Max Collins - Quarry's ex

“No. I just didn’t…nothing.”

“What, Jack?”

“Feelings. I thought were dead. Never expected…come back. I don’t know. I don’t know what I mean.”

For maybe a minute we just lay there. I could feel our hearts beating in sync.

Then, very quietly, she asked, “Why did you ask me…?”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No. Say it.”

“What made you think I wanted Art dead?”

“Because somebody does. And you stand to benefit.”

“You think I could be capable of that?”

“What would ever make me think so?”

“…Jack, that was a long, long time ago. We were both kids. I was a fucked-up kid from a rough goddamn place. I just wanted a better life, Jack. And I never, never, never, never wanted you to die over there.”

“Like your first two husbands, you mean.”

“I didn’t want them to die, either. I didn’t love them like I loved you, but-”

“Please! No.”

“All I wanted was to make you…all three of you…but especially you, Jack…feel alive for a while, have a good time, experience a little joy, before you went over there where…where the odds were so stacked against you.”

“And all you got out of it was monthly paychecks followed by death bennies?”

“What do you want me to say? I gave you something to live for, Jack-can you deny it? Something to come home for? And you came home, didn’t you? You came home.”

“I came home.”

“And we finally had it, didn’t we?”

“What?”

“Our proper homecoming.”

I laughed at that shit and pushed her away.

“Give me a fuckin’ break,” I said, off the bed and onto my feet. “You better go back to your room. Art’ll be back from viewing his dailies before long.”

She looked hurt. Wordlessly, she got out of bed and climbed into the bikini, then sashed the little white robe around herself.

Naked, I escorted her to the door. She was halfway into the hall when she looked back with mournful brown eyes and said, “You’ve changed, Jack.”

“You haven’t,” I said. “Still fucking around on your husband.”

And shut the door on her.

The phone roused me to darkness, the hotel operator saying, “It’s your wake-up call,” and I thanked her and hung up before glancing at the nightstand clock and saying to myself, It’s four-thirty A.M., what fucking wake-up call?

But that stirred me up enough to realize I had to piss, and on my way to the bathroom, I noticed the white sheet of paper that had been slipped under my door. I picked it up and looked at it with my free hand while I urinated-it was today’s call sheet. For several days I’d been getting these single sheets of paper with a grid of names and other production info, breaking down times for actors and crew members-everybody on the shoot did.

This was Sunday and Hard Wheels 2 normally wouldn’t be shooting, but to accommodate the short schedule of the name actor playing the villain, the production would not have its day off until Wednesday, when he was gone.

On a bigger-budget shoot, this would be an expensive proposition, but I gathered only the name actors and the Teamsters were union, so crew and secondary talent got their normal rates. Working when God rested would allow for a proper “turnaround” so that Stockwell could begin several days of night shooting. All-night shooting.

Anyway, Hard Wheels 2 would be shooting at gas amp; eats again today, inside this time, the interior turned back into a functioning diner, or the approximation of one. That was the plan, as I understood it. But I’d expected the morning call to be eight a.m., which was typical. And I’d had no intention of going out there till nine or even ten.

The person I wanted to talk to often didn’t show up till fairly deep into the day, and I could use a nice relaxing morning swim and figured I’d have some breakfast and develop a strategy for how I intended to handle what yet needed to be done. I had a feeling that I could arrange for my role on this shoot to wrap today.

The call, however, was for six a.m., not eight or even seven, and a handwritten note to me at the bottom said: “Need to talk right away. Meet me at g amp; e at five-fifteen. A.S.” g amp; e was gas amp; eats, of course, and A.S. was Art Stockwell, so I took a shower and got dressed, another polo shirt and chinos and running shoes.

I won’t say the call sheet struck me as overly suspicious, but this endeavor-my endeavor, not Hard Wheels 2 — was at a stage where I was not about to throw caution to the wind. I didn’t feel I could walk around the set with a nine millimeter in my waistband, even with a sport coat over it; so I took a precaution.

In the bathroom, very carefully, soaping the skin up good, I shaved the hair on my inner thigh with my safety razor. Then I used adhesive tape to strap the knife, actually the handle of the knife (four inches long; the blade lived inside), to the inside of my now smooth-as-a-baby’sbottom inner thigh. Right up next to the old nut sack.

Not that the retractable knife would be anything I could get to quickly. More like a last line of emergency defense. But it was better than going out naked.

I did take the nine millimeter along for the ride, but stowed it in the glove compartment, as I drove out of Boot Heel into a desert enjoying the kind of sunrise where a blob of bright yellow and a horizon of brilliant orange blazed under a purple sky.

I was running early, as I intended. I didn’t even bother to stop for a McMuffin. If there was anything hinky about this invite-I was not familiar with Stockwell’s handwriting, and couldn’t be sure he’d left me the note-I wanted to get there before anybody else, friendly or otherwise, and have a good look around.

The sun was climbing when I got to the isolated world of gas amp; eats, but mine was the only car. I’d beat everybody here. Hooray-now what? I parked in the usual area, as if Ginger had been here to direct me, and just walked over and prowled around the place, looking in windows-diner unoccupied, the garage side too-and headed around back. I was fifteen minutes ahead of when “A.S.” had asked me to be here.

I tried the back door to what I presumed was the kitchen, but somebody on the other side opened it first, hard, pushing me back, and two familiar bearded faces stepped out, Skull first, followed by Juke, both in their biker leathers and denims.

To their standard ensemble had been added guns in their fists and they wore the wild eyes of guys whose courage came from uppers. They were on me before I could do a fucking thing, one on either side, and they hauled me through the grease-smelling kitchen and around the counter into the diner.

The tables had been swept aside onto the borders of the room and a single chair-chrome and worn padded plastic, sparkle-red-was waiting.

Juke gave me a pat-down but did not go anywhere near my balls. Which meant I had a chance at getting out of this mess. I wasted no time berating myself, because I don’t think under any circumstances I could have seen exactly this coming. No cars had been out front because they’d arrived on their cycles, and I’d glimpsed those at kick-stand ease in the kitchen when I was dragged through.

And why in hell would anybody hold me captive on a movie set that was maybe half an hour away from a film crew showing up?

They shoved me into the chair and Juke did a little maypole dance with duct tape, tying me into the chair, binding me tight. Some of the tape was on the flesh of my arms. Just a couple of trips around my chest. Nothing around my legs. I began wondering how much I could accomplish tied into a chair with just my legs free.

Probably not much, considering they both had little snubby. 38s. Matched pair-S amp; W Model 15 Combat Masterpieces. Two-inch barrel, full-size grips. Somebody bought those for these clowns, or anyway provided them with the weapons, which were too fucking good for them.