Макс Коллинз - Killing Quarry

I touched her hand. “With everything you know,” I said, “walking away? You would stop being an asset and move into the liability column. Me — now that what I’ve been up to for the last decade has been exposed — I don’t have any choice, really. I have to figure out what’s going on, and do something about it.”

Her nodding was barely perceptible, then she said, “I know this seminar thing is almost literally in your back yard... but how does that not make matters worse? You’re known around here. The smalltime owner of Wilma’s Welcome Inn wants to attend a seminar about hiding bigtime money in the Cayman Islands? Are you kidding?”

I gestured vaguely toward the north. “That resort in Lake Geneva, where it’s being held? The manager of the place is a friend of mine. He’s in my monthly poker game — has been in this very room many times, losing small stakes to me. I can talk to him. He can help me make this happen.”

“You think so?”

“I do. I’ll sit down with him and get the logistics worked out. If I can’t get his help, his cooperation, I’ll spike the whole fucking idea.” I gave her what I hoped was my most winning smile. “Wouldn’t you like a couple of days at an exclusive resort? I’m buying.”

She laughed again. “Okay. Talk to your friend. If you can make this fly...”

“You’ll be my co-pilot?”

“Thanks for not saying ‘stewardess.’”

“It’s ‘flight attendant’ now. Aren’t you keeping up with the feminist newsletters? So. Are you on board?”

Her sigh was half laugh. “Yeah. Just don’t expect me to say ‘Reporting for duty, Captain.’”

“Deal. Coffee, tea or me? But we’re out of coffee.”

Three miles beyond Lake Geneva was what had been, until a few years ago, the Playboy Club Hotel, a striking, sprawling architectural anomaly flung across the Wisconsin countryside. This wood-and-stone geometric tribute to Frank Lloyd Wright-style modernism had attracted, over the years, tens of thousands of guests — couples in particular taking advantage of the seven attached buildings, two championship golf courses, indoor and outdoor swimming pools (connecting), and a ski lounge shaped like two interlaced snowflakes.

The drive from my A-frame to what was now the Lake Geneva Golf and Ski Resort took not quite half an hour. I was still in the Impala, but on my own, Lu waiting back home to see what I’d be able to pull off with the manager here, my poker buddy Dan Clark. And I admit to having reservations, though not at the lodge.

Not yet.

The parking lot was almost empty, probably not at all surprising in mid-afternoon, when I’d arranged to meet with Dan. This time of year was a dead one for the resort, which was the case even in better days, back when you never knew whether Hef might not drop by with Barbi Benton on his arm. The good old days, when the beautiful cotton-tailed, rabbit-eared waitresses lived on site in the Bunny Dorm.

What had been a big deal, back in May ’68 when it opened as the first Playboy Club Hotel, now seemed vaguely shabby and something of a relic — yesterday’s hip becoming today’s kitsch. Two of the three restaurant/bars had closed, including the disco and assorted shops as well as the barbershop and beauty salon. The nightclub where I’d seen performers like Peggy Lee, Tony Bennett, Liza Minnelli, and Sonny and Cher was now only a dining room. And the three-hundred-and-fifty guest rooms in the Main Lodge were rarely filled, even at the height of the summer and winter seasons.

When the resort shuttered in the early ’80s, the Chicago media had cited “changing tastes and poor financial performance.” What had been exciting a few decades ago, against a backdrop of the opening guns of the sexual revolution, seemed suddenly absurd and misjudged next to the casualties of the AIDS epidemic.

But when I strolled through the lobby, half-expecting tumbleweed to blow through, the Playboy trappings were still very much in evidence — the sunken lounge, the glass-encased fireplace, the pebbled walls, and a rain forest of tropical plants, the latter looking admittedly a little wilted.

No bunnies to frolic through, either — just one young woman behind the optimistically long check-in counter, her nice figure ensconced in a white blouse with a colorful scarf at her neck that would not require her to learn the serving technique known as the Bunny dip.

I joined Dan Clark in a button-tufted booth on the elevated outer level of a bar about as underpopulated as the one at Wilma’s right now. What had been the Playmate Bar, decorated by framed fold-outs of fetching fillies (sorry), was just a bar, stripped of its bosoms on display with only tacky burgundy carpet and a lot of dark wood left behind, as clues to better times.

Dan half-stood while I slid in, flashing a grin that had a sideways tilt that always made you feel like you and he were in on some private joke. At forty or so, he was one of those guys whose slenderness and narrow, angular features made him seem tall, when he was really only a few inches taller than I was.

“You’re going to insult me,” he said, effortlessly handsome, his hair dark and short, his eyes dark and sharp, “if you just order a Diet Coke. This is a bar. Where alcoholic beverages are served. Try to be a man, Jack.”

“I’ll give it a go.”

And when a pretty blonde waitress, in white shirt, colorful scarf and black slacks, took my order, I made it Diet Coke and Bacardi. When in Rome. Even if the orgy was over.

As you might expect, I was in a long-sleeve t-shirt and black jeans, but my friend was in a sharp tailored suit, mocha brown, with a narrow silk tie, striped shades of brown.

“That’s a nice suit, Dan. Sears or Ward’s?”

“Pucci of Chicago.”

“Tie was for Christmas? Your Aunt Clara?”

“Pierre Cardin.”

“Thoughtful of Pierre. Didn’t know you two exchanged, at Christmas.”

“Are you here for the janitorial job, Jack? If I’d known, I’d have brought an application form.”

We were friends. We gave each other shit.

Nodding around us, I said, “We’re not doing much business, either, Dan. At Wilma’s.”

“Give me time,” he said, glancing around at the big, mostly empty room. A few businessmen were at the bar, but that was about it. “I’m only a year in. My contract guarantees five.”

I gestured with an open hand. “Listen, I love this place. Many happy times here. But I don’t have to tell you it’s not what it was.”

He smirked. Bastard even smirked handsomely.

“I know, Jack. Before my time, but back then this place was it . You could fly here directly from O’Hare and back again, you know.”

I did know — the resort had once had a private airstrip.

He went on: “But in those days, this place was all about couples. I know we have to go another way now — need to attract families , and with the swimming pools and ski lifts and golf and everything, that’ll be a snap. Kids welcome!”

“Somewhere Hefner is weeping.”

Dan shrugged. “It’s not his property anymore, Jack. You know where else the money is these days? The meeting market.”

“Yeah, the meat market. Picking up babes at last call. Never grows old.”

He ignored the lame joke. “That’s the first thing I did, you know.”

“Pick a babe up at last call?”

“No, man. Break ground on our retreat chalet.”

Our drinks arrived. He was drinking bourbon on the rocks, or least something amber brown with ice in it. I sipped my rum and Diet Coke. Didn’t mind it.

Dan went on: “The new chalet is not a convention center — with ten meeting rooms in the main buildings, we’re already covered there. But the big thing these days is corporate retreats. Our retreat chalet has a nice open area for presentations and three mini-conference rooms for breaking into smaller groups. And the guests can stay right there — ten suites. We even cater the food over, to keep that retreat feel going.”