Quarry's Deal (16 page)

32

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LU WAS SITTING
at a table near the bar, waiting for me. “Where you been?” she wanted to know, She looked tired, but good. She always looked good.

“The john,” I said.

I’d had my jacket on upstairs and it was all that got noticeably wet. It was now folded over my arm.

“Tree still in his office?” I asked her.

“Yeah. Expecting you, I guess.”

“This won’t take long. You don’t mind waiting?”

“How can I mind?” she said, with a wry grin. “We came in one car, remember?”

Tree’s door was open.

I closed it behind me.

“This room soundproof?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said, from behind his desk, “or damn near.”

“Let’s pretend it isn’t.”

I pulled the chair around by him and leaned head to head with him and spoke very softly.

“I took the liberty of firing your dealer at table four,” I said. “He and his friend with the Chevelle were planning to heist you tonight.”

He showed his teeth, but he wasn’t smiling. “I figured as much, after thinking over what we talked about before. You got rid of them, then? How?”

“Took their guns away, put a little scare into ’em. They won’t be back.”

“That irritates the fuck out of me. How do you like those little sons of bitches? Little son of a bitch, after he lost big that one time, must’ve figured I’d fire him if he ever did again . . .
brings in a friend and they feed some of their own money into holding onto the seat at that table, figuring to rip me off and get their money back and mine, too, little bastards . . .”

“And they might’ve done it.”

“Those little turds? Why . . .”

“Why not? You mean if they stuck a gun in your nuts, you wouldn’t tell them about your floor safe? They’re idiots in a lot of ways, but just the same they put a lot into this, both money and time and even some thought. They figured out the weakness of your security set-up, which is those few minutes after closing, after all or anyway most of the dealers are gone, when you’re here alone, with none of the alarm systems turned on. Which is something you might want to do something about sometime.”

“Why’d they rough you up that time?”

“Maybe to get back six hundred bucks I won off them. Maybe they wondered if you were onto them somehow, and wanted to see if you planted me at the table, to keep an eye on them. It’s also possible one of them saw me approach you that first time in the parking lot.”

“You saved me a lot of money tonight, Quarry.”

“Hey, I saved your ass. They could’ve killed you. At the least they’d caused some wear and tear.”

“It’s hard to put a price on something like that, isn’t it?”

“Let’s try.”

He smiled on half his face and leaned over and swung open the door of the big safe. He took out every packet of money in there, six packets in all, and stacked them on the desk in front of me.

“Three thousand. Above and beyond our other arrangement. Speaking of which . . .” He opened a desk drawer and took out a check and put it on top of the stacked money packets. “The first thousand I owe you. Made out as you instructed.”

“Good,” I said. “Now. I want you to do something.”

“What?”

“Don’t go home tonight. Don’t talk to anyone. That includes that cunt of yours.”

“Ruthy? But . . .”

“Especially Ruthy.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Ruthy is a good friend of Lu’s.”

“So what?”

“You gave Lu the bartender job because Ruthy asked you to, isn’t that right? Because they were old friends?”

“Yes, yes, but what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Lu is half the hit team, Frank.”

“She’s what . . . ?”

“You heard me.”

“How long have you known this?”

“All along. I followed her here from Florida. Do you know where she lives, Frank?”

“Yes . . . yes I do . . .”

“Where, Frank?”

“Across the street from me.”

“Who found her the apartment, Frank?”

“I think Ruthy did.”

“That’s right, Frank.”

He kind of flopped back in his chair. His eyes were glazed, empty, like glass eyes.

Then he sat forward and said, “But, Christ, man . . . you’re living with her . . . sleeping with her . . .”

“Which just goes to show you can’t trust everybody you sleep with.”

“How can you . . .”

“Hey, what better way to keep track of the situation, huh?”

“She could kill you.”

“I could kill her.”

“You’re pretty goddamn fucking sure of yourself.”

“She wouldn’t kill me unless she was sure she needed to. People in this line of work aren’t frivolous about killing. She was hired to do you in, not me, and unless she’s sure I’m in her way, she wouldn’t consider it. Especially in an apart- ment she rented herself.”

“This is crazy . . .”

“Right. Anyway, drive someplace. Fifty miles away from here, or more. Check into a motel. You can come back to work tomorrow, and I’ll see you here, tell you where we stand. Till then, don’t be anywhere.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Listen, I thought I had a handle on this. I thought I knew who the two people were that had your number, and that one of them was that little dealer of yours, with the glasses. Only he isn’t, he’s just some little jerk planning some little heist, so all bets are off, and I got to rethink this whole fucking deal, because I only know now for sure one of the two people who’re here to cancel your subscriptions to those girlie magazines there. Now that makes me nervous. It ought to make you more than that. Go home tonight and maybe you don’t wake up in the morning. Well?”

“I’ll do what you say.”

“Fine. Got a gun to take along?”

“Yes.”

“Good. See you tomorrow night.”

The pockets of the jacket were dry, and I stuffed half the packets of money into each pocket, tucked them down deep, and put the check in my billfold.

Then I carefully folded the jacket over my arm and went out and smiled at Lu, who rose from the table, hooked her arm in mine, and we drove back to Des Moines, to the apartment, and made love and fell asleep in each other’s arms.

33

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THE NEW PLAY
opened tonight at the Candle Lite Playhouse, and the marquee had been changed accordingly. It was early afternoon and the block’s worth of parking lot adjacent to the big brick two-story was empty. I parked along the side of the building, with a few other cars; Christine Price and a couple other people had apartments here in the theater building, and the cars probably belonged to them.

I’d spent a leisurely morning at the apartment. Lu slept in till damn near noon. I was awake around seven and sat drinking Sanka, watching the morning game shows and soap operas on the portable, volume turned down low. I watched the shows but didn’t watch them. Thinking is what I did. A lot of thinking.

Then when Lu woke up, I fixed a late breakfast for us. She appreciated that. She said it took a liberated man to work in the kitchen. I said it took a bachelor. As we ate I told her I had another job interview this afternoon, and she said fine and didn’t ask for particulars, which was nice of her, as it saved me the trouble of making some up.

There was no problem getting inside at the Candle Lite. The front doors were unlocked, just like the other day. Beyond the front doors, to the left off an entry landing, some stairs led down. Some other stairs, a shorter flight, went up to the lobby. I climbed them, wondering if strike weekend was over.

It seemed to be. The stage set was finished, four-poster bed and other antique furniture assembled into a bedroom, the walls of which were painted and made very realistic-looking scenery. No one was on stage. No one was in the big theater room with its gentle tiers with the small covered tables with chairs.

I walked back out into the lobby and down to the entryway, only I turned left this time, headed on down the stairs to the lower level, where Ruthy’s apartment was.

The big room still looked like the basement it was. Besides a few clusters of stage props, battered furniture, dressing screens, and so on, the room was just a spacious, open area probably used as a rehearsal hall. One large corner of the room, however, was walled off, and considering the size of the place the walled-off area was the size of a small house.

Ruthy’s house.

There was a door, with a glittery star on it. A sarcastic comment on the fact that an actress lived within. At least I thought it was meant to be a sarcastic comment. With Ruthy, who could say?

I knocked.

It didn’t take her long to answer.

She was wearing a red terry cloth robe, but the terry cloth was-brushed or cut some way that made it look like velvet. It was long and flowing, but it clung to her, was belted around her middle and the neckline plunged. Of course.

She touched her hair, which was piled up on top of her head recklessly, and she said, “You really don’t believe in giving a girl much notice, do you? Come on in.”

She led me through, a small living room that looked like a prop room, odd pieces of secondhand furnishings scattered around with no apparent plan, and ranging from a possibly antique love seat to a cigar-store Indian with his cigars broken off. From the living room we passed through a small kitchenette area, just large enough for a table and chairs, refrigerator, stove and sink, and a lot of dirty dishes. Then we were in a tiny hall, about the size of a broom closet, off of which was a surprisingly large bath room on the one side, and her bedroom on the other, the latter being where we finally ended up.

There were only three things in the room: her round bed, with pink sheets and a fuzzy white something spread, unmade; a huge wardrobe trunk, standing open, like a mouth going sideways, with various clothes hanging and drawers that her other things were apparently stored in; and an imposing dressing-room-style dresser with big square mirror surrounded by glowing dwarf light bulbs.
The top of the dresser was cluttered with various sorts of make-up, and on the walls around the mirror, and elsewhere in the room but not as concentrated as here, were pictures of her, both glossy posed photos with the crest of a studio photographer, and large color blow-ups of snapshots taken during various performances of plays she’d been in.

She sat in front of the mirror and started taking some pins out of her hair.

“Make yourself comfortable,” she said. “You want something to eat? I can fix us something. You rather wait till afterwards, for that?”

“Is that why you think I’m here?” I said, sitting on the round bed. “To fuck you?”

She shook her head, not in any response to me, but to make her blond hair tumble to her shoulders, which it did, as if in slow motion. Her smile in the mirror was as smug as it was sexual.

“Why else?” she said. “You knew it was here if you wanted it. And I knew you’d come and get it, sooner or later.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because this is exciting to you. You’re shacked up with my best friend . . . who’d scratch my eyes out if she knew, and yours too, probably. And I’m seeing your new boss . . . who happens to be the type who frowns on somebody messing with his property. I think all of that’s kind of exciting, don’t you?”

“I get chills.”

She dropped her robe to her waist. Cupped her big, small-pointed breasts and looked at them appraisingly in the mirror. Then she took some lipstick and touched it against each nipple, rubbed the dark red rouge into each nipple with the forefinger of either hand, then licked each finger.

I’d had this wrong, from the first day, and there was no excuse for it. I’d made an assumption I shouldn’t have and I was an asshole for it. I had assumed that simply because she was a woman, Lu would naturally play the stakeout role, the passive part.

But I knew now I was wrong.

Lu played the same role I used to play, when I was in the business: she killed people.

And her back-up man had almost as big a tits as she did.

“You’ve traveled around a lot, haven’t you, Ruthy? Played a lot of dinner theaters, all over the country?”

“Sure,” she said. She was using some kind of tiny black pencil or crayon or something to draw a star-shaped beauty mark to the right of the nipple of her left breast.

“And when you appear in a play, you might stay in a town as long as six weeks, or two months maybe?”

“That’s right,” she said, idly.

“Plenty long enough to strike up a relationship with a gentleman friend.”

She gave me that schoolgirl smile of hers, but it dissipated into a smirk as she said, “I’ve been known to know a man now and again.”

“You could get to know a man pretty well in that space of time. Know just about his every habit, whole pattern of his life.”

She shrugged, stood, and let the robe drop to the floor. She had a great ass. Her thighs in back looked smooth, slippery, but firm; her calves were muscular, tapering. She turned and rubbed her breasts, smearing the lipstick but leaving the little black star intact and then kind of scratched at her snatch and said, “I’m gonna have a bath,” and hip-swayed out of the room.

I heard the bath water drawing.

I walked across the nothing hall and into the large bathroom. She was leaning over testing the water as it came out of the faucet. She poured in some milky bubble bath.

There was a counter-top sink, with more make-up and feminine things and another big mirror. There was also a small portable television on the edge of the counter, for her to watch as she bathed.

“Know what a black widow is?” I asked her.

“Sure,” she said, getting in, water still flowing, bubble bath bubbling up, “it’s a female spider that eats her mate. Why? You want eaten?”

“Don’t get me wrong, now,” I said, putting down the lid on the stool and sitting, “I’m not comparing you to a black widow. You don’t kill your men. You just set them up for it.”

A hardening around and in her eyes, very slight, told me she had caught on, for the first time, to what this conversation was about. Till now, she thought it was all some kind of coy sexual ritual, some verbal foreplay thing I was engaging in.

But she didn’t change her style.

“When I get done in this tub,” she said, taking some soap and soaping between her legs, “I can love you to death, if you want, honey.”

“I don’t want. But there’s something I do want.”

“Oh?”

“I want to know whether you picked up your money yet.”

“Huh?” She turned off the water. She slid down under the surface so that bubbles covered-her, except for her lipstick-painted breasts, which bobbled surrealistically on the water.

“I said I want to know whether you picked up the money. “

“What money?” she said.

“If you picked up the money, I want to know where and when. If you haven’t yet, well, have you?”

“Jack, I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Standard operating procedure, back when I was working with the Broker, was for the middle man to accept twenty-five percent down, from whoever was buying the contract. The balance was picked up by the back-up man, the passive half of the team, just a day or so prior to the actual hit; and that was the only contact (and an indirect contact at that, since it amounted to going to a drop point and picking up the cash) the hitmen had with whoever hired them.

Ruthy knew this, and I knew she did.

I turned on the portable TV.

“What are you doing?” she said.

“Turning on the TV,” I said. “What does it look like I’m doing? Say, Ruthy, tell me . . . you’re in show biz. Which soap opera is that that’s on? I can’t tell them apart. Is it
One Life to Live
, or
Another World
or what?”

“Jack . . .”

“You know it’s dangerous having something electrical like this in bathroom. It could fall off into the tub. Oh, but I see you have the cord knotted up, so if that happens the set would unplug itself. That’s smart thinking, Ruthy. Here. I’ll just unplug it for a minute and unwind this cord and, hey it’s nice and long isn’t it? Just plug it in again and there’s your soap opera back. You don’t mind if I keep the volume down while we talk?”

“Jack, I’m getting out.”

“No,” I said. “You just stay put.”

“Jack . . .”

“Stay put,” I said.

I was standing over her, holding the set by the handle on top, holding the plug in the wall socket with my free hand, while silent images of a man and a woman arguing, their faces in close-up, flickered across the screen. I held the set over the water, right above her lap, and said, “What about the money?”

“Jack, let me get out. We’ll go in the bedroom and I’ll make you real happy, Jack, God I’m good, Jack, look at
these
, Jack, Jack, look at
me
, you’d like it in me . . .”

“The money. Where. When.”

“I . . . I made the pick-up yesterday.”

Shit. I’d hoped she hadn’t made it yet, so I could make her lead me to the pick-up when it was made and I could find out who had hired Tree dead.

“Where?” I said.

“Iowa City,” she said.

“Iowa City?”

“Yes, in an alley, in a trashcan downtown. Jack. Jack, can I get out now?”

“You just sit there a minute.”

“If you let me out of here, Jack, I won’t say a word about this, I won’t mention this to Lucille, if you want, I’d even help you get rid of her, Jack, anything, anything you want.”

“Ruthy.”

“Jack?”

“For once I don’t think you’re acting,” I said, and tossed in the TV.