Quarry's List Page 7

  This morning.

  On the bureau I found a note she’d left, saying, “Think I’ll pass on the morning swim. Call me this afternoon, if you want another evening one.” Knowing her, that ambiguous use of the word “one” was on purpose. The note was signed, “Carrie,” with phone number beneath.

  I decided to pass on the morning swim, myself, and not just because she wasn’t going to be there. Until now, I’d been reasonably convinced no one knew I was in town; but I couldn’t be so sure, now that my easy poolside pickup of the evening before had turned out to be Broker’s widow. I mean, I could hardly afford to just shrug and say, “Oh, so that’s who she is. Isn’t that an interesting coincidence.” Not that coincidences don’t hap­pen, but in my position, chalking things up casu­ally to coincidence could coincidentally lead to things going suddenly black . . . perhaps at the same time water in a swimming pool was taking on a reddish tone.

  Cold needles of water struck my face, and I let them, wanted the water cold, showering and wak­ing up at the same time, still thinking about Carrie and who she was. And the more I did, the less this seemed like a coincidence, or, anyway, the less it seemed a wildly, suspiciously improbable one. After all, I used to meet the Broker at the Concort, and knew that he had money in the place; well, now his wife had inherited his interest, and was it so unusual for her to come around and make occasional use of the pool?

  This was, keep in mind, a young woman who evidently had been a showpiece—you should excuse the expression—for a husband twice her age, a bright, probably well-educated girl from a wealthy, sheltered background, no doubt, who would likely know little or nothing about her late husband’s illicit business activities. The fact that Broker died a violent death, which had led to a partial public surfacing of the dark side of his business life, could explain her extended period of mourning, which had apparently ended last night, in the pool, in bed.

  I thought about all that, going down in the elevator, and by the time I’d had breakfast, had made my mind up about something.

  So far, these several days I’d been in town, I’d kept a low profile, and that had its advantages; but it gets boring in the shadows, after a while, and I never did enjoy doing stakeout work. Besides, after my run-in with Broker’s wife, I was feeling confused, even paranoid, and enough of that. Time to come out.

  Time to go see an old friend and say hello.

  Time to see Ash.

  15

  _______________________________________________

  _______________________________________________

  IT WAS ALMOST warm. People were going around without coats. Occasional patches of snow remained, but that was about all. The ground was soft, the streets were slushy, but it was a nice day, for a change.

  Then the sun slid under a cloud, the wind got some of its bite back, and I spotted Curtis Brooks going in the Holiday Inn.

  I was just getting out of the Buick and was on my way to see Ash, when I saw the lawyer going in ahead of me. I laid back. Yesterday I had seen Brooks coming out of the motel and assumed he’d been to see Ash, and now today I’d be able to confirm or dispel that assumption. Only I was already convinced Brooks had called on Ash yes­terday, so this would just get in my way. I wanted to confront Ash, but not with company around. And I might eventually want to confront Brooks, but not both of them at once.

  Shit.

  Brooks, by the way, seemed about as happy to be here as I was to have him here. All I got was a glimpse of him, before he ducked inside the motel, but that was all I needed to see how irri­tated he was. He had the frustrated, defiant gait of a constipated man on his way to complain about an out-of-order toilet, and the pained expression of somebody who just found out where his tax money was going. His frown threatened to put a crack in that Florida tan of his, and when a guy spoke to him in the lobby, old Public Image-conscious Curtis Brooks didn’t reply.

  I followed him through the lobby, down a couple of halls, and saw him stop to knock at one of the rooms. I walked on by, rather quickly, not especially wanting Ash to see me when he opened the door to let Brooks in.

  I heard Ash say, “Can I fix you a drink, Brooks?” in a tone as embarrassingly chummy as it was contrite, and the door closed before Brooks could answer, if he did answer at all.

  So. Brooks was pissed off, and Ash was apologetic. What that added up to was interesting enough to make me take back my negative reac­tion to the lawyer showing up here today.

  Obviously, Brooks was here because Ash and the backup man had fucked up last night, and the man’s irritation was, of course, directly related to that. Which not only connected Brooks to Ash and the backup man and a proposed hit, but seemed to suggest Brooks was higher on the chain of command than Ash, confirming once and for all Ash was not the new Broker, and at the same time supplying a replacement candidate: Curtis Brooks himself.

  But then, as an attorney, Brooks was a profes­sional go-between, so by no means was it safe to assume he was the one who had taken over for Broker. Perhaps it was more likely that he had simply stayed along for the ride when the control of the Broker’s operation shifted to someone else.

  I went back out to the parking lot, back to my old stand, sitting in the Buick watching and wait­ing, just one more time. When Brooks came out of there, I’d go in.

  And an hour later, Brooks came out, and I started getting out of the Buick, and saw Ash following on the lawyer’s heels. Brooks still seemed irritated, but somewhat cooled down. Ash seemed less than totally subservient, but was obviously still trying to placate the man. They spoke for a few minutes, or rather Ash spoke and Brooks somewhat patiently listened, and then they got in their separate cars and drove out of the lot.

  I followed.

  Both men headed toward downtown Daven­port, and once there, at the bottom of the hill, they split up, Brooks driving off toward the left, Ash to the right. I stayed with Ash, followed him onto Third, a one-way that began commercial and dwindled into residential. Ash stopped in an area where commercial and residential were uncom­fortably commingled, and went into a diner, whose neon glowed the words “Chop Suey House” even in the afternoon.

  I pulled in behind his LTD, and watched through the smudged windows of the place as he found a booth in the back. Inside the front win­dow, two Oriental men in damp white outfits with aprons as smudged as the windows worked short-order style behind the counter, at a stove where two black metal woks were steaming, while nearby griddle and French-frying setups sizzled and smoked.

  I went in, and the heat from cooking in that confined boxcar of a little room was overwhelm­ing. One of the Orientals behind the counter greeted me, but I had no idea what he was trying to say. I greeted him, and he seemed to have no idea what I was trying to say.

  It was well after lunch hour, and there were only a few people in the place, which at peak could hold maybe twenty-five. Ash was sitting in his back booth, face buried in the menu. He had taken off the coat of his expensive suit, and his shirt was long-sleeved and pastel yellow and his tie was a stylish brown and blue pattern. Every hair on his head was in place, a sandy red tapestry woven to conceal his bald spot.

  He hadn’t seen me yet.

  I sat down across from him and said, “Still go for that Chink shit, do you?”

  He looked up and blinked and said, “Hello Quarry,” and went back to his menu.

  “That’s some car you’re driving,” I said.

  He put the menu down, smiled. He seemed a little worn out, probably a combination of fucking up last night, and just having had to go through some sort of song and dance for the lawyer. “It gulps the gas, though,” he said. “Otherwise, you’re right. Some car. You like it, Quarry?”

  “The car? LTD’s not my style. I like a sportier number.”

  “Like that little fuckin’ Opel of yours, you mean.”

  “Like that. Only I traded it in.”

  “What you driving, now?”

  “That Buick, parked behind you.” I pointed a thu
mb at the greasy window next to us, through which the two cars could be made out, barely.

  “That’s the kind of car you’re partial to driving on a job, Quarry. You on a job?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Hey, let me order for you. You don’t know Chinese food like I do. This little dump’s sup­posed to be the best Chinese joint in town. I checked around. So leave it to me.”

  And about then an Oriental woman, who man­aged to look attractive despite her greasy white outfit and sweating brow, and who was some­where between twenty and forty in age, asked us what we wanted, and Ash told her.

  “So,” Ash said, when she was gone, “you’re not dead, Quarry.’’

  “Not that you’d notice.”

  “Ha! Well, I want you to know I had nothing to do with that.”

  “With what?”

  “Those two guys who came around to try and whack you out.”

  “That gives me a warm feeling inside, knowing that.”

  “Come on. What was I supposed to do? Warn you?”

  “That would have been nice.”

  “Fuck. Who you tryin’ to kid? In this business, anybody’s a potential victim. You. Me. Those gooks over there, cookin’ their butts off. Any­body. And people like you and me, we do what the guy with the money says to do. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

  “But you knew in advance, they’d be coming around? Explain that.”

  “I was the one who set it up.”

  “You’re sure as hell hard to get information out of.”

  “What, do you think I’d fuck around lying to you? I set it up. Somebody hired me to set it up, I mean.”

  “Who?”

  “That, I can’t tell you. You know that, Quarry.”

  “I guess I do.”

  “But, like I said, I had nothing to do with it. You know, nothing personal.”

  “I know.”

  “I knew you weren’t dead, when Lynch and Beatty didn’t call in, afterwards. I figured they were at the bottom of some lake up there. That was no surprise. But I sure didn’t expect you to come around here.”

  “What did you expect?”

  “I expected you’d take it on the lam, what else? Just get the fuck out, go bury your head in Canada or Mexico or something, take your money, and make a new life or something.”

  “What money?”

  “The money you saved from all your jobs.”

  “I spent most of that.”

  “Well, then, the money you made off of killing the Broker.”

  “I didn’t kill the Broker.”

  “Okay, you didn’t kill him. Whatever you say.”

  “Somebody figures I did, though.”

  “Right. And if you didn’t kill him, who did?”

  “A punk kid named Carl.”

  “The Broker’s bodyguard?”

  “Yeah. He was trying to shoot me, and I put the Broker between me and him.”

  “Well, you did kill the Broker, then, in a way.”

  “In a way.”

  “Why was the Broker’s bodyguard shooting at you?”

  “I told the Broker I was quitting. He thought I was pulling something, and was going to have me put away. It didn’t work out the way he had in mind.”

  “Hey, that’s a good story. Maybe the guy that put the contract on you would even buy it. I don’t think so, though.”

  “Would it be worth a try?”

  “Why the fuck ask me? I’m just another em­ployee.”

  “I heard you took over for Broker.”

  “You heard wrong.”

  Our food came. Sweet and sour shrimp.

  “What’d I tell you?” Ash said, his mouth full.

  “It’s good food,” I said.

  “Look. I’ll do this much for you. I’ll pretend I didn’t run into you. I’ll just look the other way, while you leave.”

  “Can I finish my food first?”

  “Fuck, yes.”

  “And then I just take all that money I made off killing the Broker, and go to Canada or Mexico.”

  “Wherever you want. It’s your money.”

  “There isn’t any money. But suppose there was. Suppose I killed Broker, and got money for it. Why should anybody care?”

  “How the fuck should I know?”

  “I want to talk to the man you’re working for. “

  “Why?”

  “I want to find out exactly why he wants me dead. I want to explain what really happened with the Broker.”

  “Then what?”

  “Who knows? If he’s taking over, maybe I’ll want my old job back.”

  “I don’t know, Quarry.”

  “Ask him.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’d be a good idea to ask him.”

  “What the fuck . . . you threatening me, Quarry? What kind of shit is that?”

  “You didn’t ask me yet when I got in town.”

  “When’d you get in town?”

  “Couple days ago.”

  “Couple days ago. What you been doin’, since you got in town?”

  “Nothing. Looking at dirty pictures and play­ing with myself.”

  “You’ll go blind.”

  “I’ll cover one eye.”

  “What the fuck you tryin’ to say, Quarry? What you been up to, around here?”

  “Nothing. Vacationing. You know. Sightsee­ing.”

  “Sightseeing? In the Quad fucking Cities?”

  “Sure. I got this camera. I take pictures of the sights.”

  “What sort of sights?”

  “Oh, like the river. Important buildings. Classic old homes. Like that brown brick number, up on the hill. You know. That place that looks like some sort of castle or something.”

  “When do you want to talk to him?”

  “Give me a number I can call.”

  He got out a pen and wrote a number on a napkin. “Call this afternoon. Before four.”

  “I’ll call sometime before midnight.”

  “Whatever.”

  “I want to thank you for your help, old buddy.”

  “It’s okay. After all, you saved my life once.”

  “It was nothing. Believe me.”

  “You think I should’ve warned you, huh? Fuck, Quarry, you better than anybody ought to know it’s not that kind of business.”

  “How much does it cost you, to get your hair puffed up like that, Ash? Covers up that shiny spot terrific.”

  “Fuck you, man. I like my car, and my clothes . . .”

  “And your hair.”

  “And my fuckin’ hair, too. I’m doing okay, Quarry, and you shouldn’t begrudge me.”

  The Oriental woman came with the check.

  “Look,” he said, “I realize I owe you, for that time out west. Maybe I can find some way to pay you back for that, in spite of everything.”

  I pushed the check over to him. “Just pay for lunch. That’ll make us even.”

  I had him leave before I did, and didn’t follow him.

  I had somewhere more important to go.

  16

  _______________________________________________

  _______________________________________________

  HE WAS STILL up there. Watching. The sun was out again, and would glint occasionally off the binoculars, and that’s how I knew. He was up there, in that dingy little efficiency apartment, on the second floor of that decaying yellow woodpile that used to be a mansion, watching out the win­dow, watching the brown brick house across the way.

  I’d been here all afternoon, sitting in the Buick, parked along the street across from where the apartment house parking lot met the castle’s lawn. I was still dressed casually, like a college kid, and the nine-millimeter was in my lap, with Penthouse over it. It was five-thirty, and it had been a boring afternoon, but I’d found out what I came to find out.

  They were going through with it.

  It was a job that should have been scrapped a couple times already, but they
were going through with it.

  Last night Ash seriously screwed up, going in to make the kill and finding an empty house. That alone was enough to consider shelving all plans, stepping aside to let some other team come in and handle it, at a later date.

  Then today, over a plate of sweet and sour shrimp, he’d learned from me I’d been in town a couple days and had been watching him and his backup man, and knew they were planning to hit somebody in that brown brick house, and had pretended even to have been taking pictures, of ’em, as I went.

  And still they were going through with it.

  I’d allowed Ash all afternoon to get in touch with his backup, plenty of time to tell the bogus hippie to get the hell out, which was the only logical thing to do in the situation. But here it was five-thirty, and there the guy was, sitting at his window, with his binoculars, watching the brown brick house across the way.

  They were going through with it.

  In spite of screwing up last night.

  In spite of me.

  And that meant whoever lived in that brown brick castle over there was somebody pretty goddamn special. Special enough to make a profes­sional like Ash take risks he would normally never think of taking.

  Somebody who had something to do with the takeover of Broker’s operation, maybe. Other­wise, what the hell was Ash doing behind a gun? Ash wasn’t a hit man, anymore. He was an organization man. Second in command. Setting jobs up, not carrying them out. Now that Ash was moving up the criminal corporate ladder, it would take some very special target to rate his attention.

  I sat there wondering who lived in that brown brick castle, wishing I’d checked into it sooner, not having realized before the importance of the potential victim living in that house, wondering if it would do any good to take down the address and go over to the public library and check the city directory, where I could match a name to the address, but who was to say that name would mean anything to me?