Max Collins - Quarry's list

“Where do I send the sympathy card?”

“Chicago.”

“Come again.”

“That’s who Brooks works for, in case you didn’t know. The Family out of Chicago.”

“You mean he represents them in court.”

“I mean they own the son of a bitch.”

“What’s their interest in this? If Brooks is the new Broker, they wouldn’t figure in. The Broker’s operation isn’t a Mafia thing.”

“What you don’t know, Quarry, would fill a book.”

“Yeah, well so would what I know. Tell Brooks that. Tell him about the list, too. And the twenty thousand.”

“Anything else, while I’m writing this down?”

“Tell him be in his office at six-thirty, with the twenty thousand. I’ll let him know where he can take it and pay me and get his merchandise.”

“Six-thirty. This afternoon.”

“Six-thirty. This morning.”

“That’s a couple hours from now, Quarry! Where the fuck’s he supposed to get twenty thousand by then?”

“Probably out of a wall safe.”

Ash grinned. “Probably. I suppose you want me to go, now, right?”

“Right. Don’t come back, or bother sending anybody back. We’ll be gone. Anyway, before you make any move you’re going to have to talk this over with Brooks, aren’t you? And there isn’t a public phone for miles, and besides, maybe he wouldn’t want to hear about this on a phone, what with everything crawling with federal people, and…”

“All right, all right. You make your point. No funny stuff. Can I go?”

“Go.”

He went.

And I went back and told Carried to get her clothes on.

“First take this,” she insisted, handing me back the. 38, shuddering, like somebody squeamish who’d been made to handle a snake.

I took the gun, put it back in my belt, and said, “I got to get you to a motel, somewhere out of the way, till this is over.”

“When?”

“When what?”

“Will this be over?”

“Oh. Soon. It’ll be over soon.”

That seemed to ease her mind, and she got herself moving again. Which was the desired effect, of course.

Not that I’d been lying, when I said it would be over soon. It would be.

I just hoped she wasn’t expecting a happy ending.

The fog had lifted. Dawn was maybe an hour away, so the streetlights were still on, reflecting off pavement made slick by eight or nine hours of misting. I left the Buick in the parking ramp, which at this hour was all but empty, across from the Conklin Building in downtown Davenport. I was alone. Under my arm was a large manila envelope, which I’d found in the scarred-topped desk at the cottage. My corduroy jacket was slung over my right forearm, covering the hand with Ash’s silenced. 45 in it. I crossed the street.

The bottom floor of the Conklin Building was taken up, primarily, by a motion picture theater, the last surviving such theater in the business district, not counting various porno houses on the fringes. The theater was not at all rundown, in fact had obviously had its face lifted not long ago; but the rest of the Conklin Building was no great shakes. It was a white stone building that had long since turned dingy gray, whose only distinction was twelve stories, ranking it among the tallest of buildings in this modest Midwestern downtown.

Not that it was shabby, but neither was it what I expected of a building where Curtis Brooks, nationally prominent attorney, would keep his office. Surprising, too, was the absence of any junior or other partners; Brooks, despite his fame (or infamy) in his profession, was alone in his practice. This I discovered as I studied the registry in the cubbyhole that served as a lobby for the Conklin Building, just an entryway leading to an elevator, which I stepped into, punching the button marked 12, Brooks’s floor.

When the elevator door opened, Ash was waiting for me.

We didn’t say anything to each other, even though I had said (or implied) I’d contact Brooks by phone rather than come in person. Ash wasn’t surprised to see me, and I wasn’t surprised by his lack of surprise. He walked me down an echoing corridor, lined with flat colorless, plaster walls, wood doors with steamy pebbled glass panes with black lettering, doctors, insurance agents, lawyers. I wondered how many teen-age girls had walked the corridors of this building, on their way to have a quiet little illicit abortion.

At the dead-end of the corridor the pebbled translucent glass read: “Curtis Brooks, Attorney at Law.”

Ash opened the door, but I waited for him to go in first. The reception room was dark, small, unpopulated, reasonably well-appointed but nothing fancy. To the rear of the room, behind the receptionist’s desk, were two doors, one of them standing open to reveal a small law library, four walls of books, room enough to walk around but that’s all. The other door was closed, and I waited for Ash to open it and go in, and then followed.

This room was barely larger than the outer office. It too was well-appointed: dark paneling, green shag carpet, leather couch against one wall, several chairs, big, imposing mahogany desk. The most interesting thing in the room was the oil painting on the wall over the couch. It was a painting of a beautiful middle-aged woman.

The second most interesting thing was Brooks himself, sitting in the high-backed swivel chair, half-turned and looking out the sheer-curtained window behind his desk, not blinking, let alone speaking at our entrance. He still seemed smaller than he should, but I had to admit he had a certain presence, like a movie star who can’t act but somehow commands your attention, anyway. The deep tan, the character lines in all the right places, the wavy brown hair with white around the ears, the intense brown eyes, the expensive suit he wore even for a six-thirty in the morning appointment with the likes of me, all conspired to make him as imposing a figure as the desk he loomed behind.

On that desk, which was otherwise empty but for a phone, was a briefcase. Not turning toward us, Brooks reached a hand over and flicked the latches on the briefcase and it yawned open, revealing neatly stacked and tightly packed rows of green, banded packets of cash.

“There,” Brooks said, “is your money.” His baritone was almost bored; no courtroom flair at all.

I reached in my pocket and took out a key. Brooks turned, finally, his chair turning with him; he wanted to see what I was doing.

I was handing the key to Ash.

“Cozy Rest Motel,” I said. “Highway 6, past the city limits a few miles.”

Brooks waved a finger at Ash. “Go,” he said. Ash hesitated.

“Well?” Brooks said.

Ash said, “You… want me to leave you here?”

“We aren’t going with you,” Brooks said. Sarcastic. Impatient.

“Well… okay. But what do I do with…?”

“Do what you should have done two nights ago.”

Ash made a whatever-you-say face and left. I pulled a chair around in front of the desk, closed the lid on the briefcase.

“Is there twenty thousand here?” I asked.

“Frankly,” Brooks said, “no. There isn’t. More like ten.”

“Well. I only gave you half of your package, anyway.”

“When I see your… list,” he said, “you can have the rest.”

“You don’t believe I have it.”

“No.”

“Then why are you sitting here with me in your office, at six-thirty Saturday morning, your day off… pushing a briefcase of money at me.”

“For that motel room key you gave Ash. Nothing more.”

“You’re not pretending there’s no list, are you?”

Polite laugh. “I’m not even sure I know just what sort of a list you’re talking about, Mr. Quarry.”

“Oh. You want to know how much I know, before committing yourself further. You want to know how much I’ve figured out.”