“What if I said I thought it was murder.”
“Murder? Murder? I know Bob was involved in some . . . rough things sometimes, but . . .”
“And what if I said I thought I knew who was respon- sible.”
“Jack, what are you saying?”
“What if I said I couldn’t prove it, and that there was no way we could go to the police about it.”
There was firmness in her voice now: “Jack, if you know something, we’re going to the police. Right now—no discussion.”
“Forget I mentioned it.”
“Forget you . . . Jack, I’m coming there to talk to you.”
That’s what I wanted anyway.
“Okay,” I said. “Make it midnight in the lobby of the Blackhawk. I’ll spell things out.”
She’d agreed to that. I’d called her from my room. Now I needed that swim. To relax. To think. And for another reason.
I sat in the shallow section, my head out of water, rest of me under, and waited. Played a hunch. I was starting to feel foolish, not to mention wrinkled, when I was suddenly not alone.
Another guest of the hotel invaded my dank, until-then solitary chamber. As I had hoped he might. He was six-foot or so, a pale, potbellied, balding man wearing a dark blue knee-length terry cloth robe and black thong sandals. Something heavy was in one pocket of his robe; the right. His face was pockmarked, his chin cleft.
He was the man I’d known as (among other things) Stone.
He took off the robe and draped it carefully across a yellow deck chair. Stepped out of his sandals and, ignoring the sign just as had I, dove into the water. Graceful as an Olympic diver, if considerably fatter.
He ignored me entirely, started doing laps, arms cutting the surface; he didn’t take it as easy as I did, rather made the water churn. I sat there in the waves he made, watching.
Finally, he came up for air in the shallow, came up gulping air, actually, like a heavy, getting-older man would do, and glanced over at me.
The glance turned into a fixed expression, as his slate-gray, oriental-cast eyes locked onto me. The skin around them tensed.
“Quarry?” he asked.
“Stone,” I said and nodded.
He smiled briefly, as if about to say “Small world,” but the smile and the thought didn’t survive long.
“What are you doing here?” he asked. Flatly.
“Having a swim.”
“Besides that.”
“It’s a long story. How about a sauna?”
He looked at me through slits. “Ever drown anybody, Quarry?”
“I threw a TV in a bathtub once. A soap opera was playing.”
“Somebody in the tub at the time?”
“What would’ve been the point if there wasn’t?”
He twitched a smile, shrugged. Said, “I could stand to sweat off some flab.”
We left the pool area and entered the small sauna that was off the short hall to the showers, johns and lockers. He was in his robe again. I was in my trunks, carrying my rolled-up towel under my arm; tightly under my arm. In the towel was the nine-millimeter. No suppressor. The towel, and a contact wound, would make it unnecessary.
We had the redwood cubicle to ourselves—just me and Stone and the heating stones; we selected the higher of two shelves, sat side by side on the slatted wood. I sat on the right, he on the left; that put my rolled-up gun-in-towel under my right hand.
He left the robe on. The heat was dry, and thick enough to slice—if you had a knife.
He sat hunched, looked up at me, his strange eyes placid. “You still in the business, Quarry?”
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I was in retirement, but somebody tried to get me to make a comeback. To do one special job.”
“Really. Isn’t that flattering.”
“Hope to shout. Million-dollar contract.”
His eyes flickered.
“I’ll tell you about it,” I said.
And did.
There were parts I left out: I didn’t tell him I’d contacted Freed and was working for the candidate; and I didn’t tell him anything about Angela Jordan. I also didn’t mention trailing George Ridge from the airport tonight (and all that entailed). But the rest I gave him.
He sat and sweated and considered what I’d said. It had taken almost five minutes, and he hadn’t interrupted once.
Now he said, “I’m sorry about your wife. But it doesn’t have anything to do with me.”
“It has everything to do with you.”
He shook his head no. Moisture beads flew off his forehead. “Like you said: you were a loose end. They tried to tie you off.”
“You don’t think you’ll be an immediate loose end yourself? You really think you’ll survive this, to spend your dough?”
“They’ve already put up half the dough. Up front.”
“Half a million bucks?”
“That’s right. In a numbered Swiss account.”
I’d only been offered a paltry hundred grand—but in cash.
“How are they supposed to pay the balance?”
“A deposit to that account.”
“They’ll find you,” I said, “and have you killed.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You think you’re smarter than they are?”
“Yeah. And you.”
“Where I failed, you’ll succeed, you think.”
“You didn’t fail, Quarry. They didn’t kill you. You killed them.”
“Like you killed Ridge tonight?”
That threw him. And this was a Stone not easily thrown.
“I didn’t kill him,” he said, sitting back, resting his hands on his knees; that put his right hand near the right, somewhat weighted-down pocket of the robe.
“I saw Ridge go in, and I saw you go in, and I went in after you took off.”
“You get around.”
“But you know, I never knew you to kill with a knife. How’d you manage that? You didn’t even get blood on you.”
“That’s because he was dead when I went in there,” he said.
“Well, then who killed him?”
“How should I know?”
We sat and listened to each other sweat. Then I said: “Ridge was the man who contacted you about the hit?”
He nodded.
“And you were supposed to meet with him tonight?”
He shook his head no. “I didn’t know it would be him. There was a message at the hotel. There were going to be some . . . ‘last minute changes.’”
“So then everybody’s presumption is correct? Tomorrow’s press conference is where, and when, the hit’s going down?”
He just looked at me. Then he nodded again.
Paused. Arched one eyebrow. He did look like a sinister Mr. Spock, gone bald and slightly to seed. “But when I got there, Ridge was dead on the floor, throat cut. I just got the fuck out.”
“Why are you still here? Why haven’t you split? Isn’t somebody icing Ridge enough to queer the deal for you?”
He slipped out of the robe; it made a slight clunk as he put it beside him. Beside his right hand.
He said, “Yes it was. I was planning to blow. To just get the fuck out.” He shook his head, smiled faintly. “Even though this hit is a piece of cake . . . brother. You check out the lay of the land?”
I nodded. “It looks like the easiest million this side of the lottery.”
“Yeah, well I don’t gamble.”
“Then why are you still hanging around here?”
“I’m deciding whether to stay or not. Whether to go through with it or not.”
“Why in hell would you still want to go through with it?”
He thought for a moment, not sure if he wanted to tell me something.
Then, casually: “Because there was an envelope waiting for me at my room. Somebody slid it under the door. It had ten one-thousand dollar bills in it. Crisp as
fuckin’ lettuce.”
“And all I got was a mint on my pillow.”
“There was a typewritten note.”
“Which said?”
He shrugged. “‘Tomorrow as planned.’”
“Well, surely you don’t intend to take that advice.”
“I intend to take the ten grand. But I got to think the other through . . .”
“Stone, there’s nothing to think through. Ridge was another loose end that got tied off. You’re next in line.”
“But I’m already a loose end. Why not at least take a shot at the other half mil?”
“Who are you going to collect from? Did you deal with anybody besides Ridge?”
“No. But that just means I’m no danger to anybody. I can’t finger anybody. They might just as well pay me off.”
“You told me, way back when, never do a political kill. You said if you want to commit suicide, jump off a bridge.”
His slightly yellow smile was spooky yet oddly gentle. “That was a long time ago, Quarry. You take all the advice I gave you back then?”
“Some of it. Let’s not get all mushy, now. You’re no father figure.”
“I remember you bitching about the ‘trail’ I leave.”
“I found you, didn’t I? Without hardly trying. By the way, I beat you at ‘Popeye’ earlier this evening.”
That also threw him a little, but he laughed. “I bet you didn’t.”
“You must want to quit pretty bad.”
He looked at me sharply. “What?”
“You been at this a long time. You were a mob guy, right? Where, Cleveland? Then you broke away and went freelance. That’s a lot of contracts. You must be tired. You certainly look old.”
“You’re older, too.”
“I’m older. You’re old. Like I’m heavier, where you’re fat. You’re going to die, Stone. You go through with this, they’ll kill you.”
“Or maybe you will.”
“Why should l?”
“To get back at ’em.” His lip curled up in a faint, sardonic smile. “Whoever it is that put this contract in motion, whoever it is that’s responsible for what happened to your wife. For fucking up your life. If you can get in the way of tomorrow’s plans, you’ll screw things up for them.”
“You might be right,” I said, my hand in the towel.
He was older, and fatter: before he could even slip his hand in the robe pocket, for his gun, the nose of mine was against his sweaty temple.
I met her in the lobby just after midnight. I’d been up to my room to change; I was casually dressed—jeans and a sweatshirt and running shoes. I felt refreshed. The swim had done me good.
She was in jeans, too, and a blue blouse, hastily thrown on; her hair was messed-up, looking greasy, obviously unwashed, her eyes were red and circled, she wore no make-up. But she still looked good to me.
We sat on a sofa, in the otherwise deserted lobby, a couple of ferns eavesdropping nearby. I told her that the man responsible for her husband’s death could not be touched by the police; I explained why—and I explained how he could be otherwise touched, done terrible damage—without violence.
We talked for forty-five minutes. She was alternately upset and angry but, finally, when I revealed what I had in mind, she was laughing. A little hysteria was in it, but it was laughter.
“Here,” I said, and handed her the black plastic box.
She smiled and nodded.
“And don’t forget these.”
I handed her the small bottle of Seconal. “Think you can handle this?” I asked.
“I know I can,” she said.
“And put on some make-up before you go in.”
She smirked. “Thanks for the beauty tip.”
“No problem.”
She got up and I walked her down the stairs out onto the street and to her red Sunbird. It was cold and our breath showed.
“Angela,” I said.
“I know,” she smiled. “‘Be careful.’ I will.”
“It’s not that.”
I took her in my arms and I kissed her.
“What’s that for?” she asked, smiling, confused.
“Luck,” I said.
And it was goodbye. I wouldn’t be seeing her again.
18
_______________________________________________
_______________________________________________
I WAS NOT expected at the Freed estate, but the gate man—that same guy in the hunting jacket sitting in the brown Ford—recognized me. I got out of the Sunbird, and we talked across the metal gate, at first. I told him I needed to see the candidate. He said he’d check and see if the “chief” would see me.
“Tell him it’s urgent,” I said, as the beefy, sandy-haired sentry returned to his car to call in on something.
He wasn’t gone long; he unlocked and swung the gate open. “You can go on up to the house,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder, his other hand resting on the butt of his holstered revolver. “But no cars in the compound tonight.”
“Security’s pretty tight.”
“Yeah. And I hear you’re the guy that’s responsible.” He grinned. “Some of the guys are pissed at you.”
“Some of the guys pissed, period, last time I saw ’em.”
He laughed. “Why don’t I drive you up?”
“That’s okay. It’s a nice night. I’ll walk.”
The guy shrugged, said, “Suit yourself,” and climbed back in the Ford, where he lit up a cigarette and went back to work.
It really was a nice night, more cool than cold, though I was glad for the sweatshirt under the black windbreaker. I had the nine-millimeter stuffed in my waistband, in back; still not bothering with the suppressor. This was an armed camp. If shooting started, noise would be the least of my problems.
Hands in the windbreaker pockets, I walked slowly up the paved drive, which cut through the forest, the smell of the pines reminding me of Wisconsin and Paradise Lake. Above me the sky was clear tonight; stars; moon. I felt relaxed. I wasn’t happy—I wasn’t about to fall into that trap again. But I felt peaceful.
The trees came to an abrupt stop as the rolling landscaped area began, the modern yet rustic-looking house far enough away to look small. The drive was near the edge of the quarry, and I wandered off the pavement to stand on the ledge of earth and look down at the water that filled the old pit, watched its surface reflect the stars and the moon. For just an instant, it seemed to call to me.
I got back on the pavement, followed it around behind the house. One of Freed’s deputy-like watchdogs was waiting in back. It was the heavy-set, balding blond one called Larry.
He turned his mouth sideways, at sight of me, doing his best to look as disgusted as he could, nodding toward the stairs that led up to the rear of the house, into the kitchen.
“He’s waiting for you in the livin’ room,” Larry said.
“Thanks, Larry.”
He snorted. Snot, not coke. “You’re no big deal, Ryan.”
“What, Larry?”
“You and me, we’ll settle up one of these days.”
“Larry,” I said, standing close to him, smiling, “don’t take a little security check so personal.”
Larry’s head bobbed back and he stuck his tiny chin out and looked down his nose at me. He smelled like lime aftershave.
“You just don’t know who you’re messin’ with,” Larry said.
“Yeah, right,” I said, and took my hand out of the jacket pocket and stuck the stun gun in his stomach and shocked him senseless. While he was down on the ground, shaking, pissing his pants, mouth already covered with tape, I flex-cuffed his hands behind him and his ankles. Then I dragged him under the steps where he wouldn’t be easily seen.
“Add that to the bill, Larry,” I said.
I went on in; nobody in the kitchen. Going on through, I could see past the open doors of the secretarial area into the outdoorsy conference room, wher
e several security boys were playing cards, money on the table. The security wasn’t all that tight since I’d come aboard.
I found my way past the stone waterfall and its amber lights and into the sprawling living room. The lights were out, but a fire was going in the stone fireplace, over which the oil portrait of the candidate-in-buckskins smiled like a frontier god. The subject of the painting was wearing his dark silk robe again. He was lounged back on a light brown sofa, the upholstery looking like burlap; his slippered feet were up on an ottoman. A glass of Scotch was in one hand. He looked comfortable, sitting staring out his big picture window, with its view of the quarry, the narrow highway, trees and the glistening Mississippi.
“Lovely view, Mr. Ryan, don’t you think?”
“From up here. It’s polluted though. Get close, you’ll see that easy enough.”
“If the people put the right man in office, we can take care of that kind of thing.”
Somehow, despite all the trappings of the great outdoors that decorated this place, I didn’t figure environmentalism would be a major priority in his platform.
He turned his spooky china-blue gaze on me, a smile tearing his leathery face. “Are you here for a last-minute, pre-game pep talk? Or is there really something urgent?”
I sat next to him. Not terribly close. But on the sofa. The nine-millimeter dug into my back. “We just need to talk, before tomorrow. What time is it?”
He checked his watch. “Quarter till two. Why do you ask?”
“Something I have to do at two. Why aren’t you sacked out? Shouldn’t you be getting in your beauty sleep, before the big day?”
“Ah, my friend, I only look calm. Inside, I’m a collection of frayed nerves. I’m just a man, after all. Don’t let the accouterments of power fool you.”
“Cut you, you bleed, you mean?”
His smile quivered, then broadened momentarily, then disappeared. “Something like that,” he said, looking away from me, out his window, where the reflection of the fire flickered.
“You’ve got your security team in place for tomorrow morning?”
“I certainly do. And I will be wearing soft body armor, whether you find that practical or not.”
“Won’t hurt anything. Think there’ll be a good media turnout?”
“Excellent. Representatives from all three major net- works, plus CNN; coming in from their Chicago bureaus, for the most part. The newspaper world should be equally well represented.”
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