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Brody was bent over, reinserting the last of the books into the spinner. He didn’t know what order they were supposed to go in, so he placed them back in a way that would fill out the wire racks. When the brass bell chimed, it caused Brody’s eyes to drift toward the store’s entrance.
Standing in the doorway was Francis Columbo, affectionately known in the press as Frankie the Dove. The heavyset man wore a green tracksuit with a white stripe running down the arms and legs. His right pocket bulged in a distorted manner that wasn’t from a wad of cash. On his head was a pageboy hat.
Columbo stepped into the store and stopped near the cardboard display for Carrie Fenton’s books. It was crushed during the fight with Jimmy the Pump, but Brody had rebuilt it about an hour before Columbo’s arrival. It required a significant amount of masking tape to repair the damage and now stood with a twisted lean.
“What happened here?” the Dove asked.
As he straightened, Brody said, “The cat.”
“A cat did all this?” Columbo studied the mangled display. “Must be a big, f—”
“He is,” Brody interrupted. “He’s a menace.”
Something thumped in the back of the store.
Columbo’s head snapped toward the direction of the noise, and his eyes searched for movement. “What was that?” he said.
“The cat. He’s knocking more things off the shelves. Take a look.”
The heavyset man studied him. “Nah. I don’t care about none of that. I’m here to see you.”
“Can I help you find a book?” Brody asked.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Columbo asked. “You being a jerk or somethin’?”
“This is a bookstore.”
“No, it ain’t.”
“Then what is it?”
“You know what it is.”
“A mystery bookstore?” Brody asked.
“It’s a mystery, all right. It’s a mystery why you’re here.”
“As I’ve told several people—”
“Yeah, yeah. I heard. You were in the Navy, and you bought a bookstore. Yada yada yada.”
“I don’t think you’re supposed to use yada that way.”
Columbo’s lip curled. “I’ll use it any way I see fit.”
Brody lifted his hands in mock surrender. “You’re the customer.”
“There you go being a jerk again.”
“You’re not a customer?”
“No, you rat.” Columbo’s hand went toward his pocket.
Brody was too far away from the man to make a play for the gun. If he hid in one of the aisles of books, it would only be seconds before the mobster found him. He had only one chance, and he took it.
“Shhh,” Brody said, bringing a finger to his lips.
Columbo froze, his hand stuck in his pocket, presumably around a gun.
Brody tapped his ear then made a circular signal in the air. The heavyset man didn’t understand what he was trying to communicate.
“What are—?”
Brody hushed the man again and brought his finger back to his lips. He moved slowly toward the counter and lifted the telephone receiver. He pointed at the earpiece, then made the circular motion again.
Columbo understood then. He jerked his head a couple of times toward the rear of the store, indicating he wanted Brody to go out to the alley.
The big man shook his head then slowly hung up the phone.
They stared at each other in awkward silence for a moment until Brody said, “You’re Frankie Columbo, right?”
The mobster’s eyes lit up with anger.
“I met your wife a couple of days ago when she brought your daughter in for a book. You own the little Italian restaurant, right?”
Columbo removed his hand from his pocket.
“That’s right,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “And I’ve seen you around with that girl from the grocery store. The pretty one. She looks... fragile.”
Brody’s face flattened. Now, they had both scored a point.
“I came by looking for an associate of mine,” Columbo said. “Perhaps you’ve seen him?”
“Who is that?”
Columbo smirked. “Seriously?”
Brody shrugged and shook his head at the same time, feigning ignorance.
“He’s a very stocky man, likes the weights.”
“Oh, him. Yeah, he was here a couple of days ago.”
“He didn’t come by last night?”
“Not that I know of.”
“I sent him for a book, and he never came home.”
“And you thought he would still be here? He’s that slow of a reader?”
Columbo’s nose crinkled. “I had to start looking for him somewhere.”
“The store closes at five,” Brody said. “If your friend came by after that, the cat may have eaten him.”
“The cat?”
“Like I said, he’s a menace.”
“You did say that.”
Something fell in the back of the store.
“The cat?” Columbo asked.
“See for yourself. Just keep your fingers curled in. He’s likely to nip one of them and drop you into Lake Massabesic.”
“What’s that?” Columbo asked.
“The lake, it’s across the border into New Hampshire.”
“I know where it’s at, meathead, but no cat is gonna do that—nip off a finger. Even one that’s a menace.”
“If you say so, but I’m not going to test him.”
The heavyset man rolled his eyes, which caused Brody to smile. The mobster then glanced around the store. “This shop. It seems like it fits the talents of a bookkeeper.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s what you did before you came to town, right? You were a bookkeeper.”
Brody stared at him, refusing to answer.
Columbo waved his hand around. “You keep care of books. You’re a bookkeeper.”
He didn’t believe the smile on the mobster’s face. It was thin and practiced and hid something cruel behind it. Up until recently, Brody had lived in a world full of those smiles.
The heavyset man absently picked at something in his teeth. “If you see my associate, make sure you send him home. Safe.”
Columbo headed toward the door. He turned around and said, “If he’s not safe...” He patted the gun in his pocket. “You get my point.”
Brody definitely understood the man’s point.
The bell brightly chimed as Columbo left the store.