Quarry's deal q-3

by Max Allan Collins

  “Did you sic some boys on me?”

  “I don’t even know who the hell you are.”

  “You know me. You don’t know my name, but you know me.”

  “I don’t sic anybody on you, no.”

  “Somebody did. I got jumped by a couple of guys tonight, and if they are yours, just tell me, and I’ll leave town right now. I don’t believe in hanging around where I’m unpopular.”

  “Whoever jumped you, they weren’t mine.”

  “I hope not. There’s something you better understand. I’m no danger to you. I’m no threat. I’m maybe your salvation.”

  “You got a funny way of showing it.” He was referring to the nine-millimeter, the nose of which was still up against his Adam’s apple.

  “I’m just being cautious,” I said, easing the gun off, but only a hair. “It’s what keeps me alive. You could profit by my example. See, somebody’s got you set up for the hit. Now. If you want my help, fine. I can try and get between you and the people trying to kill you. I may even be able to find out who hired the job done. But, on the other hand. If you think I’m insane, or a blackmailer, or some kind of con man, or if you simply prefer to handle the situation yourself, or God forbid go to the cops with it, well that’s fine, too. You’ll get blown away, but that’s no skin off my ass. So. Say the word and I’m on my way. It’s up to you.”

  “What’s in it for you… helping me, I mean.”

  “Money.”

  “How much?”

  “What’s your life worth to you? It’ll be cheap at half the price.”

  The bed was finally settling down, making a lap lap sound, like waves rolling into shore.

  “If someone wants me dead,” he said, quietly, “I can use all the help I can get.”

  “That’s good sound thinking. Especially since I’m the only help you can get.”

  “You’re right about the police, anyway. With my past, and the laws I’m bending right now, I can’t go inviting that kind of trouble. What about my lawyer?”

  “Talk to nobody. Your lawyer could’ve hired it done.”

  “He’s the best friend I have in the world!”

  “Murders happen because of family and friends. Crime of passion and premeditated alike. Oh, a stranger’ll kill you for money, or out of being crazy, or both. But a stranger doesn’t hire you dead. Someone you know does.”

  “Jesus. Where do we go from here?”

  “We talk again. With the lights on. What’s your schedule the next couple days?”

  “Tomorrow, I mean today, Sunday, we’re open noon to midnight. Monday we’re closed. I always drive to Iowa City on Mondays. To visit my son. He’s in the hospital there.”

  “You go alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “What time Monday do you leave?”

  “Around ten. I get there about noon.”

  “There’s a Holiday Inn at the Interstate turn-off at the Amanas. Stop for lunch.”

  “All right. Anything I should do between now and then?”

  “Do you carry a gun?”

  “No, but I have one. A. 38.”

  “You can use it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Carry it. And put a nightlatch on your door.”

  “Done. Anything else?”

  “You might try sleeping on the floor. Somebody shoots at you in bed, even if they missed, you could drown. Good night.”

  17

  “Did you get up in the middle of the night and go out?” she asked, at breakfast. “Or was I dreaming?”

  Even in the morning she looked good. She’d got up before me and washed her hair, and was wearing a towel around her head like a turban. Her face was clean and unblemished and free of make-up, though still dark with Florida tan, and she looked young, or anyway as young as those eyes of would allow.

  She was wearing a housewifely patchwork robe that made her look less than glamorous, but there was no way known to make her look bad. She looked good.

  I was in my underwear. My hair was greasy, my teeth unbrushed, my face unshaven. I was barely awake. I looked down at the plate of scrambled eggs. I looked back up and managed to say, “You weren’t dreaming. I did get up. I went out and drove around a couple hours.”

  “What possessed you to do that?”

  “It’s something I do sometimes. Just go out and drive. Helps me think.”

  “About what?”

  “In this case, about getting mugged by those guys last night. Wondering if there’s anything I can do about it. Any way to find them and get my money back and pay them back a little, too. I suppose I could go to the cops about it…”

  “Why bother? That six hundred bucks of yours is long gone by now, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose you’re right. I guess my ego was just a little bruised, that’s all.”

  “Are you serious about asking Frank Tree for work?”

  “I am if you’re serious about putting in a good word for me.”

  “Sure.”

  And so I asked her. I couldn’t see any reason why not. And I didn’t know anybody better to ask. So I did. I asked her, “What do you know about this guy Tree, anyway?”

  She gave me a confused little smile for a moment, while she searched my face wondering what I was up to, no doubt.

  “I don’t know a hell of a lot,” she said.

  “Whatever it is, it’s more than me.”

  “Well, the Barn is a relatively new thing, I know that much. It hasn’t been too long since the law passed in Iowa that makes it even possible for a place like the Barn to openly exist.”

  “Must be a pretty liberal law. Or is Tree just greasing the right wheels?”

  “Little of both, I’d say. The law makes gambling legal in situations where there’s a ‘social relationship.’ Such as a private club, or any place where the gathering is social, whether it’s bingo in the church parlor or poker in the back room of a bar. Certain things are still illegal… blackjack, craps, roulette, and there’s a fifty-dollar win or loss limit, in a twenty-four hour period. But all of that can be gotten around. Obviously.”

  “Sounds like your employer knows how.”

  “He should. I hear he used to have a place in Illinois, on the Mississippi, in some little town that was really wide open. Across from Burlington, Iowa. Anyway, he had a place there, like the Barn, only rougher. No restaurant number, just a casino set-up, and booze, of course. Booze wasn’t legal in Iowa on Sundays, so Sunday was a big night for a place like that, people coming across the river to sin in Illinois.”

  “I wonder why he left.”

  “The laws got changed. Booze on Sundays is legal in Iowa now, and you know about the gambling law. So he moved back to Des Moines and opened the Barn.”

  “Back to Des Moines?”

  “Yeah, I understand he was involved in some things here in the late ’40s and early ’50s, but I don’t know what. That’s all I know about the man. It’s just stuff I picked up off my girl friend Ruthy, and the bitches at work. They’re all hot for his bod, you know.”

  “Really. Does he hump the help?”

  “Not this help, he doesn’t. Anyway, he’s too good a businessman to do that, I think.”

  “What’s your personal opinion of the guy? What kind of boss is he?”

  “Best way to describe him is he’s a man’s man. He can drink without getting drunk, tell you who won the 1952 World Series, play poker for six hours and get up and pee and sit down and play six more.”

  “That doesn’t say what kind of boss he is.”

  “Well, he’s a pleasant enough boss. Friendly, even. But businesslike, like I said. Fuck up and you’re fired.”

  “I see. Good poker player?”

  “Very. Oh, and he hates to see anybody lose, if you buy his act. Truth is, he’d take your last dime. Likes to win all the way, at whatever cost… to his opponents, I mean.”

  “You sound like a pretty good judge of character.”

  “I’m a bartender, aren�
�t I? Besides, how do you know I’m right? Maybe this is just a bunch of bullshit.”

  “Because I’m not a bad judge of character myself. Got any more of that Sanka?”

  “Sure.”

  She filled my cup and I said, “What time do you have to be at work?”

  “Not till six.”

  “What time is it now, eleven? Want to take in a movie this afternoon or something?”

  “I got a better idea,” she said, sitting down, sipping her own cup. “There’s a good dinner theater here that has Sunday matinees and a great buffet lunch. Want to give it a try?”

  “Wouldn’t happen to be that place over on University, would it?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one.”

  That was the place where Frank Tree had met with that busty little blond girl friend of his, the other night.

  “Why not?” I said. “I can appreciate good acting.”

  18

  The Candle Lite Playhouse was a modern brick two- story that looked somewhat cold and even austere from without, but within was decorated in warm golds and greens. The plush floral carpet, subdued lighting, piped-in muzak and cozy tables conspired to make the large room seem intimate. We were seated at the edge of the balcony, at a table barely big enough to hold its glass-enclosed candle (as yet unlit, by the way), and sipped a drink before going down to the stage, where the food was being served, the set and its props having been scooted back to accommodate a generous buffet. It looked a little odd, people parading up the few steps onto the stage, going through the cafeteria line collecting their food, then exiting nervously, awkwardly, balancing the several filled plates, coming off the stage like bit players who had wandered into the wrong scene. The stage, Lucille explained, had been the altar of the place when it had been a church.

  “Church?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Some crazy evangelist type thing. They had a young guy who thought he was the Second Coming or something. Or at least the second Billy Graham. He had a big following here, even had his own radio show, but he got an offer to do the same thing for more money someplace in Texas, I think, and once he was gone everything just sort of fizzled, church went bankrupt. Some local people got together and bought and remodeled the place into this.”

  “Either way it’s show business,” I said. “For somebody new in town, you sure know all the local gossip.”

  “Ruthy just talks a lot, that’s all.”

  “Ruthy?”

  “I’ve mentioned her before, haven’t I? She’s the friend who got that apartment lined up for me, before I even got here. She’s also the one who got us this good a seat at such short notice. She works here.”

  “Am I ever going to meet her?”

  “You’ll see her a little later.”

  I decided not to pursue that. The way I was playing this allowed me to ask a lot of questions; in fact, pretending ignorance, as I was, required that I ask a lot of questions. But it would be wrong to press, so I waited till our drinks were finished, then rose, pulled out her chair and walked her down a softly carpeted, gently winding stairway to the main floor, where we joined the food line, climbed onto the stage, and came back to our balcony table with our food, which we ate.

  As buffets go, it wasn’t bad. The salad bar was unimaginative, just a couple kinds of jello with stuff floating in it, and coleslaw and lettuce salad, apply your own dressing. But the roast beef was rare and tender, and several kinds of potatoes and vegetables and other side dishes made it a very pleasant Sunday dinner.

  The company was pleasant, too. She was wearing a dark brown pants suit, perhaps the same one I’d seen her in as she was leaving the Beach Shore, in the middle of the night, not so long ago. If it was, I remember it’d seemed mannish to me, at the time. Perhaps that was because I didn’t know the jacket came off to reveal a yellow-and-tan-striped halter top that caressed her large breasts, cradled them like a child sleeping in a hammock.

  Somebody came around and lit our candle. It threw shadows on her face, making her features seem even more exotic than usual. She wasn’t wearing any make-up on her eyes. She didn’t have to.

  I was taking a perverse enjoyment in the verbal games we were playing, neither of us aware of what the stakes were, exactly, but both aware we were playing something, maybe nothing more than the sex game, or anyway that was the conclusion I hoped she’d come to, and maybe she had, if I was succeeding at convincing her I really was just a guy who used to sell brassieres.

  I knew one thing. I knew I had to be something of a pain in the ass to her, since she was obviously playing the back-up role here, surveilling Tree till her partner (who I assumed was the guy who’d worked me over with the lamp) got ready to make the hit. I was in her way, making it impossible for her to properly keep an eye on Tree, to get his movements, his pattern down; but my presence here was suspicious enough to make it necessary for her to keep track of me, at least until she was sure of who the hell I was or wasn’t. Otherwise she’d have to forget the Tree contract entirely; she was a pro, and couldn’t operate any other way. She’d beg off the job, tell her middle man to tell their client to get somebody else because this one just didn’t smell right to her.

  The thing that bothered me was, was she getting to me? And something else bothered me even more: I was starting to entertain the probably stupid notion that I might be getting to her.

  Not to mention this nagging feeling I had that one of us was behaving like an idiot, and I was afraid I knew which one of us it was.

  Unless it was both of us…

  We had another drink, and I decided to move another chess piece.

  “There’s something I’m having trouble with,” I said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Your name. Lucille. It’s a nice name. I like it. But I’m having a little trouble using it. It’s, I don’t know, too formal or something. And you don’t look like a Lucy to me. Do people call you Lucy?”

  “My folks did. I always hated it.”

  “So what do people call you?”

  “Do I have a nickname, you mean? Well. I knew a man who called me Ivy. He seemed to like that name for me.”

  Ivy. The Broker’s name for her. I make a tentative little move, just nudge a pawn out for a look around, and she comes down on me with her fucking queen.

  “Ivy,” I said. “I don’t think it fits you.”

  “My friends in high school called me Lu. Nobody’s called me that in years though.”

  “Lu.” I lifted my gimlet. “Here’s to you. Lu.”

  “Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to have so many drinks so early in the day? I’m a bartender. I know.”

  “Are you going to accept the damn toast, or not?”

  “All right.” She clinked her glass against mine. “Here’s to Lu.”

  The house lights dimmed. We looked down and the stage had been cleared, the set put back in place, and the play was beginning.

  And that was when I found out who her friend Ruthy was.

  She was the lead. Playing the Judy Holliday role in Born Yesterday, which they were doing in ’40s dress and trappings, since that’s when the play first came out, and because people like nostalgia, I guess. She was no Judy Holliday, but she was blond, and well-built, and not a bad little actress, for Des Moines.

  She was also Frank Tree’s girl friend.

  But then was that so surprising?

  After all, Tree himself was sitting at a ringside table. I saw him there when the house lights went up for intermission.

  The bitch had brought me along on her goddamn stakeout.

  19

  Sunday evening was interesting.

  I won a hundred some bucks playing draw poker, but that in itself wasn’t particularly interesting. What was was the dealer, the kid with the worried expression and closed mouth and glasses, the one who played stupid every time I sat down at his table, which was every night I’d been there.

  So winning a few bucks from him was nothing special. In fact I usually won a
little bigger.

  But it was unusual to see him wearing make-up.

  I don’t mean to imply he was queer or anything (though you never know). I don’t mean he was wearing lipstick or mascara or rouge. It was makeup, flesh-colored stuff, the theatrical-type liquid some women use in place of powder these days. He’d applied it along one cheek, across the cheekbone and down a ways. That side of his face was a little fucked up, a little puffy. The make-up did a fair job of disguising it, and the somewhat dim lighting in the room helped, too. But his face was fucked up, no question, like maybe he’d been in a fight.

  Like maybe somebody had given him an elbow in the face.

  He didn’t say much that night. He didn’t say much any night. He let his cards speak for him, and they didn’t say much either, except that he was lousy.

  I listened to what little he did say, though. You can’t play poker and not let out a few words, now and then, especially sitting in the dealer’s chair. So I listened and tried to match the voice with the voice behind the light that had shined in my eyes last night.

  At one point one of the other players commented casually on the bandages on my face. I still had five of them, covering little cuts I’d got from where the lamp caught me. I gave a small speech about how people who use electric razors shouldn’t switch all of a sudden to a straight razor unless they don’t mind looking like chopped meat for a couple days: The various players laughed politely at that. Everybody but the dealer. He just shuffled his cards and said to the man at his left, “Cut them.”

  It was the same voice, all right.

  I made a mental appointment with him, and returned to my cards.

  The other interesting thing that happened Sunday night was Lu (as I was beginning to feel comfortable calling her) had invited me to move in with her.

  “Why keep paying for that bed at the Holiday Inn?” she said. “You haven’t been using it.”

  “Your apartment’s pretty small. We’re going to be tripping over each other.”

  “That sounds kind of nice.”

  It did at that.

  So I moved in with her, wondering how she was going to manage to watch Tree with me around, knowing that if anyone could find a way it was Lu.