Trouble in Paradise Read Online Free PDF Page A

it,” the bartender said.
    “Can’t get into it myself.”
    “Whaddya like?” Macklin said.
    “Football,” the bartender said.
    “Now you’re talking,” Macklin said.
    “You bet?”
    “Sure,” the bartender said.
    “Last year I was up about a bill and a half.”
    He finished slicing the lemons and put them in a jar and put the jar in the refrigerator under the counter. Then he came down the bar and nodded at Macklin’s glass.
    “Buy you one?” he said.
    “Be a fool not to say yes,” Macklin answered.
    The bartender scooped some ice into a shaker. Without measuring, he poured in vodka and a splash of vermouth.
    “You must know the game,” Macklin said.
    “Come out ahead.”
    The bartender rattled the martini around in the shaker and then poured it through the strainer into a chilled glass.
    “I played some in high school,” he said.
    “And I pay attention.”
    He ran a twist of lemon around the rim of the glass and then dropped it into the martini.
    “Makes the game more interesting,” Macklin said, “you got something on it.”
    “You got that right.”
    Macklin sipped his second martini.
    “Nice job,” he said to the I bartender.
    The bartender grinned and went down the bar to the white-haired man. Macklin took the hundred from his pocket and put it I on the bar. The bartender poured a double shot of Jack Daniels over some ice and put it on a paper napkin in front of the man.
    Then he strolled back up the bar to Macklin. He gave no indication that he saw the hundred.
    “I’m from out of town,” Macklin said.
    “And I’m bored. You know where I could find a card game?”
    “Where you from?”
    “Dannemora, New York,” Macklin said.
    “And you want to play poker?”
    “Yeah. Good game. Some money changing hands, you know?”
    “Sure,” the bartender said.
    “Lemme make a call.”
    The bartender went down the bar and punched out a number I on the phone. He talked for a moment and then hung up and walked back down to Macklin.
    “You know the Lincolnshire Hotel?”
    Macklin shook his head.
    “You can walk there. You call Tommy King from the lobby. Tell him Lennie Seltzer sent you. They’ll tell you the room number and up you go.”
    “You Lennie?”
    “No, Lennie’s the guy I called.”
    “Excellent,” Macklin said.
    “How do I get there?”
    He finished his second martini while the bartender gave him directions. Then he got up, left the hundred on the bar and headed for the door.
    “Wish me luck,” he said.
    The bartender gave him a thumbs-up, and Macklin went out onto Huntington Avenue and walked to the Copley Place Garage where he had parked his car. He took the thousand dollars from his wallet and crumpled the bills and put them in his right-hand pants pocket. Inside the car, he unlocked the glove compartment and took out his 9-mm pistol. He undid his pants. Instead of shorts, he was wearing an oversized jock with a cup. He shoved the pistol down inside the cup. He took a roll of adhesive tape from the glove compartment, tore off some, and taped the handle of the gun against his belly, well below the navel. Then he got out and tucked in his shirt and buttoned his pants. He locked the car and cut through Copley Place on his way to the hotel. He paused outside a leather goods store and looked at himself reflected in the dark glass of the display window. The gun didn’t show, just as it hadn’t shown when he rehearsed this morning.
    It was a perfect summer day in Boston as Macklin strolled through the Back Bay. He didn’t need the directions. He knew where the Lincolnshire was. Inside the ornate lobby, he called Tommy King on an ivory house phone.
    “Name’s Hoyle,” Macklin said.
    “Lennie Seltzer sent me.”
    “Room four-eighteen.”
    “I’ll be up,” Macklin said.
    The elevator smelled of lilacs. The corridor was done in dark red carpet and ivory woodwork. The numbers on the doors were done in gold. At room 418 Macklin stopped. The emergency exit was two doors