd, here, don't drink while he's on the job. Do you, Todd?”
    â€œNo,” said Todd.
    Three pints of Guinness were deposited on our table and we drank.
    â€œNow,” said Whelen, “what is it you want to talk about, Mr. Jackson?”
    I held my glass in one hand and put my other hand flat on the table where Whelen and Todd could both see that it was empty.
    â€œThe day before yesterday,” I said, “two guys who work for you, Pat Logan and Howie Trucker, came to my house on Martha's Vineyard looking for a guy named Tom Rimini. I wasn't there, but my wife and little daughter were. My wife told them that Rimini wasn't there and that she'd never heard of him, which was true, but they didn't believe her. Trucker put a knife to my daughter's throat, and Logan beat my wife and was about to beat her some more. But that didn't happen because she killed Logan and shot Trucker to pieces. I want to know what you had to do with it.”

— 8 —
    No one spoke. Then Whelen's eyes narrowed.
    â€œDo you know where you are?”
    â€œI'm sitting in a pub talking with a man who says he's Sonny Whelen, but I never heard of Sonny Whelen sending strong-arm men to cut little girls' throats and beat up women. Or did I hear wrong?”
    â€œSonny, you don't have to put up with this shit,” said Todd.
    â€œBe quiet,” said Whelen. He looked at Quinn. “Did you know this was why he wanted to see me?”
    Quinn shook his head. “No, I didn't. But maybe I should have guessed.” He touched my shoulder. “Come on, J.W., let's ease out of here before you make any more friends. Is that okay, Sonny?”
    â€œWait,” said Whelen. The pale eyes switched back to me. “Your wife killed The Pilot? You're the guy who owns the house?”
    â€œThat's right, and that's why I'm here. I don't like trouble, and