Quarry in the Black Page 3

  “Nothing useful there.”

  “No. I can see why the Broker is sending you in to get close and cuddly, but I don’t envy you.”

  “Don’t you like Negroes, Boyd?”

  Another shudder. “I don’t like them when they weigh two-fifty and pack guns in shoulder holsters, no, sir.”

  “Don’t be a bigot. They say once you go black you never go back.”

  “Fuck you, Quarry. What’s your in with these people?”

  I told him I had I.D. that made me John Blake, a Vietnam War veteran who won a Bronze Star. Seems I’d been active with a number of Nam Vets against the war, and was anxious to help get a peace candidate like George McGovern elected.

  “That gets you in,” Boyd said, nodding. “What gets you in the inner circle?”

  I sipped Coke. “My charm.”

  Teeth blossomed under the dark shaggy mustache. “Well, you are one winning son of a bitch.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But you won’t have your nine millimeter with you. I mean, you’re going in looking like a college kid, right? Jeans and shit.”

  “Right. But I brought a suit along. Two in fact. And a few ties and white shirts. And both are cut to conceal a shoulder holster.”

  He grinned again, half-amused, half-impressed. “A stick-it-in-your-waistband type like you? I never remember you wearing one of those.”

  “On one job I did,” I said. “You weren’t there. A solo gig.”

  His voice turned teasing. “Were you lonely without me?”

  “It was terrible. But I thought about you when I beat off at night.”

  He flushed. He didn’t like that.

  I said, “I almost didn’t take this job.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Well, this Lloyd character didn’t seem to fit the profile.”

  “What do you mean, profile?”

  I shrugged. “Usually we take out people who…well, I don’t want to say ‘have it coming,’ because that’s not it exactly. More like they got themselves in whatever mess they’re in, and they’re already dead, really. They just don’t know it.”

  “Walkin’ obituaries,” Boyd said, and gulped some more Bud. He’d finished the can, and got up and got himself a fresh one. When he sat back down, he asked, “What made you change your mind? The money?”

  “The money was part of it. But then the Broker told me that Reverend Lloyd was dirty. A phony preaching one thing and doing another.”

  He was nodding. “Yeah, that black bastard’s moving dope, Broker says, although not out of that storefront. I bet it’s these rallies he’s off doing, two or three a week now.”

  “You follow him to any?”

  He shook his head, once. “No. Broker said stay put. Said you’d be doing that, once you wormed your way inside.”

  “I guess that’s right. You’d start being a familiar face popping up once too often. That means you’ve had some days off with pay. Not bad.”

  “Not bad,” he admitted. “I’ve seen Lady Sings the Blues three times.”

  Lucky him.

  “Boyd, tell me—what if he was straight, this Lloyd?”

  Boyd frowned. “Well, isn’t he straight? I mean, he’s married, though that doesn’t always—”

  “Not that kind of straight. What if that wasn’t a front across the way, and the Rev was for real?”

  “What if he was?”

  “Would you still take the contract?”

  He crinkled his chin and shrugged. “Why not?”

  “Well, they say…a lot of people think…he’s the new Martin Luther King.”

  “Yeah. And?”

  “Would you have done that job?”

  “What job?”

  “Martin Luther King, dummy! Or JFK or Bobby?”

  Boyd waved that off. “Nutballs did the two Kennedy brothers.”

  “Maybe not. Plenty of people say they were contract jobs, fitted up with fall guys.”

  He almost choked on his beer. “Now you’re the nutball! Quarry the conspiracy nutball, that’s a good one.”

  I drank some Coke. “I asked the Broker about the Kennedys once and he said something interesting.”

  “What?”

  “ ‘Don’t believe everything you read in the papers.’ ”

  He was frowning. “If they were really contracts, those kills, so what?”

  I locked eyes with him, something I rarely did. “So would you have taken them on? King, for example.”

  Squinting one eye, he said, “Well, that one probably was a contract. That James Earl Jones guy.”

  “James Earl Ray.”

  “Whoever. Some dude that got paid to do it.”

  “Would you have done it, Boyd?”

  “Not for the kind of money we usually get. Not even for ten grand.”

  “But if the money were right?”

  “…I think so. Retirement money, yeah, you bet.”

  “Martin Luther King. How about Bobby Kennedy? Or Jack?”

  He thought for a few moments. “High six figures. Political hits are high risk in lots of ways, but sure, I’d take a flier.”

  I finished my Coke.

  “What about you, Quarry?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  That seemed to annoy him. “Why not? Yeah, yeah, I get you, they’re good people, decent men, maybe great men. But they’re like anybody else we take out—they put themselves there. They made enemies. They became walkin’ obits like everybody we hit. So if somebody’s gonna get rich, why shouldn’t it be us? You? Me?”

  Rich like Oswald? Or Sirhan Sirhan? Or James Earl Ray?

  Boyd said, “What makes you so holier than thou, all of a sudden?”

  “Nothing. I just didn’t sign on for anything political.”

  Boyd said nothing. But I’d got him thinking.

  I sighed. Got to my feet. “I’m gonna go get myself something to eat.”

  “Want company?”

  “No thanks. I want to get the hang of the neighborhood. Got a key for me?”

  “Sure,” he said, and fished it out of pocket. “Listen, Quarry, the way this flat is set up, you gotta walk through my bedroom to get to yours. By the time you get back, I may already be asleep. I’ll have the door shut, so just knock and say it’s you. That way you won’t get accidentally shot or anything.”

  “Okay.”

  “And the can, Quarry, it’s off your bedroom, so I’ll do the same, if I need to use it.”

  “Fine.”

  “I don’t want to get accidentally shot, either.”

  “Who does?”

  I crushed the Coke can, tossed it in the wastebasket in a corner.

  Said, “I’m going to shower and change my clothes.”

  “Okay.”

  “You want to watch, it’ll cost you a buck.”

  He grinned. “Fuck you, Quarry.”

  “That’d be ten bucks.”

  He was smiling and shaking his head as he and his Bud headed out to the living room.

  When I left, in fresh jeans and a nice sportshirt and the windbreaker, he was sitting on the floor in front of the TV, Indian-style, watching Dean Martin flirt with the Golddiggers.

  Going down the stairs, I thought, Sure you’d have taken on King or the Kennedys, you gay asshole. All you’d have to do is surveil the fuckers.

  THREE

  The Euclid Bar and Grill, practically downstairs from Boyd, served food till ten P.M. and I was there in plenty of time. The small kitchen turned out real French fries with some of the skin on—not the frozen crap so frequently foisted on innocent diners—and my cheeseburger was thick, medium-rare and smothered in grilled onions. Life was good.

  But the band was bad, living up to my first impression, butchering songs by a few groups I liked, Deep Purple, Crazy Horse, and others I didn’t, Black Oak Arkansas, REO Speed-wagon, though even they deserved better. Finally the guilty parties took a break and the jukebox spat out “Elected” by Alice Cooper, which co
nsidering the job that lay ahead seemed appropriate.

  The bar was goddamn smoky and mostly lit by beer neons and the band’s lighting on the little stage. The clientele ran to college-age and young professionals, with something of a unisex vibe, most of the females in the same tight-fitting flared pants and patterned tops as the males, yellow and red a preferred color, though miniskirts popped up here and there, nostalgic for the recently passed ’60s. My longish hair might have been a butch for all the shoulder-length hair these guys wore, while the young women sported both very short and very long ’dos.

  Falling in the latter category, my waitress was in a white blouse and black slacks, a curvy button-nose redhead too cute for her own good, and we’d struck up a relationship based on silly smiles and her leaning in to my booth, trying to talk over the band and take my order and me doing the same trying to give it.

  Now that I’d finished my food, and the Marshall-amp-driven band was on break, she came around and was easily heard over the jukebox, which merely blared.

  “Well, now, honey,” she said, just a slight Southern lilt coloring her pleasant second soprano, “you jus’ hated that, didn’t you?”

  The only thing left on my plate were a few smears of ketchup, like blood trails of the dying. “Sucked.”

  She laughed with more music than that band could ever muster, a busty girl threatening to pop the buttons on her blouse. “You want another Coke, honey?”

  “Better not.”

  “Oh, had enough of the hard stuff, have we?”

  “I don’t want to be up all night.”

  “Is that so bad, sugar?”

  “What?”

  “A man who’s up all night?” And she winked and went off with my dirty dishes.

  Cornball flirtation maybe, but the head of my dick woke up and started looking around. So did I, or anyway I kept my eye on her. I was just wondering if she teased all the guys she waited on like that. Upon observation, she seemed to, those not paired off with some chick, at any rate.

  That struck me as a little dicey. That hint of a Southern accent said she probably wasn’t originally from St. Louis, maybe even a recent arrival, and a friendly country girl could easily get herself in some big city trouble.

  Not my business. Anyway, most guys were just smiling back at her, like I was, and probably leaving nice tips, so what the hell. But there was this one long-dark-haired, droopy-mustached dude standing at the bar—sporting light-blue denim slacks, a red shirt with tiny white polka dots, and (I swear) a little matching denim hat—who was getting out of line.

  The waitress (her name tag said BECKY) was taking an order at one of the little tables between the bar and the booths along the wall. He put his hand on her ass and kind of rubbed, like he had a chamois and her rump was a fender. She glared over her shoulder at him and shook her head; he stopped, raised surrender hands, and she gave her smiling attention back to a couple at their table.

  The denim-cap jackass leaned against the bar next to another winner, a shoulder-length blond guy in a tailored black shirt and black-and-white plaid bell bottoms. Both had pointed shoes and looked like they fell off an Osmonds LP.

  The latter guy grabbed Becky by the arm as she walked by, and jerked her to a stop. I don’t know what he said to her, but his upper lip curled back and he gave her the kind of leer that made bad records like “I Am Woman” happen.

  She pulled away, frowning, maybe a little scared.

  Again, none of my business. I was finished with my food and there would be no more Coca-Cola tonight. The check was five-something and I left her a ten, hoping that might make up for some of the indignities she’d suffered at the handsy hands of my gender.

  I let myself in and Boyd was still up, watching Johnny Carson.

  “Get any?” he asked, with that same kind of leer. Like he was interested in pussy.

  But I just shook my head and went on into my bedroom. I was still in the windbreaker. On the nightstand was the Louis L’Amour paperback I was in the middle of—The Daybreakers.

  “Fuck it,” I said to nobody, and got the nine-millimeter Browning out of my suitcase. Brown walnut grips, blued finish, thirteen-shot magazine. I stuffed it into my waistband and zipped the windbreaker over it. Boyd was right that I wasn’t naturally a shoulder-holster type.

  My booth was still empty, though the ten was gone and the table had been wiped off, and I slid back in. The band was still on break and the jukebox was playing Three Dog Night—“Family of Man.” Some couples were dancing on the small dance floor.

  She noticed me and came over. She leaned in closer than before and I got a better look at her—rounded oval face, freckled nose and cheeks, lush lips sticky with pink lip gloss, green eyes with green eye shadow, and an explosion of fiery, shoulders-brushing curls.

  “Are you back, honey, or are you still here?”

  “I stepped out for some air. Getting kind of thick in here.”

  “Hell, I don’t even notice it no more.” She shook her head. “Been waitressin’ since high school. I inhaled more cigarette smoke than a Marlboro man.”

  Of course I hadn’t been talking about cigarette smoke.

  She pulled away a tad, asking lightly, “Change your mind about that Coke?”

  “No. Am I taking up valuable real estate?”

  “We’re pretty slow. Don’t worry about it.”

  She hipped it to the waitress station toward the end of the bar. Two others were working the floor and it was overkill. The denim-cap dipshit and the plaid-pants idiot were next to her. When she leaned forward, her bottom tipped up and the denim-cap could not resist. He petted her ass like a puppy. She glared at him and brushed his hand away like an insect. A big one.

  The bartender—the only guy in the place older than 25, a burly slug—saw this go down. He was polishing a glass to pretend he was working—as she’d said, it was fairly slow—and all he did was smile. Boys will be boys. And it was a nice ass, I had to admit. Full. Ripe. Jesus, men are shit.

  She collected a tall glass of something from the slug and came back over to me. Turned out the drink was for me.

  “Ginger ale,” she said. “No caffeine. So you won’t be up all night. Shame.”

  I thanked her, sipped, said, “I’m kind of partial to ginger.”

  “Are you, honey? I get off at midnight. Scheduled till two, but Lou said I should take off early.”

  I shrugged. “Sure. I have nothing on.”

  “Maybe later,” she said, smiling her pink sticky smile, “I can say the same.”

  Okay, so she was an outrageous flirt. Maybe even borderline slutty. But I didn’t care if she was the biggest tramp in St. Louis, I didn’t want those bastards manhandling her.

  She started away and I touched her sleeve. Just touched it.

  “Becky,” I said, “do you know those two characters at the bar? Are they regulars? Maybe one a boyfriend or an ex?”

  She shook her head and her hair was like strawberry cotton candy a kid was shaking on its paper cone. “Never saw ’em before. I don’t know whether they’re passin’ through or from some privileged part of town.”

  “Well, their privileges shouldn’t include playing grab ass with the help.”

  She touched my sleeve. But then she squeezed. “You’re nice. What’s your name?”

  “Jack,” I said.

  “So is it a date, honey? I know somewhere we can go.”

  “It’s a date.”

  She smiled and made dimples, emphasizing the kind of apple cheeks that make a boy long for the girl next door. Long for fucking her, I mean.

  She swiveled off and I watched her deposit her tray at the end of the bar. She was heading toward the back of the place just as the band was starting up again. Without premeditation, they murdered “American Woman.”

  And the American woman I was watching was heading into the cubbyhole to the right of the stage off of which were the men’s and ladies’ rooms.

  I sipped my ginger ale and let my eyes drift
to the bar. Would Heckle and Jeckle be watching her? Yes. They were watching her. Would they follow her to have some more fun? Yes. They would follow her.

  I doubted they’d have fun, though.

  I slid from the booth, unzipped my windbreaker and headed down the aisle between booths and tables and crossed in front of the band and gave them a thumbs-up, poor talentless bastards, and headed into the little restroom alcove. The blond was trying the ladies’ door, but it was locked. A joint like this wouldn’t splurge for more than one stool per can.

  The two guys shrugged at each other and leaned against the wall by the men’s-room door, waiting for her. A white guy with a beige Afro came out of the men’s and brushed by the pair and headed into the bar.

  That was all I needed.

  I moved into the little area, gestured toward the men’s, and asked the denim-cap clown, “Are you waiting?”

  His voice was low as he nodded toward the ladies’ room door. “Just waitin’ for some twat.” He jerked a thumb at the men’s room. “It’s all yours, bud.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and grabbed him by the arm and hauled him in with me.

  The blond said, “Hey!” and joined us. I pushed him past me, kicked the door shut and locked it. Close quarters. A urinal, a boothless crapper, and a sink and a hand drier. No paper towels. I hate that.

  “You hit on my sister again,” I said, facing them, back to the door, “and we’re gonna have a problem.”

  Both were taller than me, and looked like they were in decent shape under those garish threads. So they were at first surprised and then amused.

  “That cunt’s your sister?” the blond squeaked.

  I kept my back to the door and they were crowded together, still scoping me out before starting much less finishing anything. And maybe trying to figure out how to beat the shit out of me in such cramped conditions. They had to do it here—out in the club could mean trouble. Taking it outside could mean cops. Nobody wanted that, including me.

  “That cunt,” I said, “is my sister. Have you had enough fun with her? Copped enough feels?”

  “Fuck you, Charlie,” the denim-hat dude said.