“I saw something in the paper about you today.”
“The USA Today poll? Yes, it said my recognition is up seventy percent since my previous campaign.”
“Yeah, but sixty percent of those who recognize you think you’re a loon.”
His eyes narrowed in irritation. “I believe the question was, ‘Do you take Preston Freed seriously as a candidate?’ Perhaps after tomorrow they will.”
“That’s one of the things we need to talk about. You can leave your bullet-proof underwear home and call off your security. Well, the extra security, anyway. A presidential candidate always ought be protected, don’t you think?”
He was frowning now. “What are you talking about?”
“Stone is no longer a problem.”
He looked at me sharply. “You . . . found him?”
“Yes, I did.”
Eyes peered out through cuts in his face. “And you killed him?”
I nodded, then raised a finger gently. “You said you wanted no details, remember? Besides, it was nothing flashy. Bullet in the brain. You can read about it in the Times tomorrow.”
He sighed, shook his head. “Damn.”
He was visibly disappointed.
“You wanted him nailed at the Blackhawk tomorrow morning, didn’t you?”
“Of course I did,” he said irritably. “The attention an assassination attempt would focus upon me would make for invaluable publicity. I explained that. Well, you blew your bonus, didn’t you, Quarry?”
“Nobody’s perfect. Heck, I thought you’d be grateful that I took him out. He was hired to kill you, you know.”
“Yes,” he said, through white teeth, clenched wolf-like, “but we knew he was coming!”
I smiled. Whether it was wolf-like or not, I couldn’t say.
What I did say was this: “That’s what this was about from the beginning, wasn’t it?”
He brushed back his white mane of hair. “What in hell are you babbling about?”
“You took the contract out.”
His smile seemed one of amused amazement. “What, on myself?”
“On yourself.”
He laughed, shook his head, sipped his Scotch. “Really, Mr. Ryan.”
“You wanted to be a martyr. A living martyr. You wanted attention called to yourself. That was the intention from day one, to publicly avert an assassination attempt, which you figured was easy enough, when, as you say, you know it’s coming.”
He gestured with the glass in hand, dismissively. “This is all nonsense.” He scowled at me. “I’d like you to leave my home, Mr. Ryan, or Quarry, or whatever. I don’t think I have any further need for your services.”
“I was sought out because I have vague mob connections. When the authorities dug that out—after I was shot down by your bodyguards, at your press conference—that’d seem to give credence to your pet theory, the ‘Drug Conspiracy,’ the mob and bankers, all that bullshit.”
He looked at me with apparent pity. “The Drug Conspiracy is very real.”
“Yeah, and where would your cocaine habit be without it? You can plug Stone into that same scenario, incidentally. In fact, he’s a better choice than me—his mob ties weren’t so vague as mine.”
“This is insanity. We both know that George Ridge is the man who hired you.”
“And now I’ll tell you that George Ridge is dead, and you can act surprised.”
His eyes and mouth opened wide; he dropped the glass of Scotch and it spilled on the wheatcolored carpet. “What? George? Dead?”
“That was very good. You’re real smooth. Quite the actor. Did you kill Ridge yourself, or use a flunky? I’d say yourself. It’s an amateur’s weapon, a knife, and you’ve got all this hunting shit around, western stuff, there’s knives handy. You had the meeting set up at the motel, he came in, you did him, you went out through the motel. You don’t know how close you came to bumping into first Stone, then me. That would’ve been cute.”
He gave me his most earnest look, mixed in with some indignation. “George Ridge and I were bitter enemies!”
“Hardly. Oh, I was fed a convincing denunciation of you by Ridge, claiming to represent a ‘concerned group of patriotic citizens’ and such shit. That was just in case by some fluke I was not killed in the attempted hit, and fell into police and/or federal hands. That gave me a story to tell.”
“George’s break with me—”
“Was just more acting, mister candidate. Ridge was not the left-wing type. Sure, back in your salad days, you were both in that SDS fringe group; but that wasn’t politics, that was college. That was make-believe. Before Ridge learned about the realities, the glories of capitalism and real estate and especially selling gullible assholes tapes about getting rich quick. Jesus, why didn’t I think it through? George Ridge is about the least likely liberal I can think of. That was strictly for public consumption.”
He rolled those blue eyes. “Now who’s the conspiracy nut?”
“There were several people involved, beyond you and Ridge, but I don’t think any of them know they were working for anyone but Ridge—like his hapless flunkies Jordan and Crawford, two prime fuck-ups who have managed to die twice in the last few days. And Ridge tapped into his friend Werner for the names and whereabouts of the ‘mob hitmen.’ And Lonny Best, I believe, was asked by Jordan to provide a car for the Wisconsin run, reported ‘stolen’ after the fact. The only thing really stolen were the Rock Island county license plates; the new car would’ve had none, otherwise. Best, you see, despite his public posture, is also still a Freed man—he knew I was doing ‘security’ for you, he told me so today; I thought I knew who told him that, but I was wrong—it was either you or someone in your camp. My hunch, though, is Best at most only vaguely knows he was part of any criminal conspiracy. I wouldn’t bother having him snuffed, if I were you.”
“Your security advice is always appreciated, Mr. Ryan.”
“But, all in all, at its root, it was a two-man conspiracy. That’s why you killed Ridge yourself. And that’s why I know I’m right about all this—how I finally put this together. Only you knew that I knew Ridge had taken that contract out. Only you knew that Ridge, too, was a loose end that now needed tying off.”
“If all that’s true, why didn’t I have you killed?”
“Well, you’d have probably had to do it yourself, and I think you know you’re not up to it. I didn’t tell you where I was staying, and I warned you that if I were followed, there’d be hell to pay. No, I think you wanted me there, at the press conference; I think I’d have been shot down in the confusion, to provide even more proof that some mob conspiracy had attempted to snuff out your idealistic flame. Why not a real president? If the mob wants him dead, he can’t be all bad!”
Finally he dropped the pretense and smiled with infinite smugness. His face took on an almost demonic cast, thanks to the glow and the shadows from the fire behind us. “It would work. It would’ve worked.”
“I think it would’ve at that. It was foolish for a man as public as Ridge—whose business was public speaking, after all, even if most of it was on audio tapes—to show himself to me. He would risk that only to help contain the conspiracy, and with the knowledge that I’d be taken out, later, anyway. You planned the same for Stone, of course. And all it’s really cost you is that ten grand you slipped under Stone’s hotel room door tonight.”
His smile now was one of almost gentle amusement. “What about all your talk of a ‘million-dollar contract’?”
“Well, Stone told me about the numbered Swiss account. He just wasn’t smart enough to know that the account was yours; that you no doubt have it set up for deposits and withdrawals. Pardon me if it comes as no surprise that a guy like you, bilking his supporters for every buck he can, would have dough stashed in a Swiss bank.”
He turned his body on the sofa to pay me complete and apparently benign attention, his voice mellow, soothing, like the glow of the fire be
hind us. “Mr. Ryan. Let’s suppose what you’ve said is substantially true. What is there left for you out of this? I can offer you money, if you’re interested—and I won’t play any tricks with numbered accounts. But you’re a man who can stand exposure no more than I, in this. Perhaps we can agree to go our separate ways.”
“My wife is dead. She was pregnant.”
He licked his lips; lowered his gaze as if respectful. “That is most unfortunate.” Then he lifted and trained the light blue eyes on me; persuasion radiated like heat over asphalt. “But I had nothing, nothing whatever, to do with that. Whether it was Ridge’s doing, or simply those bunglers Jordan and Crawford, I can’t say. But I never approved such a thing. Would never approve of such a thing.”
“Yeah, well you got your hands bloody tonight, just to protect your own ass. But, what the hell? Whose ass should you be expected to protect? Uh, what time is it?”
He checked his watch. “A few minutes after two.”
“You’re missing yourself on TV. You’re missing your show.”
Quick half-smile. “I thought just this once I could.”
“How does that work, anyway?”
“What do you mean?”
I gestured with one hand. “Something about a satellite feed.”
He frowned impatiently. “Well, there’s a small cable outfit that uplinks the show for me. Show goes out to approximately two-hundred stations across the U.S.—they air it two A.M., central time, on Monday night. Some of them tape and air it again. Why should that concern you, and at this particular moment?”
“Oh, it just seemed a curious time for a show to air.”
He shrugged, annoyed by this digression. “It’s less expensive to air at this time. We’re not the Republicans, we’re not the Democrats, we’re not the goddamn 700 Club. There’s a limit to our funds. Why are we talking about this?”
“Let’s turn the TV on. Let’s see this show of yours.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
I reached behind my back, took the nine-millimeter out. “Let’s take a look. And if you call for your watchdogs, I’ll shoot up the fuckin’ place. Remember that, if any of ’em interrupt us.”
He nodded, more irritated than afraid.
A big 27-inch console straddled the far corner of the room. He rose slowly, smoothed out his silk robe, walked over to the set and turned it on. He pushed the buttons on the cable box on top until he found the correct station.
And what he saw was himself.
Naked.
Apparently engaging in what polite folks call anal intercourse, if polite folks call it anything at all.
“Is that just rear entry, or are you really stirring the fudge there?”
His mouth dropped open to the floor. “What . . . what . . .”
“That poor little girl’s name is Angela. I don’t know her last name, but I understand she had a nervous breakdown, committed suicide, not long after you cast your vote in her every bodily orifice.”
“That tape . . . that tape . . . where . . .”
“Came from your collection upstairs. I don’t know how much longer this’ll air. Somebody’ll probably run out to that cable station and shut it off. I’d imagine your phone’ll start ringing pretty soon.”
“Jesus . . . Jesus . . . what have you done?”
“Publicly embarrassed you. Pretty much ruined you personally and politically for all time, I’d say. Sunk you and your loopy ‘cause,’ whatever the fuck it is, forever.” I pointed to the screen. “Uh, you don’t just pork that poor kid, by the way—you engage in some chemical shenanigans, as well, after awhile. That freebasing is pretty dangerous, don’t you think? Do you really think you ought to be doing that on TV, where you might influence young people adversely?”
His eyes were wide; he was moving his head slowly, side to side, the phosphorescence of the TV an aura on his face. “How . . . how did you . . .”
“Somebody must’ve switched tapes. Your weekly show got exchanged for ‘Debbie Does Preston.’ Probably just a clerical error. And the guy who works at the station, he’s all alone, and no matter how much coffee he downs, he’s got to fall asleep on the job sooner or later.”
He finally looked away from the set to glare at me. “You son-of-a-bitch . . .”
“Hey, lighten up. I could kill you. But I decided to let the press and the public crucify you instead. I’ll let you suffer the humiliation. Fate worse than death. That sort of thing.”
He found a smile; it was ugly—the real him at last. “You really think this will work? I’ll expose this for a fraud.” He crouched before the TV, as if worshipping. “The camera’s back far enough . . . I can insist it’s a hoax . . . lookalike actors . . .”
“Hey, yeah, maybe that’d work. The Drug Conspiracy—the Latvian/Martian Connection. Whatever. Give it your best shot at the press conference tomorrow.”
He stood; his smile was tight and not right. “You think I can’t. But you’re wrong. You’re wrong.”
“Who knows? You wanted an assassination attempt, but I guess you’ll just have to settle for character assassination. At least you can call off some of your security tomorrow. Your problem isn’t going to be Stone—who’s no problem to anybody anymore, anyway; your problem’s going to be ducking questions, not bullets. And you’ll have a good press turnout, don’t you worry.”
“I’ll pull it off,” he said, mesmerized by his own fucking image. “I’ll pull it off.”
“Yeah, give it a shot.”
And I turned to go, gun still in hand.
Behind me, he said, “That’s it? You’re just going?”
I turned back to him. “That’s right. You know, my only mistake was not taking the goddamn job in the first place, and save us all a lot of trouble. Because the mistake you made was thinking that once I’d been set in motion, I could’ve been stopped.”
I pointed the nine-millimeter at him.
His mouth fell open. The china-blue eyes were suddenly empty, his leathery face a mask.
It was tempting; but it wasn’t how I wanted it.
“So long, mister candidate,” I said.
And I walked out of there. When I went down the back steps, Larry was still under them; he was awake now, struggling like a fish, eyes bugged, mouth slashed with tape. I smiled and waved at him.
I stood at the edge of the quarry and looked in at the water. I couldn’t see myself. Just the moon and stars, shimmering.
I headed down the paved path to my Sunbird. I would drive to a motel, somewhere well beyond the Cities, and sleep (I’d kept a few of Linda’s Seconals for myself) and eventually wake up and head for Milwaukee. I had a name up there and a little money and maybe I didn’t have a life, anymore, but I might be able to put something together. It wasn’t like I didn’t have a trade.
When I got to the motel, though, I’d have a phone call to make before hitting the sleeping pills and the sack.
I’d call Stone, back at the Blackhawk, and tell him that security tomorrow morning should be no problem, though he ought to be aware that media coverage of the press conference would be heavy. Stone understood that he might not get anything out of it beyond that ten grand that had been slipped under his door; but after I’d explained it all to him, earlier, much as I had just explained it to Freed, he was eager to honor the contract. It wasn’t the money—it was the principle of the thing.
After all, once you set somebody like Stone in motion, it’s a mistake to think he can be stopped.
Afterword
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THIS NOVEL WAS originally published under the title Primary Target in 1987 by Foul Play Press. The original title is perfectly fine, and was of my own design, but for this edition, editor John Boland and I decided to go with Quarry’s Vote, since the pattern of Quarry’s name being in the titles of this series seems now well-established.
The first four Quarry novels were paperback originals published by Berkley Books. They were not particularly successful. Actually, they sank like stones. But by the mid-’80s, this little series about my regular-guy hitman had earned a certain cult status. Also, I had achieved a higher profile with my Nathan Heller series—the first book, True Detective, had won the Shamus for Best Novel of 1983. I was in the enviable position of having several publishers approach me and tell me I could write whatever I wanted to for them.
Heller, of course, was tied up; I was with St. Martin’s then. But this gave me an opportunity to check in with my first two series characters, Nolan, and of course Quarry. I did a new Nolan novel, Spree, for editor Michael Seidman at TOR, and a new Quarry (this one) for editor Louis Wilder at Foul Play Press. Both experiences were good ones.
There was no intention to reboot the series—just to check back in with my characters, and perhaps provide what could serve as final novels in each series. In particular, Quarry was in a different place, no longer utilizing the Broker’s list, happily retired with a pretty little wife who was just dumb enough to be no trouble and just smart enough not to ask too many questions. A good time for me to fuck with him.
A few sequels followed in the ’90s by way of three short stories. One of those, “A Matter of Principal,” had a sort of life of its own, and appeared in several prestigious anthologies, spawned an award-winning short film that I wrote, and a feature film, The Last Lullaby (2008) starring Tom Sizemore in the Quarry role, that I co-wrote and which won many film festival awards.
When editor Charles Ardai asked me to write a new Quarry novel for Hard Case Crime, I did what was essentially a novelization of my draft of the screenplay for Lullaby. Call it the Writer’s Cut. I was not prepared for the outpouring of enthusiasm for that novel (The Last Quarry), including some of the best reviews of my career. The subsequent Quarry novels I’ve done for Hard Case have also been enthusiastically received. But I’ve also had many e-mails about the unavailability of the first five books in the series, and sad, sad tales about how expensive copies of both the Berkley Books and Foul Play Press editions have become.
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