MaxAllan Collins - Quarry's vote

“Stone.”

He thought for a moment, then shrugged, what the hell. “Stone. I.. guess I let that slip before.”

“That’s right.”

“But that’s just what the Broker called him. He was living under another name. Brackett, I believe.”

“I know that, too,” I said.

“Oh, you do. But I have been of some help…”

“You have. Only something doesn’t track, here.”

“What?”

“The two men who tried to hit me. Neither one was this man Stone, Brackett, whatever. I don’t think they were pros, those two.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “Well-I think Stone was going to get offered the job you turned down. George has people working for him who have pretty rough backgrounds. He might have used some of them.”

“How educated a guess is that?”

“Pretty educated. He did say to me… well, he said he was going to have to do something about you.”

“Because I was a loose end.”

“Something like that. He… I admit he makes me more than a little uneasy.”

“And why is that, Mr. Werner?”

“Well, hell-I didn’t want to be a ‘loose end’ myself.” He shrugged, lifted his eyebrows. “But I don’t really think George looks at me that way.”

“Why’s that?”

“He thinks of me as Outfit. Which I still am, to a degree. It’s just that I’m strictly legitimate these days.”

“Do you love your wife, Mr. Werner?”

“What sort of question is that?”

“Do you love your wife?”

“Of course I love her.”

“Well, thanks to you, my wife is dead, and my unborn child. So when I’ve done you, I’ll do Mrs. Werner.”

“No!”

“And I may just look those kids of yours up for the hell of it.”

His eyes went wide with a terror like none I’d ever seen; I let it linger there a few moments, then shot him between them. The heavy camel’s hair overcoat cushioned his fall and he lay on his back staring up at the overcast sky, eyes and mouth open, in a look of empty yet reflective horror.

I had no intention of killing his wife or kids. I didn’t want to lower myself to that level. I just wanted him to think I would.

There’s no reason to believe there’s anything after this life but darkness, and I wanted to make sure the son-of-a-bitch spent at least a few seconds in hell.

The wide one-way of Brady Street burrowed through a valley of plastic and metal and cement that was America in all its fast-food, discount-chain glory. It was Saturday afternoon, and the four lanes were thick with cars; even in the unemployment-stressed Quad Cities, people seemed to have income to dispose of, as car after car would leave the pack and disappear into the jammed parking lot of this temple of Mammon or that one. And on the right, as the valley dipped, between McDonald’s and Payless Shoe Source, an auto lot sprawled, a virtual football field of vehicles,

new and used: BEST BUY BUICK amp; OLDS.

I pulled the rental Buick into the lot and stepped out, looking (I hoped) fairly prosperous in my suit and tie and brown leather overcoat. These, as well as a second suitcase and enough clothes of various sorts to fill it and my immediate needs, I’d bought at shops on the Illinois side of the Cities, at South Park Mall, which hadn’t been far from the Howard Johnson’s I’d checked out of. I had checked into the Blackhawk Hotel, just before heading out Brady Street, and all of this had eaten up most of the morning. It was now approaching noon, the sun bright and reflecting off the shiny new (and used) cars.

I began nosing around. Buicks and Oldsmobiles and Pontiacs. Sporty cars and conservative ones. Expensive ones and less expensive ones. Here a two-tone barge with a vinyl top; there a low-slung number with a garish bird spread over its crimson hood. Symbols of status that told you who you were, in case you didn’t know.

A Mexican blue-collar type was chatting with a heavy-set salesman in a red blazer; the blazer blurred into the red Firebird they were discussing in puffs of smoky breath. A middle-class family was looking a station wagon over; the father was about my age, the mother perhaps ten years younger-two well-behaved kids, a boy and a girl, six and four I’d guess, tagged along. A younger red-blazered salesman was pointing out the benefits of these practical wheels; but I caught the father gazing wistfully at a sporty little two-seater.

I heard the swish of nylon and turned to see a beaming, very blond, startlingly beautiful woman in red blazer and white pleated skirt and blue shoes approaching. Her lipstick was bright red, teeth a dazzling white, and her eyes a deep resonant blue. She was a human American flag, her arms moving like a soldier on parade, waving her hips by way of patriotic greeting.

I couldn’t help but smile; first time in days I’d done that. Her manner was a skillful blending of cheerleader sexiness and no-nonsense businesswoman. You wanted to fuck her, and she implied she’d love to fuck you, as well-only business before pleasure.

“What do you see that you like?” she said, in a tone utterly devoid of innuendo, or for that matter irony.

“Nothing yet,” I said, smiling blandly, and moved along the row of cars, ignoring her, as if I didn’t know she was following along at my side, like a beauty pageant contestant on a runway.

“Do you have something in mind?” she said, pleasantly, her breath visible in the cold. None of the sales staff was dressed warm enough.

“I was here about a week ago,” I said, giving her a casual glance. “I don’t believe I remember seeing you, and I think I’d remember.” A quick smile to acknowledge her attract- iveness. “You new here?”

“Why, relatively new,” she said, the question throwing her just a bit off guard. “But I’ve been with the firm several months. Were you here in the evening?”

“Why, yes.”

She smiled like a stewardess. “Well, that explains it. I’m only here mornings and some afternoons.”

“You don’t often see a woman working a car lot.”

“Times are changing,” she said, perkily, not insulted, or anyway not showing it.

“I noticed. But car lots-particularly used car lots-seem one of the last male strongholds. When did you last hear someone say, ‘Would you buy a used car from this woman?’”

“Never,” she said, something warm and more real in her voice now, “but then I almost never get mistaken for Nixon.”

That made me smile again and look at her, in a different way. The Nixon reference was surprising, because it was something you’d only say if you were about my age, and I’d thought her younger than me. And she was, but only a few years, though if you looked past the deft, sparingly applied makeup, you could see it. She’d been a cheerleader, all right, and probably a beauty queen too-but fifteen years ago.

“What’s your name?” I asked her.

She pointed to her bosom; on the blazer it said, ANGELA, in blue stitched cursive. Her tapering hand wore no wedding ring, but I could see the smooth shadow where one had been.

“Angela what?”

“Jordan.” And she extended her hand.

I shook it and said, “I’m Jack Ryan. From Milwaukee. I get through here from time to time.”

“Really?”

“That’s right. And, like I said, I stopped by your lot, here, not long ago. Had my eye on a buggy. A Buick.”

“And you don’t see it here? Do you know the model?”

“No. It was a big car, or as big as they make ’em now. Dark blue, with a sky-blue interior, white walls…”

“I think I can show you a similar car, but not with that color combination… funny.”

“What is?”

“I think I know the car you mean. A Regency. Beautiful car.” She lifted her eyebrows. “It’s just funny that you should ask about that particular unit.”