Mortal Stakes (Spenser)
Robert B. Parker
Language: English
Pages: 336
ISBN: 0440157587
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Everybody loves a winner, and the Rabbs are major league. Marty is the Red Sox star pitcher, Linda the loving wife. She loves everyone except the blackmailer out to wreck her life.
Is Marty throwing fast balls or throwing games? It doesn't take long for Spenser to link Marty's performance with Linda's past...or to find himself trapped between a crazed racketeer and an enforcer toting an M-16.
America's favorite pastime has suddenly become a very dangerous sport, and one wrong move means strike three, with Spenser out for good!
and great manners, but you and I are from the same neighborhood, darling, and now that we both know it maybe we can do business. I want those goddamned films, and I’ll do what I have to to get them.” Her face was whiter now than it had been. I could see the makeup more clearly. “You want her back in the mudhole?” I said. “She got out, and you helped her. Now she’s got style and manners, and there’s a man that wants to dirty her up and rub her nose in what she was. It’ll destroy her. You want to
tourist in a bar or breaking bricks with your bare hand. Wally Hogg is a professional tough guy. You are an amateur. He would blow you away like a midsummer dandelion.” Lester said, “Shit.” You find a line that works for you, I suppose you ought to stick with it. Maynard said, “If these people are so tough, Spenser, what makes you think you can help?” “Because I’m a professional too, Bucko, and that means I know what I can do and also what I can’t do. It means I don’t walk around thinking I
only the edge was visible at the crack of the door. It would be good to know if someone had gone in. I picked up the shotgun and went out to my car. On the way down I passed another tenant. “Hunting season so early?” he said. “Yeah.” Outside I locked the shotgun and the box of shells in the trunk of my car, got in, put the top down, and headed for the North Shore. I knew what and how, now I had to find where. I drove Route 93 out of Boston through Somerville and Medford. Along the Mystic
As I slid in opposite him, he turned the page and folded it neatly back. I could see the big diamond ring on his little finger and the diamond chips set in the massive silver cuff links. He smelled of cologne, and when he looked up at me and smiled, his white teeth were even, cap perfect in his small mouth. I said, “Evening, Lennie.” He said, “You know, Spenser, little things break your balls. You ever notice that? I mean I used to read the Record American, right? Nice little tabloid size, easy
shot. “Well,” I said, “if I had worms, I guess they’re taken care of.” “Yeah, Frank don’t age that stuff all that long, does he?” I sipped the beer. It was better than the whiskey. “Lennie, I need to know something without letting it get around that I’m asking.” His skin was remarkable. Smooth and pale and unlined. The sun had rarely shone upon it. It made him look a lot younger than I knew he was. “Yeah,” he said. “Sure, kid. I never saw any advantage talking about things for no good reason.