Quarry's list q-2 Read online

  Fear?

  “You were the Broker’s business partner,” I said. “A silent partner. You provided financial backing for him and shared in the revenue of his business. Oh, you weren’t actively involved in that business… but you knew what it was about… you knew murder was the commodity Broker dealt in.”

  He was beginning to smile, now, just a little.

  “For some reason, though, Broker kept you in the dark about some parts of the business. Maybe he anticipated you might try and take over the operation, if you had half a chance… half a chance, and his list.”

  “This list again. And again I must ask: What sort of a list is it, exactly?”

  “A master list, you might say.”

  “And just what is on this ‘master list’?”

  “Not what. Who.”

  “All right, Mr. Quarry. We’ve come this far. I’ll ask… who is on the list?”

  “Me. And around fifty other people like me. Many here in the Midwest, but others all around the country, too. Names. More than names… dossiers, really. The people who pulled triggers for Broker. People willing to kill, for a price.”

  A small pearl of sweat was moving down his forehead. He touched a finger to it and said, “Of what value would such a list be to me?”

  “You’re the new Broker. Or, you want to be. You need the list, to be in business.”

  “I see. And you have it. The list.”

  I let him see the manila envelope. The outside of it, that is. Didn’t hand it to him. Just let him see.

  And I also dropped the corduroy jacket down into my lap, to let him see Ash’s gun in my hand, in case he’d had any doubt it was there.

  “Your price,” Brooks said, the faintest tremor in his voice, “is fair. In fact, asking only ten thousand more is more than fair, considering the value to me that list holds. This I freely admit to you. I also freely admit I do not have the money.”

  “What?”

  “It’s the truth. I simply don’t have it. The time element isn’t the problem, either. The money’s just not there.”

  “Brooks, ten thousand, twenty thousand, fifty thousand, ought to be nothing to you.”

  “It ought to be. It isn’t. I can offer you something else, something potentially far more profitable…”

  “Ash’s chair, you mean? No thanks.”

  “What do you want, then?”

  “Suppose all I wanted was the answers to a couple questions. Suppose I’d settle for that, and the money in the briefcase.”

  “I wouldn’t believe you.”

  “You’re not in a position not to believe me.”

  “True. In that case, I’d accept your terms.”

  “Those are my terms.”

  “Then ask your questions.”

  “You can start by explaining why you tried to have me killed.”

  “Complexity of reasons. As a precautionary measure, if nothing else. Did you know we had your lake home in Wisconsin watched, for several months? And it was searched, thoroughly, more than once. We needed to know if you had the list. We knew ‘the Broker,’ as you call him, had gone to meet you on the night of his death, for which we assumed you were responsible, and…”

  “You keep saying we…”

  “Oh. You’re wondering if I mean the editorial ‘we’? I mean Ash and myself. I had been using Ash as a personal bodyguard, off and on, for about a year… I have periodic threats on my life, thanks to the nature of my courtroom activities… he was, you might say, and as you may have guessed, on loan to me by your Broker, after whose death I would never have been able to even attempt picking up the pieces, without Ash. Without Ash, I would have had no direct connection to your end of this business, Mr. Quarry.”

  “Ash knew Broker had gone to see me the night he died, is that it?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Has Ash told you, since talking to me, that I didn’t kill the Broker? That Broker tried to have me killed, and got it from his own man in the process? That your precious fucking list had nothing to do with it?”

  “Yes, but at the time we assumed differently. We assumed the list had everything to do with it, and took the steps I’ve already mentioned… watching your home, searching it…”

  “If I’d had the list, what good would killing me have done?”

  “First of all, Ash advised not having you tortured, to find out what you knew. He said, in effect, you were just perverse enough to lie in the face of death, especially an inevitable one. He also said killing you point-blank was a better idea than forcing a confrontation, which you might be able to squirm out of.”

  Ash knew me pretty well.

  “After your death,” Brooks continued, “all of your property would have gone to your family, who would have no knowledge of the nature of your line of work, and from whom the list could easily be bought, stolen, or coerced. If you think that is far-fetched, I can tell you the city and street address of your parents in Ohio, Mr. Quarry. Our research has been most thorough, I assure you.”

  “I’m impressed,” I said, honestly. “Suppose I’d been hired to kill the Broker, by somebody else after the list, somebody who wanted to take over Broker’s operation just like you do.”

  He was beginning to enjoy himself. Smiling. “Killing you might flush out whoever that somebody else might be, in that event. If we had competition, we wanted to know who it was. And if you had killed him for some other reason, some personal reason, you were still a dangerous loose end that needed tying off… as you have so ably proven, with your presence here these past few days.”

  He reminded me then of the Broker, sitting there with his hands calmly folded across his chest, slight smirky smile on his face, the picture of respectability, having a fine time telling of the intricate and self-centered schemes he’d cooked up, schemes that included murder and anything else it took to get ahead, to be successful.

  It was no wonder they were friends and business associates. It was no wonder they’d been friends at that college back east, even sharing the same lover, the beautiful woman who even now was looking down from the oil painting across the room, that portrait of a woman whose hair was blond and pulled back away from a face that in life probably had not grown older as gracefully as the artist indicated, though he’d captured a great sadness in the familiar blue eyes.

  “Okay,” I said. “That explains why you tried to have me killed. But what about Carrie. Explain that to me, Brooks. Why are you trying so hard to kill your daughter?”

  24

  He clapped his hands together once, not loud, just a “well!” gesture, and said, “I suppose you sent Ash to an empty motel room.”

  “That’s right.’’

  “Surely you don’t expect me to be surprised to find you know I’m the girl’s father. You had plenty of time with her to learn that, what with all the questions you must have asked her… though I admit your failure to mention it till now had me assuming perhaps you didn’t know, which seemed possible, since my daughter and I share a singularly empty relationship, making it somewhat unlikely she’d mention me, without some prodding from an outside source like yourself, that is. No matter. Why don’t we go on to more important things.”

  “Than killing your kid, you mean.”

  “Ash did tell you about the federal agent who was killed last night? In your room at the Concort? You do understand the implications of that?”

  “Sure. It’s going to get hot around here.”

  “ Understatement as a Way of Life… if you ever write a book, Mr. Quarry, that should be the title… Understatement as a Way of Life. It is, indeed, going to get hot around here. Soon. Today.”

  “Something you can’t handle, is it?”

  “The police I can handle. The federal investigators, hopefully, will not be a major problem, since their man died in an exchange of fire with another man, who died himself in that same exchange. Still, an investigation of the magnitude federal people could conceivably exert will make some… friends of mine in
Chicago somewhat… nervous. Yes. Chicago is another question entirely.”

  “What’s Chicago got to do with anything? Broker’s operation was never a syndicate thing. You represent them in court, I know, but so what?”

  “I wish my involvement with my friends in Chicago was as casual.. as voluntary… as you suggest.”

  “But it isn’t?”

  “No, Mr. Quarry. You see… what’s the best way to put it? They own me. The handsome fees you must think I receive are a figment of the public’s imagination. I am given an allowance, like a child. Occasionally I’m given permission to handle an outside case, for appearance sake. The money I do receive is just enough to maintain a certain level, a front, a facade. But nothing lavish. Surely you wondered about this office, and my lack of associates, distinguished or otherwise? I don’t even own my home, Mr. Quarry; a corporation does. And you can guess who owns the corporation.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “I owed them a lot of money. I was a young man, recently married, with a child, a promising career, and… gambling debts. Yes, I owed them a lot of money. I traded them my life for it. Those, literally, were the terms.”

  “Then I was wrong…?”

  “Wrong in guessing I was your Broker’s silent partner? Only in that you assumed I backed him financially. Hardly. What I did for him was help him build his own facade, here in the Quad Cities, where I enjoy a certain amount of respect and social standing. I let him bask in that, share it. And one other thing. I was his link. To the people in Chicago. His ‘clients’… came from me.”

  “You.”

  “Me. Where did you suppose your Broker found his clients? On the street? By advertising? How do you suppose people knew to turn to him with their… problems? Think about it. Take your average semi-respectable businessman, who wants someone out of the way… his wife, his mistress, a business rival, a business partner, a troublesome politician, anyone. To whom does a man with such a need, such a problem, turn? Well, being a businessman, he has, in the course of business, most likely come in contact with an occasional acquaintance who just might happen to have a link or two to so-called organized crime. He goes to this acquaintance, in confidence, discusses his problem, hypothetically, of course… and he asks his acquaintance, with the sinister connections, ‘Whom might one turn to if one wanted someone killed?’ ”

  “And the guy with the problem eventually gets referred to a Broker, is that it?”

  “That’s it exactly,” Brooks said, nodding smugly. “You see, Mr. Quarry, it’s convenient for my friends in Chicago to have people like yourself on tap, so to speak… it’s occasionally necessary for them to make use of outside people, for housecleaning, among other things, and they keep such people prosperous and thereby available by maintaining them, through a sort of referral service. Can you deny you’ve never been involved in a syndicate-related job? Of course, you can’t. Now, I’ve been generalizing here, naturally, and have been necessarily vague about the finer points, but you now have an idea, at least, of how the business you’ve been involved in for some years actually works. The cog finally begins to understand the wheel.”

  “Didn’t you make any money feeding Broker clients?”

  “Yes. My involvement in this particular, somewhat distasteful business arrangement was the sole crumb thrown me by my Chicago friends. Here, at last, I was allowed to pursue a dishonest dollar like any good American.”

  “Then why are you still hurting for cash?”

  “Because I made some decisions, relating to the stock market, which were no wiser than decisions I made years ago, when I gambled in less socially acceptable ways.”

  “You’re still losing, you mean.”

  “I wasn’t losing, Mr. Quarry, not in this situation, anyway, until you turned up on the scene.”

  “You seem to think you’re going to lose where Chicago’s concerned.”

  “Possibly. But I really think I can handle that. They won’t be happy about the death of that federal man, true, but as I explained to you, and will explain to them, that’s a storm we all should be able to weather. Still, it will be an effort to convince them I haven’t hopelessly botched my attempt to reopen your Broker’s referral service. Knowing I had the list would soothe them, a bit, however.”

  “It means that much to you.”

  “Enough to kill my own child, you mean?” He sighed, heavily, and the well-etched character lines in his browned face seemed to sag a little, for the first time. “Pay attention, Mr. Quarry, and I will do my best to once and for all satiate your seemingly unquenchable need to know. You may not be aware that my late wife was the only child of a rather wealthy industrialist, here in the area. That brown brick home you’ve been spending so much time watching of late is only one of several my wife’s parents maintained. You may be wondering why my wife’s parents didn’t, uh, bail me out, when I had my gambling debts to settle. They could have, but refused. My wife felt similarly. She was obsessed with the idea I married her for her money, when actually, that was only part of it. Nevertheless, there is a great deal of money there, that for many years has been just beyond my reach. Now. Do you understand, finally? I know that I will never understand your need to know these things, seeing as God alone knows how many men died at your hands while you had no notion at all of why they were dying. No, I will never understand what has suddenly turned you into someone so curious no stone must be left unturned, for fear some bug or snake or other crawling thing might escape your sight.”

  He must have been something in front of a jury, pleading the life of some syndicate asshole. He could do things with words, pull them right out of his head and stick them in the goddamnedest sentences, without any apparent effort. I could see why the syndicate people had wanted him. He used logic and words as mindlessly, and effectively, as any gunman pulling a trigger.

  Just the same, I felt he’d told me the truth, just now. It made too much sense, felt too much like something somebody like him or the Broker would do, for it to be anything else but the truth. If his daughter died, everything would go to him: not only the list, if she’d had it-as, unwittingly, she had-but all of the Broker’s business interests, the legal and extralegal alike, and all of his dead wife’s family’s wealth, and for the first time he’d have a financial life of his own; he could continue to repay his endless debt to the Family in Chicago, in court, but he’d no longer be a monetary prisoner; he could pursue the good life, whatever the hell his notion of a good life might be. Whatever it was, it sure didn’t include his daughter.

  “You want the list,” I said.

  “You know I do.”

  “Then I want you to do one thing more for me, and it’s yours.”

  “Name it.”

  “I have a phone number I want you to dial. You’ll be calling Carrie. It’s the phone in a motel room where she really is waiting. I want you to call her and say, ‘I’m sorry, for everything,’ and hang up. Make sure she knows it’s you.”

  “This won’t change anything about what I feel has to be done about her… there’s no way around that…”

  “That’s okay. Let’s just ease her mind.”

  “You amaze me. Sentiment?”

  “Just do it, if you want your fucking list.”

  He stared at me, but all he saw was a poker face, and he couldn’t read it; he just wasn’t a very good gambler and that’s all there was to it.

  I watched him dial. I had him hold the phone away from his ear a little so I could hear her.

  “Yes?” she said, answering.

  “Carrie, this is your father. I want you to know I’m sorry, for everything.”

  And he hung up.

  “Good,” I said. “Now, here’s your list.”

  I opened the manila envelope and dumped its contents on the desk.

  His eyes were very wide as he looked at the ashes heaped before him. You’d think somebody had tipped over an urn full of a favorite relative’s cremated remains, though in Brooks’s case, I doubt
ed he had any favorite relatives, not unless you counted those he wanted to inherit money from. He touched the ashes with the fingers of one hand, sifting, searching, then slapped his hand against them, hard, and dark flakes floated in the path of the rays of dawn just peeking in the window behind him.

  “The list,” he said.

  I nodded.

  “All yours,” I said.

  He surprised me. I didn’t think he had it in him, but he lunged forward, sliding across the top of the desk, knocking the phone jangling to the floor, knocked me and the chair I was sitting in back and onto the floor, and he was on me, his hands on my throat, and I cuffed him on the ear with the. 45 and pushed him off.

  “That… that call I made,” he said. “It was… a suicide note, wasn’t it?”

  “Don’t cause me any more trouble, and it’ll go easier for you.”

  “You want to know the funniest part? She wasn’t even my daughter, Quarry. She wasn’t even mine.”

  I didn’t know what he was talking about, and I didn’t want to know. He was defeated now, just a slack sack of humanity, of a sort, anyway. He didn’t cause any more trouble. I kept my word. I kicked him in the head, and he was unconscious when I took him over to the window, opened it, and threw him out.

  25

  The Cozy Rest Motel was everything its name promised, and less. The office was just one of a dozen and a half individual huts covered with sheets of pink pseudo-brick. In the office window was a Christmas tree, a little plastic one on a table, and a frowzy fat woman was decorating it with tinsel. A tinny speaker hanging from a nail over the door was spitting Christmas music, and it was still November, for Christsake. The rest of the cabins were in the wooded area behind, united by a gravel road that curved around like a drunken snake, through trees that had to look better than this during some season. It was cold again this morning, and the snow that hadn’t melted yesterday was clumped and misshapen and hard-crusted, looking like chunks of Styrofoam randomly scattered around the gray ground the cabins overlooked.