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—The New York Times Book Review
“Max Allan Collins [is] like no other writer.”
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“Collins breaks out a really good one, knocking over the hard-boiled competition (Parker and Leonard for sure, maybe even Puzo) with a one-two punch: a feisty storyline told bittersweet and wry...nice and taut...the book is unputdownable. Never done better.”
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—Booklist
“Masterful.”
—Jeffrey Deaver
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“Nobody does it better than Max Allan Collins.”
—John Lutz
The ex-gangster walked into the trees, heading toward the yawning white expanse of frozen water. I followed behind, nine millimeter in one hand, sawed-off in the other.
As we wound through the pines, the snow got deeper, ankle deep in places. Finally, at the snowy edge of the wooded shore, Harry came to a stop, and half turned.
“Go on, Harry.”
Harry frowned. “Go on? What the fuck, ‘go on?’ ”
“Keep walking.”
“Where?”
I gestured with the shotgun, toward the lake.
Harry followed the gesture, eyes tight, and it took a few seconds for him to absorb the meaning. Somehow, though, he couldn’t turn his confusion and apprehension into words.
Harry looked at the lake, then at me; the lake, me.
His voice seemed even higher pitched than before, almost childish, his wide eyes buggy behind the lenses. “What...what if the ice gives, under me? I mean...it’s gonna get thin, farther out I get....”
“We’ll keep the stress to a minimum.”
“How?”
“I’ll stay put,” I said...
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TOP OF THE HEAP by Erle Stanley Gardner
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TWO FOR THE MONEY by Max Allan Collins
THE CONFESSION by Domenic Stansberry
HOME IS THE SAILOR by Day Keene
KISS HER GOODBYE by Allan Guthrie
361 by Donald E. Westlake
PLUNDER OF THE SUN by David Dodge
BRANDED WOMAN by Wade Miller
DUTCH UNCLE by Peter Pavia
THE GIRL WITH THE LONG GREEN HEART by Lawrence Block
THE GUTTER AND THE GRAVE by Ed McBain
NIGHT WALKER by Donald Hamilton
A TOUCH OF DEATH by Charles Williams
SAY IT WITH BULLETS by Richard Powell
WITNESS TO MYSELF by Seymour Shubin
BUST by Ken Bruen and Jason Starr
STRAIGHT CUT by Madison Smartt Bell
LEMONS NEVER LIE by Richard Stark
The Last QUARRY
by Max Allan Collins
A HARD CASE CRIME BOOK
(HCC-023)
First Hard Case Crime edition: August 2006
Published by
Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street
London SE1 0UP
in collaboration with Winterfall LLC
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should know that it is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Copyright © 2006 by Max Allan Collins. This novel draws and expands upon material originally published in the short stories “A Matter of Principal,” copyright © 1989 by Max Allan Collins, and “Guest Services,” copyright © 1995 by Max Allan Collins.
Cover painting copyright © 2006 by Robert McGinnis
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Print edition ISBN 978-0-85768-370-0
E-book ISBN 978-0-85768-641-1
Design direction by Max Phillips
www.maxphillips.net
The name “Hard Case Crime” and the Hard Case Crime logo are trademarks of Winterfall LLC. Hard Case Crime books are selected and edited by Charles Ardai.
Printed in the United States of America
Visit us on the web at www.HardCaseCrime.com
For Jeffrey Goodman—who brought my killer to life
“Any victim demands allegiance.”
Graham Greene
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Author’s Afterword
One
It had been a long time since I’d had any trouble sleeping.
Not since the fucking shelling was keeping me awake, a lifetime or two ago. I’m not by nature an insomniac. You might think killing people for a living would give you some bad nights. Truth is, guys in the killing biz? Just aren’t the type to be bothered.
I was no exception. I hadn’t gone into retirement because my conscience was bothering me. I retired because I had enough money put away to live comfortably without working, so I did. And for a while that retirement had gone well. I’d invested a little and was living off the gravy; I’d even been married for a while, which had worked out fine.
For a while.
Currently I was depos
ited in an A-frame cottage with a deck onto the frozen expanse of Sylvan Lake, somewhere in Minnesota, only it’s not called Sylvan Lake and maybe it’s not Minnesota, either. I was staying at the only resort on this side of the lake, Sylvan Lodge, but I was not a guest—I ran the place. Or, anyway, did when it wasn’t off-season.
Once upon a time I had owned a resort in Wisconsin not unlike this—not near the acreage, of course, and not near the occupancy; but I had owned the place, whereas here I was just the manager.
Of course I didn’t have anything to complain about. I was lucky to have the job. When I ran into Gary Petersen in Milwaukee, where he was attending a convention and I was making a one-night stopover to remove some emergency funds from several bank deposit boxes, I was at the loosest of loose ends. The name I’d lived under for over a decade was unusable; my past had caught up with me, back at Paradise Lake, where everything went to hell in an instant: my straight business yanked from under me, my wife (who’d had not a clue of my prior existence) murdered in her sleep.
Gary, however, had recognized me in the hotel bar and called out a name I hadn’t used since the early ’70s: my real one.
“Jack!” he said, only that wasn’t the name. For the purposes of this narrative, however, we’ll say my real name is Jack Keller.
“Gary,” I said, surprised by the warmth creeping into my voice. “You son of a bitch...you’re still alive.”
Gary was a huge man—six six, weighing in at somewhere between three hundred pounds and a ton; his face was masked in a bristly brown beard, his skull exposed by hair loss, his dark eyes bright, his smile friendly, in a goofy, almost child-like way.
“Thanks to you, asshole,” he said.
We’d been in Vietnam together.
“What the hell have you been doing all these years, Jack?”
“Mostly killing people.”
He boomed a laugh. “Yeah, right!”
“Don’t believe me, then.”
I was, incidentally, pretty drunk. I don’t drink often, but I’d been through the mill lately.
“Are you crying, Jack?”
“Fuck no,” I said.
But I was.
Gary slipped his arm around my shoulder; it was like getting cuddled by God. “Bro—what’s the deal? What shit have you been through?”
“They killed my wife,” I said, and blubbered drunkenly into his shoulder.
“Jesus, Jack—who...?”
“Fucking assholes...fucking assholes....”
We went to his suite. He was supposed to play poker with some buddies but he called it off.
I was very drunk and very morose and Gary was, at one time anyway, my closest friend, and during the most desperate of days.
I told him everything.
I told him how after I got back from Nam, I found my wife—my first wife—shacked up with some guy, some fucking auto mechanic, who was working under a car when I kicked the jack out. The jury let me off, but I was finished in my hometown, and I drifted until the Broker found me. The Broker, who gave me the name Quarry, was the conduit through whom the murder-for-hire contracts came, and, what? Ten years later the Broker was dead, by my hand, and I was out of the killing business and took my savings and went to Paradise Lake in Wisconsin, where eventually I met a pleasant, attractive, not terribly bright woman and she and I were in the lodge business until the past came looking for me, and suddenly she was dead, and I was without a life or even identity. I had managed to kill the fuckers responsible for my wife’s killing—political assholes, not wiseguys—but otherwise I had nothing. Nothing left but some money stashed away, that I was now retrieving.
I told Gary all this, through the night, in considerably more detail though probably even less coherently, although coherently enough that when I woke up the next morning, where Gary had laid me out on the extra bed, I knew I’d told him too much.
He was still asleep. Like me, he was in the same clothes we’d worn to that bar; like me, he smelled of booze, only he also reeked of cigarette smoke. I reeked a little, too, but it was Gary’s smoke: I never picked up the habit. Bad for you.
He looked like a big dead animal, except for his barrel-like chest heaving with breath. I looked at this man—like me, he was somewhere near or past fifty, not the kids we’d been before the war made us worse than just men.
I still had liquor in me, but I was sober now. Too deadly fucking sober. I studied my best-friend-of-long-ago and wondered if I had to kill him.
I was standing over him, staring down at him, mulling that over, when his eyes opened suddenly, like a timer turning on the lights in a house to fend off burglars. He smiled a little, then it faded, his eyes narrowed, and he said, “Morning, Jack.”
“Morning, Gary.”
“You’ve got that look.”
“What look is that?”
“The cold one. The one I first saw a long time ago.”
I swallowed and took my eyes off him. Sat on the edge of the bed across from him and rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands.
He plopped down across from me with those big paws on his big knees and said, “How the hell d’you manage it?”
“What?”
“Hauling my fat ass onto that Medivac.”
I grunted a laugh. “The same way a little mother lifts a Buick off her big baby.”
“In my case, you lifted the Buick onto the baby. Let me buy you breakfast.”
“Okay.”
In the hotel coffee shop, he said, “Funny...what you told me last night...about the business you used to be in?”
I sipped my coffee; I didn’t look at him—didn’t show him my eyes. “Yeah?”
“I’m in the same game.”
Now I looked at him; I winced with disbelief. “What...?”
He corrected my initial thought. “The tourist game, I mean. I run a lodge near Brainerd.”
“No kidding.”
“That’s what this convention is. Northern Resort Owners Association.”
“I heard of it,” I said, nodding. “Never bothered to join, myself.”
Not by nature much of a joiner.
“I’m a past president,” he said, obviously proud of that. “Anyway, I run a place called Sylvan Lodge. My third and current, and I swear to God everlasting wife, Ruth Ann? Maybe I mentioned her last night? Anyway, Ruthie inherited it from her late parents, God rest their hardworking Republican souls.”
None of this came as a surprise to me. Grizzly bear Gary had always drawn women like a great big magnet—usually good-looking little women who wanted a father figure, Papa Bear variety. Even in Bangkok on R & R, Gary never had to pay for pussy, as we used to delicately phrase it.
“I’m happy for you,” I said. “I always figured you’d manage to marry for money.”
“My ass! I really love Ruth Ann. You should see the knockers on the child.”
“A touching testimonial if I ever heard one. Listen... about that bullshit I was spouting last night...”
His dark eyes became slits, the smile in his brushy face disappeared. “We’ll never speak of that again. Understood? Never.”
He reached out and squeezed my forearm.
I sighed and smiled tightly and nodded, relieved. Killing Gary would have been no fun at all.
He continued, though. “My sorry fat ass wouldn’t even be on this planet, if it wasn’t for you. I owe you big time.”
“Bullshit,” I said, but not very convincingly.
“I’ve had a good life, at least the last ten years or so, since I met Ruthie. You’ve been swimming in Shit River long enough. Let me help you out.”
“Gary, I...”
“Actually, I want you to help me.”
“Help you?”
Gary’s business was such a thriving one that he had recently invested in a second lodge, one across the way from his Gull Lake resort. He had quickly discovered he couldn’t run both places himself, at least not “without running my fat ass off.” He offered me the job of managing
Sylvan.
“We’ll start you at 5OK, with free housing. You can make a tidy buck with damn near no overhead, and you can tap into at least one of your marketable skills, and at the same time be out of the way. Keep as low a profile as you like. You don’t even have to deal with the tourists, to speak of—we have a social director for that. You just keep the boat afloat. Okay?”
“Okay,” I said, and we shook hands.
Goddamn I was glad I hadn’t killed him....
Two
Now, here I was a little more than six months into the job, and a month into the first winter—off-season, settled in. My quarters, despite the rustic trappings of the cabin-like exterior, were modern—pine paneling skirting the room with pale yellow pastel walls rising to a high pointed ceiling. Just one A-frame room with bath and kitchenette, but a big room, facing the lake, which was a mere hundred yards from the deck that was my back porch. Couch, Dish TV, plenty of closet space, a comfortable bed. I didn’t need anything more.
During off-season like this, I could’ve moved into more spacious digs if I liked, but I hadn’t bothered. My first summer and fall at Sylvan Lodge had been a real pleasure. Just a short jog across the way was an indoor swimming pool with hot tub and sauna, plus a tennis court; a golf course, shared with Gary’s other lodge, was an easy drive. My duties were constant, but mostly consisted of delegating authority, and the gay chef of our gourmet restaurant made sure I ate well and free, and I’d been banging Nikki, the college girl who had the social director position for the summer, so my staff relations were solid.
But the cold months had come, and in this part of the world that was fucking cold indeed. Everyone except a maintenance guy, José, was gone, and even he didn’t live on site; Nikki was back blowing frat boys and probably posing for a Playboy college-girl spread, and I didn’t even want to know what my gay chef was up to. Gary was off with Ruth Ann down in Florida, where his “winter” home was, and I was up here, keeping an eye on things—like making sure a moose didn’t get inside the restaurant and take a dump or something.
In short, I had nothing to do. The only managerial instruction I’d given José since we closed for the season was to keep the pool and hot tub and sauna going, for my personal use.
The Last Quarry Page 1