Killing Quarry

by Max Allan Collins

  “I can do breakfast, passably. No coffee, but there’s tea. Also, refrigerator biscuits and, later, all manner of frozen dinners. Sit down.”

  She climbed onto one of the chairs—really stools with high backs—on the other side of the counter. I served her up, and myself, then sat opposite her. She began slowly, poking at the food, but soon picked up her pace. We didn’t talk. We hadn’t talked much last night, either, on the rest of the ride back or on our return around two-thirty AM, when we just crawled into bed together.

  I gathered the dishes and went over to dump them in the sink and run some water over them while she sipped at her second cup of tea. I, of course, had a can of Diet Coke going, as do all civilized people at breakfast.

  She asked, “Did I dream that?”

  I returned to my seat. “Which part?”

  “The three dead guys I accept as reality. You thinking we should crash that Cayman Islands party…I can’t really have heard that, right?”

  I swigged Diet Coke. “I have a satellite dish.”

  She just looked at me. Did not blink, just looked. My apparent non-sequitur would have been hard for anybody to respond to, let alone someone who just got up.

  “Good for you,” she managed.

  “I was up a couple of hours ago and watched the Chicago news. It’s on the satellite because WGN is part of most basic cable.”

  “How interesting.”

  “How interesting is this? Seems a prominent Wilmette business leader was murdered. Also, two of his security people. Police discovered this after the security shift changed early this morning. Apparent a home invasion gotten out of hand. It’s early stages of the investigation, obviously, so nothing else is known. Or anyway nothing else was shared.”

  “That was quick,” she said, one eyebrow arching.

  “Not really. We could have anticipated Vanhorn and his guards would be found when the other two guards came on shift. I thought maybe, with Vanhorn’s connections, there’d have been some kind of cover-up, or stall, before the media got it. You know, till the place had been swept of anything incriminating as to any mob ties of his. Otherwise, I pretty much expected this.”

  She leaned her elbows on the counter and her palms pressed against her cheeks and what was showing of her face stared at me. “This shows you, doesn’t it?”

  “Shows me what?”

  “That we can’t…infiltrate that seminar. I never really thought we could, but surely now you can see…”

  “That we have to? Or anyway I have to. Optional, in your case. But I’d remind you that your precious Envoy was murdered, while you were off supposedly helping murder me. And that my cottage industry of interfering in mob-sanctioned murder has been exposed—on some level, anyway. So I have to get, uh…what’s that stupid word everybody’s using lately? Proactive.”

  She shrugged, then—her voice very quiet—said, “I don’t. Have to. Be proactive.”

  Now I just looked at her. “I cooked you breakfast,” I reminded her.

  She smiled just a little. “Yes, but no coffee. I’m looking for a man who can make me breakfast with coffee.”

  “I’m willing to work on that.” I gave her half a smile in return. “Look, I can’t tell you exactly how this impacts your life, or even your work. Maybe it doesn’t. You can probably go back to St. Paul and sell antiques for now. Then if some new broker or envoy shows up and wants to represent your considerable talents, hey, groovy. But right now? I could use your help.”

  More tea. “Accompanying you to that seminar.”

  I nodded. “One of those ‘peers’ of Vanhorn’s killed him—that’s all but certain. We have four of them—the likely four I’ll bet—all in one place, just a few miles from here. Which provides the opportunity to sort things out and find out where we stand.”

  She was leaning back now. “By ‘sort things out,’ you mean kill whoever’s responsible.”

  “The way you say it makes it sound a little harsh.”

  That got a bigger smile out of her. “What do you want out of this, Jack?” Her tone turned arch. “Surely not to be able to start using the list again, to hit hitters and save the scum they were hired to remove.”

  I shook my head. “No, that ship has sailed. But I’m well-off enough, and have a successful enough straight business here, to want to find a way not to have to run.”

  “I get that.”

  “But even if I do, first I’d like to tie off as many loose ends as possible.”

  “Which is better than being a loose end yourself.”

  “Much. And that might be how you’d wind up, Lu—a loose end. To be fair, though, with your skills, whoever the new Envoy, the new Broker, might turn out to be…you would probably be viewed a valuable asset.”

  Her forehead frowned but her mouth smiled. “Are you trying to talk me out of it now, Jack? Out of helping you?”

  “No, honey. I’m genuinely fond of you. And I owe you. You saved my life the other day. True, you blew the guy’s brains out right in my face, which was a little gross…”

  That made her laugh. I told you, great sense of humor on the girl.

  “…but if you want to quit,” I went on, “whether to focus on antiques or run off and start over at something else that isn’t murder for hire…well, even the best pro athletes know their careers can’t go on forever.”

  “And I’m getting older.”

  “So am I. Not as old as you, of course.”

  She grinned, gums showing, and slapped my arm.

  Then her grin softened into just a small smile. Very quietly she said, “You’re right, Jack. I am looking for the exit out of this game. I have a successful front business, too, with enough stashed away to leave this risky, dangerous life behind. But starting over with all these…yes, loose ends dangling, I’d be looking over my shoulder all day and afraid to go to sleep at night.”

  I touched her hand. “With everything you know,” I said, “walking away? You would stop being an asset and move into the liability column. Me—now that what I’ve been up to for the last decade has been exposed—I don’t have any choice, really. I have to figure out what’s going on, and do something about it.”

  Her nodding was barely perceptible, then she said, “I know this seminar thing is almost literally in your back yard…but how does that not make matters worse? You’re known around here. The smalltime owner of Wilma’s Welcome Inn wants to attend a seminar about hiding bigtime money in the Cayman Islands? Are you kidding?”

  I gestured vaguely toward the north. “That resort in Lake Geneva, where it’s being held? The manager of the place is a friend of mine. He’s in my monthly poker game—has been in this very room many times, losing small stakes to me. I can talk to him. He can help me make this happen.”

  “You think so?”

  “I do. I’ll sit down with him and get the logistics worked out. If I can’t get his help, his cooperation, I’ll spike the whole fucking idea.” I gave her what I hoped was my most winning smile. “Wouldn’t you like a couple of days at an exclusive resort? I’m buying.”

  She laughed again. “Okay. Talk to your friend. If you can make this fly…”

  “You’ll be my co-pilot?”

  “Thanks for not saying ‘stewardess.’”

  “It’s ‘flight attendant’ now. Aren’t you keeping up with the feminist newsletters? So. Are you on board?”

  Her sigh was half laugh. “Yeah. Just don’t expect me to say ‘Reporting for duty, Captain.’”

  “Deal. Coffee, tea or me? But we’re out of coffee.”

  * * *

  Three miles beyond Lake Geneva was what had been, until a few years ago, the Playboy Club Hotel, a striking, sprawling architectural anomaly flung across the Wisconsin countryside. This wood-and-stone geometric tribute to Frank Lloyd Wright-style modernism had attracted, over the years, tens of thousands of guests—couples in particular taking advantage of the seven attached buildings, two championship golf courses, indoor and outdoor swimming pools
(connecting), and a ski lounge shaped like two interlaced snowflakes.

  The drive from my A-frame to what was now the Lake Geneva Golf and Ski Resort took not quite half an hour. I was still in the Impala, but on my own, Lu waiting back home to see what I’d be able to pull off with the manager here, my poker buddy Dan Clark. And I admit to having reservations, though not at the lodge.

  Not yet.

  The parking lot was almost empty, probably not at all surprising in mid-afternoon, when I’d arranged to meet with Dan. This time of year was a dead one for the resort, which was the case even in better days, back when you never knew whether Hef might not drop by with Barbi Benton on his arm. The good old days, when the beautiful cotton-tailed, rabbit-eared waitresses lived on site in the Bunny Dorm.

  What had been a big deal, back in May ’68 when it opened as the first Playboy Club Hotel, now seemed vaguely shabby and something of a relic—yesterday’s hip becoming today’s kitsch. Two of the three restaurant/bars had closed, including the disco and assorted shops as well as the barbershop and beauty salon. The nightclub where I’d seen performers like Peggy Lee, Tony Bennett, Liza Minnelli, and Sonny and Cher was now only a dining room. And the three-hundred-and-fifty guest rooms in the Main Lodge were rarely filled, even at the height of the summer and winter seasons.

  When the resort shuttered in the early ’80s, the Chicago media had cited “changing tastes and poor financial performance.” What had been exciting a few decades ago, against a backdrop of the opening guns of the sexual revolution, seemed suddenly absurd and misjudged next to the casualties of the AIDS epidemic.

  But when I strolled through the lobby, half-expecting tumbleweed to blow through, the Playboy trappings were still very much in evidence—the sunken lounge, the glass-encased fireplace, the pebbled walls, and a rain forest of tropical plants, the latter looking admittedly a little wilted.

  No bunnies to frolic through, either—just one young woman behind the optimistically long check-in counter, her nice figure ensconced in a white blouse with a colorful scarf at her neck that would not require her to learn the serving technique known as the Bunny dip.

  I joined Dan Clark in a button-tufted booth on the elevated outer level of a bar about as underpopulated as the one at Wilma’s right now. What had been the Playmate Bar, decorated by framed fold-outs of fetching fillies (sorry), was just a bar, stripped of its bosoms on display with only tacky burgundy carpet and a lot of dark wood left behind, as clues to better times.

  Dan half-stood while I slid in, flashing a grin that had a sideways tilt that always made you feel like you and he were in on some private joke. At forty or so, he was one of those guys whose slenderness and narrow, angular features made him seem tall, when he was really only a few inches taller than I was.

  “You’re going to insult me,” he said, effortlessly handsome, his hair dark and short, his eyes dark and sharp, “if you just order a Diet Coke. This is a bar. Where alcoholic beverages are served. Try to be a man, Jack.”

  “I’ll give it a go.”

  And when a pretty blonde waitress, in white shirt, colorful scarf and black slacks, took my order, I made it Diet Coke and Bacardi. When in Rome. Even if the orgy was over.

  As you might expect, I was in a long-sleeve t-shirt and black jeans, but my friend was in a sharp tailored suit, mocha brown, with a narrow silk tie, striped shades of brown.

  “That’s a nice suit, Dan. Sears or Ward’s?”

  “Pucci of Chicago.”

  “Tie was for Christmas? Your Aunt Clara?”

  “Pierre Cardin.”

  “Thoughtful of Pierre. Didn’t know you two exchanged, at Christmas.”

  “Are you here for the janitorial job, Jack? If I’d known, I’d have brought an application form.”

  We were friends. We gave each other shit.

  Nodding around us, I said, “We’re not doing much business, either, Dan. At Wilma’s.”

  “Give me time,” he said, glancing around at the big, mostly empty room. A few businessmen were at the bar, but that was about it. “I’m only a year in. My contract guarantees five.”

  I gestured with an open hand. “Listen, I love this place. Many happy times here. But I don’t have to tell you it’s not what it was.”

  He smirked. Bastard even smirked handsomely.

  “I know, Jack. Before my time, but back then this place was it. You could fly here directly from O’Hare and back again, you know.”

  I did know—the resort had once had a private airstrip.

  He went on: “But in those days, this place was all about couples. I know we have to go another way now—need to attract families, and with the swimming pools and ski lifts and golf and everything, that’ll be a snap. Kids welcome!”

  “Somewhere Hefner is weeping.”

  Dan shrugged. “It’s not his property anymore, Jack. You know where else the money is these days? The meeting market.”

  “Yeah, the meat market. Picking up babes at last call. Never grows old.”

  He ignored the lame joke. “That’s the first thing I did, you know.”

  “Pick a babe up at last call?”

  “No, man. Break ground on our retreat chalet.”

  Our drinks arrived. He was drinking bourbon on the rocks, or least something amber brown with ice in it. I sipped my rum and Diet Coke. Didn’t mind it.

  Dan went on: “The new chalet is not a convention center—with ten meeting rooms in the main buildings, we’re already covered there. But the big thing these days is corporate retreats. Our retreat chalet has a nice open area for presentations and three mini-conference rooms for breaking into smaller groups. And the guests can stay right there—ten suites. We even cater the food over, to keep that retreat feel going.”

  “Is that where your Cayman Islands seminar will be held?”

  That froze him. He’d been all excited, sharing his big plans, and now I’d thrown him a curve. Or maybe hit him with a fastball.

  I hadn’t seen him look this flummoxed since it turned out an ace of spades was my hole card.

  He asked, “How the hell do you know about that, Jack?”

  “The Bunnies may be gone, but I still date the occasional waitress. Where else is a girl to sleep, when the Bunny Dorm is gone?”

  That of course was bullshit. I suppose Dan had mentioned the retreat chalet before, but it hadn’t got on my radar, because …why would it?

  Sheer bluff.

  “Well,” he said, almost whispering now, as if there was anyone around to overhear, “that’s not something we’re advertising, the seminar. It’s really a confidential affair. I hope you haven’t mentioned it to anybody.”

  “Why would I?”

  “Just please don’t.”

  I leaned in chummily. “Who are these people, anyway, Dan? Don’t tell me this is about giving offshore banking advice to the Outfit crowd.”

  He looked pale suddenly. My wisecrack hit close to home, which I’d meant it to. “This isn’t…this isn’t why you wanted to see me this afternoon, Jack…is it? I don’t see how this event has anything to do with you.”

  “Maybe I’d like to participate.”

  His eyes tightened, as if he were having to work to keep them from falling out of his head. “What do you mean, participate?”

  “To attend. To avail myself of the opportunity to learn. To better myself.”

  He was studying me like I just told him I was thinking of asking his sister out. His thirteen-year-old sister.

  “Jack,” he said, still very quiet, “don’t be ridiculous. You make a nice living, I’m sure, at Wilma’s. Not what you could make if you’d take my advice and sell out to those investors I told you about. But we’re talking about an ‘invitation only’ seminar designed for people with real money.”

  Now we were there.

  Now it was about to get tricky.

  Now there would be no turning back.

  Oh, I wasn’t going to tell my buddy anything even vaguely approaching the truth. But
my lies needed enough weight to get through to him. My lies would be worse than most people’s truth.

  I asked, “What do you think I do for a living, Dan?”

  The pale, handsome features took on quiet alarm. “What do you mean? You run a restaurant-hotel set-up.”

  My mouth twitched a smile. “I don’t really run it, though, do I? I mean, I putter, but I leave most of it to my man Charley and a few others. What is it I do for a living?”

  “…You sell veterinary medicine, don’t you?”

  “Drugs for cows and horses and puppy dogs?”

  “I suppose.”

  “What if it was drugs for a bigger form of animal?”

  His dark eyes were moving side to side, processing.

  Then he whispered, “Is that what you do?”

  I sipped rum and Diet Coke. “What I do makes it desirable for me to attend that seminar. Isn’t that enough? Is there a charge?”

  He sucked air in, let it back out. “Everything was prepaid by the attendees.” A nervous smile. “Look, Jack, you couldn’t attend if you wanted to.”

  “I do want to.”

  He waved that off. “Well, I mean…you couldn’t attend if I wanted you to. The enrollment was cut off at five participants.”

  “I happen to know one of those individuals won’t be attending.”

  He looked at me unblinkingly, his mouth open. If he knew about Vanhorn’s murder, he didn’t say so. But he didn’t not say so.

  I said, “I had a business partner named Vanhorn. Silent partner, but now he’s really silent. He was killed last night. It’s been on the news. WGN had the story this morning. I want to take his place at the party. Can you think of a reason why I shouldn’t?”

  You can almost always tell when somebody’s mind has been blown, and this was one of those times.

  This very confident man in the Pucci Chicago suit said, “I… I…I…”

  “Take your time, Dan.”

  “I…I guess I can…help you out with this.”

  “Good. I’ll have a woman with me, no one you know. Most presentable. Very professional. Is that a problem?”

  “No.” He shook his head but it was almost a shiver. “Several attendees will be accompanied by, uh, female guests.”