Max Collins - Quarry in the middle

“No. He was in a good mood.”

This was encouraging. He clearly felt I was out of the picture. No extra security measures were being put into motion at the Lucky, meaning no reason to think I’d be up against anything out of the ordinary. The only possible hitch was if he expected to hear from the boys in the boat.

But why should they report back? As far as Jerry G was concerned, I was a dead man. They were just out dumping the garbage. They’d probably either go home or resume their duties at the club, and with as many bouncers as Jerry G employed, on a busy Friday night, the pair might not be missed.

I hoped I wasn’t kidding myself.

“That Firebird,” I said. “Is it yours?”

“Yes.”

“You make payments on it?”

“No. It was a gift.”

“From Jerry G?”

“Actually, from a nice man in Chicago who’s a friend of Jerry G’s.”

I frowned at her. “A man named Giardelli? Vince Giardelli?”

“…Yes.”

Vince was Jerry G’s godfather, just as Tony was Cornell’s, courtesy of wife Angela. That meant the insertion of Chrissy as an under-the-covers agent at the Paddlewheel was a scheme conceived at the highest lowlife level.

I said, “The Firebird-where do you keep the title?”

“Well, in my glove compartment. Where else?”

Oh, a safe deposit box maybe, or a fireproof safe. But somehow I knew Chrissy would come through for me, with just the right idiocy.

“I need wheels,” I said. “Jerry G stole my car and dumped it somewhere. I’ll buy it from you. I’ll give you cash, and you’ll sign the title over.”

“I don’t want to sell it.”

“I wasn’t asking. I’ll give you four grand.”

“It’s worth a lot more!”

“I know it is, but because of you, the other day I got beaten to that bloody pulp you hear so much about, and then, this evening, almost got killed and dumped in the Mississippi. So I figure you owe me. Anyway, you know what they say-you lose half the value the minute you drive it off the lot.”

She thought she understood me now. She unknotted the pink shirt and let the twins out for some air. They were small but perfectly shaped and tilted up, and the nipples were large and puffy and very appealing.

“I told you before,” I said, “that I’d rather kill you than fuck you.”

The little Tuesday Weld mouth was twisting into a knowing one-sided smile. “I don’t think so.”

She stood. Kicked off the sandals. Unzipped the jeans, tugged them off, and as tight as they were, that was fascinating to watch. The jeans left some marks, but nothing that detracted. She had no underpants on, and her pubic triangle was just as yellow as her hair-I was pretty sure she dyed it, and the bush had been cut into a heart shape and thinned a little. Very stylish, and thoughtful, coming from such a self-centered brat.

You must have a very low opinion of me to think I’d fall for this game. That this detestable little cunt could seduce me so easily. For one thing, I didn’t have a rubber handy, and I wasn’t sticking an arrow into that heart unprotected-that reckless I’m not. And for another, she was a detestable little cunt…or did I say that?

I did let her blow me, though, and she was good, very thorough and skilled and while I wouldn’t say she enjoyed herself, she seemed to take a certain pride in her work. When she was done, cheeks less sunken, containing a mouthful of me now, she held up a “wait” finger, and padded naked into the bathroom, where she spit it out in the john, flushed it, then went to the sink and partook of my mouthwash.

“You can use my toothbrush if you want,” I called. Gracious host that I am.

“Thanks!”

“It’s still only four grand for the car.”

The water was running. Wasn’t sure she heard me.

I got on the phone. The desk at the Wheelhouse was open all night.

“You folks have any clothesline or rope up there?” I asked.

“No, Mr. Gibson. Sorry.”

“Damn. Well…how about duct tape?”

By dawn, the parking lot at the Lucky Devil was almost empty. I supposed Chrissy’s red Firebird was a little conspicuous among all those absences, but on the other hand, it was a familiar set of wheels here. I parked back almost to the trees and sat and watched.

The hookers began exiting their trailers with little suitcases, heading for home. After spending fifteen minutes checking his watch every three, the parking lot bouncer went in the casino exit, off-duty apparently. Some dancers and waitresses came for their cars, which were also parked toward the back, leaving me more bare than a Lucky Devil stripper at the end of her third song.

I had the dark-blue windbreaker on over a light-blue polo shirt; also black jeans and running shoes. Also the nine millimeter, in my right hand, in my lap.

At a little after six, Jerry G-still in the gray silk suit and black t-shirt and gold chains-escorted some guests out the exit of the private poker room, nobody I recognized from the mid-week game. They had the well-dressed look and confident bearing of the high-stakes player, though they were dragging some, having played all night. And some, presumably, had lost some dough.

Then Jerry G stepped back in and closed the door.

I stuffed the nine millimeter in my waistband, got out of the Firebird and headed quickly toward the building. I had my right hand on the butt of the nine mil when I knocked with my left on the poker-room door, not a minute after the last guest had gone.

Jerry G opened the door, initially with a pleasant, curious expression that shifted to shock, then rage, then fear, as I pushed through and shut the door behind me.

I’d been hopeful the room would be empty but for Jerry G, knowing I might face the problem of a lingering guest and/or a barmaid tidying up. And I caught a break-it was just Jerry G and me.

I pushed him toward the table, not rough, not gentle.

“Sit,” I said.

He took his usual dealer’s seat, shaking his head. “Where are Bubba and Bruno? What the hell did you do to them?”

“That redneck went by Bubba? Really?”

He didn’t answer. His horsey face was as pale as dead skin. Even his Frankie Avalon pompadour seemed a little droopy. “You…you killed them?”

“I think it was the motorboat engine props that killed Bruno, assuming you mean that big black bastard. Took his face off, like a slice of meat from an Oscar Mayer loaf, and some fingers, too. And it caught him in the throat. Bubba, assuming that’s the white prick? Him I killed, with the sawed-off he would’ve used on me.”

“My God…where…where did you leave them?”

“Where do you think? They’re floating. Your chums are chum.”

That was a little cute. But I was pretty hyper, so cut me some slack. I was pissed at this guy, otherwise I’d have shot him by now.

“What was the idea,” I said, “of that elbow in the nuts? What did I ever do to you?”

“Are you…are you kidding? You came here to kill me, didn’t you?”

“No, first I was trying to figure out if you were the one who hired somebody to kill Cornell. You might have got a pass. But now I just don’t care.”

Hope and fear flickered in his eyes, as if fighting for control. “I’ll pay you twice what he is. What’s he paying you? I’ll give three times!”

“Not an option. Conflict of interest kind of deal.”

His eyes showed the white all around now. “ Listen to me, Quarry…you can walk out of this room a rich man-I can have half a million deposited wherever you say, Swiss account, Caymans, you name it.”

I lifted the hand that wasn’t training a gun on him. “No, you see, you’d hold a grudge. You’d give me the money, sure…but then people would come try to kill me, and that would take the fun out of it.”