His eyes at half-mast but his smile full-bore, he asked, “So who the fuck are you, love?”
“I’m using Jack Gibson. When I worked for a guy called the Broker, I used Quarry.”
His eyes tightened. “I, uh…know that name.”
“Quarry?”
“No. The Broker. Quad Cities, isn’t it?”
“Right. You ever have occasion to use his services?”
“No. Indeed not. But I was… aware of those services.”
“Yeah, well. I used to perform that kind of service. I perform another one now.”
He took in some Dewar’s, swirled it around, sent it down. “And what service would that be?”
“I have a method, which is my own concern, of following assassins to their intended targets. The assassins usually work in pairs of two-back-up slash recon, and the actual trigger puller.”
He pretended to smile on half his face; the rest of his sour puss told the truth. “You sound like Mario Puzo suffering from the D.T.’s. What kind of fantasy is this?”
“Not the good kind. Somebody wants you dead, Dickie. I don’t know who that somebody is, although I might be able to find out. That would be extra, of course.”
“Extra. Extra to what?”
“To the price of saving your ass.”
He thought about that. “How would you go about saving my…ass?”
“I’d stop the hit from going down.”
“Non-violently?”
“Of course not. I’ll have to kill the bastards. What do you think?”
His eyes widened and his smile widened and he played at thinking this was funny. “You are a card, Mr. Quarry.”
“Let’s stick with Gibson. There’s no extra charge for the amusement factor.”
He grunted a laugh. “This may be the most outrageous shakedown I’ve ever heard of. You come in to my place of business and make a few references to low people in high places, to convince me of your authenticity…and then you presume to have me pay you off, to protect me from what? From whom?”
“I’ll want twenty thousand dollars,” I said, ignoring most of that. “ After I’ve delivered. I don’t expect you to pay in cash, though with the casino you probably could. But I understand the accounting problems that might ensue.”
“Oh you do. Accounting problems.”
“I’ll give you the banking information-I’m using the Cayman Islands now-and you can have the twenty K transferred to an account there.”
“I see. I agree to pay you, and nothing happens to me.” He laughed loud enough now for it to ping off the brick wall opposite. “This has to be the most audacious extortion scheme I’ve ever heard of…and I’ve heard of a few.”
“Bet you have.”
His face seemed to darken further under the leathery tan. He slammed the empty tumbler down on the glass and leaned forward and pointed a finger at me. “Listen, booby-you know not with whom you fuck. I ran key clubs on the West End for the Kray brothers when you were sucking your mama’s titty.”
“I’m a bottle baby.”
“I’ve seen things undreamed of in your fucking philosophy, Horatio. Fuck! I ran Rush Street Clubs for the Giardellis when you were-”
“Shooting gooks with a sniper rifle?”
That stopped him.
“Listen,” I said, and I held my hands up, palms open. “I’ve invested some time and money and energy in this, but I’m well aware it’s a speculative endeavor. You can say no-you don’t have to buy my Fuller brushes, you can pass on my Amway products, you don’t even have to buy any magazine subscriptions to send me to Bible camp. Your choice. Of course, you’ll be dead, this time tomorrow.”
I rose.
He looked up at me. I had a feeling he had a gun stuffed down in that chair, particularly because of the way his hand was way back on the cushion. If he made a move, I could have the glass coffee table in his face faster than Chrissy could snort a line.
But he raised his own palms and patted the air, gently. “Sit,” he said. “Sit.”
I sat.
“Suppose I take you seriously,” he said. He got a cigarette going, taking one from a gold box on the coffee table-not a Virginia Slim, I’d wager. “Suppose I accept this outrageous scenario as potentially real and not just ridiculous twaddle.”
“Isn’t twaddle inherently ridiculous?”
He closed his eyes. “You are insufferable.”
“Sorry. Just trying to lighten the mood.”
“What do you know about this?”
“About this?”
“About how I would be…eliminated.”
I shrugged. “It’s going to be nasty. You’re going to be run down by a car.”
His eyes popped. “You said something about triggers being pulled…”
“That was meant to cover the whole panorama of how many ways your ass can be ‘eliminated.’ My guess is, this particular specialist has been brought in so that your death can pass as accidental. Somebody wants you dead who doesn’t want a killing coming back on them.”
He frowned, looked off toward the door. But he wasn’t thinking about Chrissy, I didn’t think.
Then his leathery puss turned toward me and he said, slowly, “I know who hired this done.”
“Ah. So it is credible, then.”
He nodded. “Very credible. That’s why we’re still talking, Mr. Quarry.”
I didn’t correct him. It was his way of saying he was talking to a hired killer, not a veterinary medicine salesman.
“What,” he said, “if I wanted that party removed. By that I mean, the party who wanted me removed.”
“Party of the first part?” I said and risked a grin. “It is a contract, after all…I’d be glad to. I couldn’t quote a price until I knew more of the circumstances, but I’d be fine with that.”
Really fine-after all, when you kill the contract killers, the guy who hired them might be miffed with you. So eliminating the buyer would be the best kind of contract to get-lucrative and self-interested.
“Should we discuss it?” he asked.
“Let’s discuss you. First things first. How many on your security staff?”
“Twelve.”
“I counted six.”
“Six working tonight.”
“Are you including the parking-lot deputy?”
“No.”
“Is he trustworthy, the deputy?”
“Of course not.”
“So what’s the story on law enforcement in Haydee’s Port?”
“There isn’t any, Mr. Quarry. There’s a county sheriff’s sub-station in Burris, which is ten miles from Haydee’s. They have half a dozen deputies and one very corrupt sheriff. All of them work for not only me but the other businesses in Haydee’s.”
“Like the Lucky Devil downtown?”
“That’s right. The Lucky Devil and all of the other low-rent dives.”
“When does the deputy go off duty?”
“You mean, off duty here?”
“Right-when does he stop babysitting your parking lot?”
“He’ll stay till the lot’s emptied out.”
“Which is?”
“Five-fifteen.”
“Latest he could still be around?”
“Five-thirty.”
“What’s your pattern? Do you stay here? You’ve got a bedroom.”
“Not usually. Sometimes on weekends, when I allow myself a little…latitude. Otherwise I maintain regular hours.”
“So, during the week, when do you leave here? And where do you go?”
“I leave, oh, about five-thirty or six. I live just down the road a few minutes.”
“What about…?” I was nodding toward the closed bedroom door.
“I don’t take my work home with me,” he said. “I’m separated, and my wife and I don’t live together right now, but, still, I wouldn’t insult her like that.”
He would fuck a little coke slut the floor above where she was singing her heart out, though. Good thing this guy had that English accent or I might think he was a shitheel.
“So when you leave at five-thirty or six, is the lot generally empty?”
“I’m the last out, yes.”
“Okay. Makes sense.”
“You mean…that’s when he’d do it? He’d…Jesus fucking…he’d run me down in my own parking lot?”
“Bingo.”
“How in God’s name is that not suspicious?”