“Politics don’t interest me.”
“Even so, we are coming into a fascinating election year. The two parties-depending upon whom they choose as their standard bearers of course-should be in for a real battle. Think of it: the highest office in the land up for grabs… we could have a true conservative in the White House, or our most liberal president in years…”
“What does this have to do with anything? If this contract is political, you can really forget it.”
His gray eyes pleaded with me, his brow knitting a goddamn sock. “Mr. Quarry, Preston Freed is a presidential ‘spoiler’ in the truest sense. The way his movement, his ‘party,’ is gathering steam, he will throw the entire election off kilter.”
“Yeah, I suppose. I don’t know much about it, and I don’t want to, either.”
“At this point, it is hard to say whether the Democrats or the Republicans would suffer the most, but…”
“I think you should leave. This is a civics lesson that I just don’t want to hear.”
“I represent a certain group of private citizens, responsible, powerful, patriotic citizens, who want Preston Freed stopped. Who want the natural order of our political system restored, and this madman-this potential American Hitler, as you aptly described him-destroyed like the rabid animal he is.”
“That’s very colorful, but I don’t do politicals. I don’t do any contracts anymore, as I tried to make clear… and I shouldn’t have let you get into this at all.”
“Mr. Quarry…”
“I don’t do windows, and I don’t do politicals.”
“Why not?”
“You can offer me two million and I’d turn you down.”
He was astounded; shaking his head. “Why, do you think it would be difficult to get near the candidate? True, Freed is somewhat reclusive, but with the first primary in January, there’ll be plenty of opportunities, starting with a major press conference next month, which…”
“Stop. It’s not hard to kill a politician. It’s the easiest thing there is. You got a public figure, an egomaniac who thinks he’s immortal, going out kissing babies and shaking hands and it’s the easiest hit in the world.”
“Then what is your objection?”
“I wouldn’t live to spend the money.”
“Are you implying that…”
“That you would have me killed? Why, I don’t know what got into me. You and your concerned patriotic citizens wouldn’t think of being party to murder, now would you?”
“Mr. Quarry, we are men of honor.”
“Sure. I’d be an instant loose end, pal. You don’t get away with shooting presidents or even would-be presidents. Oh, the guys who hire you can get away with it. In fact they always do. That’s ’cause the poor bastard who squeezed the trigger is either dead, or locked in a cell and written off as a madman.”
“I assure you…”
“I’m retired. I don’t want to get back in the business, not even once, not even for your big bucks. This is a real good place to call a halt to this conversation… I still don’t know your name, and that’s how I like it.”
“You won’t reconsider?”
“No. And I don’t want to see you again. You know far too much about me. I ought to kill you on general principles.”
He sucked breath in, hard; till now, talk of death had seemed abstract to him, I’m sure. “But… but you won’t.”
“Not unless I see you again.”
He nodded, sighed, extended his hand for me to shake. I ignored it.
Withdrawing the hand, he smiled gently and said, “No hard feelings, Mr. Quarry. It’s too bad. I think you’d have been the right man for the job.”
I didn’t say anything.
His smile disappeared and, shortly, so did he, in a cloud of gravel dust; the BMW’s back license plate was covered with mud as well.
I went inside and started a fire.
I sat before the glow of it, by the metal conical fireplace in one corner of the A-frame’s living room, and waited for Linda, wondering if I should’ve killed the son-of-a-bitch.
3
I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d made a mistake. A week crawled by, my every moment filled with a sense I’d fucked up. No way I should’ve let that guy walk away from my place. He knew too much about me: where I lived, who I was, who I used to be. I should’ve followed the old instinct and iced him on the spot and dumped him in a gravel pit.
But my caller in the London Fog raincoat didn’t exist in a vacuum, and he wouldn’t die in one, either: he was clearly just a messenger, a fancy one maybe, but a messenger. Which meant somebody else-your classic person or persons unknown-had sent him; knew as much, or more about me, as he did.
So killing him would still have left somebody out there knowing more about me than was healthy.
There were options. I could’ve dropped everything and followed the messenger home, and done what needed doing, to all concerned.
But I didn’t.
I could pack up and disappear. Walk out of Linda’s life and leave her and the child inside her and the Welcome Inn and the comfortable life I’d somehow managed to contrive for myself forever behind me. Go and start over somewhere. I had money stashed under several names, including my real one back in Ohio; I had buffers built in to allow this sort of contingency.
Or I might risk taking Linda with me. She loved me. She was as loyal as Tonto, or anyway Pocahontas. And, with the exception of her brother, she had no ties, family or otherwise, to prevent her from disappearing with me, the two of us starting up and over somewhere, under new names.
She would probably go along with that. It wouldn’t even be necessary to tell her the truth about my past; she would, most likely, accept it when I told her that something in my past required it. Something “bad” that she didn’t need to know.
So why hadn’t I sprung it on her?
Because, goddamnit, I liked my life. I liked it just fine the way it was. I was fat and comfortable and, fuck! I didn’t want to start over. Why should I start over if I didn’t want to?
I had turned these people down. They knew I wasn’t interested, and if I wasn’t interested, what was I to them? Certainly no threat-what could I say to anybody about what they were up to? Nothing, without risking seriously screwing up my own life.
They would simply go elsewhere for their hired help. I was retired, they asked me to come out of retirement, I declined, their messenger in the London Fog tipped his figurative hat and went. No hard feelings, he’d said.
So why shouldn’t I go on about my business, go on with my life?
And, so, I had, but I still couldn’t shake the thought, the feeling, I’d made the wrong decision. The visit, from the man’s smooth but nervous manner to his muddy license plate, lingered like a bad dream, leaving a mental aftertaste and not a pleasant one.
The days themselves had been ordinary enough-I divided my time at the Inn between the garage, where for the hell of it I helped work on cars from time to time, and making sure the restaurant and hotel operation was operating smoothly. That was slightly weird, because half the time I’d been in greasy coveralls, the other neatly attired in suit and tie, an executive with a wrench in his back pocket.
I’d spent some time with Linda, quiet evenings, watching the tube, curled by the fire. We were both readers-I stuck with my westerns, while she read these dismal sappy romance novels, sitting there lost in them, smiling dreamily. The girl saw the world through rose-colored glasses- prescription rose-colored glasses, at that.
Another week passed, and the unsettling feeling that I’d fucked up began to fade. It didn’t disappear; but it did fade. Nonetheless, I took precautions. I owned three nine-millimeter automatics, and was carrying one, a Browning, with me everywhere I went now, instead of just in the glove compartment of our sporty blue Mazda, and the drawer of the nightstand next to the bed.
Early on, Linda had wondered about why I owned so many guns, particularly handguns, keeping them stashed about.
“I’m just a little paranoid,” I said. “Both my parents were killed by an armed robber.”