The Contract

by JM Gulvin

  ‘Call it a contingency,’ Quarrie said.

  Squatting on his haunches he looked down at the old man and for a couple of seconds they stared at each other then Tobie’s eyes were closed.

  Quarrie heard De La Martin on the gantry then he filled the open doorway with his brows drawn in a frown. ‘I’ll call an ambulance.’ Stepping around the fallen man he reached for the phone.

  ‘He don’t need an ambulance. Call the coroner,’ Quarrie said.

  *

  Nana remained in her bedroom while the crew took care of the body and the NOPD forensics team went through the hall. When they were gone she came into the living room and perched on the couch. She had her hands folded in her lap, her gaze fixed on the thirty-eight on the coffee table wrapped in a polythene evidence bag.

  ‘So let me make sure I’ve got this right.’ De La Martin sat down opposite her and glanced to where Quarrie was standing at the balcony doors. ‘He had a key to the place you knew nothing about?’

  Nana nodded. ‘He signed the apartment over to me back in the twenties. I didn’t know he still had a key and I never had the locks changed. There was no need. I was asleep in bed when I woke to the sound of someone at the front door.’ She pointed to the gun. ‘This is New Orleans and I keep that piece by my bed.’ Her gaze drifted to Quarrie. ‘I called out but he didn’t answer. He should’ve answered. He should’ve said something. I didn’t know who he was.’ Her emotions seemed to get the better of her then and her shoulders were shaking again.

  ‘Are you all right, Nana?’ Quarrie said.

  ‘I’m OK I guess. I could use a drink though, there’s a pitcher of julep in the fridge.’

  Quarrie went through to the kitchen while De La Martin asked her to go over it again. Fetching the pitcher together with three tumblers, Quarrie poured them each a glass.

  ‘Quit asking the same damn questions, D-Lay. It was self-defense,’ he said.

  The detective regarded him briefly then turned to the old woman again. ‘He gave you no warning at all?’

  Quarrie’s gaze was cold. ‘She told you already. Give her a break. She’s eighty years old.’

  Reaching for a glass De La Martin sipped. ‘All right, mam, I think we’re done with the questions for now. If you didn’t know he had a key then technically I guess it was breaking and entering. I’ll be telling the district attorney you believed your life was in danger and I’ll need a written statement, of course. That can wait, though.’ He indicated the polythene evidence bag. ‘We’re going to hold onto that gun for a day or two but we’ll get it back to you once this all checks out.’ Swallowing another mouthful of whiskey he got to his feet. ‘Is there someone you want me to call? A thing like this, I’m not sure you should be on your own.’

  ‘I’ll stay with her,’ Quarrie said.

  On the landing outside De La Martin rested a palm on the filigree rail. Briefly he peered across the courtyard to the street outside where a couple of prowl cars were parked.

  ‘You knew about this,’ he said.

  Quarrie took a cigarette from his pack and tapped the inscribed end against the base of his thumb.

  ‘Back on Camp Street you knew he was headed up here.’ De La Martin turned to him. ‘Was this planned? Did she know he was coming ahead of time?’

  Quarrie did not say anything.

  ‘You’re a cop, John Q.’

  ‘Not down here I ain’t.’ Quarrie held his eye. ‘Nana was in bed. She woke to a sound in her hallway. When she called out he didn’t reply.’

  For a moment longer they looked at each other then De La Martin let go a sigh. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘There’s nobody to tell us any different I guess, so I’ll be back tomorrow for a statement. Will you still be here or are you going to go get on a plane?’

  ‘Depends how she is.’

  The detective nodded. ‘You know what this means, of course, don’t you?’

  ‘Sure, there’s no witness to what happened on Camp Street.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Again De La Martin looked him in the eye. ‘It’s what I’ll be telling the district attorney when I talk to him and I’m pretty sure I know what his position’s going to be. That just leaves what happened in Houston to deal with and you’ll be in the clear.’

  ‘Franklin’s still out there,’ Quarrie said. ‘I need to take care of him.’

  He watched the detective make his way down the stairs then went back inside the apartment. He stared at where the blood had dried on the floor and then at Nana where she hovered at the living room door. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

  Nana stared into space. ‘I told you, a man like him is above the law. It was that or nothing at all.’

  They went through to the living room and Quarrie poured another glass of whiskey and passed it to her. Sitting on the couch she held the drink in both hands. Quarrie took a seat in the chair De La Martin had vacated and flicked ash from his cigarette.

  ‘There’s no need for you to stay, John Q,’ Nana said. ‘I’ll be OK on my own. There’s a shuttle to Dallas you can catch.’

  ‘I think I should stick around.’

  ‘I’m fine, really. If the truth be known after all these years I’m better than I’ve ever been.’

  He looked at her askance. ‘I’ve heard it said some folks are shaped by the enemies they face. I guess that old man’s been bugging you for quite a while.’

  ‘It’s forty years since Gigi was born and that’s half my life.’ She sipped a little whiskey and cupped the glass. ‘John Q,’ she said. ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to say to you. I . . .’

  ‘Nana, there’s no need.’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s not about that. It’s about those word games you told me your son was doing in school.’

  Quarrie furrowed his brow.

  ‘It got me thinking and it got me doodling too.’ Picking up her glass again she took another sip. ‘I told you how it was never Ross with him, it was always his full name?’

  Quarrie nodded.

  ‘Well, if you rearrange the letters in Rosslyn F Tobie, what is it you figure you find?’

  ‘I don’t know. I got no idea.’

  ‘Sons of Liberty. I looked that up and it seems they were a group of copperheads back when Lincoln was trying to get the 13th amendment through. I never knew anything about it, not till I went to the library. Does it mean anything to you?’

  ‘In point of fact, mam, it does.’

  ‘All right then, I’ll leave it with you. Now,’ she said, getting to her feet, ‘I’ve got a lot to think about and I want to be doing that on my own.’

  ‘If you’re sure.’ Quarrie picked up his hat.

  ‘I am. You can do one thing for me, though; when you get back to Texas tell my daughter it’s safe to come home.’

  Thirty-six

  Two days later Quarrie was in his captain’s office in Amarillo. Patterson was seated across the desk from Van Hanigan with his legs crossed at the knee. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘for all of how this began and what I told you about old-school Rangering it turned out all right in the end.’ He looked at Quarrie with a glint in his eye. ‘The DA down there in New Orleans has accepted your statement and you’re off the hook as far as the hotel room in Houston is concerned. We know that rifle belonged to Lieutenant Colback, though the serial number had been filed off. According to De La Martin the one on his wall in New Orleans was bought from a pawn shop in Baton Rouge.’

  ‘He tossed it to me,’ Quarrie said, ‘fetched it from his study, same model as the one Wiley stole. Does Ali know yet, by the way?’

  Patterson shook his head. ‘No, he doesn’t, and if I have my way that’s how it’s going to remain. He’s a big enough pain in the ass as it is right now without us adding any more fuel.’

  ‘What about Franklin? He’s Tobie’s illegitimate son and Gigi’s half-brother. If you don’t find him, I will.’

  ‘We’ll take care of it,’ Patterson said. ‘We have the resources. It’s just a matte
r of time.’

  Quarrie was quiet for a moment then he said, ‘There’s another thing you need to think on too. Somewhere out there is a cop who called the NCIC for Anderson’s ID.’

  Patterson looked puzzled. ‘I thought you’d already gotten to the bottom of that.’

  ‘You mean from the coroner’s office? No, I’m talking about later on. The fact is any regular cop would have to send a teletype and there’s no record of one other than what Moore and De La Martin sent so it might be you look closer to home.’

  ‘One of ours you mean – an FBI agent? Now there’s a pleasant thought.’ Patterson got to his feet. ‘OK, I’ll deal with it. I’m headed back to Dallas now.’

  *

  Home at the ranch a little later Quarrie found Pious in the workshop working underneath an old feed truck that had a habit of leaking oil.

  ‘So that old lady wasn’t kidding then,’ Pious said as he wiped his hands on a rag. ‘About how she could handle herself if anyone tried to break in.’

  ‘No, she wasn’t and I guess somebody did.’ Quarrie saw Gigi come out of the Noons’ cottage with Eunice and Mama Sox. She was carrying the bag she had brought from New Orleans and walked to where her station wagon was gassed up and ready to go.

  ‘So y’all can’t persuade her to stay?’

  ‘Not right now.’ Pious followed his gaze. ‘She’s been through a whole hell of a lot and she and Nana got some talking to do.’

  They crossed the yard and Quarrie said his goodbyes. Eunice and Mama went over to the bunkhouse leaving Pious with Gigi for a moment and Quarrie sat down on his stoop with James. One arm around the boy’s shoulders, he saw Pious take Gigi’s hand briefly before she got into the car.

  ‘So she’s taking off,’ James said. ‘That’s a shame, Dad. I like her a lot.’

  ‘Don’t worry, kiddo: by the look of things over there I got a feeling we’ll be seeing her soon.’

  They watched as Gigi rolled the window down then backed up and waved before she took off. Quarrie glanced at Pious where he stood watching the dust rise with his hands in his pockets. Then he turned away. Lifting his son to his feet, Quarrie nodded to the large corral where a young horse was chewing at a pile of hay. ‘All right, bud,’ he said. ‘That colt yonder Nolo picked out, it’s time we got a saddle on him.’

  *

  On his way back to Dallas Special Agent Patterson pulled off the highway into the parking lot at Hank Miller’s Diner where a car hop brought him coffee and a jelly donut. He ate the donut, dusting sugar from his fingers as another car turned in. It was driven by a young, blond-haired man with the window rolled down. He parked in the adjacent bay and for a moment Patterson looked at him then at the back seat where the walking cane lay.

  ‘A word from the wise,’ he said. ‘A business is only as good as its weakest link and I’d appreciate it if I wasn’t put in the position of having to make the kind of phone call you asked for again.’

  Franklin did not say anything. Waiting till the car hop had come and gone with his order he reached in the glove box and brought out an envelope stuffed with cash. Patterson thumbed through the bills then stowed the envelope in his jacket pocket and looked through the windshield again. ‘So the king is dead,’ he said. ‘Do we cry long live the king?’

  Franklin did not smile. ‘The Tobie name no longer exists. The foundation is closed and all donations have been transferred.’ He looked sideways at Patterson then. ‘As of now I’m working out of Columbus, Ohio, under the Cutler name.’

  ‘So all goes on as before?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What about the old man’s death?’

  ‘As it’s been reported in the newspapers. She wasn’t his mistress but an old colored woman who takes care of that apartment on Orleans Street. A little confused at eighty years old she mistook him for an intruder; unfortunate, but that’s how it is.’

  ‘And the future of the business, contracts, confidence, what about that?’

  ‘All contracts remain in place.’ Franklin glanced over the seat. ‘I’m in charge now and your role will continue unless you figure you’re through.’

  With a smile Patterson stared at the empty highway beyond the parking lot. ‘It never entered my head. In fact I have a couple of fresh subjects you might be interested in. One’s working as a stable boy at Santa Anita race track in California right now. His name is Sirhan-Sirhan, he’s anxious and irritable. I think you could make something of him.’

  ‘And the other one?’ Franklin said.

  ‘Three-time loser who just broke out of the Missouri State Pen.’ Twisting the ignition key Patterson started the engine. ‘He’s in Mexico. I’ll let you know when he crosses the border. His name is James Earl Ray.’

  Author’s Note

  In 1864 the United States government tried and convicted several ‘Peace Democrats’ from Ohio, Missouri and Illinois. Supporters of the south during the civil war, the men were members of an outlawed group called ‘The Order of the Sons of Liberty’ and were sentenced to hang before Abraham Lincoln commuted the sentences and banished them to the Confederacy.

  One hundred years later on November 22 1963, a group of ‘hobos’ were taken off a freight train close to the spot where the assassination of President Kennedy took place. Marched under police guard to the Dallas County sheriff’s office, no mug shots were taken and no fingerprints. No statements were recorded and no detective from the Dallas Police Department’s Homicide Division interviewed any of them.

  In January 1967 after claiming he was the victim of a ‘conspiracy’ Jack Ruby was due to be retried for shooting Lee Harvey Oswald, at the courthouse in Wichita Falls, Texas. He never made it to trial because he died in hospital a month before from cancer he swore the doctors had given him deliberately.

  On February 2 1967 New Orleans pilot David Ferrie died of a brain aneurism in his grubby apartment on Louisiana Avenue Parkway. Already under investigation over the assassination of President Kennedy, Ferrie had twice been moved to a safe house as he claimed to be in fear for his life. The coroner’s verdict was natural causes, but when District Attorney Garrison visited Ferrie’s apartment he found an empty bottle of a drug called Proloid. On investigating further he discovered that an overdose of that drug would have caused the aneurism.

  On April 4 1968 civil rights leader Martin Luther King was shot dead by ‘lone gunman’ James Earl Ray as he stepped outside his motel room in Memphis, Tennessee.

  On June 5 of the same year presidential candidate Robert F Kennedy was shot and killed in a Los Angeles hotel kitchen by a disaffected Palestinian named Sirhan-Sirhan who used to work as a stable boy at the Santa Anita race track in California.

  In February 1969 New Orleans businessman Clay Shaw was tried for conspiracy over the murder of President Kennedy. The proceedings took place in a Texas courtroom, with New Orleans District Attorney Garrison prosecuting. Less than one hour after the closing arguments had been heard Shaw was acquitted by the jury.

  Acknowledgements

  Special thanks to:

  My editor, Angus Cargill, whose insight and assistance helped shape and enhance this narrative;

  Lauren Nicoll, my publicist, who has been

  absolutely brilliant;

  Sam Matthews, for all her help and assistance;

  My great friend Charley Boorman, for all his

  support and encouragement.

  Also by JM Gulvin

  The Long Count

  A John Q thriller

  Can he uncover the truth before time runs out?

  In the late 1960s, with America at war in Vietnam, John Q is an old-school Texas Ranger – a gun on each hip and quick on the draw. Called to the apparent suicide of a fellow war veteran, John Q suspects all is not as it seems, and very soon faces a desperate race across state as he starts to uncover just how dark some secrets can be . . .

  ‘Sets the pulse a-racing . . . Highly recommended.’ Raven Crime Reads

  ‘Will appeal to all those
who enjoyed . . . True Detective. John Q is an excellent and empathetic detective.’ Trip Fiction

  ‘I loved this book: it has such a subtle sense of place, the clear writing pulls you in right from the start, and its ingenious plot line is both shocking and inevitable.’ Ann Cleeves on The Long Count, the first John Q thriller

  About the Author

  Born in the UK, JM Gulvin divides his time between Wales and the western United States. He is the author of many previous novels, as well as Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman’s bestselling travel book Long Way Down. He is married and has two daughters.

  By the Same Author

  The Long Count

  Copyright

  First published in 2017

  by Faber & Faber Ltd

  Bloomsbury House

  74–77 Great Russell Street

  London WC1B 3DA

  This ebook edition first published in 2017

  All rights reserved

  © JM Gulvin, 2017

  Cover design by Faber

  Cover photograph: © ES IMAGERY/Arcangel; retouching by Tin Moon

  The right of JM Gulvin to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly