Natalie's Revenge Read Free

I trouble you for a glass of ice water?” The lounge was cool but he’d worked up a thirst in the sweltering room upstairs, not to mention questioning the not-so-forthcoming desk clerk.
    “Ice water coming up.” The bartender scooped ice cubes into a tall glass, filled it with water and set it in front of Frank. “My name’s Syd. How can I help you?”
    “Thanks, Syd. I’m Frank Renzi. Does Arnold Peterson stay here a lot?”
    Syd’s face took on a guarded look. “Yes. Mr. Peterson rents a crash-pad on the sixth floor by the month. To be close to his office, I guess.”
    He guzzled some ice water. Given Syd’s expression, Peterson might have had reasons other than work to stay here. “Does he use it often?”
    “He’s here most week-nights.”
    “A hard worker, huh?”
    Syd's gaze shifted away. “I don’t know about that.”
    He heard raised voices and turned to look at the young couple at the table. The woman appeared to be on the verge of tears, no telling about the man, whose back was turned.
    When they quieted, he said to Syd, “Tell me about Mr. Peterson.” 
    “He comes in here most weeknights around eight.”
    “Alone, or with somebody?”
    “Mostly alone.” Syd hesitated. “But when he leaves sometimes he isn’t, if you get my drift.”
    “I do. And the person he leaves with is usually female?”
    “Definitely.”
    “Working girls?”
    “No, sir. We don’t allow that in here.” Syd tipped his hand back-and-forth. “Well, I’ve seen a few that were questionable, but I keep an eye on them if they come in alone and sit beside a man. No, I think Peterson sometimes picked up women who stayed in the hotel.”
    The sound of shattering glass interrupted their conversation.
    Syd frowned. Frank left the bar and approached the young couple at the table. The woman was crying.
    “You fucking bitch,” said her companion. “I don’t know why I bothered with you.” The guy looked like a wrestler, broad shoulders inside a snug polo shirt, muscular forearms bigger than battleships.
    Frank squeezed his shoulder and Loudmouth rose to his feet. He was three inches taller than Frank, at least six-four, but when he tried to turn he stumbled, his coordination impaired by alcohol. “Who the hell—”
    He twisted the guy's arm and rammed him against the wall. “You want to come down to the station and cool off in a cell or you want to play nice?”
    “Let go of my arm. You’re gonna break it!”
    “I’ll let go when you tell me you’re gonna get in a cab and go home. Without the young lady.” When he got no response he jerked the guy’s arm.
    “Okay, o- kay. I’m going.”
    Frank pushed him toward the exit and Loudmouth shuffled away.
    “Are you okay?” he said to the woman, who was wiping her eyes with a tissue. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties, about the same age as his daughter. But he couldn’t imagine Maureen putting up with the kind of crap this jerk had been dishing out.
    “I guess.” She took a deep breath. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
    “Will he be waiting for you when you get home?”
    “No. But he drove me here. I’ll have to take a cab home.”
    Through the window he saw the doorman help the drunk into a cab. “Go powder your nose. By then that jerk will be gone. The doorman will get you a cab.”
    “Thank you.” She balled up the tissue and gave him a tremulous smile. “Are you a cop or something?”
    “Or something. Take my advice and ditch this guy. You deserve better.”
    He watched her leave the lounge and reclaimed his seat at the bar.
    “Thank you,” Syd said. “If you hadn’t run him off I’d have had to. I owe you one.”
    “No problem. I hate men that beat on women. And I get the feeling that would have been the next step, the kind of language he was using.”
    Syd nodded his agreement, leaned closer and whispered, “Is something wrong with Mr. Peterson? Or am I allowed to ask?”
    “Sure. You’ll hear about it tomorrow anyway. Mr. Peterson is