Max Collins - Quarry's deal

At least there were supposed to be doctors there. I’d seen just one, last visit, and then only fleetingly. The nurses had been kids of either sex in street clothes and with expressions as spacey as the patients, who had themselves been a scarce commodity around there Monday. Tree had explained that many of the patients were involved in one supervised activity or another, elsewhere in the building, afternoons.

All of which should make it easy for me to do what I had to.

I hoped.

The afternoon was shadowy with moving clouds, and the air was chill. Spring was supposed to be here any second now, but you could’ve fooled me.

But you couldn’t have fooled Roger. He alone was sitting out on the sun porch, enjoying the moody, overcast day, with the innocence that allows the retarded to find joy in joyless things.

He was wearing the same outfit as last time: gray IOWA tee-shirt, baggy brown slacks, enormous white tennis shoes. The slack expression on his irregularly featured face turned into a grin as he saw me approaching the porch. He shook a cue stick of a finger at me, trying to place me. Some sounds came out of his mouth and they had a vague resemblance to words.

I went up the few steps and Roger, who had been swinging in the porchswing, stood and towered over me like a gorilla in a person suit.

“Hello, Roger. How are you? How is Frank Jr.?’’

He thought that over for a minute or two, and then something not unlike awareness glimmered in those oddly compelling green eyes of his. He grasped my wrist, which for him was like holding a pencil in his fist, and led me through a screen door and into a hallway. I recognized it as the same hallway as the other day, and the same bored-looking nurse moved briskly by us, with clipboard in hand, paying no attention to either one of us.

Roger stopped outside the door of the room where Frank Jr. had one of six beds. Roger put a finger to his lips and said, “Seeeep.”

“Right,” I said.

Then I leaned into the room and saw what he meant. Frank Jr. was on his back sleeping, or anyway resting, on one of the beds, head settled against the pillow with the word PSYCHO on it. He wasn’t wearing a robe today. He had on a yellow tee-shirt and jeans. He was alone in the room.

“I won’t disturb him,” I whispered.

Roger was still holding onto my wrist.

“I’ll sit with him till he wakes up, and then I’ll talk to him.”

Roger thought.

“Go back out on the porch now, Roger.”

And he nodded, dropped my wrist like a stone and shuffled away.

And I made damn sure he was out the door, before going in and taking Frank Jr. by the shoulder and shaking him.

“Wake up,” I said, several times.

He finally did.

He looked so much like his father it was spooky. The smaller, slightly feminine nose and the long dark black hair remained the only differences. Tree must’ve looked much the same at eighteen or nineteen.

“You don’t know who I am,” I said. “And you don’t need to know, other than I’m somebody trying to find out why you paid to have your father killed.”

He narrowed his eyes, just a little, and got upon his elbows, but said nothing.

“Now he’s not dead yet, don’t misunderstand. Today was supposed to be the day, I think, but I doubt it’ll come off. Of course I don’t expect you to say anything, but I do expect you to listen. I’m not a cop, nothing remotely like a cop. You aren’t in any danger of exposure any other way, either. I work for your father, you saw me here with him the other day, but I know him well enough to figure he’s not going to buy it when I tell him his own kid wants him wasted.”

Maybe that was a faint smile on the kid’s face; or maybe it was just the shadows from the clouds outside, coming in the window, filling this overcast room with more of the same.

“Your father told me all about how you have this habit of, wherever you go, falling in with bad company… but like most fathers he can’t conceive of his son being bad company. I think it’s just as funny as you probably do, that he really thinks he saved you in the nick of time, from the horrors of addiction… He actually thinks he stumbled onto that heroin stash minutes before you were to put a match under a spoon of the stuff and fill your hypo and stick it in and another hopeless junkie is born. He was so goddamn relieved when he brought you here and you weren’t hooked on anything stronger than grass. I guess there really is such a thing as a generation gap. You and your old man make your money different ways, that’s all, and he runs a gambling house but he gambles himself, so he finds it hard to understand that a guy who deals in dope rarely uses himself. Especially the hard stuff. Or maybe he can’t see that just because you’re his kid… won’t let himself see it, maybe.”

Yes it was a smile. Faint, but a smile.

“When he told me about the quantities of grass and H he found in your room, and your car, I figured he was just exaggerating, remembering through his emotions. But when I thought about it, it made sense… You had junk in quantity because you’re a dealer. A major dealer, maybe… maybe dealing to dealers. Something. How much heroin did he flush down the john? Hundred thousand bucks worth, maybe? That would hurt. No wonder you got pissed at Pop. And then he starts this half-ass citizens’ group, and hurts business even more, and embarrasses you in the eyes of the people you deal with, above you and below you both. I mean, shit. A kid can only take so much.”

He was sitting up, now, and his smile was gone. He wasn’t back doing his catatonic act, though; he was pretending to be bored, or maybe he just was.

“Little towns are where a lot of the major dope deals go down these days, am I right? We’re talking about distribution on pretty large scale, I’d guess. Too much heat in the bigger cities for that anymore. I’d bet West Lake was where you were making your drops, not Des Moines. How long you been in the business? Since you were fifteen? Thirteen? What the fuck. The old man’d be proud of you. He taught you the importance of money, and how you ought to hustle it up for yourself. You were a hell of a student, too. But my one question is this, junior. Did somebody bigger than you tell you the old man had to go? Or did you decide that yourself?”

And he spoke.

He said, “Blow it out your ass.”

“Thanks,” I said. “That’s all I wanted to know.”

It had been sheer speculation up to this point; but once Frank Jr. opened his trap, all suspicions were confirmed.

He rolled over on his side, away from me.

I took him by the arm and pulled him over, made him face me.

“I took a chance coming here,” I said “But I had to find out. And I did, and you’re coming with me.”

“You came, to the right place, asshole,” he said. “Because you are out of your fuck-ing mind.”

“Maybe so, but I’m still not crazy enough to think I can convince your dear old daddy that junior wants to make him dead old daddy. But you could do it. Not willingly, but with you there to have to try and knock down my story, well, it’s going to be worth a try.”

“What the fuck’s it to you?”

“Five thousand dollars.”

“Aw, Christ, I can get you that. I can get you more.”

“Sorry. That’d be unethical. Besides, I don’t like to work for anybody who hasn’t gone through puberty yet. Also, I got this aversion to father killers. Call me picky, if you like, but we all got our little quirks.”

“I’m not going with you.”

“I think you will. I got a roll of nickels in my jacket pocket, here, that’s going to be in my hand when I hit you, if you make me. Not the latest in anesthetics, but it’ll do. Or we could go to the doctors and tell them you want ’em to contact your father, so you can talk to him. That’s okay with me, too. Up to you.”