MaxAllan Collins - Quarry's vote

He ignored me entirely, started doing laps, arms cutting the surface; he didn’t take it as easy as I did, rather made the water churn. I sat there in the waves he made, watching.

Finally, he came up for air in the shallow, came up gulping air, actually, like a heavy, getting-older man would do, and glanced over at me.

The glance turned into a fixed expression, as his slate-gray, oriental-cast eyes locked onto me. The skin around them tensed.

“Quarry?” he asked.

“Stone,” I said and nodded.

He smiled briefly, as if about to say “Small world,” but the smile and the thought didn’t survive long.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. Flatly.

“Having a swim.”

“Besides that.”

“It’s a long story. How about a sauna?”

He looked at me through slits. “Ever drown anybody, Quarry?”

“I threw a TV in a bathtub once. A soap opera was playing.”

“Somebody in the tub at the time?”

“What would’ve been the point if there wasn’t?”

He twitched a smile, shrugged. Said, “I could stand to sweat off some flab.”

We left the pool area and entered the small sauna that was off the short hall to the showers, johns and lockers. He was in his robe again. I was in my trunks, carrying my rolled-up towel under my arm; tightly under my arm. In the towel was the nine-millimeter. No suppressor. The towel, and a contact wound, would make it unnecessary.

We had the redwood cubicle to ourselves-just me and Stone and the heating stones; we selected the higher of two shelves, sat side by side on the slatted wood. I sat on the right, he on the left; that put my rolled-up gun-in-towel under my right hand.

He left the robe on. The heat was dry, and thick enough to slice-if you had a knife.

He sat hunched, looked up at me, his strange eyes placid. “You still in the business, Quarry?”

“Not exactly.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I was in retirement, but somebody tried to get me to make a comeback. To do one special job.”

“Really. Isn’t that flattering.”

“Hope to shout. Million-dollar contract.”

His eyes flickered.

“I’ll tell you about it,” I said.

And did.

There were parts I left out: I didn’t tell him I’d contacted Freed and was working for the candidate; and I didn’t tell him anything about Angela Jordan. I also didn’t mention trailing George Ridge from the airport tonight (and all that entailed). But the rest I gave him.

He sat and sweated and considered what I’d said. It had taken almost five minutes, and he hadn’t interrupted once.

Now he said, “I’m sorry about your wife. But it doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

“It has everything to do with you.”

He shook his head no. Moisture beads flew off his forehead. “Like you said: you were a loose end. They tried to tie you off.”

“You don’t think you’ll be an immediate loose end yourself? You really think you’ll survive this, to spend your dough?”

“They’ve already put up half the dough. Up front.”

“Half a million bucks?”

“That’s right. In a numbered Swiss account.”

I’d only been offered a paltry hundred grand-but in cash.

“How are they supposed to pay the balance?”

“A deposit to that account.”

“They’ll find you,” I said, “and have you killed.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You think you’re smarter than they are?”

“Yeah. And you.”

“Where I failed, you’ll succeed, you think.”

“You didn’t fail, Quarry. They didn’t kill you. You killed them.”

“Like you killed Ridge tonight?”

That threw him. And this was a Stone not easily thrown.

“I didn’t kill him,” he said, sitting back, resting his hands on his knees; that put his right hand near the right, somewhat weighted-down pocket of the robe.

“I saw Ridge go in, and I saw you go in, and I went in after you took off.”

“You get around.”

“But you know, I never knew you to kill with a knife. How’d you manage that? You didn’t even get blood on you.”

“That’s because he was dead when I went in there,” he said.

“Well, then who killed him?”

“How should I know?”

We sat and listened to each other sweat. Then I said: “Ridge was the man who contacted you about the hit?”

He nodded.

“And you were supposed to meet with him tonight?”

He shook his head no. “I didn’t know it would be him. There was a message at the hotel. There were going to be some… ‘last minute changes.’”

“So then everybody’s presumption is correct? Tomorrow’s press conference is where, and when, the hit’s going down?”

He just looked at me. Then he nodded again.

Paused. Arched one eyebrow. He did look like a sinister Mr. Spock, gone bald and slightly to seed. “But when I got there, Ridge was dead on the floor, throat cut. I just got the fuck out.”

“Why are you still here? Why haven’t you split? Isn’t somebody icing Ridge enough to queer the deal for you?”

He slipped out of the robe; it made a slight clunk as he put it beside him. Beside his right hand.

He said, “Yes it was. I was planning to blow. To just get the fuck out.” He shook his head, smiled faintly. “Even though this hit is a piece of cake… brother. You check out the lay of the land?”

I nodded. “It looks like the easiest million this side of the lottery.”

“Yeah, well I don’t gamble.”

“Then why are you still hanging around here?”

“I’m deciding whether to stay or not. Whether to go through with it or not.”

“Why in hell would you still want to go through with it?”

He thought for a moment, not sure if he wanted to tell me something.

Then, casually: “Because there was an envelope waiting for me at my room. Somebody slid it under the door. It had ten one-thousand dollar bills in it. Crisp as fuckin’ lettuce.”

“And all I got was a mint on my pillow.”

“There was a typewritten note.”

“Which said?”

He shrugged. “‘Tomorrow as planned.’”

“Well, surely you don’t intend to take that advice.”

“I intend to take the ten grand. But I got to think the other through…”

“Stone, there’s nothing to think through. Ridge was another loose end that got tied off. You’re next in line.”

“But I’m already a loose end. Why not at least take a shot at the other half mil?”

“Who are you going to collect from? Did you deal with anybody besides Ridge?”

“No. But that just means I’m no danger to anybody. I can’t finger anybody. They might just as well pay me off.”

“You told me, way back when, never do a political kill. You said if you want to commit suicide, jump off a bridge.”

His slightly yellow smile was spooky yet oddly gentle. “That was a long time ago, Quarry. You take all the advice I gave you back then?”

“Some of it. Let’s not get all mushy, now. You’re no father figure.”

“I remember you bitching about the ‘trail’ I leave.”

“I found you, didn’t I? Without hardly trying. By the way, I beat you at ‘Popeye’ earlier this evening.”

That also threw him a little, but he laughed. “I bet you didn’t.”

“You must want to quit pretty bad.”

He looked at me sharply. “What?”

“You been at this a long time. You were a mob guy, right? Where, Cleveland? Then you broke away and went freelance. That’s a lot of contracts. You must be tired. You certainly look old.”

“You’re older, too.”

“I’m older. You’re old. Like I’m heavier, where you’re fat. You’re going to die, Stone. You go through with this, they’ll kill you.”