Max Collins - Quarry's ex

The. 38 was nice. Might be worth keeping as a souvenir, or maybe I would take Skull’s, since Juke’s had been used in a killing.

So I just sat in the booth to the right of the door-Skull was in the booth to its left, not at all talkative-and waited, doing my best to ignore the shit stench. I did not partake of the beers that the bikers had brought along-a cooler was in back of the counter-because the last thing I wanted was to really have to piss.

A little before six-thirty, a key worked in the locked front door.

Then James Kaufmann entered, and frowned at the empty chair. His nose twitched at the strong foul odor. It sent his gaze toward Skull, and the producer seemed about to duck out when I rose and got into his view and displayed the. 38.

“Have a seat, Bubba,” I said.

“What the hell happened here, Jack?” he asked. “I was just coming out to-”

“We’re going to skip the bullshit.”

With the snubby, I indicated the chair in the middle of an otherwise empty floor, where the abandoned strapstrands of duct tape lay near the chair legs like the Invisible Man had undressed himself and gone for a stroll.

Slowly the producer moved to the chair. I shut the door for him. He sat. He was in a light-blue polo shirt, darker blue slacks, and Italian loafers with no socks. He wore the puka necklace again and the pink-tinted aviators.

I sat on one of the diner stools, facing him. I told him to turn the chair so I could look at him, and added, “Take the fucking sunglasses off. I want to see your eyes.”

They were light blue, attractive but badly spider-webbed red.

“Where…” he began. “Where’s the other one?”

“Juke? Out back. With his throat cut.”

Here’s the funny part. Whether funny ha ha or funny ironic, I will leave to you and your individual tastes. He pissed himself.

And he started crying. Tears ran down his pockmarked cheeks. I figured he was probably a sociopath or at least a very, very selfish prick, and was fairly sure this was the only kind of instance that might summon real tears from him.

“I’m gonna make this quick,” I said, “because it stinks in here. Between you pissing yourself, and Skull over there shitting himself…well, I don’t figure the health inspector’s going to approve this place without some major effort.”

He swallowed. He wasn’t crying anymore, but he snuffled snot. “Who…who sent you?”

“That’s the question you wanted to ask me, isn’t it, Jimbo? Well, you don’t get it answered. You’re afraid maybe Licata got wind of your scheme, and sent me, right? Maybe. Maybe not. You’ll never know.”

“Why…why not tell me?”

“Why give you the satisfaction?” I shook my head. “He told you, didn’t he? Stockwell told you about me. Not in detail, just that somebody was trying to kill him and I was here to help. Right?”

Swallowed. Snuffled. Nodded.

“When-last night?”

Swallowed. Snuffled. Nodded.

I grunted a laugh. “Right after I told the bastard that I suspected you. I should leave here right now and let you hire somebody new and just kill the motherfucker. He could use a lesson in reality.”

“Artie…Artie didn’t believe I could do such a thing.”

“Because you went to school together. Because you were best friends, all these years. Best man at his wedding.”

More nodding. No more tears. “We were tight…we were like brothers. I was closer to him than…than his goddamn wife ever was. He never thought…never thought I could do that to him.”

“Most poor boobs never think the person they love would ever cheat on them,” I said. “Artie Baby just joined the biggest fucking club in the world.”

“…Are you going to tell him?”

I nodded over at Skull. “You should be more concerned about whether I’m going to kill your sorry ass.”

Now he looked like more tears might come. “Why… why did you do that? Why would you kill them?”

“They grabbed me at gunpoint and tied me to a chair. I would have killed them for just one of those. And you were the one who told them to do it.”

This time he swallowed very slow and hard. Then he held his head up high. Proud. “So just kill me. You might as well kill me. I’m finished anyway.”

“I’m not sure you are. Weasels like you always find a way. Some new sucker to befriend and fool. You’ve got a pretty smooth line. When I ruled out Licata, and played process of elimination, I got to thinking about who might have been able to provide a contract killer with a key to Stockwell’s hotel room…and you came to mind. You’re the producer, who booked all the rooms and pays for them. Just a little clue, but suggestive.”

Kaufmann said nothing.

“But here’s what I don’t get. The completion bond-that’s a risky proposition. It’s possible that before an insurance company paid off, another director would be brought in to finish the picture.”

He shrugged. “Possible. Not likely.”

“You used to be in insurance, Jimbo. What’s the rest of the scam? What else have you set up?”

His smile was small but oddly proud. “We’re business partners, Artie and me. He has a quarter million-dollar policy on my life, I have a quarter-million policy on his.”

“Double indemnity for accidental death?”

He nodded. His hands were in his lap. I don’t need no stinking duct tape.

“So…what? You’re in charge of the money, and you’ve embezzled? The director dies and the completion bond pays the bills. But wouldn’t what you took show up anyway?”

“Give me a little credit. I’m the accountant, too, Mr. Reynolds.”

“Please. We’re past that, Jimbo. Make it Jack. Hell, make it Jacko.”

“I only…only took what I had coming to me.”

“Explain.”

He shrugged. “Both Art and me, we took a very small part of our salaries up front. The rest is back-end. Paid only out of profits. But with a sequel to a hit picture, that should be lucrative. Only…we would run out of production money first, because of…you know.”

“Because of what you stole. How much back-end money was coming to you, Jimbo?”

“Two hundred thousand.”

“You were going to have your best friend killed, for two hundred thousand?”

He shook his head. “No. There’s the other policy.”

“That’s right! Half a million. Well, that’s different. Snuffing your best friend for seven-hundred thou. Who wouldn’t do that?”

He lowered his head. His eyes looked sleepy now. Defeated. “…Are you going to kill me?”

“Where did the money go, Jimbo?”

He snuffled. Then he tapped his nose.

And it finally made sense: drug addicts will sell anybody out for their needs. Mom, Dad, Sis. Best friends? In a heartbeat. An accelerated heartbeat.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” I said with a sigh, sliding off the stool, revolver in hand. “You have a busy afternoon ahead of you. You are going to go buy yourself a shovel, and some cleaning products, and you are going to clean up my mess. Which is to say, your mess.”

“I don’t…I…”

“A shovel, some Lysol, some Brillo pads and maybe some rubber gloves. Pretty much all you’ll need. Drive these dead assholes into the desert, dig a nice deep hole- you’ll need six feet, minimum, or the predators will make a buffet out of ’em, but still leaving enough behind to make it risky. These boys worked for you on your movie, and if even table scraps of them turn up, questions will be asked.”

He was astounded. Horrified. He almost had the nerve to get up out of the chair. “We’re going to bury the bodies?”

“No!” I had a good laugh at the thought of that. “No, you’re going to bury the bodies. And clean up the blood and the shit. The blood out back, on the ground-buckets of soapy water maybe? To dilute it down to nothing?”