Quarry q-1

by Max Allan Collins

  “A phone at a lookout? Sounds like an unusual situation.”

  “It is. It’s a dream situation for you, Quarry, like a vacation with pay.”

  “Work isn’t my idea of a vacation, and neither is Port City.”

  “Busman’s holiday, then.” Broker got up and into his suitcoat, smoothing it with his palms and saying, “Sorry we had so much trouble with that other matter.”

  “All is forgiven, Broker.”

  “I’m sorry if you found your task today offensive. I’ll keep that in mind and avoid giving you any such activities in the future.”

  “Good.”

  “Enjoy your stay in Port City.”

  “I don’t enjoy my work, Broker. I just do it.”

  Broker smiled. “And you do it well, Quarry. I appreciate that. You didn’t even bother asking how much this one’s going to pay.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’m sure you’ve told Boyd all that. It’ll give us something to talk about.”

  Broker walked to the door. “Quarry.”

  “Yes?”

  “Let me ask you something.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Why does it bother you so much, my hiring Carl?”

  “Doesn’t bother me at all,” I said.

  He shook his head, shrugged and opened the door, where Carl was outside waiting. The kid glanced at me and I gave him the peace sign and shut the door on them.

  8

  I left the Quad Cities at three-thirty that afternoon. I drove down the Illinois side, along a moderately traveled road bordered by lush farmland, busy with harvesters; an occasional cluster of trees bent over green and graceful in the less than gentle afternoon breeze, like oversize, out-of-shape ballet dancers trying in vain to touch distant toes.

  I crossed the suspension bridge over the Mississippi River-though it was more suspense than suspension, as it was a rickety, narrow, mostly wooden old thing that had to date back to horse-and-buggy days-and found myself in the heart of Port City’s business district. I set aside an hour and started driving, aimlessly guiding my gray rental Ford over and around Port City; when the hour was up I felt for a stranger I knew the little town pretty good, and why not? It was the same as a thousand other small towns. Not unlike the one I grew up in.

  Port City was two hills with a downtown in between, with growths extending from each corner of the city, one to the north a prosperous shopping-center boomtown, one to the south a slum-ridden embarrassment to the Chamber of Commerce. The latter section of the city was in fact called South End, and only by small-town Midwestern standards could it be classified a slum; in big cities used to ghettos and such, South End would’ve been a residential neighborhood. From a Port City point of view, it was a clapboard eyesore, saved only by the beginnings of commercial growth at the town’s southernmost tip.

  East Hill ran mostly to aging but still distinguished- looking brick and/or wooden two-stories, and was very much middle class, while West Hill had apparently once been the home of the elite, and no doubt still was to some extent; while the young rich might choose to move into one of the classier of the housing additions dotting the northwest edge of town, the older guard would probably be content to remain in the elegant near-mansions of West Hill, old nineteenth-century beauties full of character, many of the best ones overlooking the bend of the river Port City was situated along.

  The downtown, in the valley of the two hills, bordered on either side by factories, was more death rattle than business district; ancient buildings wore shiny new front-of-the-store bottom-floor facades, like terribly old men boasting terribly new false teeth. This collective face-lift was undoubtedly inspired by the shopping mall on the north end of town, where East Hill exploded into franchise restaurants and gas stations and motels and auto dealerships.

  There was a building downtown, on a corner across from two churches and the post office, that looked like a prefab grammar school got out of hand. It was the YMCA. Next to the sterile, dull Y, extending down to the other corner, was a huge gothic brick-and-stone building with a long stone stairway that in three tiers led up to archway doors: the city library. It was being torn down. A guy inside the cab of a metal monster was smacking a big black steel ball into the building’s side, and there was a crunching groan of a sound each time the ball hit. Some people were standing around watching, leaning up against a fence that squared in the work area; a billboard just back of the fence, over to the left, showed a drawing of the projected new library, which looked to be a twin of its YMCA neighbor, but bigger and pointlessly angular, some computer’s idea of design. Most of the people had neutral looks on their faces, others looked vaguely pissed off. One longhaired kid flipped the bird to the guy working the ball. Stupid. If you want to finger somebody, I thought, finger the asshole who ordered the place torn down; say fuck you to the asshole who shoved a new library down the town’s throat, the city manager whose brother-in-law runs a cement factory, or the empire-building librarian who’ll get a better job somewhere else because he got Port City a new library, or the alderman whose firm did the electrical work, or whatever bureau- cratic bastards cause the trouble here. Not the guy working the ball.

  I parked in front of the Y and went in. The outside of the building was light-brown brick and the reception area was more of the same, but with blue metal trim and white ceiling tile trimmed with black metal. The atmosphere was homey, like a reformatory remodeled by a contractor who wanted more money than he was getting. I knew the pool must be close by because the air was full of chlorine and little kids with suits wrapped in towels were scooting around bumping into things and each other. A three-walled fortress of a desk enclosed and protected an office, which had a windowless door, shut. Standing behind the desk, leaning on the counter reading Zap Comix, was a skinny, younger-than-middle-aged guy with white shoulder-length hair and matching bushy beard, though the mustache was black and so were the eyebrows and streaks of black were elsewhere in his hair. He was wearing a long-sleeve lumberjack plaid shirt, and both shirt and beard seemed out of place in summer, but then maybe he stayed in where it was air-conditioned most of the time Now I knew what Gabby Hayes must have looked like as a young man, something I hadn’t been dying to find out.

  I said, “I’m going to be in town for a few days. Do you have a room for me?”

  The bushy head wagged affirmative. By looking real close at the young old man I could see he was enjoying the comic: his eyes had crinkles at the corners and the mustache was turning up at the ends.

  “Can I use the pool while I stay here?”

  “You mean for swimming?” he said, finally looking up at me but still not really listening.

  “No,” I said. “In case I wake up thirsty in the middle of the night.”

  “Sure, man, you can use the pool.” He looked back down at the comic, then continued: “Course you’ll have to work yourself around our schedule. Afternoon swim classes and Saturday morning swim classes, and Businessman’s Swim Wednesday night, and Thursday night Family Night.”

  I wondered what threat I might pose to Family Night, but let it pass. “How much in advance?”

  “One day’s worth. Four.”

  I gave him five and he gave me change. He had me sign a name in a book and he got a key for me from a board which was stuck up against the wall next to the office door. “Room’s upstairs,” he said, and he pointed, looking back down at the Zap. I followed his finger to the stairway at the end of the hall.

  Up on the dorm floor, I found a pay phone next to a Coke machine. I used both. Sipping at the can of Coke, I dialed the number Broker had given me.

  “… yes?”

  The hesitant voice was Boyd’s.

  “I’m in town.”

  “Hey, Quarry. Good enough.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Smooth. Remember St. Louis?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That smooth. Smoother than that.”

  “Where are you?”

  “You know this t
own at all?”

  “I drove around a while.”

  “Remember seeing a dump called Binelli’s?”

  “A cigar store?”

  “Yeah, with a bar in it.”

  “Taco joint across the street?”

  “That’s the one. It’s the building next to Binelli’s. An old chiro’s got an office on the bottom floor. I’m up on the third.”

  “Front or back entrance?”

  “There’s a front way in, but come around the alley way. There’s a wooden stairway comes right up to the back door.”

  “You need me immediately or anything?”

  “Not really.”

  “Let me get settled then. Maybe catch an hour or two of sleep. Look for me round seven, okay?”

  “Okay. Hey, Quarry?”

  “What.”

  “You like tacos?”

  “Not especially.”

  “Pick some up before you come up.”

  “Oh Christ.”

  “Ah come on, I been smelling that taco smell till I could go crazy. Come on and pick up a couple orders, goddamnit. I’m sick of eating my own cooking.”

  “You got a place to cook there?”

  “Sure. I’m staying right here, too. There’s room for you, Quarry. I suppose you’re staying at the Y, Jesus.”

  “What’re you doing, sleeping on the floor?”

  “You know me better than that. There’s twin beds here.”

  “Twin beds? And you’re cooking? What the hell kind of lookout is that?”

  “Come see.”

  “Okay. Seven.”

  “Seven. Tacos, Quarry?”

  “We’ll see.”

  I hung up and finished off the can of Coke and dumped it in a trash can. Then I went down to my room, which was small and clean and new but about the size of a closet; the floor was scuff-marked tile, and the furniture-what there was of it-was that kind of wood that looks like plastic. I unpacked, put my stuff in the dresser, except for the nine-millimeter, which with a few other odds and ends I left locked in my briefcase and shoved under the bed: I set my little travel alarm for an hour and got settled down for a nap. When the alarm went off, I’d go down and see if the pool was free. After my swim I’d join Boyd.

  9

  Boyd was homosexual. I figured I better tell you right off, rather than sneak up on it. Queer as a three-dollar bill, but he never tried anything with me, so I didn’t give a damn. His life was his.

  I couldn’t help but wonder whether or not Broker knew about Boyd’s sex leaning when he teamed him up with me. Later, when I told Broker about Boyd, he acted surprised and asked me did I want somebody different to work with and I said no thanks, Boyd’s different enough as it is. After I gave it some further thought, I realized Broker had to be playing dumb-which was typical of him-since his research into each man he took on was nothing short of phenomenal. Somehow he figured I wouldn’t mind Boyd, whereas some- body else would. He was right. Boyd could sleep with sheep if he had a mind to, so long as he didn’t fuck me or the job.

  From the first I had suspicions about that side of him, and they must’ve showed, because before long Boyd came right out and told me. But he said not to worry, though, said he was “married” and didn’t do any playing around. Out of bits and pieces of what he said over the years, I came to know that his “wife” was a gay hairdresser he lived with somewhere back east.

  Boyd was a pro, and his sex life he didn’t let interfere with business. Sure, I had thoughts about the sexual implications of his being in this line of work; the idea of a bullet entering a man’s body being a kind of symbol for penetration, sexually speaking I mean. Which is Freudian bullshit. For one thing, Boyd was as cold as I was about the actual carrying out of an assignment; he took no pleasure from his work, or at least revealed no overt signs of emotion. For another thing, he preferred back-up position, which generally entailed no actual violence whatsoever. The back-up does the watching, gets the mark’s schedule down pat and then covers while somebody like me does the actual job. Every fourth assignment, Boyd would take the active role as hitman and I’d take over in the passive back-up position, so he could keep his hand in, should our team get split and he have to go with another partner.

  The funny thing is you’d never know from looking at him he was that way. You couldn’t tell from his personality, either, unless you paid real close attention. He was a little guy, five-six or so, but broad-shouldered and solid-built, his features on the rough side, including a nose that had been broken a couple times in this barroom brawl and that one, and a flat, scarred face that looked to have seen its share of problems. His hair was thick and brown and curly, and his mustache and eyebrows were bushy, his eyes a gunmetal black with a hard cast to them. His eyelashes were the only remotely feminine thing about him, being long and heavy, but they seemed to add to an overall darkly handsome, rugged-hewn quality that made broads want to climb in his pants.

  Which is one of the ways I got tipped to realizing he was that way. Several times we were in bars and good-looking chicks’d snuggle up to him-not hard-faced hookers, either, but nice stuff. He’d act cold. Not just cold, but repulsed. And this was back when Broker first got the two of us together, so we could talk and get to know each other and discuss how we’d handle the team-up, should we agree to it. So these were almost social occasions, when he was turning his nose up at this playmate material. Had he acted that way later on, on the job, I’d have thought nothing of it; some guys could very naturally want to stay away from sex on a job. I’m not one of them, but I can understand it. Boxers have been known to make like priests for a month or two before a big fight. Personally I find a piece of ass, while I’m waiting in some town to do my number, helps drain off some of the tension that builds up in me, below the surface.

  Boyd and I got along well. He was easy to get along with, very undemanding. Really was kind of a bland guy, ordinary in every way. The kind of guy who follows his favorite team and gets upset when they lose a game. The kind of guy who always asks for Budweiser. The kind of guy who wears a lumpy brown suit from off the rack and then tries to jazz it up a little with a colorful tie, in last year’s width.

  But I respected him because he did his job well. He felt the same about me. He was a very good lookout, because he seemed to have a natural streak of Peeping Tom in him that I just don’t have. I get bored in the back-up position. Stake-out shit puts me to sleep, and consequently I tend to miss things, which is dangerous. And Boyd could tail a man, even in a small town like Port City, without having his presence felt one iota. I guess it’s his size, since his looks would seem distinctive enough to attract attention. Of course I’m not particularly big, either, but then tailing somebody is a job for a sneak, which I’m not, and a patient man, which I’m also not. Boyd was not only patient, but a born sneak. It was a pleasure working with him.

  However.

  On our last job, a couple months back, he’d been way below par. I had a hunch his “marriage” was on the rocks, from little between-the-lines things I could read in what he said. He drank while on lookout, for one thing. He didn’t get plastered or anything, but even sipping along a beer, especially beer after beer, can dull your senses. And your senses got to be keen when you’re working back-up, for Christ’s sake.

  I didn’t like it. I wasn’t afraid he was going to make a pass at me or something-it wasn’t that. I was afraid he was going to make a mistake. Some half-ass mistake that would kill us both.

  When I came up to my room after my swim and got dressed, I was thinking about Boyd, and how he’d been acting. He sounded normal enough on the phone, but that half-ass edge was in his voice. Somehow I knew this would have to be my last job with Boyd.

  But first I’d have to get this job-whatever the hell it was-out of the way. And right now I had to go out and pick up some fucking tacos.

  10

  I climbed the wooden steps and stopped on the second floor landing to glance inside: nothing, the apartment below Boyd wa
s vacant. That was good. I went on up to the next landing and tried Boyd’s door. Unlocked. That was not so good. I locked the door behind me and walked easily, quietly through the dark apartment, which was three large rooms laid out in a row, like a boxcar: kitchen, bedroom, living room. The place was furnished modestly but well, with a distinctly feminine flair in the colors and even the faintly perfumy smell everything had, especially the bedroom. The walls were pink stucco and the floors were carpeted. A nice, well-above-average apartment, that looked lived in.

  I found Boyd in the living room sitting to the side of double windows that looked out onto the street. The neons and such out there kept the room semilit. He was leaned against the wall, the trunk of his body twisted so it faced me, his head turned so he could peer from out the corner of the window; if I sat that way I’d get a crick in my neck that would take that chiro downstairs a month to rid me of, but Boyd always sat that way when he was watching, one pillow between his back and the wall, another snuggled under his butt. At his feet was a paperback folded open, cover-side up, next to a can of beer; the paperback was called Twilight Love and the beer was Budweiser. He was wearing floppy brown slacks and a yellow short-sleeve shirt with a green tie and he needed a haircut. I tossed the sack of tacos at him.

  He jumped. He couldn’t have jumped higher if I goosed him. Which was something I wasn’t about to do, considering how he was liable to take it. “Shit! Shit!” he said. “Quarry.”

  “You dumb asshole,” I said. “What in hell was that back door doing unlocked?”

  His face got squinched up, but before irritation could climb out of him, his nose got scent of the tacos and he smiled. He reached down and picked up the bag and opened it and peeked in and said, “Hey, Quarry, you’re all right. You brought the tacos. Hey.”

  “Hey. I brought the tacos. Now what about the damn door?”

  He made a farting sound with his lips. “Who else is going to show but you, Quarry? I just unlocked the door about five minutes ago. No sweat.”