I couldn’t break it to her that I already had a date with a teenage girl.
Lingering in the lot, I watched her drive off in that Batmobile of a Firebird, thinking what an incredible woman she was, when I noticed a familiar vehicle pull in across the way, at the Rest Haven Court.
Funny, I thought, you wouldn’t think there were that many shit-brown Bonnevilles around....
And there weren’t, because as I watched, that Bonneville slowed near Cabin 12, hesitated at the sight of the vacant space outside it, then pulled into it.
Climbing out of the Pontiac was an unmistakable chunky redheaded guy in a gray quilted ski jacket and jeans—not that many of those around, either.
Looking around with confusion and caution, he walked to the cabin door. He knocked. He pounded. Then stood there with hands on hips, looking exasperated, glancing side to side and then behind him, finally climbing back into the Bonneville and pulling out of the Rest Haven lot.
If he had turned left and headed for Highway 218, I’d have jumped in the Pinto and taken off after him. Right then and there.
But he didn’t.
He was heading into town, presumably to find his partner. After all, other than maybe a restaurant or two—and we were well past the lunch hour—Farrell could only be one place, really.
Staking out Roger Vale’s dance studio.
Why had Mateski returned?
Obviously he had tried to check in with his active half by phone, maybe even at a designated time, and Farrell (being dead) didn’t answer. Maybe Mateski had then checked in with their middleman and been told to go back to Stockwell and see what the fuck was up. More likely Mateski hadn’t taken that step yet, not wanting to send up a red flag to a middleman who might accuse the team of screwing up.
And now the antiques dealer had found no sign of his partner at the motel, which could mean only one of two things: Farrell was carrying out the hit, right this minute...or something had gone very wrong.
The former might seem improbable to Mateski, since this was daylight, and a nighttime scaling of the dance instructor’s fortress made more sense. Of course, this was a torture kill, and who knew how long Farrell might take with that task. Or where he might carry out his gruesome mission....
Which meant Mateski might have a secondary location to check out, some safe house (so to speak) where Farrell was even now snipping off dance-instructor toes or testicles or whathave-you. Maybe Farrell hadn’t checked in by phone with Mateski because he was having so much darn fun, he lost track of time.
Bottom line was: Farrell had not fucking checked in with Mateski, or been available for a designated call, which put the kill unexpectedly behind schedule. And the team had presumably agreed that Mateski would return in such an event, to provide whatever back-up might be needed.
A thousand questions would be racing through Mateski’s mind—what could have gone wrong? If Farrell was still staking out the target, why the hell was he? Had Mateski overlooked something? Had the target gotten the better of Farrell somehow, and was the wrong man getting a gonad-ectomy?
I had a thousand questions racing through my mind, too. Some of them I’ve already shared, but the major one was whether to climb in the Pinto and follow Mateski, right now.
After perhaps half a minute of mulling that there in the chilly parking lot, I decided not to. I knew very damn well that Mateski would not find Farrell staking out Vale, or in a torturer’s hideaway, either. The only place Ronald Mateski might find Reed Farrell was in the morgue at the county hospital, where he was not likely to look.
Which meant once Mateski had figured out that Farrell was nowhere he should be—not the motel or the dance studio or the safe house (if there even was one)—he would head home. Back to Highway 218. Past the Holiday Inn.
Right by me.
I went up to my room and got out of the blazer but left on the same jeans. Changed from the white shirt and tie into a sweatshirt. I put the hunting knife on my belt and climbed into the fleece-lined jacket, then tucked the noise suppressor in my left pocket and the nine mil in the right. Much as I dislike knives, the switchblade might come in handy, so I stuck that in my right jeans pocket.
In the parking lot, I backed the Pinto around to where I had the closest space to the exit, with the nose facing out. And I sat and I watched. Fifteen minutes passed and they couldn’t have seemed longer at an art movie with no nude scenes.
Finally, the brown Bonneville rolled into my line of vision and into the Rest Haven lot, as well. He pulled up in front of the manager’s cabin, and I frowned. That was interesting...and risky, if he was going to do what I thought he might.
And he did: he headed up the sidewalk to the manager’s cabin.
This seemed potentially a bad fucking move. Mateski had checked in—and Farrell had checked out—almost certainly under the same name. If whoever was at the desk in there recognized Mateski, a lot of dangerous questions might get asked, and not just by the management of the Rest Haven Court.
Two guests sharing one room and one name, with one of those guests dying in his sleep (maybe), got even the laziest small-town cop thinking.
But then I noticed that the redhead was pausing to bend and look through the door glass to see who was at the desk.
Okay, I thought, you’re making sure it’s not the same clerk who checked you in. If it isn’t, if it’s someone you never dealt with here at the Rest Haven, you’re good to go...
He went. Into the manager’s cabin, that is.
I got out of the car, and picked my way through traffic until I was across the street. I trotted down and up the ditch and onto the Rest Haven’s overgrown dead lawn. In front of God and everybody, I went to the side window and carefully peeked in, exposing as little of myself to view from within as possible.
Mateski, showing no sign of anything being wrong, was talking to a plain-looking dishwater blonde with glasses, skinny in a University of Missouri sweatshirt and jeans. It was just that classy a joint. Not wanting to be seen by Mateski, I was at a slant that gave me the clerk from the front, angled right, with the antiques dealer’s back largely to me.
Lip-reading gave me her side of the conversation:
I’m terribly sorry to have to give you this bad news, sir, but your friend in number twelve passed away in his sleep Sunday night.
Now Mateski, after a pause to process that, spoke. Too muffled for me to pick anything out, and not enough of the side of his face for me to read his lips.
Then (she was a chatty thing, and this isn’t exact): I wasn’t on duty, but I understand it was a heart attack. I’m afraid that’s all I know. Must be just terrible to show up for a meeting with somebody, and to get news like this. I’m so sorry. Would you like me to dial the police, so you can talk to them about it?
Apparently he didn’t, because he just nodded thanks, and went back out the door. By the time he’d exited, I’d tucked myself behind the cabin, and from there I saw his Bonneville roll out of the Rest Haven lot, taking a left.
Toward Highway 218.
Again, I ran down into and up out of the ditch, then across the street, dancing around traffic, got into the Pinto, and took off after him.
By the time I picked him up, two cars were already between us, so that was good. I was concerned that after I’d followed him out of town Sunday night, he might have noticed the Pinto. I probably should have picked something less conspicuous— shitty clunker cars, in their way, can be as noticeable as luxury rides and sportier vehicles.
As expected, he turned north on 218. Presumably he was heading home, to Woodstock. He was not speeding, more like slowpoking it, and I had to work to keep at least one car between us. He was probably distracted, trying to figure out what the fuck was going on. I got more than my share of dirty looks and an occasional middle finger from drivers stuck behind me till they could pass and do me the favor of getting between me and the Bonneville.
The afternoon was overcast, more like dusk than midafternoon, and the sky wa
s grumbling, as if it were as annoyed as I was, having to follow this cocksucker again. Right now my chief worry was not being made—I even had close to a full tank of gas.
But if he was going all the way back to Woodstock, I would have to fill up at some point. Doing so at the same time, and same place, as Mateski was risky as hell. And stopping at some station while letting him go on ahead without me was riskier still.
After all, I couldn’t be certain he was heading back to Woodstock. All I knew for sure was that he was driving north on 218. If I stopped for fuel, I could lose him. Like if he took a detour to meet with his middleman.
Also, he might stop and use a pay phone, either at a gas station or some booth somewhere, to call that middleman and tell him that the hit had gone sour. I didn’t want that redheaded bastard to make a phone call like that. The complications that might cause me meant I would probably have to scrap the job.
I did not turn on the car radio this time. I was in no mood for oldies, and the New Wave that was the only current music I could tolerate was too fucking frantic. I needed to stay focused. My brain was alive with possibilities, and I don’t mean positive ones.
What did Mateski showing up mean?
Not in the literal sense of why exactly was he here and the mechanics of that, no. Whatever had brought him back to Stockwell, he had come back to fucking Stockwell. This much I knew. And Farrell was dead—that much he knew. Before long, he would tell the middleman, and the middleman would report to Clarence Stockwell or whoever-the-fuck had taken out the torture contract.
Should I be doing what Mateski was — heading home?
I could pack my clothes and my toiletries and my weapons and just check out of the Holiday Inn, possibly but not necessarily giving Vale a courtesy call saying I had to bail. Good luck, Mr. Roger. Happy beauty pageants.
Might even have time to stop and say goodbye to Jenny. I had a feeling she could throw a guy a hell of a goodbye.
But, goddamnit, I had invested time and money in this job, including removing that prick Farrell. I don’t kill people for my amusement or to stay in practice—it’s got to pay off, or what’s the fucking point?
Since I’d begun plumbing the Broker’s list for potential clients among targets, I never had to pull the plug. Not once. I’d always managed to come through for my client, no matter how dicey things got. There’s such a thing as professional pride.
We crossed into Iowa, and around four-thirty, Mateski did something I never expected, although really I should have. Even a boring asshole can surprise you now and then.
Outside Iowa City, he pulled into a small parking lot by a low-slung building, a modern prefab number, with HAWKEYE ANTIQUES painted on its slanting roof in bright red letters. Only one other car was in the parking lot, a new-looking Chevy pickup truck with Hawkeye Antiques painted on the door.
Mateski was already inside when I pulled in. It was almost dark, dusk and the overcast sky collaborating on an early evening. A single gas lamp on a pole did a shitty job of lighting the gravel lot, but then the sign on the door said HOURS — 10 A.M. TO 5 P.M., so Hawkeye Antiques didn’t have a nighttime business.
I pulled in next to the Bonneville.
When I went in, an overhead bell ringing, I couldn’t see Mateski. It was a typical antiques mall with stalls arranged in narrow aisles going horizontally. At my left, behind a long checkout counter with a glass case of pricier collectibles, was a youngish guy who looked half hippie, half farmer (long hair, John Deere cap). He wore a gray Hawkeye Antiques t-shirt and frayed jeans. Barely looking at me, he said, “Closing soon, still time to look.”
I nodded my thanks, and began down the first aisle, turning right. Coming back around the second aisle, I spotted Mateski, halfway down, looking over the top of his amber-tinted glasses to check out an ugly painting.
That was just like this son of a bitch. He knows his hit has gone south, he knows his partner is dead, he has to know he should tell his middleman or, if they worked direct with the client, warn whoever hired him.
But he was also an antiques dealer, and all antiques dealers are antiques junkies, and here he was with a great big Bonneville with a great big empty trunk and a passenger-less back seat, so what’s the harm, stopping to pick out a few treasures from the trash?
He apparently decided that this painting came too close to actually resembling something, so he put it back on its nail, and pressed on. I lagged behind. He didn’t seem to have noticed me. This time, though, I didn’t bother browsing. I would have, if any other patrons were in the shop. But we had the place to ourselves, Mateski and I, just two pros in the killing business and one hippie-farmer kid.
Halfway down the next aisle, Mateski found a small table that looked like it might fall apart under a teacup, and he held it up like a gem he was checking for flaws. But this primitive piece of shit apparently had no flaws whatsoever, because he clutched it to him like a beautiful woman, and all but ran to the end of the aisle and turned left. I could hear him telling the hippie-farmer to hold it for him.
When he resumed his shopping, I had tucked myself within a booth where some old books were on sale, with high, wide bookcases I could duck behind. I spotted a few Louis L’Amours, but I wasn’t buying today.
I peeked out from the stall and he was gone, but then I heard him in the next aisle over, fiddling with shit.
Was I being suckered by this prick?
Had he seen me following him? Had he led me here, to this almost deserted spot, to kill my idiot ass? The hippie-farmer would be collateral damage, but that would be acceptable to Mateski, considering the circumstances. Plus, he’d get his primitive crap free.
Was I the hunter, or the small-q quarry here?
In the next aisle he found a ghastly barn-wood painting of a farmhouse, and this, too, he carried to the front counter like an emerald from the tomb of King Tut. This process continued in each remaining aisle—two more paintings, one of a church (I think), another of a rooster (maybe), a rag doll suitable for voodoo pins, and an unpainted carved bird.
In the rear aisle, a door to a unisex bathroom stood open. We were both in that aisle—he was studying some ungainly looking wooden spoons—and I wondered if I could just grab him, chuck him into that john and kill his idiot ass.
Well, obviously I could. But what about that clerk? Like I said, collateral damage was not my deal—too sloppy. And anyway, what did that kid do to deserve to die, besides wear that John Deere cap?
So I stood in the aisle on the other side of which was the checkout counter. I listened while the clerk rang Mateski up— $292.67 for items worthy of a garbage dump—and waited for the sound of the bell over the door to announce Mateski’s exit.
The farmer-hippie kid did not glance at me—he was too busy checking out the afternoon’s proceeds in the till—as I stood at the door glass, watching Mateski, who was uncomfortably nearby, in the closest parking place. He stuck the furniture in the back seat—it took some juggling—then, carrying them by their wire hangers, carted the paintings behind the Bonneville, and opened the trunk.
As I went out, the clerk, without even a glance at me, said, “Thanks for looking, come again,” and I moved quickly around behind the Bonneville, in back of Mateski, the car’s trunk lid up. He sensed the movement but not quickly enough. I already had the switchblade in my right hand and I clicked it, blade jumping as I shoved him forward with my left, and when I cut his throat, the arterial blood sprayed forward, into the trunk, on the underside of the lid and into the trunk itself and on top of the small stack of paintings, adding more color to the faded primitive farmhouse on top.
I got almost none of it on me, just a little on my right hand.
Big though he was, stuffing him in that trunk was no problem, and the blood spray quickly stopped, because his heart wasn’t pumping anymore, so there was no risk of me getting spattered, though it was still messy enough that I had to be careful. My hand I wiped off on his trousers.
His car keys were in hi
s jacket pocket. I removed them, shut the trunk, unlocked the Bonneville’s driver-side door, slid behind the wheel, and drove slowly out of the lot. The clerk was just a few yards from all this, but inside, counting cash, his back to the window, and there’d been precious little noise. Even if he’d glanced out, all he’d have seen was the raised trunk lid of a customer storing away precious purchases.
I drove only a quarter mile or so before pulling into a dirt access lane to a farmer’s field. Corn looked high and ready for harvest. Good yield this year. I hadn’t worn surgical gloves, so I used my untucked sweatshirt to rub off the steering wheel and where I’d touched the trunk.
This far from Stockwell, hell this far from Missouri, the body with a slit throat in the trunk of a Bonneville would be a source of attention for local and state cops, but with no likelihood of coming back on me.
Yet whoever had hired Mateski and Farrell, whether directly or through a middleman, was still out there wanting my client dead. How long I had to keep that from happening, I had no idea. A ticking clock is bad enough. What if you don’t know what the fuck it’s counting down?
At least Mateski himself was out of my life now, not to mention his.
So I was pleased with how this went, even if I did still find killing with a knife nothing I wanted to make a habit out of.
These were my thoughts as I walked back briskly to the antiques shop. The clerk was still in the window, his back to me, counting cash. I got in the Pinto and made tracks.
I had a date at six o’clock.
Mustang Sally was taking me to a parent-teacher meeting.
NINE
The west side of Stockwell, sprawling with recent high-end housing developments, was home to the Horace J. Stockwell Senior High School. Built in 1976, it replaced the previous “new” Horace J. Stockwell Senior High built in 1948, now used for the Isaac R. Stockwell Junior High. What became of the previous Horace J. Stockwell Senior High never came up. Maybe there’d been several. Who could get enough of Horace J. Stockwell Senior Highs?
The Wrong Quarry Page 11