Quarry in the Middle

by Max Allan Collins

  As the boat swung around, the triple rotors of the Evinrude 25 HP came in contact with the black guy, who was splashing around and treading water desperately. The blades sheared his face off and a noseless red mask remained; as his screaming split the night, I swung the boat around in a circle and the bearded fucker managed to swim just out of its path, but his scarlet-masked partner got another helping, hands coming up protectively and fingers flying like sausages. Somewhere along the line, a rotor blade must have caught his neck, because a geyser of red headed for the moon and didn’t make it.

  The bearded guy was still swimming away from me—I had straightened the craft around—but he hadn’t got very far, not far enough to avoid the sawed-off’s blast, which exploded his head and those stupid goggles with it and left him with his neck making its own fountain, not that the moon was ever in any danger of stain.

  Then they were both bobbing there, with the night nicely quiet, the river otherwise empty, the full moon giving the water an ivory sheen. The gaseous masses of the universal galaxy made reflections, except where the river had gone frothy with reddish foam.

  I headed upstream. Never had much experience with motorboats, but I was getting the hang of it.

  Chapter Eleven

  On the trip upriver, I grew increasingly uncomfortable in the cold. Some dark clouds had started rolling in, smudging the moon, a wind kicking up, making the water even choppier. I was in a short-sleeve shirt and all I had to put over me was that fucking tarp, and that wasn’t going to happen. But it was good for my head, the chill, because I could think with more clarity.

  I was missing my wallet, but that was no big deal—nothing in it but some fake John B. Gibson I.D., driver’s license, social security, a couple of credit cards. The money from the poker game that I’d woken up with on me was not an issue—I’d stowed it in my suitcase back at the motel, after leaving Candace’s mobile home and before going to see Cornell at the Paddlewheel. And speaking of the motel, I still had my room key, stuffed deep in my right front pocket.

  Also, I’d been left my wristwatch, which was nothing expensive, just a Timex, and yes the sucker was still ticking—it was ten after midnight. Tonight’s poker game at the Lucky Devil hadn’t even started yet.

  I’d given thought to pulling the jon boat in at the Paddlewheel’s little dock, but my Sunbird was in the Lucky Devil lot, and I decided to see if I could risk docking at Jerry G’s landing. That pier was more elaborate than the Paddlewheel’s, with a few other jon boats tied up, plus a brick boathouse for the cabin cruisers that were part of the “recreational boating” fleet that was actually used for drug-, gun-, and who-the-fuck-knew-running.

  Fairly adept with the Evinrude by now—my little outing with the two bouncers had taken me maybe twenty miles downriver—I slowed and had a look at the dock, where the only lighting was one yellow security lamp on the boathouse itself. I could see nobody standing watch, the jon boats bobbing at an empty expanse of pier. I glided in and tied up there, and crawled up on the spongy dock.

  I had no weapon other than the sawed-off, and I’d used one of its two shells—any reloads had gone down with its previous owner. But it was a formidable-looking weapon and I could still do one blast’s worth of damage, so it was worth hauling along.

  A gravel path wider than a sidewalk and narrower than a one-lane road made its way up the slope through trees to the edge of the Lucky Devil parking lot, which was full now. Post-midnight Friday was prime time for the Lucky. The security lighting was subdued, with the handful of lamp poles outshone by the occasionally opening doors of the hooker trailers lining the lot at right and left.

  I moved toward where I’d left the Sunbird, with the sawed-off at my side, staying close to cars so that the weapon couldn’t be easily seen. Parking places were rare enough that arriving vehicles were trolling for them, and when a car found a space, it swung in to disgorge drivers and passengers who had already long since passed any legal drinking limit. Dumb loud remarks and drunken louder laughter made dissonant music in the open air.

  When I got to where I’d left the Sunbird, I at first thought I’d miscalculated, and was off a row, because the Pontiac wasn’t there. Then I leaned against the Dodge in its space and thought it through: my car keys hadn’t been on me, so that meant Jerry G’s minions had located the Sunbird and moved it, dumped it some-where.

  You’re a dead man, I reminded myself. They couldn’t have left your wheels just hanging around their parking lot…

  Up a row, however, another Pontiac caught my attention—a familiar cherry-red vehicle that was still in its place: Chrissy’s Firebird convertible, with the top down.

  I was maybe twenty feet from the building now, so I lowered my head as I made my way to the Firebird, then knelt beside it, and got the lay of the land. A single bouncer, situated near the casino, was walking the line, keeping an eye on the lot. He didn’t seem to have spotted me, and his only brothers were walking the perimeters where the hooker trailers perched.

  Three bodyguards, then…with the ones babysitting the hookers way too busy to be overly bothered with the parking lot.

  I hadn’t expected to see any increased security—after all, had everything gone peachy for the boys dumping me downriver, they would just be getting back. They might not even be expected to check in with the boss, who soon would be playing his precious poker game, and disliked being interrupted.

  Speaking of which, after I’d kept watch for possibly fifteen minutes, the door to the private poker room abruptly opened, and a familiar yellow-permed figure exited, with Jerry G following her a step or two. They exchanged a few words, he patted the behind of her tight jeans, then slipped back inside as she started toward the lot.

  I hopped in the back of the convertible, and positioned myself on the floor behind the front seats. The Firebird was parked about mid-lot, which was its most under-lit section, and I figured I could get away with it. Anyway, I didn’t suppose Chrissy felt she needed any weapon that God hadn’t already granted her, but if she’d upgraded to a revolver or something, and had it handy in her pink purse, I had a shotgun shell available to rearrange her perm.

  She got in the car and behind the wheel, started it up, and pulled out, wheels crunching gravel and then I felt the shift onto the smooth blacktop of Main Street. That was when I slipped the double-nose of the shotgun between the seats and into her bare side—I was still tucked below sight of anybody but birds and truckers.

  “Jesus!” she said, and hit the brakes.

  “Keep driving,” I said.

  She tried to see me in her rearview mirror, but the angle was wrong. “What?”

  “It’s your Coke buddy. I’m not dead. But you will be, if you fuck around.”

  “I’m not afraid of you!” she said, terrified. “What if I go one hundred miles an hour and crash us?”

  “Then we’d both be dead, only I won’t let you take this baby past forty-five, without reducing your waistline first.”

  I poked her flesh with the shotgun’s cold snout.

  “You…you wouldn’t shoot me…”

  “I think I would. Drive us to the Wheelhouse Motel. Pull in the space at room twenty-eight.”

  A maybe three-minute drive followed, proving as uneventful as it was silent. I felt the car slide into the stall, and she shut the car off.

  “Now what?” Her voice sounded entirely different, sort of medium-range, that middle ground between alto and soprano, and grown-up. Before, all she’d emitted was a sullen, childish mumble. I realized these last few minutes were the first time I’d heard her speak when she wasn’t bored, or pretending to be, anyway.

  I hopped out of the back, facing the room, the shotgun in front me, out of sight from any motel guests who might have been loitering, although there really weren’t any—they were all around the bend down at the Paddlewheel.

  “Get out,” I told her.

  She gazed up at me in fear and loathing—she looked a little like Tuesday Weld, Dobie Gillis-era, th
ough her cheeks were more sunken; still, it was Tuesday’s smirky kiss of a mouth. Her eyes, dark blue and large, showed no sign she’d been tooting recently, neither dilated nor red. She’d apparently spent her time with Jerry G in the private poker room either filling him in or getting filled by him. Or both.

  I unlocked the room and she went in first, and sat on the edge of the bed, still in the pink shirt tied under her nice little titties, her jeans so tight they would have given Brooke Shields pause. The pink purse was beside her, and I reached over and flipped it out of her reach.

  She was studying me. Looking to see how much trouble she was in. Looking to see how she could get out of it.

  I went to my suitcase on its stand and got out my spare nine millimeter, and left the sawed-off on top of some clothes.

  “Let me tell you all about you,” I said, pulling up a chair opposite where she sat, but angling it so my back wouldn’t be entirely to the door.

  “You don’t know me,” she said.

  “You were a cheerleader in high school, but you had a bad reputation, well-deserved. Your grades and activities were just good enough to get you into college, but you either flunked out or got in trouble over drugs, and so you started dancing. Maybe in Chicago. You caught somebody’s eye in family circles, maybe Jerry G himself, on a visit…but anyway, when Jerry G did see you, he knew you were something special, way too cute to waste on dancing or whoring, and anyway you didn’t like to think of yourself as a whore, so you became Jerry G’s favorite little squeeze. He lavished you with credit cards and cocaine, with never a notion of wasting you in any capacity at the Lucky, and then he got an idea. He knew all about Dickie Cornell’s weaknesses, and he needed somebody to keep an eye on the Brit prick’s activities and ambitions. So you enrolled in community college in River Bluff…probably just a class or two…and you applied as a waitress at the Paddle-wheel. I’ve seen the female help there, it’s like walking around inside a men’s magazine. But you are exceptionally cute, Chrissy, even by Paddlewheel standards, and when Dickie interviewed you, you two hit it off. Were you ever a waitress there, I wonder, or maybe a bartender? Or was it straight up to the Playboy penthouse on the third floor, with hot-and-cold running tootski and all the decadence a nice Midwestern girl could ever dream of?”

  She had started frowning about halfway through that. The frown indicated that in about ten years she’d look like hell, even if at the moment she did look heavenly.

  She said, “You didn’t get everything right.”

  “What did I miss?”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Come on,” I prompted her. “What did I get wrong?”

  “I wasn’t a cheerleader. I was a pom-pom girl.”

  “Even better.”

  “And I never danced. I was never a fucking…stripper.”

  I could see that. Her boobs were even smaller than Candace’s.

  “What were you, then?”

  “I was a hostess at a restaurant.”

  “An Italian restaurant?”

  “Yes, an Italian restaurant! What of it?…Listen, I haven’t broken any laws or anything.”

  “You haven’t? When did cocaine get legalized? While I was away on a boat trip?”

  “I mean, it’s not illegal to fool somebody. Or to tell somebody else about somebody else.”

  “You mean, not illegal to work for Jerry G and spy on Dickie Cornell? You could be right, but when you’re dealing with men whose business is illegal gambling, or in Jerry G’s case, gambling and prostitution and drug-running, legal doesn’t come into it. Somebody feels fucked over, so somebody else…somebody likeyou, for example…gets killed.”

  Her chin came up. Her defiance was almost equal to her fear. “Are you going to kill me?”

  “I don’t think so. You almost got me killed, though, tonight, so it’s a possibility.”

  Her eyes and nostrils flared. “How did I get you…almost get you…killed?”

  “You told Jerry G about the conversation you over-heard today—about me ‘taking care of’ Jerry G for Dickie bird. And then Jerry G handed me over to a couple of pals of his, who took me for what was supposed to be a one-way boat ride.”

  The big blue eyes went to half-mast. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I don’t know if you do. I don’t know if I care. Tell me, what’s on Jerry G’s mind tonight?”

  She blinked; nice long lashes, under the mascara. “On his mind?”

  “Yeah. You just came out of that private poker den of his. What’s his mood?”

  “Well…good, I guess. Just getting ready for his regular Friday night poker game.”

  “Didn’t seem anxious? Waiting for word on some pressing matter?”

  “No. He was in a good mood.”

  This was encouraging. He clearly felt I was out of the picture. No extra security measures were being put into motion at the Lucky, meaning no reason to think I’d be up against anything out of the ordinary. The only possible hitch was if he expected to hear from the boys in the boat.

  But why should they report back? As far as Jerry G was concerned, I was a dead man. They were just out dumping the garbage. They’d probably either go home or resume their duties at the club, and with as many bouncers as Jerry G employed, on a busy Friday night, the pair might not be missed.

  I hoped I wasn’t kidding myself.

  “That Firebird,” I said. “Is it yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “You make payments on it?”

  “No. It was a gift.”

  “From Jerry G?”

  “Actually, from a nice man in Chicago who’s a friend of Jerry G’s.”

  I frowned at her. “A man named Giardelli? Vince Giardelli?”

  “…Yes.”

  Vince was Jerry G’s godfather, just as Tony was Cornell’s, courtesy of wife Angela. That meant the insertion of Chrissy as an under-the-covers agent at the Paddlewheel was a scheme conceived at the highest lowlife level.

  I said, “The Firebird—where do you keep the title?”

  “Well, in my glove compartment. Where else?”

  Oh, a safe deposit box maybe, or a fireproof safe. But somehow I knew Chrissy would come through for me, with just the right idiocy.

  “I need wheels,” I said. “Jerry G stole my car and dumped it somewhere. I’ll buy it from you. I’ll give you cash, and you’ll sign the title over.”

  “I don’t want to sell it.”

  “I wasn’t asking. I’ll give you four grand.”

  “It’s worth a lot more!”

  “I know it is, but because of you, the other day I got beaten to that bloody pulp you hear so much about, and then, this evening, almost got killed and dumped in the Mississippi. So I figure you owe me. Anyway, you know what they say—you lose half the value the minute you drive it off the lot.”

  She thought she understood me now. She unknotted the pink shirt and let the twins out for some air. They were small but perfectly shaped and tilted up, and the nipples were large and puffy and very appealing.

  “I told you before,” I said, “that I’d rather kill you than fuck you.”

  The little Tuesday Weld mouth was twisting into a knowing one-sided smile. “I don’t think so.”

  She stood. Kicked off the sandals. Unzipped the jeans, tugged them off, and as tight as they were, that was fascinating to watch. The jeans left some marks, but nothing that detracted. She had no underpants on, and her pubic triangle was just as yellow as her hair—I was pretty sure she dyed it, and the bush had been cut into a heart shape and thinned a little. Very stylish, and thoughtful, coming from such a self-centered brat.

  You must have a very low opinion of me to think I’d fall for this game. That this detestable little cunt could seduce me so easily. For one thing, I didn’t have a rubber handy, and I wasn’t sticking an arrow into that heart unprotected—that reckless I’m not. And for another, she was a detestable little cunt…or did I say that?

  I did let her
blow me, though, and she was good, very thorough and skilled and while I wouldn’t say she enjoyed herself, she seemed to take a certain pride in her work. When she was done, cheeks less sunken, containing a mouthful of me now, she held up a “wait” finger, and padded naked into the bathroom, where she spit it out in the john, flushed it, then went to the sink and partook of my mouthwash.

  “You can use my toothbrush if you want,” I called. Gracious host that I am.

  “Thanks!”

  “It’s still only four grand for the car.”

  The water was running. Wasn’t sure she heard me.

  I got on the phone. The desk at the Wheelhouse was open all night.

  “You folks have any clothesline or rope up there?” I asked.

  “No, Mr. Gibson. Sorry.”

  “Damn. Well…how about duct tape?”

  By dawn, the parking lot at the Lucky Devil was almost empty. I supposed Chrissy’s red Firebird was a little conspicuous among all those absences, but on the other hand, it was a familiar set of wheels here. I parked back almost to the trees and sat and watched.

  The hookers began exiting their trailers with little suitcases, heading for home. After spending fifteen minutes checking his watch every three, the parking lot bouncer went in the casino exit, off-duty apparently. Some dancers and waitresses came for their cars, which were also parked toward the back, leaving me more bare than a Lucky Devil stripper at the end of her third song.

  I had the dark-blue windbreaker on over a light-blue polo shirt; also black jeans and running shoes. Also the nine millimeter, in my right hand, in my lap.

  At a little after six, Jerry G—still in the gray silk suit and black t-shirt and gold chains—escorted some guests out the exit of the private poker room, nobody I recognized from the mid-week game. They had the well-dressed look and confident bearing of the high-stakes player, though they were dragging some, having played all night. And some, presumably, had lost some dough.