Quarry's Vote

by Max Allan Collins

  He lifted his eyebrows. “Well—I think Stone was going to get offered the job you turned down. George has people working for him who have pretty rough backgrounds. He might have used some of them.”

  “How educated a guess is that?”

  “Pretty educated. He did say to me . . . well, he said he was going to have to do something about you.”

  “Because I was a loose end.”

  “Something like that. He . . . I admit he makes me more than a little uneasy.”

  “And why is that, Mr. Werner?”

  “Well, hell—I didn’t want to be a ‘loose end’ my­self.” He shrugged, lifted his eyebrows. “But I don’t really think George looks at me that way.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He thinks of me as Outfit. Which I still am, to a degree. It’s just that I’m strictly legitimate these days.”

  “Do you love your wife, Mr. Werner?”

  “What sort of question is that?”

  “Do you love your wife?”

  “Of course I love her.”

  “Well, thanks to you, my wife is dead, and my unborn child. So when I’ve done you, I’ll do Mrs. Werner.”

  “No!”

  “And I may just look those kids of yours up for the hell of it.”

  His eyes went wide with a terror like none I’d ever seen; I let it linger there a few moments, then shot him between them. The heavy camel’s hair over­coat cushioned his fall and he lay on his back star­ing up at the overcast sky, eyes and mouth open, in a look of empty yet reflective horror.

  I had no intention of killing his wife or kids. I didn’t want to lower myself to that level. I just wanted him to think I would.

  There’s no reason to believe there’s anything after this life but darkness, and I wanted to make sure the son-of-a-bitch spent at least a few seconds in hell.

  7

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  THE WIDE ONE-WAY of Brady Street burrowed through a valley of plastic and metal and cement that was America in all its fast-food, discount-chain glory. It was Saturday afternoon, and the four lanes were thick with cars; even in the unemployment-stressed Quad Cities, people seemed to have income to dis­pose of, as car after car would leave the pack and disappear into the jammed parking lot of this tem­ple of Mammon or that one. And on the right, as the valley dipped, between McDonald’s and Payless Shoe Source, an auto lot sprawled, a virtual foot­ball field of vehicles, new and used: BEST BUY BUICK & OLDS.

  I pulled the rental Buick into the lot and stepped out, looking (I hoped) fairly prosperous in my suit and tie and brown leather overcoat. These, as well as a second suitcase and enough clothes of various sorts to fill it and my immediate needs, I’d bought at shops on the Illinois side of the Cities, at South Park Mall, which hadn’t been far from the Howard Johnson’s I’d checked out of. I had checked into the Blackhawk Hotel, just before heading out Brady Street, and all of this had eaten up most of the morn­ing. It was now approaching noon, the sun bright and reflecting off the shiny new (and used) cars.

  I began nosing around. Buicks and Oldsmobiles and Pontiacs. Sporty cars and conservative ones. Expensive ones and less expensive ones. Here a two-tone barge with a vinyl top; there a low-slung num­ber with a garish bird spread over its crimson hood. Symbols of status that told you who you were, in case you didn’t know.

  A Mexican blue-collar type was chatting with a heavy-set salesman in a red blazer; the blazer blurred into the red Firebird they were discussing in puffs of smoky breath. A middle-class family was looking a station wagon over; the father was about my age, the mother perhaps ten years younger—two well-behaved kids, a boy and a girl, six and four I’d guess, tagged along. A younger red-blazered salesman was pointing out the benefits of these practical wheels; but I caught the father gazing wist­fully at a sporty little two-seater.

  I heard the swish of nylon and turned to see a beaming, very blond, startlingly beautiful woman in red blazer and white pleated skirt and blue shoes approaching. Her lipstick was bright red, teeth a dazzling white, and her eyes a deep resonant blue. She was a human American flag, her arms moving like a soldier on parade, waving her hips by way of patriotic greeting.

  I couldn’t help but smile; first time in days I’d done that. Her manner was a skillful blending of cheerleader sexiness and no-nonsense business­woman. You wanted to fuck her, and she implied she’d love to fuck you, as well—only business be­fore pleasure.

  “What do you see that you like?” she said, in a tone utterly devoid of innuendo, or for that matter irony.

  “Nothing yet,” I said, smiling blandly, and moved along the row of cars, ignoring her, as if I didn’t know she was following along at my side, like a beauty pageant contestant on a runway.

  “Do you have something in mind?” she said, pleasantly, her breath visible in the cold. None of the sales staff was dressed warm enough.

  “I was here about a week ago,” I said, giving her a casual glance. “I don’t believe I remember see­ing you, and I think I’d remember.” A quick smile to acknowledge her attract- iveness. “You new here?”

  “Why, relatively new,” she said, the question throwing her just a bit off guard. “But I’ve been with the firm several months. Were you here in the eve­ning?”

  “Why, yes.”

  She smiled like a stewardess. “Well, that explains it. I’m only here mornings and some afternoons.”

  “You don’t often see a woman working a car lot.”

  “Times are changing,” she said, perkily, not in­sulted, or anyway not showing it.

  “I noticed. But car lots—particularly used car lots—seem one of the last male strongholds. When did you last hear someone say, ‘Would you buy a used car from this woman?’”

  “Never,” she said, something warm and more real in her voice now, “but then I almost never get mis­taken for Nixon.”

  That made me smile again and look at her, in a different way. The Nixon reference was surpris­ing, because it was something you’d only say if you were about my age, and I’d thought her younger than me. And she was, but only a few years, though if you looked past the deft, sparingly applied make­up, you could see it. She’d been a cheerleader, all right, and probably a beauty queen too—but fifteen years ago.

  “What’s your name?” I asked her.

  She pointed to her bosom; on the blazer it said, ANGELA, in blue stitched cursive. Her taper­ing hand wore no wedding ring, but I could see the smooth shadow where one had been.

  “Angela what?”

  “Jordan.” And she extended her hand.

  I shook it and said, “I’m Jack Ryan. From Milwaukee. I get through here from time to time.”

  “Really?”

  “That’s right. And, like I said, I stopped by your lot, here, not long ago. Had my eye on a buggy. A Buick.”

  “And you don’t see it here? Do you know the model?”

  “No. It was a big car, or as big as they make ’em now. Dark blue, with a sky-blue interior, white walls . . .”

  “I think I can show you a similar car, but not with that color combination . . . funny.”

  “What is?”

  “I think I know the car you mean. A Regency. Beautiful car.” She lifted her eyebrows. “It’s just funny that you should ask about that particular unit.”

  We were walking into the used car area now. There was a gentle but chilly breeze; pennants flapped above us.

  And I asked her again: “What’s funny about it?”

  She sighed, crinkled her cheeks with a wide, closed-mouth smile. “It was stolen.”

  I shook my head and made a world-weary face. “Really. That’s terrible.”

  She grunted agreement, then said, “Of all the cars on the lot, that one was the only one taken.”

  “I suppose somebody hot-wired it and just took off.”

  “I suppose. We never had a car stolen before. I mean,
I’m pretty new, like I said, but Don has been here for years, and he said he never heard of such a thing.”

  “Really.”

  “Yes. And it just happened, you know.”

  “Really.”

  “Actually, I . . . well. Why don’t you let me show you something similar to the unit you had your eye on.”

  “You started to say something. About the stolen car.”

  “Well, Lonny—Mr. Best—just reported it stolen, yesterday.”

  “Mr. Best? You mean the ‘Best’ in BEST BUY is a name?”

  “Sure.” She looked at me with just a tinge of sus­picion, or maybe it was just curiosity. “I thought you said you got through this area from time to time.”

  “Well, I do, but only recently. I’ve only been work­ing in Iowa and Illinois since the beginning of Oc­tober.”

  “I see,” she said. “Now, I know we have a like-new Regency, it’s a copper-brown, but . . .”

  “Excuse me, Angela. Mind if I call you Angela? You said that car I wanted was just reported stolen, like that surprised you.”

  “Well . . . I noticed it was off the lot on Wednes­day morning, and I asked Lonny who’d sold it. He said nobody, and I asked where it was, and he said he thought it was being serviced.”

  That was about as far as I dared push it.

  I said, “What have you got in a smaller car?” She gave me a puzzled, if good-natured, look.

  “I thought you wanted a big Buick . . .”

  “I did. But it got stolen. What about that little black Sunbird?”

  We walked over to it and she put her hand on the hood, gently, almost affectionately.

  “It’s a cute little car,” she said. “It does have some miles on it—but a one-owner. The camel in­terior is lovely, don’t you think? I drive a little Sunbird myself.”

  It had a cardboard sign in the window that said $2,500.

  “What would you say to two grand cash?”

  She raised an eyebrow, smiled. “I think that’s a possibility. I’ll have to check with Lonny. Mr. Best.”

  “That’s fine. I’d like to meet Mr. Best. Lonny.”

  She showed her teeth and her dimples; they went well together. “I think that can be arranged.”

  I followed her back up the lot and into the showroom, where Cadillacs and other pricey barges were in dry dock. Soon I was inside a cubbyhole office decorated with GMC awards, classic car photos and, on a special shelf, golf trophies.

  “Mr. Best,” Angela said, “this is Jack Ryan. He’s made an offer on the black Sunbird.”

  Lonny Best stood behind his desk and smiled, a big glad-hander’s grin that let me know that no sale was too small to command the boss’s attention. A few years older than me, he was nonetheless boy­ish, and fairly small—perhaps five-eight—and just this side of chunky, with short brown hair and apple-red apple cheeks that spoke of high blood pressure; his eyes were small and dark and bright, the eyes of a predator, or a salesman, if there’s a difference.

  His red blazer was thrown over the back of his chair; he wore the white short-sleeve shirt, red-white-­and-blue striped tie and white slacks that seemed a part of the BEST BUY uniform. He thrust his hand out for me to shake and I did. He suggested I pull up a chair and I did. He gave Angela a nod, which I supposed was a silent command for her to gather the paperwork, and then turned his too-pleasant smile on me. If his smile had been any bigger, there wouldn’t have been room in the little office for the two of us. If it had been any less sincere, I’d have lost all my faith in my fellow man.

  “That’s a nice little car,” he said. “Mind if I smoke?”

  “Go ahead,” I said, and smiled meaninglessly.

  He lit a filtered cigarette, one of those low nico­tine and tar brands that let you die slower.

  “You drive a hard bargain,” he said, winking at me, giving me a sly ol’ grin. “But I think two thou­sand is a reasonable offer.”

  “Well, this is a second car. For my wife. I also need to get something bigger, newer. Had my eye on that dark blue Buick that Ms. Jordan says got stolen out from under you the other day.”

  He shook his head, laughed, as if something were funny. “Damnedest thing. Almost fifty years since my dad started this business, God rest him, and never had a car stolen before. Right off the damn lot.”

  “Awful,” I said, world-weary again. “How do you suppose they managed it?”

  His smile turned curious and perhaps a shade ir­ritated; he cocked his head to one side like a dog and said, “Pardon?”

  “How do you suppose whoever it was managed to steal it, right off your lot? On one of the busiest streets in the Cities, I would guess. Constantly travelled, and your lot’s well lit.”

  He shrugged elaborately, still smiling, said, “Well, folks are always driving through the lot, after hours, browsing. Probably wouldn’t be so tough to do. Maybe we’re lucky it never happened before.”

  “Don’t you have security?”

  His smile showed some strain. “Not on the lot, no. But the boys in blue swing by, and a local secu­rity company has us on their route.”

  I made a tch-tch sound. “Yet you still get a car swiped off your lot.”

  “I guess there isn’t anything they wouldn’t steal these days. What do you expect?”

  “I know,” I said, shaking my head in disgust.

  “That’s what you get,” he explained, no trace of the smile now, “in a welfare state full of dope ad­dicts.”

  “That’s what you get,” I nodded.

  “Country’s going to hell in a handbasket,” he said. “But don’t get me started on politics.”

  “I don’t mind. I like a lively political discussion.”

  His smile drifted to one side of his face. “Well, I got to warn you, Jack—my views are a little on the conservative side.”

  “That’s fine with me, Lonny. I’m just a little to the right of Genghis Khan myself.”

  He laughed, though I wasn’t entirely sure he un­derstood the remark. “You have to expect whole­sale theft in a society where the police are ham­strung, and the courts are soft on crime.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” I said. “How do you feel about this fella Preston Freed? Isn’t he from around here?”

  He frowned. Swallowed. “I draw the line where that bastard is concerned—if you’re a supporter of his, I don’t mean to offend you . . .”

  “I’m not and you haven’t.”

  “He goes just too far. Too damn far.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “He sure makes a lot of sense where prayer in school is concerned, and abortion. He’s got a healthy anti-drug posture, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe so, but . . . well, here’s Angela.”

  She came in, smiling sunnily; she had indeed got the paperwork together, and handed it to Best. He looked it over, informed me matter of factly that license and tax and so on would be on top of my two grand, and I didn’t bitch. I handed over the cash and we shook hands and I said, “I had an ulterior motive, coming to see you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Could we have a word in private?”

  He nodded, then nodded to Angela, who disap­peared in another swish of nylon, closing the door behind her. “What can I do for you, Jack?”

  “Maybe I can do something for you. I’m in the auto parts business. Used.”

  “Well, I’m afraid I’m not in the market . . .”

  “Hear me out. I think I can provide you with like-new auto parts. Regularly.”

  His eyes narrowed; his smile was, for the first time, sincere. Which is to say crooked, in more than one sense of the word. “I may understand at that.”

  “I have people in Milwaukee and Chicago who can provide you with about anything you might need. Reasonably.”

  He was nodding slowly.

  “I’ve been working all over the Midwest, from Mis­souri to Wisconsin. But you’re the first person I’ve approached in this area.”

  He lifted bot
h eyebrows. “I’d need to be the only person you approached.”

  “Fine. I understand you have another lot on the Illinois side.”

  “Yes. And one in Clinton.”

  “Why don’t you think it over,” I said, rising. “I’ll be in town a while. We can talk later.”

  He stood, too. “I have a business partner I’ll need to discuss this with.”

  “Understood.”

  “Jack, if we do business . . . I don’t want to know any more than what you’ve just told me. I don’t know anything about you and/or your business. As far as I know, you’re a reputable auto parts dealer from Milwaukee.”

  “Sure, Lonny. Far as we’re both concerned, a chop shop is a Chinese restaurant.”

  He liked that. He laughed. Sincerely.

  We shook hands and I left him in his cubbyhole office with his opinions about wholesale theft and the criminal justice system.

  I had, I knew, in one stroke established myself with a cover story that was both believable and shady enough to serve my purpose, over these next few days. I had also learned plenty about Lonny Best.

  Outside, Angela was waiting with my Sunbird and my keys. I arranged with her to have the car deliv­ered to the Blackhawk Hotel; I had my rental to re­turn. She was helpful and, the sale made, more relaxed, more real.

  The sun bathed us, despite the chilly air; her con­geniality seemed genuine, and so did her interest in me. My interest in her was pretty abstract. She was a beautiful woman, and I found her attractive and pleasant, but right now I had no plans for my dick except taking the occasional leak.

  “I hope to see you again,” she said, warmly, touching my hand.

  The little flags flapped overhead.

  I glanced around this lot where that dark-blue Buick had sat, just a few days before, the vehicle that had brought death back into my life.

  “You will,” I said, and got in the rental.

  8

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  IT WAS ONLY ten minutes from Best Buy Buick to Paul Revere Square; I turned off Kimberly Road onto Jer­sey Ridge, a funeral home off to my right, and pulled in at the left, between the brick pillars, the wrought-iron gates standing open, as if welcoming me to a private estate.