Read On the Street Where You Die (Stanley Bentworth mysteries Book 1) for Free Online Page B

Bentworth, this is my wife, Serena.”
    Not Muffy, but close enough.
    “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bentworth,” she said. She sat on a chaise lounge, adjusted her robe for maximum exposure to the sun, making sure everyone was watching, and lowered herself to a reclining position.
    “My pleasure, Mrs. Overbee.”
    She adjusted herself on the lounge and opened her robe to fully expose her body. The sun beat down through the glass ceiling.
    “No matter how I try, I can’t seem to, y’know, get a tan,” she said.
    “It won’t work here,” I said. “Greenhouse effect. UV light changes its waveform when it passes through glass.”
    “Huh?” she said.
    “The words are too big, Mr. Bentworth,” Missy said. “Serena, the tanning rays can’t get in through a glass roof. That’s why you’re so pale. You have to go outside.”
    “But it’s like cold out there,” the valley girl answered. “Buford, sweetums, why don’t you buy me a, y’know, tanning bed?”
    Missy made a face like she was about to like, you know, puke.
    Serena said to Buford, “Honey, how many have you like had? You know I don’t want you drinking so early in the day.”
    “Thank you, darling,” he said. “Ramon knows my limit.”
    Serena put her earphones on, adjusted her iPod, and tuned out the rest of us.
    “Let’s go in the study where we can talk,” Buford said.
    We got up, and left the ladies to themselves. Buford led me back into the house and into his large, paneled study. We sat in facing leather easy chairs.
    I looked around the magnificent room and said, “So, when you kack, are you going to say, ‘Rosebud’?”
    His gun collection was prominently displayed in walnut cabinets with glass doors on two walls. It looked like he had at least one of every kind of handgun, rifle, and shotgun. I spotted an Uzi, an AK-47, an M-16 and two Thompson submachine guns.
    “Those pieces fully automatic?” I asked, pointing at the assault weapons.
    “They are,” he said. Silly of me to ask.
    “Now,” he said, “what do you have to report?”
    “First,” I said, “This is what I know about you.”
    I recited all the facts we’d learned about Buford’s past from the U.S. Marshals Service website. Buford sat quietly during the recitation.
    When I finished he said, “Why did you need to learn all that?”
    “You need to know how easy it can be to find out that kind of shit, is why. You’re trying to stay out of sight and incognito, and an eighteen-year-old boy with orange hair learns everything there is to know about you in less than an hour. You don’t think somebody else can do the same thing?”
    “I see. About that murder rap, Stan, just so you know. The vic was a drug dealer. He was peddling his shit in my neighborhood in Philly. My daughter was one of his best customers. He didn’t respond to conventional forms of persuasion, so I took a different tack. Problem solved. After that no one would sell to her. Got her into rehab, and she cleaned up.”
    “Did you do the deed yourself?”
    “I took the fall. I’m telling you this just so you know that hits were not in my job description. The family had other resources for that.”
    “Understood,” I said, relieved. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about more than a broken arm or two if Buford and I ever had a falling out. Which I fully intended to avoid.
    “What did you learn about my shake-down artist?” Buford said.
    I took the note from my pocket and handed it to him.
    “Name, address, phone number. Do you know him?”
    “Mario Vitole. No. It sounds like he could be one of the boys, but I never heard that name.”
    “Out of town, maybe? Brought in to bring you down?”
    “Not with blackmail. The family doesn’t do it that way.”
    “You think he could be one of the feds?”
    “Don’t know. But I’ll know soon enough. Or it won’t matter.”
    “Wouldn’t you rather go in armed with more knowledge?” I said.
    “I’ll be armed.”
    “But it’s better to