“The young guy is the shooter,” I said.
Boyd nodded. “I saw him pull up outside the pawnshop building. The other guy greeted him. Gave him a hug... if you were still wondering if they were queer or not. The kid was lugging a leather rifle case. A Kolpin, I’d say.”
“Right out in the open?”
A little shrug. “Didn’t look suspicious, not with a pawnshop right handy. He had a khaki duffel, too. Like to know what handguns are in there. Think he’s too young for Vietnam?”
“No.” I’d stolen a decent look at his face and it had that cold hardness some people got over there.
“Lady Marmalade” was driving them crazy out on the dance floor. If those boas were real and not feathers, we’d be deep in the jungle about now.
“Listen,” I said, leaning close, “this dive is a better option than Lafayette’s.”
“Better option how?”
“Not as crowded.”
“It’s crowded enough.”
“Not really, not wall-to-wall like up the street. If we could get them alone, the restroom maybe, or a back room or something, we’d have them cold.”
Boyd gave me a patronizing glance. “You really think the men’s room is going to be empty at any moment in this establishment? Between getting rid of drinks standing up and blowjobs sitting down, it’ll be busier in there than on the dance floor.”
“Okay, a back room, then.”
“Oh, really? You and I just go over there and suggest a foursome, maybe? You really want to waltz over there with me and come on to them, honey?”
“Don’t do that.” I told him a long time ago never to call me “honey.” I felt about that the way Perry White did being called “chief” by Jimmy Olsen.
“Then don’t insult my intelligence,” he said. “And don’t assume all gays are sex maniacs eager to try anything as long as it isn’t straight.”
The drinks came. We sat and drank them slowly. He was even better at pouting than Corrie. On the dance floor nearby, our twins were dancing slow, embracing each other to Barry White — “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe.”
It was unsettling.
Maybe I did have something against gays after all. Or maybe seeing two men dancing romantically who I was trying to figure out how to kill was working at me a little.
“Boyd,” I said, “we have to figure out a way to deal with them now... tonight... when we have them together and away from that stakeout pad.”
“What’s wrong with taking them out in that apartment? They won’t be expecting it.”
“What, and leave two bodies across the street from the Climax Club? You think the Broker will appreciate our leaving Climer in that kind of mess?”
“I guess not...”
“Or maybe we just go clomping up there, past the tenant on the second floor, take care of business, and wrap the results up in plastic sheeting, and then what? Haul them down the stairs, one at a time, like mummies? Shove one in my trunk, another in yours? And then go off driving around looking for another back road to decorate?”
KC and the Sunshine Band’s “That’s The Way I Like It” had our two reflections back out on the dance floor, getting down. That was worse than the slow dancing.
“Look,” I said, leaning in again, “this is the perfect place. In this setting, a couple of dead fags, pardon my French, will be shrugged off by the cops in a very helpful way. Hell, the owners of this joint will probably dispose of the bodies for us, to fight the bad publicity. We should take advantage.”
“The shitter,” Boyd said defensively, “and your imaginary back-room trysting spot, are Oh-you-tee out. And so is this place, unless you have another, better idea.”
“Well... I have a silencer in one windbreaker pocket and a nine mil in the other. The next loud disco song, I just walk up behind them at their table, pop them, one two, and go on my merry way. You can wait outside for me.”
The smile under the bristly mustache was as wide as it was snide. “Listen to yourself, Quarry. You stand behind them and let go with a noise-suppressed, big-ass automatic, and you figure the convulsions the bodies make won’t give you away? And that the bark of the gun, even neutered, will be lost to people sitting nearby? Give me a goddamn fucking break.”
He had a point. Two points, actually.
And my idea would have got tabled anyway, because the disco music stopped and the floor show began. On a small platform stage past the lighted-up dance floor was a piano, Hammond organ, drum kit, stand-up microphone and a Day-Glo painted palm tree. An individual introducing him/herself as Marilyn Misfit, in the Monroe Bus Stop outfit (brave by any sex), introduced one drag act after another. Bette Davis did a monologue of her most famous movie lines to piano and rim-shot accompaniment. Judy Garland sang “Over the Rainbow” (quite moving, actually) to Hammond orchestration, and three other appropriately attired and made-up performers did lip-sync pantomime to records by Cher, Barbra Streisand and Marlene Dietrich, played by the DJ over the house sound system.
During Marlene’s “Falling Love Again,” a few tables emptied — it was an overly campy performance, I guess, or maybe just too easy a choice. Anyway, our two friends were among those who appeared bored as they got up and headed out. I felt kind of bad for the performer.
Boyd looked at me, eyebrows lifting, and I nodded. We didn’t know where they were going, but we were going there, too.
Out in the cool evening, with a few drinks under their belts, our friends were nice and loose as they walked down the street, the older one with an arm around the younger guy’s shoulder for a while. Then they were hand in hand, and finally they stole a kiss. I admit it made me uncomfortable, but I don’t think it had anything to do with homosexuals creeping me out.
Why the hell was I feeling, what, sorry for these lowlifes? And you shouldn’t, either. So they liked each other. So they were capable of affection. Keep in mind what they did for a living. These two were stone-cold killers, and had almost certainly earned what was coming to them, many times over.
They crossed to the packed parking lot, no attendant on duty, and nobody else heading for a vehicle. This was the same lot my Mustang was parked in. That was lucky.
“What are they driving?” I asked Boyd, sotto voce.
“It’s an aqua Marlin, probably around ’67, ’68.”
A cheap-ass car but a fun ride. Kind of thing I would pick up at a sleazy used car dealership at the start of a gig. Made sense.
I spotted the AMC would-be sports car toward the back of the fenced-in area, an alley beyond. Boyd and I slowed, keeping an easy stride.
“Follow my lead,” I said, and ambled toward the Mustang, parked half a row down from the Marlin.
“What?” Boyd asked, soft.
“Just get in,” I said.
I climbed behind the wheel of the convertible, its top up, Boyd slid in on the passenger side, and I started up the car.
“Glove compartment,” I said.
Boyd got in there, found the spare silenced nine mil waiting. He took it, draped it in his lap.
We rolled toward where they were getting into the Marlin, the young guy opening the driver’s door, older guy the rider’s one. Neither was in yet when I slowed to a stop and got out, wearing a big smile.
“You guys know where Godfather’s is?” I asked, walking over casually, my right arm alongside my leg, my hand hiding the nine mil behind me.
The older guy nodded and started pointing. He hadn’t got any words out yet when I shoved the nose of the silenced weapon in his stomach and fired. The gun’s cough was muffled further by his belly fat, and actually he made more noise himself, with a short grunt of pain, like a fist and not a slug had punched him. He dropped to his knees and I put one in his forehead, so he wouldn’t have to suffer. Gut shots kill so fucking slow.