THE VIRON CONSPIRACY (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS #4) by Lawrence de Maria Read Free Book Online

after Sandy. They’ve had it tough. You can catch a Seastreak ferry from Connors Highland Terminal back to Manhattan. But first I have to make a short stop at Magoo’s.”
    “Magoos? That dive in Mariners Harbor near the Bayonne Bridge?”
    “Please. You’re talking about the future linchpin of my Staten Island tavern empire on the north shore.”
    “You bought it?”
    “Well, let’s just say I inherited it.”
    Dudley Mack owned restaurants and bars throughout Staten Island. Many of the bars featured strippers and lap dancers, allowing the funeral home magnet to frequently brag that he got his customers “coming and going.” A few minutes later they pulled up in front of the bar on Morningstar Rd., a few blocks from the Bayonne Bridge in Mariners Harbor. The bar was in a one-story building nestled between a wholesale furniture outlet and a candy store. Compared to Magoo’s, all the other stores on the block looked recently renovated, although none had been. The sign above the door was missing a letter. It said “agoo’s.” The Budweiser beer sign in the single, and slightly cracked, window was not plugged in and the front door panels didn’t match up. There was a large black spot below the roof line that looked like fire damage.
    “Nice acquisition, Dudley,” Scarne said. “I think you finally found a place we can’t be thrown out of.”   
    “Bobo, wait here,” Mack said. “We won’t be long.”
    “Your limo is about four blocks long,” Scarne commented. “It’s not a good sign for a business when you can park a boat like this right out front. By the way, how many corpses to the gallon does this thing get?”
    They entered the dark gin mill, and were assaulted by a dank odor.
    “Eau de beer,” Scarne said. “With a nice overlay of vomit.”
    “Yeah. Place smelled a lot better before they banned smoking.”
    “I take it back,” Scarne said. “I’d throw myself out of this joint.”
    There were four men, of indeterminate age, sitting at the bar, spaced far apart. All had shot glasses and beers in front of them, and were staring at the smoky mirror behind the bottles that lined the wall in front of them. The only sound in the bar came from a 19-inch TV perched precariously on the far corner of the bar that was tuned to Judge Judy. No one was watching it. The linings on most of the bar stools were cracked and a couple of the swivel seats were unnaturally tilted. A series of Formica tables, with metal chairs, lined the other wall. On one side of the cash register were two large jars, one with pickled pigs’ feet and the other with hard-boiled eggs in a cloudy liquid.
    “Oh, good,” Scarne said as they walked up to the bar, “we beat the dinner rush. Why don’t we skip Bahr’s?”
    When he looked closely at the mirror that seemed to be fascinating everyone else he realized that it wasn’t made of smoked glass. It was just filthy. Its reflective qualities were nil, something that was probably an advantage in Magoo’s, he decided. The patrons staring into it wouldn’t have liked what they saw.
    On the other side of the register stood a very fat bartender wearing a bulging t-shirt that said “McKee Technical Wrestling Team 1996.” It didn’t quite cover a navel that looked like an open clam. He visibly blanched when Mack walked behind the bar and checked the register.
    “Slow day, Pete?”
    The bartender swallowed, hard. He had undoubtedly heard what the new owner did to employees who skimmed.
    “Yes, Mr. Mack. But these guys are running a tab.”
    One of the men at the bar furrowed his brow in an attempt at concentration and looked at the pile of singles in front of him.
    “Sure they are,” Mack said.
    The man shrugged, stuck a cigarette in his mouth and went out the door to have a smoke.
    “Shut the goddamn door,” one of the other drinkers said, “You’re gonna let the flies out.” 
    Scarne walked up to the bar.
    “Pete, I want to buy my friend Dudley a drink in his new