Stone Quarry (5 page)

The cat whose face they were in crouched on a pile of boxes, hissed, thrashed its tail. It turned, flowed through a broken windowpane and was gone.

I breathed. "Shit," I said to the vanished cat. "You could get killed doing that." I put my gun away, rubbed the back of my neck.

"Hey, Smith!" Tony yelled from above. "What the hell are you doin' down there?"

"All right!" I yelled back. I stepped over a broken barstool into the center of the room and yanked the chain on the dangling bulb. The sudden glare brought sharp edges and color springing out of the soft shadows. I looked around, searching for a clear path to the back of the room, but I never found it.

From the back wall near the floor another pair of eyes met mine. These didn't blink either, but they didn't glitter. They were human, and they were dull because they were dead.

Chapter 4

He must have been standing right up against the back wall when he was shot. Three dark rings with darker centers the size of a baby's fist stained his shirt. He'd slumped down leaving a thin smear of blood on the ancient whitewash, until he settled, sitting on the dirty floor, one arm over a case of empties as though it were a friend of his. His face was a mottled gray, like candlewax and ashes, and from his slack, open mouth a thin line of blood, now dry and cracking, had dripped down his chin to splash perfect circles onto his open, bony hand.

I knew those hands. After last night, the way they'd circled my throat, shaking and choking, after that I'd have known them anywhere.

He looked so foolish, so surprised. I wanted to close his eyes, his mouth, cover him with something. He was indecent, unready as the curtain went up on his final show, probably the only starring role a guy like him had ever had.

I knelt, felt his neck for a pulse. I knew it was stupid. I lifted the edge of his coat with a finger, looking for the gun he'd had last night. It was gone.

The sweet smell of blood was thick in the damp air. I let his coat fall and stayed where I was, prowling the floor with my eyes. I didn't know what I was looking for but I
found it, a set of keys on a silver ring in the dirt by his knee. I stared at them in the dim light; then I took out a handkerchief, picked them up in it, and slipped them, wrapped, into my pocket.

I stepped back the way I'd come, careful not to disturb anything I hadn't disturbed already.

The creaking of the stairs as I went up seemed louder than before, but I could have been wrong about that.

Tony and I were sitting at the round table in the front of the room, about as far from the cellar as you could get. I was drinking bourbon; he was drinking gin. Tony had called the state troopers. Now all we had to do was wait.

A fly, early and stupid, staggered slowly around a wine stain in the red-and-white tablecloth like an old man avoiding a puddle.

I lit a cigarette, shook out the match. "Tell me about it, Tony."

Tony looked into the glass in front of him. He didn't find anything but gin. "Nothin' to tell."

"There's a stiff in your cellar says otherwise."

He raised his head sharply, glared at me. "You think I put him there?"

I shook my head. "You didn't even know he was down there or you wouldn't have sent me down. But you do know something, Tony. About what?"

Tony didn't answer. I sipped my bourbon, tried again. "What did Grice want last night?"

"Ah, shit!" He slammed his glass onto the table. "He thinks he's got somethin' on Jimmy."

"Does he?"

Tony poured himself another slug of gin. He didn't speak.

"What does he want?" I asked. "For whatever he's got?"

He shrugged, drank. "I told him to go to hell."

"Does that mean you don't know? Or you don't care?"

He started to stand, his face darkening. He started to speak, too, but stopped, clamped his mouth shut, and sat back down heavily. He stared at his gin, then drank it as though he were doing it a favor.

I took the handkerchief from my pocket, unwrapped it, laid it on the table. The keys on the silver ring glinted between us.

Tony's eyes narrowed. "Where did you get those?"

"Downstairs," I said. "They're Jimmy's, aren't they?"

Sirens wailed as cars screeched into the lot. I slipped the keys back in my pocket. Doors slammed and the curtains at the front window pulsed red and blue.

"Tony," I said quietly, "I'm on your side."

He got up to open the door for the law.

Sheriff Garrett Brinkman, followed by a paunchy, sleepy-eyed deputy, stepped around Tony into the room. Their boots made hard sounds on the worn wood floor. Brinkman wore high black boots like a motorcycle cop, and kept them shiny enough to see your face in. He was a long-faced, long-legged man whose hair was thinning and hadn't been much of a color when he'd had it. His hands were big and his eyes were small. When he was young, he'd played right field for a Triple-A ball club. He still held the minor-league record for spiking second basemen.

"Brinkman."Tony scowled. "What the hell are you doing here? I didn't call you, I called the troopers."

"No, how about that?" Brinkman drawled amicably, his eyes shifting from Tony to me, back again. "My county,
you
find a dead guy, but you call the state and you don't call me" He smiled a small, nasty smile, and waited, eyes
on
Tony, for an explanation we all knew he didn't need and wasn't going to get. Then he shrugged. "But what the hell, Tony. We picked it up over the radio. So I thought we'd come give the pretty boys from the state a hand, in case they need to find their dicks or something." Brinkman turned to me, the nasty smile widening. "And how lucky can I get?" he said. "Look who's here."

"Hello, Brinkman," I said. "Long time."

"Not long enough, city boy." The smile pushed back the deep creases that ran from his nose to his chin. "I hope you're messed up in this."

"Sorry." I smiled too. It was in the air. "I found him. That's all I know."

"We'll see," said Brinkman. Then, "Show me."

I pushed my chair back, got up from the table. I was about to throw bac
k the last of my bourbon when Br
inkman put his hand over my glass. "I like my witnesses sober."

"Yeah," I said. "I guess alcohol could dull the pain." I stopped smiling.

"Don't push me, city boy," Brinkman said softly.

I walked around him, opened the cellar door. Brinkman and the deputy clattered down the wooden stairs. Tony and I followed.

I'd left the light on. Sharp black shadows lay heavily beyond the circle of it. "Where?" Brinkman asked.

"In the back." I showed him how to go.

We picked our way among things once wanted, now useless and decaying. The four of us collected in a semic
ircle at the back wall. The littl
e bony guy stared at us out of sightless eyes, his
arm still over the dusty bottles
, his mouth still open.

"Well," said Brinkman. "This just gets better, doesn't it?" The smile twitched again at a corner of his mouth. "Know him?"

Tony took that one. "Met him once," he said tightly. "Don't know his name."

"Oh?" said Brinkman. "Well, his name's Wally Gould. Works for Frank Grice. What I hear, he does anything so dirty even Grice won't touch it. What's he doing here, Tony?"

"How the hell should I know?"

"Smith?" Brinkman said over his shoulder, without looking at me. He squatted next to the body, moved the dead man's coat aside, as I had. His boots scratched in the dirt as he stood again and turned.

"Forget it, Brinkman. I came down to shut off a leaky valve. I found him like this, we called the troopers, got you instead. That's it."

"I guess you didn't know him either?"

"I met him once, same as Tony."

"Uh-huh. When was that?"

Tony answered before I could. "Last night. Grice was here with two guys—this guy, and some big gorilla. I threw ‘em out.

Brinkman raised his eyebrows, the small smile still playing on his lips. "And they just went?"

"No. They were lookin' for trouble."

"Oh." Brinkman let the smile grow. "That what happened to your face?" he asked me.

"I was born with this face, Brinkman. Some days it just looks worse than others."

Brinkman pushed back his hat, revealing more of his endless forehead. "You know, a guy in your position should show more respect for the law."

"What position am I in?"

"Hey, you're the top man on my shit list, Smith. Ahead of Tony's little shit brother, ahead of Tony, even ahead of Frank Grice. Right on top."

"Listen, Brinkman, I'm sorry about your little plan to put a net over Grice, but it wouldn't have worked anyway. Jimmy wasn't going to deal."

"He sure as hell was, until you and your New York Jew lawyer fucked me up. Fucked me up real good. I sneeze in this county now, my fucking county, Grice yells for his lawyer. 'Harassment.' 'Brutality.' Where the hell you think he learned that shit, Smith? Fucking city lawyer shit!"

"Too bad it's so easy to believe."

Brinkman's mouth twisted into an ugly shape. He made a grab for me but the deputy, smooth and graceful the way a fat man can be, slipped his bulk between us, his back to me, his cushiony hands on Brinkman's arms. "Come on, Sheriff. Everyone's upset here. I'm sure Mr. Smith didn't mean nothing by it."

Brinkman snarled, shook the deputy off, took a step back. "Oh, he did, Art. He sure did," he said, controlled and soft.

He turned and looked at Wally Gould, still sitting stupidly in the dirt, staring at nothing. Then he turned back. "All right. Upstairs. Art, call the pretty boys at the state, find out where the hell they are." His small eyes lit with a thought. "Smith, you packing a gun?"

"You know I am." I held my jacket open so he could see the Colt under my left arm.

"Give it to me."

I laughed. "You're not in a good enough mood for me to reach for a gun, Brinkman. You take it."

His hands clenched and he took a step toward me. Then he stopped, his eyes on mine, and the mean little smile came out of nowhere, spread like a stain across his face.

He reached for my holster, snapped the safety off, slid the gun out. It was the gun I carry when I have a choice, an old snub-nose five-shot. He looked at it wonderingly, held it out for Art to see. "Look at this shit. Christ, Smith, why don't you get yourself a piece that works?"

"It works."

"Oh?" He broke it open, sniffed at it. "Maybe so. Been cleaned lately."

"I keep it clean. I like clean things."

"How about that, Art?" He nudged the deputy. "A city boy that likes clean things."

He pocketed my gun and moved toward the stairs, pushing me aside instead of stepping around me to show he could.

Upstairs the air was better. The company was the same.

Brinkman settled on a barstool, his back to the bar, his elbows resting on it. "Where's Jimmy?" he asked Tony pleasantly.

"I ain't seen him in a coupla weeks."

"Oh, come on, Tony. Doesn't he live with you? In that
big
old place your grandpa built?" Brinkman jerked a thumb in the direction of Tony's house across the road from the bar.

"He moved out Christmas."

"You throw him out?"

Tony's eyes blazed. "Go to hell, Brinkman."

Brinkman smiled. "Well, I'll find him. You seen him, Smith?"

"I just came up night before last."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why'd you come up?"

"I've been coming here for eighteen years, Brinkman. I never needed a reason before."

"Well, city boy," Brinkman drawled, crossing a shiny boot over his knee, "maybe you're going to need one from now on."

Chapter 5

The state troopers' Bureau of Criminal Investigation for the tri-county area was near Bramanville in a gray block building off the state highway. It was surrounded by a featureless field of grass and a parking lot. The grass was brown and thin now, at the chill end of winter, but spring wouldn't make much difference to it.

I was sitting where I'd been sitting for close to an hour, in a one-windowed office at the end of a narrow corridor. The walls were paneled in wood-veneer pressboard and hung with a pin-dotted county map and photos of the governor. Glass-doored bookshelves held law enforcement manuals and phonebooks. A big wooden desk with a glass top sat diagonally across a corner of the room, facing the door. I sat facing the desk.

The man whose office it was, Senior Investigator Ron MacGregor, got up from behind the desk to shut the door. MacGregor was unremarkable to look at, medium height, medium build, about as much red, thinning hair as you might expect on a man pushing fifty. A few freckles still stood out on his thin face and he had tired blue eyes.

MacGregor and I knew each other casually and accidentally. A good trout stream ran through the bottom of my land. I didn't fish it often, because from where I was it was nearly inaccessible. My land was vertical, ten acres spread down the side of a steep hill, with a few shelves like the one the cabin was on and just enough of a levelling out near 30 that a road could be coaxed out of it.