A Mighty Fortress by S.D. Thames Read Free Book Online

were in civil at the time. I testified about an investigation I did. I think it was about a non-compete.”
    He shrugged again. “If you’re supposed to be some kind of investigator, you’re doing a real bang up job here today. Now do we have a deal?”
    “What’s that?”
    “I’ve been listening to your game all hour, sonny boy. You’re trying to find where this Scalzo fella’s dining.”
    I nodded. “You got any ideas?”  
    “Get the fairy dust out of your ears, you sour ass tart. I already said Armani’s. I’d bet my left nut that’s where he’s at, only I don’t have one.” He erupted in raspy laughter that lasted too long and devolved into a gurgling cough.
    Sean laughed too, so I chuckled uneasily a few times for good measure.
    “Armani’s,” he said again, and this time spelled it. “Just give it a try. This Scalzo, if he’s related to Alfonse Scalzo as I suspect he is, and he’s really gone straight, he’d want to go somewhere upscale, but not downtown and certainly not SoHo. This is his kind of place.”
    I checked Open Table again. It wasn’t on there, so I opened Safari and ran a Google search and found the number. I wanted a little context before I placed the call. The reviews on Yelp were good. Overlooking Old Tampa Bay, it was connected to the Hyatt on the Courtney Campbell Causeway, the highway that connects Tampa to Clearwater. Close to the airport. Why not? I hit the dial button.
    A man with a deep voice answered.
    With Judge Pinkerton hovering over my shoulder, I told the man on the phone why I was calling. There was a pause while he searched the computer. “You said Scalzo for a party of two?”  
    “That’s right.” I was happy to hear some doubt in his voice.
    “I’m sorry, Mr. Scalzo.” I felt a flutter of relief, but Mr. Baritone continued:   “We have you down for a party of four at eight P.M. Do you want to change it to a party of two?”
    I felt sucker-punched, but did my best to hide it from Pinkerton. “You’re right, it was a party of four. My bad.”
    “Is that still going to work, sir?”
    “Absolutely.” I thanked him and hung up. Then I picked up my Guinness and did my best to ignore Pinkerton.
    “Well, what I’d tell you?” he gloated.
    I nodded in defeat. “Armani’s it is.”
    “Great, I’m famished.”
    “What?”
    “You said dinner of my choice. Sounds like you’re going to Armani’s tonight. That works just fine for me.” Pinkerton grinned, revealing lower teeth that were slightly crooked and heavily stained.  
    “Let’s take a raincheck. I’ll be working tonight.”
    “Hogwash,” the judge said. “There’s no guarantee I’ll be walking this earth tomorrow—or that you will for that matter. You can time dinner so we’re done when you do your business.”
    I gave it some thought. Having company might not be a bad idea; I would probably stick out dining alone in such a restaurant. Not that I would exactly blend in with the likes of the Honorable Francis Pinkerton sitting at my table.
    “So be it,” I said, and as if on cue, a rip of thunder rumbled outside.

    After giving Pinkerton and his Schwinn a ride home in the afternoon thunderstorm, I returned home and toyed with the idea of taking a nap, but my thoughts were racing too much. I’d had difficulty concentrating since I left the war. Stress usually makes me think about the war, but Dr. J says I get stressed when I’m not thinking about it, too. Sleeping does not help. Running does.
    The sky was still gray and the air sticky-humid, but I could tell I had a good thirty minutes before another downpour would hit. So I ran my usual light route: south to Columbus, west to Dale Mabry, and then a loop around Raymond James stadium, where the Tampa Bay Buccaneers lose a lot of football games every year. By the time I was heading east on MLK, my thoughts were lining up well and I came up with a game plan for the evening. The rain started picking up sooner than I expected, but at