The Payback Game Read Free Page A

facts and planted doubt where there should’ve been none.”
    Boff spread his hands. “Well, Mike, that’s my job.”
    “Name’s Cassidy. Only my friends call me Mike. And in case you haven’t figured it out yet, I don’t like you or what you do for a living.”
    No stranger to hostility, Boff just smiled and plowed on. “So, Cassidy , if you feel that way, why’d you ask me to come up here?”
    Without replying, the retired reporter looked at Cullen. “You want a soda, Danny?”
    “Diet Coke.”
    Cassidy turned to the bar and waved at the bartender, a beer-bellied bruiser in his late fifties with a bald head. “Yo, Sean! Get a Diet Coke for our celebrity boxer here.” He pointed to Cullen. “This kid’s a world champion.”
    Boff quickly added, “And I’ll take a regular Coke with lime.”
    “Sean, put that second Coke on a separate tab .” Cassidy lifted his empty beer mug. “I’ll have a refill, too.” He turned to the redhead. “Hannah, do you want another bottle of that fancy Smithwick’s Ale?”
    “I’m fine, Uncle Mike.”
    Turning back to Boff, Cassidy finally replied to his question. “You wanna know why I asked you up here?”
    “That’d be nice.”
    “I want to hire you.”
    That caught Boff by surprise. “Really? Why? Are you in trouble?”
    “I’m too damn old to get into trouble.”
    “So what’s the case?”
    Cassidy folded his hands and leaned forward. “Someone I was very good friends with was murdered four months ago. Three bullets in the chest, one in the head. He was a columnist for the Daily News. He was heading home to his apartment in the Village at around midnight when he was shot. The cops haven’t come up with a single clue. The case is very rapidly going cold.”
    Boff narrowed his eyes. “And what does this case have to do with me?”
    Cassidy leaned back, unfolded his hands, and pointed a finger.  “Boff, I want you to find my friend’s killer.”
    Again, Boff was caught off guard. The last thing he wanted to do was track down another killer. The three previous times he ’d done that, he’d nearly been killed.
    “Why me?” was all he could think of to say. “I mean, as you well know, Cassidy, I defend accused murderers. I don’t hunt them down.”
    Cassidy waved that off with one hand. “Is that so? Well, my cop sources tell me you caught a few killers in the past year or two that they couldn’t find.”
    Boff shrugged. “I got lucky.”
    “Nobody’s that lucky. Not without being very good.”
    More out of habit than genuine interest, Boff said, “Tell me about the murder.”
    Before Cassidy could reply, the bartender came by with the Cokes and a mug of beer, set the glasses down on the table, and left.
    W aiting until he was gone, Cassidy said, “My friend’s name was Nicky Doyle. You heard of him, right?”
    “Actually, I haven’t.”
    “Jesus Christ. Don’t you read the friggin’ newspapers?”
    “Not much , really. Although once in awhile I’ll glance at the crime section to see if there’re any prospective clients.”
    Cassidy turned to the redhead. “Hannah, fill this illiterate P .I. in on who Nicky was.”
    Hannah set her bottle of ale aside . “Nicky Doyle was the best investigative columnist in the city and a protégé of Uncle Mike’s. He and Uncle Mike were really close. I was also tight with Nicky. He and I tried to have dinner once a week. Nicky often threw me a lead on a good story in Brooklyn.”
    But t he young woman’s meandering narrative was making Boff impatient. He glanced at his watch, then looked at Cassidy. “Where was your friend murdered?”
    “Just outside his apartment building . On Morton Street in the Village.”
    “No witnesses, I gather.”
    Cassidy shook his head. “Zilch. Morton’s a quiet residential street, but nobody heard any shots. Meaning, the mutt used a silencer.”
    Again out of habit, Boff began considering the case. What struck him first was that Doyle had been an investigative