Page 113 of Precise Justice

“He’s here. In the back room. He’s got a game going.”

“Okay, I’ll stop in and say hello,” Carvelli said.

On his way through the bar to find Marty Collins, Carvelli stopped to say hello and chat almost ten times. He finally reached the door with a PRIVATE sign on it. He knocked a couple of times then went in.

In the middle of the room that was used for storage, was a round table with five men and one woman sitting around it. Three of the men were known to Carvelli as was the woman. At the opposite side of the table sat the man Carvelli was looking for.

“Well, look what we have here. Private investigator, Anthony Carvelli,” Collins said.

Marty Collins was married three times and divorced three times with no children. Marty had once been an up and coming attorney, long ago, in the state attorney general’s office. He hated every minute of it. That’s when he learned to play poker from a man he had help prosecute in a busted gambling ring prosecution.

Now in his mid-sixties, the five-foot, seven-inch dapper Irishman was in his fourth decade of making a very good living at poker as a card player. If need be, dealing blackjack when necessary. Every card player in the Twin Cities knew him and knew he was a shark. That made him more attractive. A player others wanted to take on and try to beat.

Grayish brown hair and a three-piece suit made Marty look like everyone’s favorite uncle. Until they sat down at a table with him.

“To what do we owe the honor?” one of the men Carvelli knew asked.

“Well, Senator,” Carvelli said to long-time State Senator Lucien McCabe, “I stopped to have a chat with Mr. Collins.

“You know, there’s no smoking indoors in a public place anymore,” Carvelli said.

“That’s why there’s a sign on the door that says private,” the lone woman said while she puffed a cigar.

“I was wondering, Mary, thanks,” Carvelli replied.

“Your timing is impeccable, Tony,” Collins said as he tossed his cards into the discard pile on the table. “I’m taking a break,” he said.

“Good idea,” others agreed.

“Let’s step out back,” Collins said as he slipped into a two-thousand dollar cashmere overcoat.

“It’s still winter out there,” Carvelli said.

“Privacy, come on, be a man,” Collins told him.

Outside, Collins lit one of the five Marlboro Reds he allowed himself every day.

“You’re here about some missing jewelry I think,” Collins said. “Stolen from the site of a homicide for a client of Marc Kadella.”

“You read the paper,” Carvelli said.

“A lost art,” Collins replied. “You have photos?”

Carvelli had 5 x 7 photos of the jewelry in a manilla envelope tucked into his slacks against his back. He retrieved them and showed them to Collins.

“With the Sterling silver flatware, approximate value around thirty grand. Has the insurance company paid?” Collins asked while flipping through the photos. “Never mind. A homicide. People just have no values, no ethics, no class these days.”

He handed the photos back to Carvelli and asked, “You know Rudy over in St. Paul? Capitol Pawn on University near the Capitol Building?”

“Yeah, I know him.”

“A little birdie told me he knows something. He may have grifted some black kids, teenagers for a grand for some of this. Now ask yourself, how could some black kids, teenagers, in St. Paul be in Minneapolis doing a home burglary and a homicide?”

“Shit,” Carvelli muttered.

“It’s cold out here. Why didn’t you tell me?” Collins said. “Let’s go back in.”

He took one last hit on the Marlboro Red then flipped the remnant away.

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