The First Quarry (Hard Case Crime (Mass Market Paperback))

by Max Allan Collins

  “No.”

  “Then he...oh.”

  “Yes. ’Oh.‘ He fucked me, Jack. He fucked me from when I was twelve, around when my mother died, and until I was fourteen when he remarried and I got shipped off to boarding school. When I was older, later teens, when I was home for vacations or during the summer, there were no...advances, no sneaking into my room. He had a wife now and that was the past and it was never spoken of. Like it never happened. But it did.”

  “Christ. I’m sorry. How does a thing like that...?”

  “My mother died. Of cancer. It was lingering. In fact, the...abuse, the psychologists call it, began during Mother’s illness. I became the woman of the house at a very young age, her surrogate in many respects....”

  Many respects was right.

  She was saying, “I have terribly mixed feelings about it all, and—”

  “Mixed feelings? What’s to be ‘mixed’ about?”

  “That’s just the thing. The horrible, the most awful part to admit—I was his willing partner. Oh, I didn’t like it at first, it hurt me, I was too small, but I knew Daddy loved me and that I made him happy and I was taking over for Mother. Filling in for her, taking her place. And as the months passed, I came to like it. I liked having orgasms, and I liked having closeness with my father, and I became a kind of second wife to him.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither did I. Only, after he married, and our relationship stopped? At first, I know this is sick, this is crazy, but I was jealous. And I told a priest, and the priest secretly, taking a big chance, got me psychiatric help, and I came to know how wrong it was, how sad and sick and awful it was, and became very ashamed.”

  Yeah, you got to hand it to psychiatry. Really put things right, that crowd.

  “And the priest and the shrink, they didn’t report your father?”

  “Daddy is a big contributor to the diocese. And as for my psychiatrist, well, you know who my father is. What would Daddy have done to that doctor?”

  Hired somebody like me.

  “Anyway,” she said, “I know now, intellectually and emotionally, that my father is a terrible man, a sociopath. I want nothing to do with him.”

  “And you’re putting this in your book?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  “Aren’t you afraid of the repercussions?”

  “What can Daddy do about it? Kill me?”

  Well, he’d fucked her, hadn’t he? Why was killing her out of the question?

  And this was it, wasn’t it? The secret that Lou Girardelli could not allow to get out. A book about him could contain all sorts of speculation about the mob and criminal activities; that kind of occasional bad publicity came with the territory, and even built a guy’s legend. But a confirmed story, from his own daughter, of incest and abuse?

  I put my hands on her shoulders and said, “You don’t know what you’ve got yourself into, Annette.”

  She shook her head of hair the way a lioness does its mane. “Of course I do. I’m going to free myself and became an artist, a real artist, through my book.”

  “Your non-fiction novel.”

  “Yes. My non-fiction novel.”

  “Thanks to the instruction and nurturing of Professor Byron.”

  “That’s right. Absolutely right.”

  How could I tell her that her latest father-figure was fucking her in a whole new way?

  Maybe just give it to her straight.

  “For all I know,” I said, “the book you’re writing may be a masterpiece. But even so, I discovered something very troubling about Professor Byron.”

  “Please. You’re not...come on. Jealous, Jack?”

  “No. Did you know the professor was writing his own book about your father?”

  She smiled. Laughed. Shook her head. “No he isn’t. You’re confused. He’s helping me.”

  “He’s pumping you.” Boy was he pumping her. “He’s got all this juicy stuff about your father committing incest with his underage daughter, and that’s going to make his non-fiction book a huge bestseller...” If it didn’t get him killed first.

  She was frowning now, and shaking her head again. “No. No, Jack. This is crazy.”

  “I swear to you, Annette. He’s been researching your father for several years. This is his big follow-up to Collateral Damage. He already has a publishing contract. He isn’t collaborating with you—he’s researching you.”

  Her mouth dropped open and her eyes were wide as well. But thoughts were flickering behind those eyes, as defensiveness and denial gave way to everything fitting into place....

  Finally she said, damn near shrieked, “That bastard! That fucking bastard....”

  I took her by the shoulders again, held tight. “I know this is a shock, but you have to get past it in a hurry. What the professor did to you isn’t even the worst thing that happened to you tonight.”

  Breath poured out of her and she swallowed and, those huge brown eyes locked on me but half-lidded, she nodded.

  She asked, “What now?”

  “You get some sleep. I’m going to help you.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know yet. But I will.”

  “What about calling my father?”

  “I’ll handle that.”

  “Can I trust you, Jack?”

  “You can.”

  The crazy thing was, I wasn’t lying.

  TEN

  At some point I’d gotten up and peed and shut the drapes, and we might have slept deep into the morning if the phone hadn’t rung. Both of us were startled awake, and I was sleeping next to the nightstand and reached for the phone, though my hand initially touched the nine millimeter’s cold metal skin. Then I found the receiver and it was the Broker.

  “You’re to take Miss Girard back to Iowa City, to her apartment,” Broker said, after perfunctory hellos. “She’s to stay in for at least today. No meetings with Professor Byron or anybody else for that matter.”

  “That would help me out,” I said, purposely vague, “if you intend me to pursue that other matter.”

  “I do.”

  “Okay, but shouldn’t I stay with her? I have a hunch there may be other black guys on the South Side who could find their way to her apartment.”

  “Have breakfast at the Concort coffee shop,” he said. “Make a leisurely exit from the hotel. If you leave no earlier than ten, then by the time you reach Iowa City, the girl’s father will have representation there.”

  By “representation” I took it to mean that guys with guns would be sitting in the apartment house parking lot. Hopefully white guys.

  “Okay. But Miss Girard and her father aren’t on the best of terms. I’m not sure she will go along with that.”

  As you might imagine, my nude bedmate was sitting up by now, leaning on an elbow, her eyes perked with interest and her nice little breasts just plain perked.

  “Whatever their differences,” he said, “they have a common interest in this matter—specifically, keeping her alive.”

  “Not a bad point.”

  “But I would like you to have her call her father so they can discuss it themselves. Perhaps come to a meeting of the minds if not a reconciliation.”

  “Got you. Right here from the room? This phone okay?”

  “No. Have her use one of the booths in the lobby. I don’t care to have a long distance call of that nature billed to the hotel.”

  “Fine. But I have a couple of concerns of my own.”

  “The kind you can’t speak about in front of Miss Girard.”

  “Bingo.”

  “Well, we’ll have a chance to talk. For now, take a shower, have a nice breakfast, and head back to Iowa City.”

  “Sure.”

  We said perfunctory goodbyes, and I said to her, “That was my boss at the PI agency back in Des Moines, who your father hired me through. We’ll be heading back to Iowa City and, for the time being, you’ll have bodyguards provided by your father.”
/>
  She frowned. “What if I don’t want bodyguards provided by my father?”

  “Well, I guess that’s up to you. But I killed two soul brothers yesterday, and if I kill any today, I’ll forfeit my NAACP membership card. It’s an associate membership, but still.”

  She smiled. The absurdity of the situation was such that joking about murder played pretty well.

  “I understand,” she said softly. From her expression I could tell she’d come to some sort of decision. “But I want to talk to my father, myself.”

  “I want you to. My boss wants you to. Your father wants you to. So it’s unanimous.”

  “Should I do that now?”

  “I was advised that you use a phone booth. We don’t want to leave a trail.”

  “Any other instructions from your boss?”

  “We’re to have a shower and then some breakfast.”

  Eyebrows went up over half-lidded brown eyes. “Alone or together?”

  “What?”

  “The shower? Alone or together?”

  “I think that’s our call.”

  So we showered together. Because she was tall, it was tricky—not the showering, the fucking—but we were both motivated enough to make it work.

  Back in the same clothing as yesterday, we felt a little grungy despite the shower, or maybe because of it, and in the Concort coffee shop, we took a booth in back where we could talk and not look conspicuous. Not that we really looked conspicuous, but these were the same clothes I killed those guys in, and I did feel a little cruddy.

  With morning sunlight pouring in the mostly glass walls of the corner-set restaurant, this being a new day was readily apparent, and she shook that fluffy, slightly frizzy brown mane as she interrupted sips of orange juice to say, “I can hardly believe it happened. Last night seems unreal, like something out of Jean-Luc Godard.”

  “What did he write?”

  “He’s a filmmaker. French New Wave?”

  “All I know about the French is, they dig Jerry Lewis.”

  She made a face. “Well, they are a contrary lot, the French.”

  What was wrong with Jerry Lewis? Hadn’t she ever seen The Nutty Professor?

  But I never argue with beautiful women who fuck me in the shower, so I said, “You need to cooperate with your father.”

  “I will.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. I will. I know my ass is on the line.”

  “And it’s a really nice ass, you don’t mind my saying, and I’d like to see it and everything attached to it stay that way. Nice, I mean.”

  Our breakfast came. I was having Eggs Benedict and she had French toast.

  When I cut into my eggs and they bled yellow, she said, “Ick. How can you stand that?”

  “The same way the French stomach Jerry Lewis, I guess.”

  “I never liked Eggs Benedict. It sounds like somebody who might work for my father.”

  That was pretty funny, and I gave up a smile. “Speaking of your father...please tell me he doesn’t know about the book you’re writing.”

  “He doesn’t! Oh my God, how stupid do you think I am?”

  “I don’t think you’re stupid. But you might be foolish.”

  “I am not foolish. I pride myself on my levelheadedness.”

  Sure. Like spending the night with a guy she knew jack shit about and humping him silly. After all, hadn’t I rescued her from kidnappers? Kidnappers I’d murdered without qualms, which I assumed was a trait not shared by all of her boyfriends. That kind of levelheaded.

  I swallowed a bite of the eggs; the hollandaise wasn’t great, kind of vinegary.

  “Your old man’s not to know,” I said. “Don’t mention your book under any circumstances. If he asks about the professor, just say Byron has been helping you on short stories or something.”

  “Okay, but...some day he’s going to find out.”

  “Right. If it’s published—”

  “When it’s published.”

  “When it’s published, he’ll know...and probably won’t be able to do anything about it. But keeping it from him till then may be tough. I don’t know diddly damn about publishing, but don’t they announce the books they’re doing? Don’t they do advance publicity?”

  She shrugged. “If the publisher is discreet, Daddy won’t learn of it until the review copies have gone out, and then it will be too late.”

  I held up a palm. “Okay. I can’t help you with that. I don’t know what he’s going to do under those circumstances. But I do know, if he finds out now? He’ll do something severe.”

  “Daddy wouldn’t harm me.”

  No. He would just have sex with her when she was twelve and then have sex with her for another couple of years after that, and screw her up psychologically so bad that she was capable of levelheaded judgment like checking into a hotel with a hired killer just because he looked like a college student and was pleasant after he murdered people.

  “Well,” I said, “he’d harm your book. He’d grab you just like those spades did, and hold you until his people have found every manuscript, every carbon copy, and destroy them all. If copies are in New York, you’ll read and hear all about a major office building where a whole floor got taken out by an electrical flare-up resulting in a most unexpected fire.”

  She said nothing. She ate a bite of French toast.

  “You’re not disagreeing with me,” I said.

  “No.”

  “Good. You be discreet. Anybody else on campus know about this project?”

  She shook her head. “Just K.J.”

  “And he won’t have told anybody, since all he’s doing is stealing from it.”

  Her olive complexion paled. “It’s so hard for me to believe...that K.J. would betray me like that. I thought we were artists! Fellow artists.”

  “I don’t know much about artists, but I do know they are self-centered egomaniacs who don’t give two shits about any other artist.”

  Her full lips formed a tiny smile, touched with just a little maple syrup. “For somebody who doesn’t know much about artists, you could write a book.”

  “Maybe I will someday.”

  That amused her. “Will I be in it?”

  “No. You can trust me for my discretion.”

  After I paid the check, I ushered her into the lobby and then walked her to the bank of phone booths and she slipped into one. She’d be reversing the charges, so we didn’t need to go get change from the front desk or anything.

  While I was waiting, a hand touched my shoulder and I whirled and damn near cold-cocked the Broker, who bobbed his head back in momentary alarm, then said, “Easy, my boy. Take it easy. We only have a few minutes, perhaps seconds. What is it we need to discuss that we haven’t already?”

  I took him by the elbow and we crossed to a pair of soft chairs in a waiting area. I leaned forward and so did he, the light-blue eyes unblinking and looking almost gray today, possibly because of his gray-vested suit.

  “I may be new to this business,” I said, “but I know all about loose ends.”

  He said nothing, just barely nodding.

  “Am I in any danger?” I asked. “Are we in any danger?”

  He didn’t pretend not to know what I was talking about. His white eyebrows rose a tad, his thick white mustache wiggled just a little.

  Then he said: “It’s true that we’ve wandered off course in this affair. That we’ve severely broken protocol. You are not supposed to know who our client is.”

  “Yeah, and our client isn’t supposed to know who I am, either.”

  Another tiny nod. “But none of that was our doing. And I think the gratitude of our client, for your gallantry where his daughter is concerned, cancels out any concern we might have that our client could consider us, as you say, loose ends that need...snipping.”

  My gallantry, huh? Killing those soul men in a rest stop shitter, and banging the client’s daughter in a room in the Broker’s hotel. Who says chivalry is de
ad?

  “Okay,” I said. “But if anybody with spaghetti sauce on his tie gives me a funny look, he’s had his last fucking meatball.”

  “Understood.”

  “And, Broker—if some people die who maybe weren’t scheduled to die, you need to know I was protecting our asses...capeesh?”

  He smiled a little and nodded. “By all means, protect us at every cost. One can always find another client. A young man with your skills, Quarry, is a rare find.”

  He sounded like that fat guy in that movie about the Maltese falcon, right before Chubby sold out his sidekick.

  But I said, “Just so we understand each other.”

  “We do.”

  I got up and went one way and the Broker got up and went another.

  When Annette stepped from the phone booth, I asked, “Everything all right?”

  She nodded. “He says he’s concerned for my safety, and insists that two of his people position themselves outside my apartment. He wanted two more in the apartment, but I convinced him there just wasn’t room.”

  Plus, there seemed to be no access to that second-floor apartment other than the front, open stairway, so another pair of bodyguards would have been overkill.

  “That’s all?” I asked. “You were on with him for quite a while.”

  “I know. We did...we did argue about something.”

  “What?”

  “He wants to come to Iowa City himself, tonight. To see me. He’s worried about me. He says he wants to make it up to me. Make amends.”

  “And you said no.”

  “I said no.”

  “And he’s coming anyway.”

  “Yes.”

  On the drive back to Iowa City, I encouraged her to find a radio station of her choice; she turned the dial to classical. That stuff gets on my nerves, but I didn’t say anything. She needed settling down worse than I did.

  The trip back, which didn’t take much more than an hour on I-80, she spent grilling me, but in a nice enough way. She had spilled her lovely guts to me yesterday, and now she felt like turnabout was fair play.

  So I gave her the story of my life. I won’t repeat this conversation because you’ve heard it all before, only you got the unexpurgated version. I let her know about Vietnam and my cheating bride, but left out minor details like crushing that asshole Williams under his car and turning to hired killing as a way to re-enter the civilian population and make a meaningful contribution.