Quarry q-1 Read online

  “You mind if we join you, son?”

  I got off my back to tread water and looked down toward the shallow section of the pool where a short, fat-bellied guy in his fifties, who was the one who’d spoken, and a short but skinny guy with white hair all over his chest and none on his head who was also in his fifties, were sloshing their way into the water. I stroked over to the side and climbed out.

  I said, “All yours, gentlemen. I was just getting out.”

  The fat one nodded and grinned and the two men lolled around in the shallow end like a couple overage water babies.

  There was an exercise room downstairs. I found it empty, which was the way I hoped to find it. Empty of people that is: the room had plenty of equipment, such as barbells and wall-pulleys and chinning bar and rowing machine. I spent a long time in there. Sweat rolled off my body and got the bad things in me out. I exercised mechanically, with speed and concentration, with a pleasant mindlessness that was just what I needed right then.

  But when I started to get tired the thinking hit me again. I was on the rowing machine and I got to thinking about Boyd and Broker and my job and how long was it all going to last, anyway?

  I was spoiled, maybe, from five years of smooth runs, five years of nothing-goes-wrong and then all of a sudden Boyd loses his edge and almost gets me killed last job. Then Broker pulls that half-ass, last-minute airport deal on me, where it’s not enough I off the guy, I got to play strong-arm and delivery boy too. By that Broker betrayed the trust I had in him and our working arrangement.

  Your mind works things out sometimes. Your subconscious, I mean. In my mind somewhere I knew that if I ever wanted to quit doing what I was, I ought to have some money laid aside to fall back on. But I didn’t: I had spent every nickel and that was something I never faced. But my subconscious did. My subconscious made me hold onto half that load of heroin. My subconscious was responsible for me having that little key to that little locker forty miles away at the Quad City Airport. A locker that had a bag of stuff in it that was my nest egg, my ticket out of Broker’s loving arms, my everything. Till I found something else at least.

  My subconscious had made a decision: get the hell out. I’ve lost faith in Broker. And Boyd. This is it for me. Just this one damn dipshit little job. Just wipe out this one poor mark, this Albert Leroy who’s dead on his feet anyway, and quit or disappear or whatever but get the hell out! No more Boyd, no more Broker, maybe quit the racket altogether. Maybe not. It isn’t the killing. It’s working with people I got no trust in is killing me.

  I got up off the rowing machine. In the corner was a punching bag. I went over to it and started hitting it, pretending it was Boyd, and suddenly I wasn’t tired anymore and I hit it for a long while. I took out a lot of frustration on that bag, and when I was done I was tired again. But refreshed. To take the coat of sweat off I went back up to the pool, which was again empty of people, and swam for another half hour. I was alone the whole time. It was wonderful.

  By the time I got back to my room it was five o’clock. On my way up to the room I’d stuck my head out of the air-conditioned Y and found that one of those late summer scorchers had come out of nowhere and descended on Port City. So I said to hell with the sportcoat-and-tie business and got myself a shortsleeve mock-turtleneck Ban-Lon and a pair of denim slacks from my suitcase and put them on. I felt like a human being again.

  Down the street, near the waterfront, I found a restaurant that would feed me breakfast. I consumed several omelets and a lot of toast and bacon and I felt good by the time I got back to the Y. It takes a long while to get dark in the Midwest, thanks to Daylight Saving Time, so I sat downstairs in the small television room of the Y and watched a made-for-TV movie, and then it was nine o’clock and late enough to go calling on Boyd.

  Boyd was sitting, back to wall, facing away from the window, a can of Bud between his legs. There was a smile under his mustache; he was enjoying the cool night breeze coming in the open window. His eyes were closed and he looked asleep, but as soon as I got within a few feet of him, he said, “Albert’s having his soda right now. You can expect him to come out of the drugstore and start strolling back down the street, oh…” He checked his watch. “… three minutes from now.”

  “Hello, Boyd.”

  “Hello.”

  “It was hot today.”

  “Sure was.”

  “Did he wear his sweater?”

  “No, by God he didn’t. First time, too.”

  “Maybe he’s human after all.”

  “But he did wear a long-sleeve shirt.”

  I shook my head and sat down on the davenport.

  “Want me to get you a beer?” Boyd said.

  “No.”

  “You know, I’m thinking of taking up permanent residence here. This apartment is something else.”

  “Sure is.”

  “Do you know that the fridge was full of beer and food, before I even got here?”

  “No kidding.”

  “Sure was. Whoever our host is, he’s thoughtful. And, shit, Quarry, you know what? Budweiser. That was what kind of beer was in it. My favorite kind, can you beat it?”

  “You can’t beat it.”

  “Listen, Quarry, I want to ask you something.”

  “Shouldn’t you be watching?”

  He made a face, half-turned toward the window. A couple minutes went by and he said, “Here comes the gink. Thirty seconds off schedule. Yeah. There he goes. Go to the door, gink. Thata boy. Fumble for your goddamn key. Thata gink, thata boy.” Boyd belched and turned back to me. “Boring. We’re doing the world a favor this time out.”

  “Are we.”

  “Sure.”

  “This guy’s dead already, Boyd. Who wants a dead man killed?”

  “That isn’t our business. Our business is doing him.”

  “You’re right. I think I’ll go get myself a beer.”

  “Do that. Do that, Quarry.”

  A few minutes later I was sitting sipping the beer and Boyd said, “Quarry?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I want to ask you something.”

  “Shoot.”

  “What you said last night.”

  “What did I say last night.”

  “You said, uh, you said maybe we been working together too long.”

  “Did I say that?”

  “Yeah you sure as shit did. I mean, you didn’t mean that, did you? We’re a team, Quarry, a good one. It bothers me you saying that kind of thing.”

  “I must’ve been in a bad mood.”

  “That’s an understatement. You didn’t mean it, then?”

  “I didn’t mean it.”

  He grinned. “That’s a relief. Whew! I’m telling you, I’ve had, well… a few problems in my, uh, personal life. I think I’m straightened out now, but it’s been kinda rough, you know what I mean? I don’t want to bring that into it, but I been feeling, sort of… well a person gets these feelings of rejection sometimes, you know? I know you don’t like discussing personal matters and such, but I really like working with you, I consider you as more than just a working partner, I like to think of you as my friend. You know.”

  “We been together a long time.”

  “We sure have. I hope we’ll be together a lot longer time, too.”

  “Me too, Boyd.”

  He nodded and kind of sighed and turned back and watched the window for a while. Then he swiveled around and said, “Look, I’d like to walk down to the taxicab stand and get something to read. You want to take over for me for a minute?”

  “Sure. How long you be gone.”

  He stood. “Maybe an hour.”

  “How the hell far away is this taxicab stand, anyway?”

  “Just down the block. But I like to look their books over good, you know, before I pick one out. I won’t read just any old thing. And they got one of those sandwich machines, you heat ’em up in little plastic wrappers, you know?”

  “One of those infrared deals.”r />
  “Right. So I thought I’d have a sandwich. So how about you take over for a while?”

  “Sure.”

  “I appreciate it.” He started to walk out of the room, stopped midway. “Quarry?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re all right.”

  “Sure.”

  “No, I really mean it. You’re an all right guy.”

  “Thanks, Boyd.”

  “And I’m glad you said what you said, about not meaning what you said. Like you said, we been together a long time. With a long time yet to come, right?”

  “Right,” I said.

  15

  My eyes opened and focused and saw the face of a clock. Alarm clock, my little travel alarm on the nightstand by the bed. The clock had been set for four, which was how it read, and I looked at it not understanding why the bell wasn’t going. Still half-asleep, I took the clock in my hands and examined it carefully and the bell rang and I jumped upright in bed, scared momentarily shitless.

  I sat there for a second looking at and listening to the clock and tried to decide whether to swear or laugh and did neither. Instead I shut off the alarm and laid it back on the stand and climbed out of bed. I got a towel wrapped around me and walked down to the can to brush my teeth and take in a shower and shave. When I came back I put on a T-shirt and socks and sat back down on the bed.

  From under the bed I pulled out the suitcase and briefcase and laid them open beside me. I drew my raincoat out of the suitcase and unfolded it and leaned over and draped the coat over the chair at the desk-dresser. Then I took the nine-millimeter automatic from the briefcase and removed the silencer. I cleaned and oiled the gun, then the silencer, though neither needed it, and also cleaned the spare barrel I’d be putting on the gun afterward. I reattached the silencer and returned gun and extra barrel to the briefcase and snapped it shut.

  As I finished dressing, I went to the window and drew back the curtain. It was still dark out, though the corners of the sky were touched with a washed-out gray, about the color of the suit I was getting into. When I was dressed I looked at myself in the mirror, in my gray suit and black tie, and I could’ve been a businessman. A salesman maybe, like my cover. Or a pallbearer.

  It was still dark when I got to Boyd’s. I parked the Ford in front, three blocks down on the same street as Boyd and Leroy, leaving my briefcase and suitcase in the trunk. I had my raincoat over my right arm, the nine-millimeter stuck down in my belt. I walked around behind the building and used the stairs and found the door unlocked. Boyd was eating a grapefruit in the kitchen.

  “Morning, Quarry.”

  “Morning.”

  “Want something to eat?”

  “I don’t eat before a job.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s right. How do you feel?”

  “Okay. Good. Fine.”

  Boyd got up from the table. He was in his T-shirt and boxer shorts. “Give me a second to get my clothes on.”

  “Hurry up.”

  “I will.”

  I laid my raincoat on the table and went over to the sink and got myself a glass of water and drank it and Boyd came back. I said, “Set to pull out?”

  “Sure.”

  “You driving that green Mustang in back? In the alley there?”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “I’ve seen that before. You drove it on the last job, too, didn’t you?”

  “Course I did, it’s my car.”

  “Think that’s wise?”

  “You’re getting fucking paranoid, Quarry.”

  “Maybe. Maybe I am.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot…” He dug in his pants pocket and got out a key and handed it to me.

  I looked at the key and shook my head. “A key to the front door.”

  “Aw what’s so strange about that, we’ve had it easy before.”

  “I didn’t say it was strange.”

  “Bullshit, you been talking about what a strange job this was ever since you got here.”

  “I’m not talking now.”

  “Okay, all right, Quarry. Let’s just do it and get out, huh?” Boyd sat back down at the table. “You be sure to mess things up good. You know. Rip the mattress up a little, why don’t you? You got a knife?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. “

  “I take it Mr. X made the drop okay.”

  “Fine, real fine. You want to see?”

  “Okay.”

  Boyd got up and I followed him into the bedroom. He opened his suitcase and got out an envelope that had money in it. He rippled the edges of the bills and I nodded and he smiled.

  “How much?” I said.

  “Just shy two grand apiece,” he said. He was playing with one corner of his mustache.

  “That’s a five-grand hit,” I said. “Not the best money in the world, but this has got to be more important a job than it looks to us.”

  “If you want to ask Broker some questions, fine. Me, I’ll take my money and run.”

  “Yeah. You’re right, Boyd, it’s not good thinking about a job like I been. Not good at all.”

  “You don’t want to take your share with you now, do you?”

  “Hell no. You think that would be smart?”

  “I usually wouldn’t, Quarry, but in this hick town what’s the difference? Nobody’s up yet, and you could just hop in your car and leave directly.”

  “No. I’ll stop up for it right after.”

  “Well don’t take your time getting back.”

  “Do I ever take my time getting back?”

  “No.”

  “Okay then.”

  “Quarry.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You better get going, you want to get it done before light.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “Do it, man.”

  “Right.”

  I stopped at the door and said, “Look, Boyd, this job has been a little, well…”

  “Queer?” Boyd said, smiling a little. “Yeah, I guess it has. Not much we can do though, huh? Except do it.”

  “Well just the same, we better have a signal, in case something sours.”

  “Okay. His shade is up over cross the way. I’ll be watching out the window, so if something goes wrong, pull the shade. Halfway down if I should get the hell out, say it’s cops or something. Pull it all the way down if you need help. Okay?”

  “Fine. Same signal goes for you, then.”

  “Fine.”

  I put on my gloves. I took the silenced automatic from out my belt and held it in my right hand and folded the raincoat over my arm, covering gun-in-hand. I said, “See you, Boyd.”

  “See you, Quarry.”

  He gave me a thumbs-up sign and I returned it and left.

  The sky was almost light, if you can call a murky gray sky light, and between that and the still-burning street lamps, I didn’t exactly have the cover of night to protect me. Not that it mattered: the street was empty, like a deserted movie backlot, and down half a block at the corner the traffic lights were going, changing colors as if to entertain themselves. So I wasn’t upset when there was no back entrance to Albert Leroy’s building. I had to use a street entrance, an unlocked door stuck between the taco joint and the laundry, but had no bad feelings about it.

  The stairs creaked as I ascended, and I guess I would’ve bitched too if I was a hundred years old and somebody walked on me. The walls were flaking brown paint and the air was so musty I wanted to cough. When I got to the tiny landing I found two doors, one of them obviously leading up to the vacant apartment on the upper floor, the other bearing a slot with a yellowed card in it reading, “Albert Leroy.”

  I worked the key in the lock.

  The door opened on the kitchen. The ceiling was high, the walls a yellowing white, the stained wooden cabinets a darkening yellow. The kitchen appliances were ancient-a stoop-shouldered Westinghouse refrigerator and a four-burner gas range, the kind you light-and a kitchen table with a speckled Formica top w
as showing age, its plastic-covered chairs having seen better days, and the linoleum on the floor was cracked here and there and was rolling up at the edges. But the kitchen was clean, hospital clean. It even smelled like a hospital, as though he used it for surgical work instead of cooking.

  A doorless archway led into the living room. It was small, a live-in elevator, with wallpaper of a faded purple-flowered design, like the pattern on an old woman’s dress, fitting in well with the furniture, which was drab and lifeless, the kind of stuff the elderly stick doilies on to hide the shabbiness. The only modern piece of furniture was a reclining chair back across from the portable TV and it was broken into a constant back-tilt, which didn’t help the limited space of the room. The guy was a hoarder, obviously, as the room was somehow both cluttered and orderly, stacks of books everywhere, newspapers saved, piles of backdated TV Guides on the television, a table with a stamp collection in progress, but everything seemed in its special, assigned position.

  To the right was the bedroom.

  The door was open and I could see him, sleeping there on the bed. Since it had been a hot night, he was sleeping only in his pajama bottoms, and on top of the covers. His arms were stretched out as if reaching and his mouth was open and he looked like a fountain in a park. He was breathing hard but he was not snoring, his face a putty mask, formless, puffy.

  I stood in the doorway and looked at him for a moment. I didn’t go in there with him because the bedroom was so small it made the living room seem gigantic. I was plenty close here in the doorway. Close enough to see that his chest was sunken and he had just the start of a potbelly and neither chest nor belly had a hair on it; he was hairless smooth like a baby and I suddenly wondered how old he was. I had thought of him as an old man, but he was smooth, unwrinkled, unused. The only solid indications of age were streaks of white in his sandy crewcut and deep creases in the checks of that putty face. On his left arm was a long and unsightly brown birthmark that was hairy and ran from his outer bicep down cross his elbow and twisting round almost to his wrist and I now knew the reason for cardigan sweaters and long-sleeve shirts in summer.