Max Collins - Quarry in the middle

“Killed a dude at a register, 7-Eleven.”

“That was stupid.”

“Well, the dude had a gun under there. That’s self-defense!”

The black guy had no comment.

I had removed the duct tape from my mouth, for comfort, not practicality, but had decided that I could not risk undoing the tape locking my ankles-that would likely create obvious movement under the tarp.

“Somethin’ about me,” the white guy was saying, as they spoke across my prone form, “might surprise your black ass.”

“Such as?”

“I like that soul music.”

“You do, huh?”

“I ain’t no redneck. That’s racial. You shouldn’t say that kind of racial shit.”

“Yeah. Sorry. So. What do you listen to? Otis? Wicked Pickett? Aretha maybe?”

“Who? No, no! I like them Blues Brothers.”

“…You gotta be fuckin’ shittin’ me…”

“What?”

“Them pasty white boys can’t sing that shit.”

“Hell they can’t!” Then he started singing “Soul Man,” which I thought was pretty funny, though I didn’t laugh, too busy taking a chance lifting the edge of the tarp near my head just enough to get a fix on where the black guy was…

The black guy, who told the white guy to shut the fuck up-which only made the bastard sing louder, intermingling it with laughter-was wearing gray running shoes. Big ones-size elevens, anyway, with some miles on them. I got a good look, because those stompers were about five inches from the edge of the tarp.

Then the white guy started singing “Rubber Biscuits,” and this the black guy found funny as hell, lightening up, and he was laughing right up until my hands gripped his ankles and brought him sliding down hard onto the floor of the boat, rocking the little craft.

I stood up, like a ghost waking, and flung the tarp off and at the bearded bouncer at the stern, getting a glimpse of the sawed-off, which wasn’t in his hands, rather down in the floor of the boat, a nice break for me.

The black bouncer, whose nine mil was still in his waistband, had let go of the stick guiding the motor (and the boat), which now ran sort of on automatic pilot. He was fumbling not for the gun but for something to push up on, so he could get on his feet and deal with me. He was also saying, “ Fuck! ” over and over again.

The guy was big all right, but right now he was just a bug on its back, and I didn’t have that much trouble shoving him over the side, rolling him off; he made a smaller splash than you’d think, and-on my knees on the metal floor-I grabbed for the stick and swung the boat hard left, sending the bearded guy, still tangled in the tarp, over the right side (the dope still had the amber sunglasses on-at night!), and a hand that had just got hold of the sawed-off lost its grip, leaving the weapon behind.

As the boat swung around, the triple rotors of the Evinrude 25 HP came in contact with the black guy, who was splashing around and treading water desperately. The blades sheared his face off and a noseless red mask remained; as his screaming split the night, I swung the boat around in a circle and the bearded fucker managed to swim just out of its path, but his scarlet-masked partner got another helping, hands coming up protectively and fingers flying like sausages. Somewhere along the line, a rotor blade must have caught his neck, because a geyser of red headed for the moon and didn’t make it.

The bearded guy was still swimming away from me-I had straightened the craft around-but he hadn’t got very far, not far enough to avoid the sawed-off’s blast, which exploded his head and those stupid goggles with it and left him with his neck making its own fountain, not that the moon was ever in any danger of stain.

Then they were both bobbing there, with the night nicely quiet, the river otherwise empty, the full moon giving the water an ivory sheen. The gaseous masses of the universal galaxy made reflections, except where the river had gone frothy with reddish foam.

I headed upstream. Never had much experience with motorboats, but I was getting the hang of it.

On the trip upriver, I grew increasingly uncomfortable in the cold. Some dark clouds had started rolling in, smudging the moon, a wind kicking up, making the water even choppier. I was in a short-sleeve shirt and all I had to put over me was that fucking tarp, and that wasn’t going to happen. But it was good for my head, the chill, because I could think with more clarity.

I was missing my wallet, but that was no big deal-nothing in it but some fake John B. Gibson I.D., driver’s license, social security, a couple of credit cards. The money from the poker game that I’d woken up with on me was not an issue-I’d stowed it in my suitcase back at the motel, after leaving Candace’s mobile home and before going to see Cornell at the Paddlewheel. And speaking of the motel, I still had my room key, stuffed deep in my right front pocket.

Also, I’d been left my wristwatch, which was nothing expensive, just a Timex, and yes the sucker was still ticking-it was ten after midnight. Tonight’s poker game at the Lucky Devil hadn’t even started yet.

I’d given thought to pulling the jon boat in at the Paddlewheel’s little dock, but my Sunbird was in the Lucky Devil lot, and I decided to see if I could risk docking at Jerry G’s landing. That pier was more elaborate than the Paddlewheel’s, with a few other jon boats tied up, plus a brick boathouse for the cabin cruisers that were part of the “recreational boating” fleet that was actually used for drug-, gun-, and who-the-fuck-knew-running.

Fairly adept with the Evinrude by now-my little outing with the two bouncers had taken me maybe twenty miles downriver-I slowed and had a look at the dock, where the only lighting was one yellow security lamp on the boathouse itself. I could see nobody standing watch, the jon boats bobbing at an empty expanse of pier. I glided in and tied up there, and crawled up on the spongy dock.

I had no weapon other than the sawed-off, and I’d used one of its two shells-any reloads had gone down with its previous owner. But it was a formidable-looking weapon and I could still do one blast’s worth of damage, so it was worth hauling along.

A gravel path wider than a sidewalk and narrower than a one-lane road made its way up the slope through trees to the edge of the Lucky Devil parking lot, which was full now. Post-midnight Friday was prime time for the Lucky. The security lighting was subdued, with the handful of lamp poles outshone by the occasionally opening doors of the hooker trailers lining the lot at right and left.

I moved toward where I’d left the Sunbird, with the sawed-off at my side, staying close to cars so that the weapon couldn’t be easily seen. Parking places were rare enough that arriving vehicles were trolling for them, and when a car found a space, it swung in to disgorge drivers and passengers who had already long since passed any legal drinking limit. Dumb loud remarks and drunken louder laughter made dissonant music in the open air.

When I got to where I’d left the Sunbird, I at first thought I’d miscalculated, and was off a row, because the Pontiac wasn’t there. Then I leaned against the Dodge in its space and thought it through: my car keys hadn’t been on me, so that meant Jerry G’s minions had located the Sunbird and moved it, dumped it some-where.

You’re a dead man, I reminded myself. They couldn’t have left your wheels just hanging around their parking lot…

Up a row, however, another Pontiac caught my attention-a familiar cherry-red vehicle that was still in its place: Chrissy’s Firebird convertible, with the top down.

I was maybe twenty feet from the building now, so I lowered my head as I made my way to the Firebird, then knelt beside it, and got the lay of the land. A single bouncer, situated near the casino, was walking the line, keeping an eye on the lot. He didn’t seem to have spotted me, and his only brothers were walking the perimeters where the hooker trailers perched.