Макс Коллинз - Killing Quarry

“Real accident?”

“Oh, hell no. This is not a man who would put up with alimony. Also, word is she cheated on him.”

I let out a laugh. “And he’s not the kind of man who puts up with cheating.”

“Sure he does. His own.”

“Describe him.”

She looked out toward the lake view, not really seeing it, and thought for a while. “About your height. Five ten?”

“Five ten,” I said.

“About fifty, fifty-five. Bald on top, gray on the sides. Narrow face. Friendly features except for the dead eyes. Slim. Dresses well, even at home. Golfer. Country club all the way.”

“You know the latter how? More ‘just wondering’?”

She shook her head. “I was ushered into his home office when Bruce and I got the assignment. You know — the one to kill you?”

“Oh, that assignment.”

“He had pictures on the wall, some with local and state politicians, most on the golf course. Various award plaques and framed certificates, including one citing him as country-club president, five years ago. His straight business is real estate.”

“Nice eye for detail, lady. He dangerous?”

Lu shook her head. “Not physically. The security guys are. Referrals from Chicago associates. Badass ex-military types.”

“Ever more than two on duty at a time, you think?”

“Can’t be sure, but probably just two.”

“We handle them how?”

She shrugged. “We fucking kill them. And when we’re done with the Envoy — whose name is Charles Vanhorn, by the way — we won’t leave him breathing, either. Does all this carnage disturb your delicate sensibilities?”

I shook my head. “No, but three dead in a rich suburb. Including a mobbed-up homeowner? Lots of different kinds of people will be looking for us.”

She nodded slowly. “Other alternatives?”

I placed a hand on her sleeve. “Only one. You in shape for a disappearing act? Got enough put away for that? Willing to walk off from that antiques business in St. Paul? Ready to retire, maybe, with the kind of nice boy you could take home to mom and dad, as long as first he washed the blood and brains off his face?”

She didn’t say anything for a while.

“We both aren’t getting any younger,” she noted.

“Nobody is.” I was too genteel to point out she was a good five years older than me.

“And I’m not sure,” she said, “we can just walk away and take on new lives, new identities, no matter how well we’re fixed.” She squinted at me appraisingly. “You could afford to quit?”

I opened a hand. “Yes, but do I have a choice? I haven’t filled a contract in ten years. And my cottage industry, working off the Broker’s list, seems to be common knowledge now, in certain circles.”

She nodded. “Good point. But we don’t know yet whether Vanhorn has talked about you or not, and what you’ve been up to, to others like him. Which is to say, middlemen in the murder business.”

Now I was nodding. “We’d have to find that out. Which is probably reason enough for a Wilmette trek.”

“Probably is,” she said. “And if it turns out you’re on the radar of every murder broker in the country — and, through them, the mob families they’re linked with — you may need a desert island, plastic surgery and a prayer.”

“Not a wonderful option.”

She let out a big sigh. “Only other one I can think of is Witness Protection. You might know enough about organized crime to worm your way into WITSEC.”

I didn’t love that alternative, and anyway my knowledge was fairly limited on that score. Working with an agent of sorts was designed to keep information about clients at a minimum. And, anyway, I’d only done a handful of gigs that were outright mob hits.

“If,” I said, “Vanhorn has kept what he knows to himself, I might be able to contain this thing. Will he talk, with a gun in his face?”

The almond eyes narrowed. “I’d say so. He thinks he’s a bad man, but he’s soft. Like the Broker was soft, and all of these businessmen who traffic in crime and murder are soft, all tucked away in their secure little respectable lives.”

I frowned. “I’m not into torture. I saw too much of that overseas. Distasteful shit.”

“I can handle that,” she said with a shrug. “I’ll just clip his toenails.”

“ That’ll make him talk?”

“If I start at the toe knuckle it will.”

That was worth a chuckle. “Okay. After dark?”

“ Way after dark. Before we leave, I can phone in and tell Vanhorn you’ve been taken care of, which’ll let us know if he’s home.”

I squinted at her. “Won’t he be expecting to hear from your partner, not you?”

She shrugged. “I’ll just say Bruce is busy getting rid of... you know.”

“My earthly remains. Yeah. Still... that is an opportunity to arrange a meet. To get in the front door.”

“Not our best option. You can’t exactly show up with me...”

“Being dead and all.”

“...and his security boys would be on their toes, making it tricky to sneak you in. I think we’re better off throwing a surprise party.”

“And me without a party hat.”

“Your noisemaker will do.”

I smiled, then frowned. “You were only in that house the once?”

“Like I said, Bruce usually took the meets.”

“Did you pay attention?”

She made a face. “No, I just sat there and let my mind wander. Of course I paid attention. Get me a sheet of paper and a pencil or something, and I’ll sketch the layout.”

I frowned. “How much did you see of the place on your one visit?”

“Everything.” Another shrug. “I excused myself to use the restroom and had a quick look around, upstairs and down. Even saw the security boys in their little quarters. They were watching a soap opera. Kinda sweet, isn’t it?”

“Sweet as shit. Why such foresight, Lu?”

“Jack, how did you stay alive so long?” She yawned, stretched. “I always check the exits, wherever I am. Not everybody in this business is as nice as we are.”

Lu drew the layout of the Vanhorn manse, both floors, and also a crude but useful little map of the streets of the suburban subdivision, with the house in question at the end of a cul-de-sac. I was pleased to learn that no homes were close on either side.

We studied her handiwork and discussed different approaches of entry. The biggest problem, it seemed to her, was the security guards, and she wasn’t wrong. One or both guards might be expected to make rounds outside, and she had no idea what that schedule might be.

Around one PM we drove back over to Twin Lakes and returned to Marv’s diner — this time of year our options were limited — and had cheeseburgers and fries and even shared a malt. I played the jukebox, which had some ’50s tunes on it.

When I returned to our table in the corner, she was sitting there in her lemon jumpsuit sipping on her straw on her half of the malt. She looked up at me with those gold-flecked blue eyes and said, “Look at us. Couple of kids down at Pop’s soda shop, listening to the devil’s music.”

“Where’s your poodle skirt?”

She smiled and her gums showed. “I did have one, you know. Did you ever have a pompadour?”

I shook my head. “Just missed that era. I had a soup bowl haircut I thought made me look like John Lennon. My mother said more like Moe Howard. My father said I reminded him of Ish Kabibble. I never knew who that was till Turner started showing old movies.”

She squinted at me, maybe imagining the haircut. “He was a cornet player, wasn’t he? With Kay Kyser’s Kollege of Musical Knowledge?”

“You are older than me.”