“I didn’t stumble into anything,” I said. “And neither did you.”
His mouth smiled around the pipe. “Is that right?”
“I was hired to do a job,” I said. “And when I work, there’s insulation. No direct contact with my employer. That’s designed not so much for my protection as for the one who hired me. Anyone on the hiring end, trying to lend support, is…misguided. Anyone on that end checking up on me is a damn nuisance. The wrong parties could get killed. Do I make myself clear?”
He drew in some of that foul smoke, then shared it with us. “You do, sir.”
“Delightful as her company is, I would like Becky here to vacate the apartment above where my partner and I are working. She can keep her job—jobs are tough to find—but she should stay with friends till she has somewhere else to live. And if I see either Sam or Dave, I will kill them and leave town. With the job unfinished.”
He nodded sagely. “Understood, sir. There was severe misjudgment on our end. Do forgive us.”
“Leave the forgiveness to Jesus. And the job to me.”
He nodded again, so low, it was almost a bow. Then he stood behind the desk—he was about my size—and extended a thick paw for me to shake. He was surrounded by the red of the Nazi flag.
I switched the nine mil to my left hand and stood and shook with him. His grip was cold and clammy but firm.
I said, “Come on, Becky. Let’s go get your friends out of hock.”
She and I were at the door when Starkweather said, “May I ask you one thing, Mr. Blake?”
“Okay.”
“In taking on this assignment, are you strictly, as they say, in it for the money? Or are you too a good Christian, who hates the niggers and kikes as much as we do?”
I gave him half a smile. “You left out the fags, Commander.”
“So I did! So I did.”
He was chuckling as I left.
I stuffed my nine millimeter in my waistband and slipped an arm around Becky’s shoulder and walked her out of the church and into the parking lot. Then I wiped off my hand where the madman had shook it and shuddered.
“Jesus Fucking Christ,” I said to myself.
“Please, not here,” she scolded.
“Amen,” I said.
And we got the hell out.
SEVEN
The next morning Boyd and I again got breakfast together, this time at a funky restaurant called Duff’s in an old house with mismatched furniture, bizarre paintings, a purple ceiling, and waitresses in headbands. We found a quiet corner and had scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, coffee and further discussion about whether to bail.
“If this racist goon is our employer,” I said, “he’s about as stable as a two-legged table, and a prime candidate for a straitjacket.”
“Ours not to reason why,” Boyd said, but the frown lines under that curly dark fright wig of his said he was troubled, too.
“Complete that thought and get back to me,” I said, chewing bacon. “If these morons figured that watching us, for whatever reason, was a good idea, it’s at the very least a breach of protocol.”
“But such good money,” he whined.
He didn’t know the half of it. Literally, since his ten grand was less than half of my twenty-five.
I said, “I’m calling the Broker.”
He shrugged, bit off a corner of toast slathered with organic marmalade, and admitted, “Probably a good idea.”
A couple of old-fashioned wooden phone booths were off the restaurant’s bar area, which was hours away from being open. I closed myself inside one, sent a dime down the slot and told the operator the number and that it was a collect call. I expected I’d have to camp out since surely I’d get a flunky, with the return call from the man himself taking up to half an hour to happen.
But the Broker actually answered.
I told him I was in a hippie joint, so unless the feds were tapping the phones to find dissidents or drug dealers, it should be cool to talk. Of course an avalanche of euphemisms followed anyway.
“The guy who hired the job had people watching us,” I said. “Whether to back us up should we need help or to double-cross us at the end, or just make sure we were earning our pay…I got no fucking idea.”
“A shameful breach. My apologies. I’ll talk to the party in question.”
“I already have.”
“What? You know this breaks the cardinal rule! Contact with the client is strictly out of bounds.”
“Not when two of his people jump me it’s not. They were gonna take me to the guy, under duress. I took care of them.”
Alarm colored his voice. “You took care of them…?”
“Just temporarily. Then I called on who sent them myself. Told him to call off his dogs.”
“…I hope that will be enough.”
“I don’t know, Broker. I’m uncomfortable. So is Boyd. The contract’s been broken. We should tell him as much, keep the down payment, and book it.”
“Now, Quarry, just because our client was, shall we say, over-enthusiastic…”
“Our client, shall we say, is a fucking racist whack-job. You assured me this wasn’t ‘overtly’ political, Broker, but I beg to disagree. This I didn’t sign on for. This time, I would frankly rather fucking take the client out than the mark.”
“Please restrain your use of language.”
He wasn’t objecting to “fucking,” rather that I hadn’t been euphemistic enough to suit him.
His baritone tried soothing me. “I believe you’ve made some false assumptions. However this may look, I assure you it is not a racial matter. Rather, as I said before, this pertains to certain unsavory matters.”
A racial killing might seem fairly unsavory to you, but that word was the Broker’s code for crime. He was in his arch way again assuring me that the target had placed himself in our crosshairs by way of his drug-dealing activities.
What the hell. Maybe the Commander of the Christian Nazi Dickwads was in business with certain black devils to fund his enterprises. Dumber shit has happened.
“If as a byproduct,” he was saying, “distasteful prejudices of our client or associates of our client are also served, so be it.”
How I would have liked to sit the Broker down across from Zachary Taylor Starkweather and let them pompous each other to death.
Tightly, I said, “Be that as it may, Broker—Boyd and I are uneasy.”
A pause. Then: “Go on about your business, Quarry, but also ascertain whether this…well-intentioned but ill-advised surveillance, apparently initiated by our client, has ceased. If it has, continue with the commission.”
Shit. Fuck. Hell.
“Okay,” I said, against my better judgment. Of course, turning my nose up at twenty-five grand was also against my better judgment.
His tone shifted into a mundane business mode. “How long until you can set the date?”
That meant, how long before I could say what day the hit would go down. He wasn’t referring to me marrying Boyd or a white-supremacist waitress.
I said, “I’m not hanging around those headquarters any longer than I have to. There are trips today and tomorrow, and I’ll get an idea of whether a change of locale is helpful or not.” This was Saturday. “I’m going to say mid-week. I’ll let you know specifically as soon as I can.”
“Good.”
This was important to all concerned, because the final and largest payment was made the day (usually night) before the hit. The client would set a time and place and almost always make the drop himself—with a hired killing, you don’t delegate the payoff. These arrangements were made through the Broker and the information passed on to Boyd and me.
“Obviously,” he said, “if at any point you feel the job has been compromised, you have my blessing to pull the plug. Just keep in mind, it’s a lucrative plug to pull.”
“That’s why I’m still here, Broker.”
We hung up and I rejoined Boyd, who was having a second cup of coffe
e.
“We’re still on,” I said, “for now.”
He shrugged. “Okay.”
Sometimes I could just slap him. He wasn’t on the firing line, like I was. The active half of a hit sometimes ran into fatal complications, but when did that ever happen to the passive half?
We walked back and I checked the apartment upstairs from us. It was locked but I opened the door with a credit card. My little waitress with the moist red muff and the hardcore black hate had packed up and moved out, leaving me with a mixed bag of memories.
So we’d go on with the job, as the Broker said. At the same time, I was working on an alternate plan, though not one I felt comfortable sharing with Boyd. Not yet. It was a plan that would be difficult to execute, so to speak, without risking my business arrangement with the Broker.
The thing was, I really, really would rather put a bullet in Commander Starkweather’s purported brain than take down that black guy across the street, hypocritical dope peddler though he may be.
Only…a guy in my business could not afford to be fussy or picky or any such shit where the clients were concerned. I fucking knew that. Like the targets, they were never stellar human beings.
But, goddamnit—Nazis just rubbed me the wrong way.
* * *
Normally—in the Impala or my Opel GT for instance—the drive from St. Louis, Missouri, to DeKalb, Illinois, would have taken maybe four and a half hours. But we were in a late ’40s-vintage former Greyhound bus, nicely refurbished though minus a lavatory, so stops were fairly frequent. Factoring in that and a food stop, we were talking closer to six hours.
The McGovern rally would be this evening, and we would stay overnight at DeKalb before another six-hour trip back to Missouri for another rally. That would be tomorrow afternoon, in Kirksville at the teacher’s college.
The big silver-and-blue bus was parked right outside the office and the engine was going, making a noise somewhere between a purr and a growl. On the vehicle’s side, where a greyhound once leapt, the words ST. LOUIS CIVIL RIGHTS COALITION were painted, though the red circular STOP tail-light centered at the rear still bore the airborne canine and its liner’s logo.
I guess the coalition staffers were more conscientious than me, because when I got there, a couple minutes late, the forty seats were mostly taken. A black Ralph Kramden was behind the big wheel—on the dash, it still said Greyhound Line as well—and he grinned at me and jerked a thumb to the rear. Just behind him sat the Reverend’s executive assistant, Harold Jackson, with his Isaac Hayes head and oversize mustache.
His little mouth made a big good-natured smile. “Mr. Blake! Pay attention to the man. Back of the bus!”
That made those who heard it laugh, including me. Well, it was kind of funny. Looking down the long aisle, I saw Ruth seated way back in that wide rear seat, alone.
Lugging my suitcase behind me, I headed down there, noticing that the staffers—with the exception of Jackson, who was in his standard Malcolm X-style suit and tie—were dressed casually, almost festively. On the guys were lots of brightly colored striped shirts, the occasional sweater vest, and bell bottoms; on the gals, lots of colorful psychedelic-print blouses and dresses, although plenty of them wore bells, too. The effect was kaleidoscopic.
I’d been told to dress casually—I was in the windbreaker, a solid dark-blue sportshirt, new jeans and sneakers—so this hadn’t come as a complete surprise. But I hadn’t been expecting Soul Train, particularly since only a third of the riders were black. Of course, even in the Midwest, kids on college campuses were dressing like this, though the hippie look hung on in some circles.
Ruth’s attire was the least garish of the lot. She wore a black silk long-sleeved blouse with small white polka dots on the cuffs and pointed collars; her bells were a matching black, her platform shoes black trimmed white.
After stuffing my suitcase up on an overhead rack, I turned to her, as she scooched over for me, and said, “What have you people been complaining about all these years, anyway?”
Ruth frowned. She didn’t know me well enough yet to anticipate where this was going.
Sitting beside her, I said, “Why, it’s nice and roomy in the back of the bus. Downright commodious. Even if there is no commode. Nice company, too.”
She was smiling now; the combination of Caucasian features and chocolate skin made her seem exotic somehow. Or maybe that was her spice-scented perfume.
She said, “Maybe nobody wants to sit with me but you.”
“Then they should see a shrink.”
We had four seats back here for just the two of us. Of course, with that Afro of hers, we could use the space.
I said, “Did it happen to work out this way, or did you arrange things so you could grab some quality time with me?”
She gave me half a smirk, which was about right. “You do have a fairly high opinion of yourself, Jack.”
“Not really. I was thinking more like you probably wanted to brief me on how to behave at this event.”
She shook her head, the smirk giving way to a mild but very nice smile. “No, but that’s a happy enough result.”
The bus was moving now, a clumsy beast in traffic, not that any other vehicle could challenge it. Somebody toward the front had a portable radio going, the Staple Sisters singing “I’ll Take You There” like they were at the wheel. Out the window, about everybody on the sidewalks was giving us the peace sign, but then once the Central West End was behind us, it was just as often the finger.
In the meantime, Ruth filled me in on what would be going down.
Actor Leonard Nimoy—one of many Hollywood stars out campaigning for McGovern—would be speaking first, then introducing Reverend Lloyd. Mr. Spock’s presence would guarantee a crowd of kids raised on Dr. Spock. I reiterated that I didn’t want to be singled out in the crowd—though being referred to was fine—and she asked if I would be willing to talk to reporters.
“Maybe,” I said, “but only if there are no pictures.”
The dark eyes were focused on me. “You really don’t want your picture taken, do you, Jack?”
“It’s just that my dad is a former military man who these days is real involved in Republican politics back home in Idaho. That’s where I grew up.”
“I remember,” she said.
She’d been the Coalition repository of my fake background, which was based on my real one but not enough so to provide any leads back to me.
“It would really embarrass my dad,” I said, “and as you’d imagine, we already have a strained enough relationship as it is.”
Nodding, she said, “Because of your involvement with the Vietnam Veterans Against the War.”
“Right.”
We were on I-55 now, the bus rumble steady but not quite so loud that we had to speak way up or anything. “Betcha By Golly, Wow” floated back to us.
“Now, Jack,” she said, her dark eyes very earnest, and she touched my hand, in what I’m sure she thought was a non-sexual way (she was wrong), “if there’s any trouble from pro-war, pro-Nixon demonstrators, please don’t get involved.”
“Oh, I won’t.”
“If you were to…mix it up with some other Vietnam vets, protesting against what we’re doing—or maybe some redneck bigot spouting racial b.s.—well, that would attract cameras more than anything. So keep your father in mind and your temper in check.”
She was preaching to the choir, but I frowned, nodding my willingness to suppress my better avenging angels.
“So,” I said, “where’s the big man?”
“Pardon?”
“Everybody seems to be on the bus but Reverend Lloyd.”
“Oh, he doesn’t travel with us. He goes by car.”
“That big black Grand Prix?”
“That’s right. He has a driver and two armed bodyguards.”
“Really, armed?”
She nodded; the way her Afro bounced reminded me of all that red hair of Becky’s. Not that those girls would hit
it off.
“You know what it’s like out there,” she said, frowning toward the window as we rolled by a brown post-harvest landscape, a crushed floor of dead corn stalks. “You wouldn’t believe how many death threats Raymond gets.”
“Actually I would believe it,” I said. “I saw something on TV just the other day about American Nazis.” I shrugged. “But I guess that must be pretty isolated stuff.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, some of those crazies are right here in St. Louis,” she said, even though right now we were in Illinois. “Ever hear of Zachary Taylor Starkweather?”
I pretended to think. “They may have mentioned him on that TV program. That creep with the corncob pipe? I can’t imagine he has many followers.”
Last night he’d only had two. Three, counting Becky. Of course, that could have been that caution he liked to brag about taking.
“There are more of them than you’d think,” she said with a shiver. “There are thousands in his organization, nationwide. And they’re affiliated with the local Ku Klux Klan.”
“You’re kidding. The KKK? Aren’t they ancient history?”
“Not hardly, Jack. They have hundreds of members in the St. Louis area alone. They mostly operate out of Ferguson.”
“Where?” I asked innocently.
Joe Tex was singing, “I Gotcha!” on the portable radio.
“It’s a white enclave,” she explained. “Ten years ago, in Ferguson? Black people were forbidden entry after dark. They actually closed off incoming roads from black neighborhoods.”
“Ten years ago this was?”
“More like eight. Four years ago, the first black person was allowed to buy a house. Even now the black population is something like maybe one percent of its twenty-eight thousand or so good Christian residents. That’s the home of Starkweather and his followers.”
“Wow.” Betcha by golly.
“So,” she said almost sternly, “we have people who want to kill Raymond right in our own back yard.”
Not to mention the next seat.
We both relaxed for a while—six hours is a long fucking time on a 1948 bus—and she burrowed into a book she’d brought along, Invisible Man. I’d never read that, but dug the old Claude Rains flick. I went back to my latest western, The Daybreakers, which I’d be through with before long. Maybe I could pick up another Louis L’Amour when we pulled in at a truckstop.
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