Max Collins - Quarry in the middle

“Yes it is.”

“Who are you again?”

“Your doctor. Dr. Leefer.”

“I’m staying on my pills.”

“That’s good, Mr. Giovanni. That’s good.”

The door opened and we both jumped a little. A guy with a Freud beard and no hair on his head and goggle-size eyeglasses came in, checking his clipboard. He had a name tag that said dr. leefer. He frowned at me.

“And you are?” he asked.

The old man answered for me: “He’s my doctor.”

“If he’s your doctor, Mr. Giovanni, who am I?”

“Don’t you know?” The old boy nodded toward me. “Maybe Dr. Leefer here can tell you.”

I stood. Went over to the doc and said, “I’m his nephew Al-Al Giovanni in from Chicago, Dr. Leefer. How’s he doing? He seems a little confused.”

He frowned at me. “Were you in an accident, Mr. Giovanni?”

He could see the contusions and scrapes on my face.

“No, I had a little altercation across the river. Haydee’s Port?”

“Ah,” he said, accepting that.

“But I am really am concerned about my uncle…”

He tried not to sigh and almost succeeded. He spoke softly: “Well, I’ve explained all this to Mr. Giovanni’s son. This is not senility, nor do I think we’re looking at Alzheimer’s. Mr. Giovanni has suffered, and continues to suffer, minor strokes. They’ve caused no physical disability to date, but his memory is severely affected. But I’m glad you’re here, Mr. Giovanni.”

“Are you? Good.”

Dark eyebrows rose over the big eyeglass lenses. “Mr. Giovanni’s son hasn’t accompanied his father to the last three appointments, and I need to stay abreast of how Mr. Giovanni is doing at home. He’s been able to dress himself, bathe himself, fix himself small meals. Watches television, and can enjoy himself in, shall we say, the moment. Or that has been the case-I obviously can’t ask Mr. Giovanni about these things himself, which is why it’s better if his son would take a stronger interest. I don’t mean to be judgmental, but if Mr. Giovanni can no longer perform these simple tasks, he will need a different kind of long-term care.”

“To the best of my knowledge,” I said, “he’s still able to do those things, dress himself and so on.”

“Good. That’s very good to hear. Now, I’m going to give your uncle a series of cognitive tests. Would you like to sit in?”

“No, no, doc-I think having me here might distract the old fella. You do your thing, and I’ll just wait outside…So long, Uncle Gigi.”

“So long, Dr. Leefer,” he said.

I found my way out, the nurse giving me a glare (I’d clearly really exceeded the toilet time limit), moved through the waiting room where the bodyguard was holding his magazine sideways, and went out to my car.

No fast getaway necessary.

After I called from the bar downstairs, Cornell received me in his third-floor office. The Paddlewheel was open-it was around six-thirty-but business wasn’t bustling yet, as this was not exactly a place where you went for the early bird special.

He emerged from the bedroom, tying a black rope belt around his maroon dressing gown; his legs were bare and as tanned as George Hamilton’s neck and his feet were in slippers. He was lighting up a cigarette and his unblinking aqua-blue eyes narrowed, taking me in.

“What happened to you?” he asked, so concerned he flopped into the nearest overstuffed brown leather chair as he tossed a spent match in an ashtray.

I sat nearby on the matching couch. Cocaine ghosts haunted the glass coffee table.

I said, “Two of Jerry G’s greeters took me out back and beat the fuck out of me.”

His eyes tightened a little. “You all right?”

Was there an end to his compassion?

“I am, now. This happened Wednesday, or really Thursday morning, and I slept round the clock. Nothing broken. This is what that hazardous duty pay is for.”

“Drink?”

I had trained him not to say drinky-poo.

“I could stand a Diet Coke.”

He called, “ Chrissy! ”

The bedroom door opened and the little babe with the big yellow perm emerged, painting her nails red. She had on black panties and half a white t-shirt, the underside of pert breasts showing.

“What?”

“Fix me up with a drink, and my friend with a Diet Coke.”

She zombie-walked over to the bar, painting her nails all the way, not blessing either of us with a glance. She was efficient, though, and only two minutes or so passed before Cornell had a tumbler of Scotch and ice cubes and I had a cold can of Diet Coke.

“Thanks,” I said. “Things go better with Coke, you know.”

She said nothing, her lips almost forming a smirk but lacking the enthusiasm for that commitment. She padded into the bedroom, the perfect moons of her bottom exposed below the cut of the panties. She could have used a spanking. So could my dick.

Alone again, my employer and I made a half-hearted toast, and he said, “Why don’t you fill me in?”

“I don’t do details. I can tell you’ve I’ve determined, to my satisfaction anyway, that the old man is out of it.”

The tanned forehead formed white creases. “Out of…what?”

“It. Any contract on you, any aspect of running the Lucky Devil in particular and downtown Haydee’s Port in general, anything greater than putting on his pants, wiping his bottom and warming up some cocoa.”

He grinned, a white slash in the tan puss, but his forehead kept on frowning. “What is he, senile?”

“As good as. He’s had a bunch of little strokes, and Jerry G is Chief Big Shit now. Sonny Boy apparently hasn’t advertised papa’s delicate condition because the old reprobate has a big rep, and Jerry still needs to bask in it.”

Cornell shook his head. “I hate to say it, but Jerry G has something of a reputation himself. That’s one of the reasons why this Chicago conflict, between the Giardelli brothers, continues to just simmer, never boil over. The status quo is too appealing-me running the Paddlewheel effectively, and profitably…and Jerry G doing the same with his sleazeball operation downtown.”

“I believe Jerry G does more than just run the Lucky Devil,” I said. “I think some major drug-running is going on, and Christ knows what other contraband. We are right on the river.”

“I’ve heard the scuttlebutt.” He shrugged, swirled the liquid in its tumbler, studied it as if looking for tea leaves to read. “So-it’s just Jerry G, then. Are you prepared to go forward?”

“With what?”

He frowned. “What the hell do you think, love? Handling the Jerry G problem.”

“You want him gone, I’m fine with that. But I haven’t got the goods on him.”

The forehead creased again. “What goods are those?”

“Making sure Jerry G took out the hit. How do you know this didn’t emanate straight from Chicago?”

He waved that off. “No. No, it’s Jerry G. Has to be.”

“Dickie bird, I think he knew I was working for you, when he had me taken out to the woodshed. He could have had them kill me, but he didn’t. Why?”

His shrug was elaborate. “Perhaps Jerry G thought it would backfire on him-he’d get his ass in a wringer with the Chicago family, killing one of my people.”

“He’d fear that, but take you out? Does that really make sense?”

He smiled on half his face, his expression as patronizing as his tone. “Of course it does. One killing of a subordinate can lead to more such killings, which can lead to a battle here in Haydee’s Port that could become an all-out war in Chicago.”

“Whereas removing you would be the kind of single stroke that could change everything all at once?”

“Right-o. That’s how I see it, at least.”

I sipped my Diet Coke. Shrugged. “So the job is, take care of Jerry G?”