High Stakes by John McEvoy Page B

shake hands and say, “How are you, Marty? Jack Doyle, meet Marty Farley, an old friend of mine.”
    Farley nodded at Doyle before turning to smile again at Kellman. Farley reached to pull out a chair from the table, but Moe laid a hand firmly on his arm. “Marty, sorry, no schmoozing today. Jack and I are going over some serious business. Know what I mean?”
    Farley backed up a pace, smile erased. “Well, sure, Moesy. I’ll just go inside and wait for my companion.” With a resentful nod toward Doyle, he walked away.
    Doyle said, “Why the brush off? Who’s Marty Farley?”
    Kellman sighed. “Known him for years. Former newspaper reporter, then started his own little public relations firm, always around, a full-time hustler. Before he got lucky in love, I used to wonder how this pain in the ass could make a living. He came up with some of the goofiest ideas you could imagine. One year, he was going around trying to raise capital for what he described as a ‘Luxury Retirement Home at an Affordable Price.’ He was going to call it The Last Stop—for, quote, ‘Seniors with Senses of Humor,’ unquote. Needless to say, this didn’t fly. Besides a source of goofy ideas, he’s a major league motormouth.”
    â€œVerbally incontinent?”
    â€œExactly,” Moe said. “Never shuts up. Probably talks all night in his sleep. But as a perfect example of ‘You Never Know in Life,’ Marty a few years back meets a rich divorcee and they fall in love. He marries into a scrap-metal fortune. Lives up on the North Shore with his little, homely wife who must have been desperate to corral a husband. Highland Park, I think. Marty got into Democratic politics up there. Even with all that money he married into, Marty’s still the biggest freeloader I’ve ever known. And that, my friend, is saying something.” He drained his Negroni. “Marty is also a dedicated boozer. One of your people, so no surprise there. Irishers.”
    Doyle said, “Don’t try to get a rise out of me with another of your ethnic slurs. You’re awfully insensitive for an elderly Yid.”
    Kellman said, “May I continue?”
    â€œGo ahead. I’ve got the Anti-Defamation League on speed dial.”
    Their waiter carefully placed the bill in the middle of the table, where it was ignored.
    â€œCouple of years ago,” Kellman continued, “I was invited to a very select Democratic Party fund-raising cocktail party at the Drake Hotel. Major league party donors. Couldn’t go, I was going to be out of town. I ran into Marty in the Loop the day before and, for some goddamned reason, I don’t know what came over me, told him about this party and asked him if he wanted to go in my place, said that he could use my invitation. Well, sure. This was a freeloader’s wet dream. Free booze, free food, rubbing elbows with the inner circle.
    â€œThe next morning I get a call at the office from a friend of mine, John Doherty, who was at the party. He lives north, too, Lake Forest I think. Anyway, John gets on Amtrak to go home from a dinner meeting after work, starts walking down the aisle of the Metra car until he comes to a guy passed out in the middle of the aisle, guy he recognizes. Lying on his back. Snoring. Emitting alcohol fumes. People are stepping over and around him. It’s obvious the guy’s not sick, just passed out from sloshing down drinks. Doherty recognizes the guy. It’s Marty Farley. But the prostrate Marty on his suitcoat chest is wearing a large identification badge from the party that says in capital letters MOE KELLMAN on it. Doherty thought this was very funny. I did not.”
    â€œDid you call Marty on this?”
    Moe shook his head no. “Wouldn’t do any good. He’d just apologize for something he could barely remember doing and go ahead with his wealthy wife in his wavering life. What can I