NO Quarter

by Robert Asprin

  Or maybe, just maybe, I was once again tracking the wrong prey down a blind alley. So be it—the search goes on, and sometime, someday, the hunter doesn’t come home from the hill.

  A little bashfully—a strange feeling for me—I looked back at Bone, who still sat on the sofa. “I was going to say a prayer for our success,” I said. “Care to join me?”

  He looked at the altar then, at the polished pebbles, feathers, and bits of bones. He regarded me for a few seconds, and then he dug into a pocket of his jeans and pulled out a string of beads that had a little wooden cross attached to it.

  “I’m afraid you’re barking up the wrong faith with me, Maestro.” He smiled gently and put away his rosary.

  The kid was full of surprises, I thought with mild dismay, and even some amusement.

  “Can I ask you a question?” he said.

  “You can always ask. It’s the answer I don’t guarantee.”

  He was staring at me. Okay. It was going to be one of those questions.

  “I don’t know quite how to say this, but ...” He frowned, then gave a small shake of his head. “All this.” He gestured at my shrine, at the swords on the katanakake and the blades on the walls, but he seemed to mean more than that. “The way you live. It’s ... it’s all focused on this defense/offense hang-up you have. Almost to the exclusion of everything else. Is it worth it? I mean, is it really necessary?”

  I stared back a moment. He almost winced, as if he regretted asking, but had to anyway. I looked away, thinking, then grimaced.

  “Okay, Bone,” I said finally. “That’s an honest question. It deserves an honest answer. Just give me a second.”

  I got up, extinguished the incense, and closed the closet doors, then sat down in the chair across from him. I lit another cigarette and tried to organize my thoughts into words. A lot of the things I say I say often, like bar chitchat, which is almost like playing back a recording. For this, I wanted to make sure what I said wouldn’t be incoherent, repetitive babble.

  “Hang with me on this,” I said, “’cause it’s going to sound like the long way around the brier patch.”

  I took another drag on my cigarette and blew out the smoke.

  “One of my deeply felt, seldom-stated beliefs is that there’s a trend, a plague, loose in this country. It might be worldwide, but I haven’t traveled that much ... recently ... and I can only speak for here. I think of it as a creeping loss of self-worth. More and more, the individual feels insignificant and impotent. That whatever he does, it doesn’t make a difference. That’s one of the reasons why people don’t vote, and why they dog it at their jobs. Who cares? What difference does it make? It’s a poison, and it’s spreading.”

  I looked him in the eye.

  “To be honest with you, you may be dead-on right. I could be living my life dodging shadows. Preparing for battle against enemies who could really give a rat’s ass about me, who forgot about me a long time ago. Exaggerating my own importance in the real scheme of things.”

  I showed him my teeth.

  “But if I accept that, if we accept that, then what are we? I’m a paranoid idiot with delusions of grandeur, and you’re a waiter, and neither of us make any difference at all.”

  I let the smile drop.

  Bone stared at me for a long, thoughtful moment, then drained his tea mug and set it down decisively on the table beside him. He nodded, just once.

  Bone was yawning, looking beat, as I walked him to the door. I watched as he caught a cab back to his apartment.

  I checked the clock. I wasn’t ready to call it a night just yet.

  * * *

  As it turned out, I probably should have. I slid around the corner where the Stage Door is, creeping like a U-boat avoiding a big mine, but didn’t see the Juggernaut inside, or Jo-Jo, though the stray dog was back, begging for scraps. I followed the now very cold trail as best I could. I hit some of Bourbon Street’s tourist trap clubs, thinking here were fresh women, something Jo-Jo might be actively seeking right now. They had a drink minimum to keep out the pickpockets and the people who just wanted to use the rest rooms. I ended up having about one too many, and saw nothing of Jo-Jo. Neither did I spy anybody who could be the crucifix-wearing early thirty-something guy I was now always automatically on the lookout for.

  After the pounding noise of the clubs and the ready displays of drunk college-kid idiocy, I figured I could use one more than one too many. I hit the Calf and found the place nearly empty. Padre arched an eyebrow at me as he delivered my Irish.

  “You going to need the place tonight?” he asked quietly. “Where’s Bone?”

  “Home.” I took a swallow. “I’m just going to have this and stagger home myself. It’s been a ... long night.”

  “You and your new friend have fun?”

  I looked at him blankly.

  Padre chuckled. “Tucson Tony saw you and the big bald guy shooting stick at the Stage Door. Said you were both there together yesterday too.”

  I sighed darkly. “You know how it is, Padre. The only thing worse than dealing with a big, ugly, biker-type ex-con named Bubba is dealing with a big, ugly, biker-type ex-con named Bubba who really likes you!”

  “I thought he was called Juggernaut.”

  “Six of one ...” I didn’t like people connecting me up with Jugger, but I supposed it was inevitable.

  The last few customers shuffled out and Padre started to lock up. I took a final hefty swallow of whiskey and stood. “You’ll be happy to know,” I said, “that those phones of yours have already come in handy.”

  “Glad to hear it.” He looked very pleased by that. “If there’s anything I can do ... ”

  “... I’ll let you know,” I finished, shook his hand, and went home to lie down before I fell down.

  On the way there I met up with the police.

  Alex was waiting for me at my apartment. She’d removed the blond wig, which had left her own short, dark hair flattened, but she still wore the tattered T- shirt and tight jeans.

  “Bone, I thought you’d be in earlier. Are you okay?” She moved to hold me.

  “No, I’m not okay,” I snapped. “I spent part of the evening with a fucking pistol pointed at my forehead!” I proceeded to relay, in detail the events of my evening, not softening anything. I think I wanted her to understand how very dangerous our little endeavor could be. I wanted to scare her.

  “Bone! Mixing with drug dealers isn’t safe! You could have been killed!” She gripped my hands tightly enough to cut off circulation.

  “And what about you?” I said, pulling my hands away. “What were you doing at Check Point Charlie’s? Like that was safe?”

  “I was doing the same thing you were,” she snapped back. “Getting information. I figured if he liked Sunshine, he’d like me. I figured I could get closer than you could.”

  I didn’t tell her how unpleasantly intimate it had gotten between Dunk and me in that grubby toilet. I said, “I thought we agreed you were going to go to work tonight while I handled this.”

  I felt the tension, and I didn’t like it, not at all. Booboo peeked into the living room, her green eyes ticking back and forth between us, looking for all the world like a child watching her parents argue. It wasn’t really a fight, though. Alex and I didn’t have any fight in us for each other. And, I realized with the sort of philosophical clarity that usually comes to me at odd moments, we never would.

  “We didn’t agree to anything.” Her eyes glowed fiercely. “Besides, what have you got from ‘handling this’ besides nearly getting killed?”

  She waited, glaring, while I fumbled for some gem of progress I could parade before her. But the only really positive event of the evening had been my talk with Maestro—not something I could share.

  “Well,” she said, her frown turning into
a grin, “I got this!” She triumphantly flashed a napkin with something scrawled on it. “Dunk’s address—which we already knew—complete with an invitation to a hook-up at his favorite bar.”

  It was meaningful. There was no denying it. But something must have shown in my face at the thought of her going anywhere close to him again. “Alex ...”

  “Oh, Bone!” She wrapped her arms around me, snuggled in close to me. My lips brushed her forehead. “I was perfectly safe,” she said. “I knew you were there.”

  I stood in her arms, still worried—but feeling quite a bit of pride as well. She had done well. But I realized it was going to be harder having her in on the hunt than I had suspected. I could handle risking myself. But could I handle risking Alex? As I held her, burying my face in her hair, I understood that the choice wasn’t mine to make.

  “Well, before we make use of that invitation, let me see what I can get, OK?” I told her what I had in mind for our next move. We talked about it, picking back and forth over it. Eventually she agreed, pulling me into bed and ending the discussion with her mouth on mine. Eventually, we slept.

  She wanted in on it, and I wanted and needed her help, but I didn’t need it for the next phase. Tonight’s job I could handle. What might—might—follow later on, that I could not do alone. It was wait and see, one event dependent on the outcome of the previous one, the dominos going down in order or not at all.

  The hunt. This was what it was, and I thought I was truly beginning to understand it. It wasn’t an escapade. It wasn’t thrilling in the sustained, glamorous Hollywood meaning of the word. This, then, was work. Dogged and sometimes pointless, with as many dead-ends as dangers. I had started it in a state of furious vengefulness, indignant that my Sunshine had been killed and unable—absolutely unable—to swallow the shock and horror of that. Did I still feel that thirst for revenge? Most certainly. But it had cooled and hardened into something more enduring.

  Later, before she left, Alex stopped at the doorway, grabbed a handful of my hair, pulled my head down, and kissed me hard. “Be careful.”

  “I will,” I promised. I hated having to lie to her.

  “Call me if you need me.” She shouldered her knapsack, her eyes boring into mine. She turned and started down the stairs, tossing back, “Call me if anything goes wrong!” She reached the bottom and went out the gate into the early evening.

  I got ready, and there wasn’t much to that. I had made a composed space in my mind—had made it long ago, actually, when I’d probably needed it most. I entered it deliberately now, sinking, going cold as I sank. It was probably something like the “cold/fight” state Maestro had mentioned several times, usually referring to that sword-fighting group of his. But it had other applications. I imagined he had often adopted this mental state back in his working days with the Outfit ... or whatever else he’d done before that. I could see how it would be helpful.

  When the sun finally faded, I made sure Booboo’s bowls were full before I headed out. I wore my black jeans and a long-sleeved dark cotton shirt. I didn’t have far to walk. I stayed on Burgundy, aware of each passing car, seeing the sidewalks deserted ahead and hoping that would hold, just another minute, at least until I reached Cabrini Playground.

  At the park fence I slowed, did a casual sweep-around, then did a more thorough one. I moved a few steps further along, out of the worst glare of the nearest streetlight. Then, gathered and focused, I grabbed the ironwork bars between the pillars, stepped up on the brick footing, and silently heaved myself at the top rail. I kicked air at one misstep, gripped and pulled and was up, across the top, and risked the muffled sound of my dropping to the ground on the other side. I froze where I landed, huddled low and still—listening. Eventually, I allowed myself to move.

  Naturally, I stayed to the shadows, and naturally, I headed toward the best cover, a vantage I had already reconnoitered. While most of the park is wide open and grassy for the dogs whose owners bring them here to run and romp, it does have a small sort of gazebo and a few trees. I picked a tree in deep shadow not too far off Barracks Street, leaned myself comfortably against the trunk, and waited. And watched. Because this was what a hunt was like.

  I was effectively invisible in my dark clothes, shadowed from the street. I had a good line of sight across Barracks to the front of Sunshine’s old apartment building, the place where Dunk had lived with her, now without her. I presumed the rent was paid to the end of the month. After that, Dunk, the freeloading scuzz-bag, would have to come up with the bread or vacate.

  I settled in even further, in the night, hearing birds rustling above me in the branches, the occasional vehicle passing. I remained calm and composed, and even went without the cigarette my system was telling me it desperately needed. Waited. Watched.

  The vigil would last however long it lasted.

  * * *

  Which turned out to be something like an hour and a half. Ever stand and do nothing but watch a door for an hour and a half? Is it boring? Sure. But I didn’t get bored. It wasn’t a matter of concentrating. I was, after all, merely waiting to see if and when Dunk emerged. That didn’t take a lot of mental diligence. Stand, stare. I was in the zone, though. I shifted my stance every so often, felt blood flow to one leg or the other. I wiped the sweat that accumulated in my eyebrows. I picked an ant off my neck.

  I could have, I think, done that for hours on end, without flagging, because in a very odd and unfamiliar way it was fun. I was accomplishing something and knew it. Even if Dunk never appeared, even if he was already gone from the apartment and I was completely wasting my time, I was still doing the right, logical, practical thing. Holding up my end of the hunt. Maestro might be working with a nonprofessional, but he could bank on my persistence, commitment, and stamina. I wondered if he knew that.

  Fortunately, Dunk did appear after that hour and a half, stepping out onto Barracks wearing those same big camouflage pants and this time a dirty yellow T-shirt instead of a dirty white one. He started strolling toward the river.

  I crossed the grass fast, low and quiet. Dunk crossed Dauphine, staying on Barracks. I froze, waited for a cab to pass, then went over the fence. He was half a block ahead and didn’t turn as my boots touched the sidewalk. I slipped across the street, following him from the other side.

  I kept it very casual, like when Maestro and I had walked Decatur last night, after I’d escaped Lester’s place. I called no attention to myself, did nothing suspicious. I lit a cigarette, and that was truly wonderful.

  Dunk stayed on Barracks all the way to Decatur, and I kept the same distance and kept him in sight. Accosting him on the street wasn’t the way to go, I knew. If he went in a bar somewhere, then I might have a chance at approaching him yet again, with the memories of our encounters at the apartment door and Check Point’s hopefully erased by pot and alcohol. I realized that by now he might recognize me no matter what. By tailing him, I still might learn something. There was no telling. But I couldn’t afford to leave any stones unturned. I was, after all, trying to solve a murder case that the police had not. That was an ambitious undertaking for someone who was “just a waiter.” And I didn’t want Alex to meet with him if I could prevent it by gaining the information on my own.

  He turned onto Decatur, and I hurried to catch up. I eased up at the corner, worrying Dunk had been aware of me all the way from the park, hadn’t let on, was waiting around that corner with a bottle he meant to smash over my head.

  But he was heading in the direction of the Square. Decatur Street was its usual lively, scummy self. Still half a block ahead, Dunk waved a few hellos to the beer-swilling urchins and wandering hustlers that the street has in abundance. I had to make a quick greeting or two myself. I ducked casually to the other side of the street once more, kept pace.

  Dunk did go in somewhere, finally, when he reached the next intersection. He entered the restaurant where I w
ork.

  I slowed, stopped. I lit another smoke to ease off my nicotine fit and leaned back against a dented drainpipe, trying to look—and probably succeeding, since it’s not that difficult—like a typical Decatur loiterer.

  Kitty-cornered across the intersection I looked in on the restaurant’s interior through the big front windows. It was strange to find myself looking in, but I didn’t dwell on it. It wasn’t like I missed the fucking job. Judith was in there, and I didn’t need a close-up view to see she was in her normal about-to-go-nova hysterical work state. I didn’t recognize the other waiter—blond, young. Maybe Nicki’s replacement.

  This being a weekend night, the shift included a bartender. I spotted red-haired Randy behind the restaurant’s L-shaped bar, wearing his Irish ancestry for all to see. One of our better bartenders, he took very little shit from anybody. Dunk grabbed a stool, and Randy delivered him a draft beer a minute later. Dunk paid, probably didn’t tip.

  I shifted a few feet down from the drainpipe for a better line of sight. Randy leaned his arms on the bar in a way that squared his already fairly-sizable shoulders. I couldn’t make out his face. Dunk was talking to him. Something in the way Randy had his head slightly cocked told me he was running low on patience. What could Dunk be saying to him? Well, from what I’d seen of Dunk at Check Point Charlie’s, it wouldn’t take much for the grubby little shit to annoy or offend anybody.

  It took Dunk about thirty more seconds. Abruptly, Randy snatched away his pint glass, poured the beer into a go-cup, plonked it on the bartop and pointed at the door. I had seen Randy bodily throw people out on three different occasions. He had a flair for it.

  Dunk, demonstrating wisdom or cowardice, didn’t appear to give Randy any sass about it. He took his plastic cup and amscrayed.

  I turned away, pretended to be fumbling in my pockets for something, and watched him from the corner of my eye. He stood a moment, looked up and down Decatur, then shrugged and started walking again. He had a lazy sort of walk, loose-limbed.