Quarry's vote q-5

by Maxallan Collins

  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 a
ny 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 both 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

  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.

  Paul Revere Square was an ersatz slice of New England plopped along the frontage of Kimberly Road, a sprawling commercial strip on the western edge of the Cities, connecting Davenport and Moline. Mostly Kimberly was middle-class mini-malls, and franchise restaurants with “Mister” in their names; but Paul Revere Square seemed to cry out, “The wealthy are coming.”

  I parked my rental job in the side lot and walked toward the courtyard square where wooden signs extended from buildings on wrought iron, swinging in the gentle chilly breeze, and lampposts lit up the overcast afternoon with yellow electric lights that pretended to be gas. Despite the efforts to look old, these brick buildings were new, the mortar barely dry, and a good many of the storefronts had yet to be filled. Saturday afternoon or not, there weren’t many people wandering the courtyard of shops, though those who were were well-dressed.

  Several handsome fortyish women in mink jackets over slacks outfits wandered into a shop where, a glance in the window informed me, fancy dresses were displayed on the walls like museum pieces.

  Two- and three-story brick buildings-an anomaly on this commercial stretch where low-slung and cheaply built was the standard-loomed on the periphery, making me feel more like I was in a fortress than a mall. Of course, this wasn’t just a mall; various medical specialists kept offices here, and Butterwort
h Tours, E.F. Hutton, several insurance firms, a massive bank. Building A, for instance, numbered among its occupants the Obstetrics and Gynecology Group, and Slices and Scoops. The latter had nothing to do with either obstetrics or gynecology: it was a deli restaurant with “home-made” pie. I ate lunch there. So did several pregnant women.

  Just after one o’clock, I wandered into Ridge Real Estate World, on a lower level around the corner from the courtyard shops. I found myself in a waiting room where cream carpet and cream walls set a soothing tone, and a large elaborately framed picture of George Ridge, the company founder, was the dominant wall decoration. The wall was otherwise covered with plaques various civic and mercantile groups had awarded to Ridge and/or his company. A good number seemed to have to do with public speaking; several were from the Toastmasters, for instance.

  I stood and stared at the picture of Ridge for a good long time, and finally I heard a pleasant voice say, “Could I be of help?”

  She was brunette and she was petite and she was attractive; she wasn’t as attractive as Angela back at Best Buy, but this woman, too, had most likely been a cheerleader and/or a beauty queen, only somewhat more recently than Angela. She had money-green eyes and too much make-up and a forced, sparkling white smile. She also wore a blazer: a blue one with a RIDGE crest over a white frilly blouse.

  This, apparently, was my day to encounter attractive women-in-blazers.

  I put on a smile and walked over to the desk. “I had an appointment with Mr. Ridge,” I said.

  I thought that would send her scurrying to a desk drawer for her appointment book, but she only smiled and shook her head. “You must be mistaken,” she said.

  I took off the smile, put on a concerned, confused look. “I don’t think that’s possible. My secretary called…”

  “Mr. Ridge is out of the country. I’m sorry if there’s been a mix-up.”

  “I see. Where is Mr. Ridge, exactly?”

  Her smile tightened. “He’s in Canada. Giving a seminar. He will be back Tuesday, however.”