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expanse of tall windows overlooking Lake Michigan; from there he could easily reach over and give an encouraging pat to a customer’s hand or knee.
    The late afternoon sun behind Kellman served to back light and further emphasize the startling head of frizzed white hair
, like a Brillo pad
, Matt thought. Gesturing, Kellman urged O’Connor to help himself to the enormous platter of fresh fruit on the table near the couch. Responding in pantomime, Matt waved off Kellman’s offer of something to drink.
    This was Matt’s third visit to Kellman’s place of business, and he was again impressed by the prestigious Michigan avenue address, the knockout-looking female help, the impressive display of modern art gracing the walls of the tastefully furnished room.
    Finally hanging up the phone, Kellman said in explanation and disgust, “Fifi Bonadio.” He shook his head. “Cheapest son of a bitch in the Outfit. Every time he buys a coat from me for one of his punches, it’s like negotiating the fucking Louisiana Purchase. And with all the money he’s stolen and hidden…”
    Crossing the room to join Matt on the couch, Kellman said, “But I didn’t ask you to come in today to talk about Fifi, that tight ass.” Kellman tapped a finger on a newspaper clipping that lay on the coffee table. “Matt, do you remember seeing this story back near the end of February?” The headline read
Death of an Aged Bookmaker
.
    Matt said, “Yeah, I do. I remember thinking how astounding it was that the guy was still making book at what, ninety-some years old.”
    “Bernie Glockner was ninety-eight,” Kellman said. “He was also my uncle, my mother’s only brother.”
    “You’re kidding!”
    “Not in the least. And I’m also not kidding when I tell you that I don’t think Bernie killed himself by jumping out of his window.”
    Matt sat back in the couch before responding. “Moe, let’s face it, quite a few elderly people decide to check out on their own terms. And you can’t blame them. Could be caused by illness, depression, loneliness…it happens.”
    Kellman shook his head. “I know that. But I also know this thing with Bernie doesn’t compute. It’s been gnawing at me. You didn’t know him, or how he lived. The man was in amazing physical shape for his age. Never sick a day in his life. I talked to his personal physician after the service. He told me Bernie had had a complete physical two weeks earlier. ‘He had the heart of a sixty-year-old,’ the doc said, ‘blood pressure and cholesterol numbers a kid would envy.’
    “I know for a fact he was still engaged in an active sex life with a fifty-five-year-old widow who lived in his building. Bernie walked four miles a day and ate like a triathlete. He loved living, believe me.
    “The coroner ruled it death by suicide. Bullshit. I think Bernie was overpowered and then thrown out of that window.”
    Kellman’s eyes were bright with conviction. “And the suicide note they found was complete bullshit. Written on his own computer? Give me a break. The man never committed
anything
to paper. Not in his line of work. He stored betting records in his head. The only thing he used that computer for was to download racing results from around the country.
    “People say to me, ‘You got to expect this might happen with a man of that age.’ But I don’t. Matt, you’ve got to understand—Bernie was no so-called man of that age. He was a fuckin’ medical marvel. We used to laugh about how he wanted to live when he ‘got old.’ He had a routine he loved.
    “‘Promise never to put me in some cut-rate codger warehouse,’ he’d say, ‘where I can see your Jaguar parked outside on one of your rare visits…
    “‘Make sure it’s a place where I can do internet betting…
    “‘Promise to pay the attendants to clip my ear hair on a regular basis. I don’t want to be slumped over in a wheelchair in some hallway with bushes growing out of my ears. That’s how poor Howie