Max Collins - The first quarry

Broker nodded at the counter and the guy in denim sat there, while his master came over, removing brown leather gloves, and giving me a smile that was only technically a smile, going up at either end but mirthless and disapproving.

He glanced at the booth fore and aft of mine, noted that they were vacant, and sat rather heavily, then slid over, creating a farting sound on the faux leather of the booth and making me smile.

I asked Broker, “Where’d you find Rumpelstiltskin?”

Broker just looked at me, his puss as blank as a pie pan. “You might want to watch that kind of talk around Roger. He’s a formidable young man. Much like yourself.”

“Then maybe Roger ought to watch himself around me.”

One eyebrow went up. “You seem in a surly mood.”

“Maybe it’s just a preemptive strike, since I figure you aren’t too happy getting called out for a road trip in the middle of the night.”

“And, actually, I’m not. Can you give me the rough details?”

I didn’t respond to that, instead asking, “Who’s going to drive me back? That’s assuming you want me to go back.”

He frowned. “I presume I will drive you, since you indicated the car you’re in may…may require some clean-up.”

“Ah. That’s where Roger comes in.”

“Correct.”

I wiped a fry through the glistening red of watered-down ketchup. “I had to eliminate a business rival.”

He frowned. “I see. And you feel it’s best you give me the details on the ride back, rather than here in public?”

“Yeah. Not many people in this lovable greasy spoon, granted, but just the two of us in your car would be better. I gotta warn you, though. I smell like shit.”

“Is that right?”

I nodded. “The car I drove belongs to that business rival I mentioned. He damn near smoked himself to death. Damn near. And now I got that foul stench in my clothes.”

The Broker folded his hands prayerfully. “Pity. Did you get any identification from this rival?”

“Yeah. If you let me drive your car, I can give you that stuff and you can go over it.”

He nodded crisply.

The thousand-year-old waitress came over and Broker ordered a coffee to go. She stared at him for a moment, as if she were hoping he were an apparition that might disappear and remove the need of carrying out so difficult a task, but Broker didn’t disappear, so she did.

He asked, “Unavoidable, this elimination?”

“No. I needed practice.”

“There’s no need for sarcasm.”

“Ever see A Night at the Opera?”

“What, the Marx Brothers? Of course I have. Why?”

I dragged another fry through red. “Remember the stateroom scene? Every member of the cast piling into a little cabin on that steamship? Well, that’s this assignment. Crawling with names and faces that weren’t in that surveillance report. That’s why I say you may not want me to go back there.”

He sighed and shook his head. “You have to. This is a key client.”

“From Chicago, right?”

He blanched. “How do you know that?”

“When people talk to me, I pay attention.”

The Broker said nothing. His spooky blue eyes were half-lidded. He slid out of the booth, went over and tapped the denim midget on the shoulder, and he and Roger came over. Broker slid back into the booth and Roger sat next to him.

Broker said, “Quietly tell Roger what to expect.”

I considered telling Roger that what he could expect was a life of getting turned away at various amusement park rides for not meeting the height requirement. But I thought better of it.

“Hi, Roger.” I threw Charlie’s car keys onto the booth’s tabletop. Then I nodded out the window at the car parked just beyond where we sat. “You can expect to find a dead man in the trunk of that green Chevelle. Pre-wrapped in plastic, like a picnic sandwich.”

Roger said, “Anything else?”

“A duffel bag of his shit. There’s some skin magazines in the back seat you can help yourself to. My suggestion? Get rid of everything-the whole damn car.”

Roger turned toward the Broker.

Broker said, “I concur.”

Roger nodded.

Then Charlie’s new chauffeur exited the booth and stopped by the counter where he’d been in the middle of his own cheeseburger and fries, and requested of the thousand-year-old waitress a to-go sack, and got back a Lot’s Wife look but eventual cooperation.

By the time the Broker had paid our check, Roger and Charlie and the Chevelle were gone. We stepped into the cold air and the Broker pulled on his leather gloves. I didn’t have to be told which ride was the Broker’s-that silver Cadillac Fleetwood Eldorado.

I’d never been inside one before, let alone sat behind the wheel. But Broker entrusted it to me.

God, it was all leather and padded dashboard with a cassette player and still had the new car smell, and no tobacco stench at all. I felt like I was sitting in a penthouse, not a car. But I hid my reaction from Broker, who I handed Charlie’s wallet.

I drove toward Iowa City, keeping it at seventy, and filled Broker in on what had happened, including Charlie’s elliptical references to the girl’s father and his not so-elliptical references to the professor’s wife.

“He was an untrustworthy man,” the Broker said of Charlie. “You made the right decision.”

“But it’s collateral damage.”

“Ah, and you don’t like collateral damage.”

“No, I don’t, but this guy was a sleazy prick, so I’m over it. But do we need to pull out? Scrap the contract? We have all kinds of players in this that your surveillance guy didn’t pick up on.”

“True. But this is a vital contract.”

“Right. Because that brunette’s father is a Chicago Outfit guy.”

Broker didn’t like hearing me say that.

“And,” I went on, “he wants the prof snuffed because he doesn’t like daddy’s little girl taking entrance exams from a faculty member’s member.”

He sighed heavily. “Something like that. The ‘why’ is not your concern. It’s not even my concern.”

“When assholes like Charlie come waltzing into my life…into our life…it is. So, then, I stay?”

“You stay. But get this thing done.”

“Look, Broker.” My eyes were on the ivory world we were gliding through. “Bumping off a Charlie Who’s-it is one thing. Putting that brunette at risk is another.”

He straightened as much as his seat belt would allow. “Well, under no circumstances take her out. My God, she’s the client’s daughter.”

“Even if she wanders in on me in the process?”

“Wear a ski mask if you have to.”

“Oh, this just gets classier.”

“Quarry…there’s nothing classy about murder.”

“Says the guy in the camel’s hair coat with the Fleetwood Caddy.”

He didn’t have anything to say to that.

Then the Broker turned on a little light on his side of the vast vehicle and went through all that I.D. I’d handed over.

“You’ve looked at this,” he said.

“Yeah. Like I said, he was a PI.”

Broker nodded and went through the credit cards and various papers tucked in with the cash in the fold.

“What does this mean?” he asked, reading aloud from a slip of paper, “ ‘We’ll meet on Monday night at the Holiday Inn lounge. 7 p.m. D.B.’ ”

I shrugged. “Could be this case-could be something else of Charlie’s, something old.”

He frowned at me. “Is that what you think?”

“It’s possible that ‘B’ stands for ‘Byron,’ and that this note is from Charlie’s client.”

“The wife.”

“The wife.”

I glanced over at the Broker and his expression was stricken.

“That means,” he said, “we could have the professor’s wife added to your stateroom scene.”