Макс Коллинз - Killing Quarry

“Is that where your Cayman Islands seminar will be held?”

That froze him. He’d been all excited, sharing his big plans, and now I’d thrown him a curve. Or maybe hit him with a fastball.

I hadn’t seen him look this flummoxed since it turned out an ace of spades was my hole card.

He asked, “How the hell do you know about that , Jack?”

“The Bunnies may be gone, but I still date the occasional waitress. Where else is a girl to sleep, when the Bunny Dorm is gone?”

That of course was bullshit. I suppose Dan had mentioned the retreat chalet before, but it hadn’t got on my radar, because... why would it?

Sheer bluff.

“Well,” he said, almost whispering now, as if there was anyone around to overhear, “that’s not something we’re advertising, the seminar. It’s really a confidential affair. I hope you haven’t mentioned it to anybody.”

“Why would I?”

“Just please don’t.”

I leaned in chummily. “Who are these people, anyway, Dan? Don’t tell me this is about giving offshore banking advice to the Outfit crowd.”

He looked pale suddenly. My wisecrack hit close to home, which I’d meant it to. “This isn’t... this isn’t why you wanted to see me this afternoon, Jack... is it? I don’t see how this event has anything to do with you.”

“Maybe I’d like to participate.”

His eyes tightened, as if he were having to work to keep them from falling out of his head. “What do you mean, participate?”

“To attend. To avail myself of the opportunity to learn. To better myself.”

He was studying me like I just told him I was thinking of asking his sister out. His thirteen-year-old sister.

“Jack,” he said, still very quiet, “don’t be ridiculous. You make a nice living, I’m sure, at Wilma’s. Not what you could make if you’d take my advice and sell out to those investors I told you about. But we’re talking about an ‘invitation only’ seminar designed for people with real money.”

Now we were there.

Now it was about to get tricky.

Now there would be no turning back.

Oh, I wasn’t going to tell my buddy anything even vaguely approaching the truth. But my lies needed enough weight to get through to him. My lies would be worse than most people’s truth.

I asked, “What do you think I do for a living, Dan?”

The pale, handsome features took on quiet alarm. “What do you mean? You run a restaurant-hotel set-up.”

My mouth twitched a smile. “I don’t really run it, though, do I? I mean, I putter, but I leave most of it to my man Charley and a few others. What is it I do for a living ?”

“...You sell veterinary medicine, don’t you?”

“Drugs for cows and horses and puppy dogs?”

“I suppose.”

“What if it was drugs for a bigger form of animal?”

His dark eyes were moving side to side, processing.

Then he whispered, “Is that what you do?”

I sipped rum and Diet Coke. “What I do makes it desirable for me to attend that seminar. Isn’t that enough? Is there a charge?”

He sucked air in, let it back out. “Everything was prepaid by the attendees.” A nervous smile. “Look, Jack, you couldn’t attend if you wanted to.”

“I do want to.”

He waved that off. “Well, I mean... you couldn’t attend if I wanted you to. The enrollment was cut off at five participants.”

“I happen to know one of those individuals won’t be attending.”

He looked at me unblinkingly, his mouth open. If he knew about Vanhorn’s murder, he didn’t say so. But he didn’t not say so.

I said, “I had a business partner named Vanhorn. Silent partner, but now he’s really silent. He was killed last night. It’s been on the news. WGN had the story this morning. I want to take his place at the party. Can you think of a reason why I shouldn’t?”

You can almost always tell when somebody’s mind has been blown, and this was one of those times.

This very confident man in the Pucci Chicago suit said, “I... I... I...”

“Take your time, Dan.”

“I... I guess I can... help you out with this.”

“Good. I’ll have a woman with me, no one you know. Most presentable. Very professional. Is that a problem?”

“No.” He shook his head but it was almost a shiver. “Several attendees will be accompanied by, uh, female guests.”

“Not wives, I’m guessing.”

“Not wives.” He reflected for a moment. “All right. You can attend in Mr. Vanhorn’s place.”

“Under his name? That doesn’t seem like a good idea.”

“No! It wouldn’t be. But no one is attending under his own name. Everyone’s Brown or Jones or Smith or Johnson or... you follow.”

“I do. Do you recall Mr. Vanhorn’s nom-de-plume?”

“Not off the top of my head, I don’t. But I’m checking each of them in, personally, though not in the lobby. Guests have arranged to go directly to the chalet. It has a private parking lot and drive. Nice view of the golf course, with Mountain Top backdrop.”

That was the hill people skiing here tried to talk themselves into thinking was a mountain.

“So I’ll handle your check-in,” Dan said, “and all the details.”

“All of a sudden,” I said, “I rate.”

His expression was numb. “All of a sudden, Jack... you rate.”

The chalet itself couldn’t have been more Alpine if a late-teens Heidi with a bursting peasant blouse had greeted us with a tray of brimming beer steins. The oversize log cabin, the upper two of its three floors sporting building-width railed wooden balconies, sat against pines still touched with snow. Beyond was farmland, barns and silos and such, but all that was largely hidden from view.

Looming over the chalet, a 1,100-foot hill, complete with ski lifts, had its many trails demarcated by landscaping, fir and other trees; the currently snow-patchy, ridiculously named Mountain Top, wore pine borders at far left and far right, like sideburns ascending to an evergreen crown extending all the way across.

Lu and I had taken the time to pick up my Firebird in Muskego and sell back my Impala to my used car guy there. We had decided neither the Camaro nor the Impala would look right in a lot filled with the kind of high-end rides the other attendees would likely roll up in.

I’d also done some clothes shopping. This would not be a t-shirt and jeans affair. Best I could do was the Chess King at Parkland Mall. Probably too hip for the room, and not exactly Brooks Brothers, but I was the right age to get away with the pair of tapered dark suits I picked up — as well as several shiny medium-color shirts and solid-color skinny ties.

Lu needed no help with her wardrobe, starting out in a hot pink jumpsuit with a sash at the waist, hair brushing her shoulders, around which was a neon pink ski coat. For now I was in my black leather jacket from home, and a black-and-white tropical print shirt, also from Chess King.

Our overnight bags strap-slung over our shoulders, we left the Firebird in the small paved (and otherwise empty) lot fronting the chalet. This was almost exactly twenty-four hours after yesterday’s meeting with Dan, who greeted us at the lower level’s door. As the parking lot indicated, we were the first to arrive. A seven o’clock supper was on the docket, after which the seminar would begin with an introductory session.

“Most of tomorrow,” Dan had told me, “will be taken up by a morning session, then individual meetings between our attendees and our guest lecturer.”

“The investment ‘guru,’ ” I said.

Dan nodded. “The rest of the weekend will be recreational.”

“How so? No skiing, no golf, and you’re sequestering the guests here for the duration, right?”