Макс Коллинз - Killing Quarry

“Patrick Kelly,” Lu whispered.

“She doesn’t look like a Patrick to me,” I said.

“That’s who she’s wearing,” she said patronizingly.

“Oh,” I said, and another beautiful woman climbed out.

This was a brunette with big frizzy hair and bright red lipstick, her bosom straining at the metallic liquid gold blouse, her skirt a black midi.

“Michael McNally,” I said.

“She doesn’t look like a Michael to me,” she said.

“Well, she is one. Like that actress. She was also runner-up Playmate of the Year in ’75. Or maybe ’76.”

“Must be old home week for her,” Lu said, unimpressed.

The next beauty out, black, wearing a red leather jumpsuit and an Afro that stopped just short of ridiculous, might have been Pam Grier’s stand-in. After that came a redhead with a nice slender body, top-heavy with implants, probably, but stunning in any case, in a denim jumpsuit.

“Maybe,” I said, “ I could have worn jeans.”

“No. They don’t look the same on you.”

No argument.

Then came a parade of non-beautiful people.

Men in suits just as sharp as Dan’s. Men in their fifties. No topcoats, being dropped off just outside the chalet to head right in, as they were. Wearing sunglasses, though the sun had set — on the day and on them. One with a fat face, another with a narrow one. This one wrinkled, this one a victim of a bad facelift.

And none in ties — all open collar, like Dan. Pastel shirts. Young at heart, these old fucks.

Even two floors up, we could hear them coming in. Out the window, the cauliflower-ear chauffeur was gathering luggage from the trunk, getting ready to haul the stuff in.

“Let’s wait till they get settled,” I said.

Lu agreed.

A TV hiding in a corner, as if ashamed of itself for existing in such an indoor outdoor paradise, gave us an Andy Griffith rerun to watch and then the Chicago news. No mention of the late Envoy.

“That was fast,” she said.

I knew what she meant. Said, “Looks like the murders in Wilmette are old news already.”

“Else somebody put the lid on.”

We’d heard our new neighbors in the hallway moving in. Before too long, out our window, we noticed the beefy chauffeur and the stretch limo taking off, which surprised me a little — you might think this group would feel the need for a security man. Not that it had done Charles Vanhorn any good.

Now, after some relative quiet, came muffled conversation out there indicating everybody was finally heading down to supper. Lu and I waited till the talk subsided, then we went out and took the stairs again.

In the kitchen, everybody was at a buffet line set up at that long table. A chef and a male staffer were serving things up, and neither had faces I knew, so that was one small break, anyway. Dan was back there, too, handing out plates and silverware-in-napkins, answering questions, chatting with the men as they went through the line, not pushing it, just playing genial host. Oddly, the men were lined up first, as a group, and the women after, the females mere side dishes at this banquet, apparently.

That made me the only male here who’d made sure his female companion went before him. Was I committing some reverse etiquette faux pas?

The fare included prime rib, whitefish, and pepper steak over rice, various veggies and potatoes, apple and cherry crisp for dessert. A Styrofoam ice chest was brimming with cans of beer and soda. No other alcohol was on hand for the retreat. They were roughing it, I guess.

In that spirit, the men had their coats off, having left them in their rooms. Trying to fit in, I’d only managed to be out of place — I was that goofball in his shirt and tie who let his woman go in front of him!

I discreetly removed my offending tie, slipped it into a pocket, and opened my collar. Lu and I exchanged a few quick wide-eyed looks through all this. It was like sneaking into a Moose Lodge and not knowing the secret handshake.

In the rustic adjacent dining room, the former Playmate, the blonde, the redhead and Pam Grier’s stand-in sat at the near round table, not talking much. The men were at the other table. As we passed that first group, the young women gave me confused looks, as if a nude guy had wandered into their convent. Lu settled into one of the chairs with the beauties; she fit in fine. Those Asian eyes narrowed at me just a little, confirming my own opinion that I needed to join the men without her.

So I went over to an empty chair between the guy with the bad plastic surgery and the fat-faced fuck. Nobody was wearing sunglasses now, and they seemed to know each other, yet they really weren’t talking any more freely than they might have had the women joined them.

In a lull in the conversation — which as conversation went wasn’t much of anything, apparently the topic being how poorly the chauffeur drove, and why such a convoluted route? — I said, “Evening, gents. I’m William Wilson.”

They looked at me. Every single one. They all put down their fork or knife or whatever silverware they happened to be holding and, if they were chewing, swallowed. It was a group glower. They were the jury and I had just copped to an ax murder on the witness stand and punctuated the confession with a big loud fart that echoed in the courtroom.

I said, with a smile that tried hard not to try too hard, “And who are you, gents? Let’s go to left to right.”

Silence.

The plastic surgery guy, next to me (on my left, so my suggestion wasn’t so outrageous after all), said, “Are we going to do this now? I thought we might finish supper first.”

He had been a good-looking man once. He was almost a good-looking man twice. But that plastic surgery had pulled the flesh of his face just a little too tight, like a plump woman wearing a dress a size too small with no girdle.

“Before doing what?” I asked. I put just a little edge in it.

They were in their shirtsleeves and I’d taken enough of a look at them to see they weren’t packing, or if they were it was something small, like the pop guns Lu hid around our room. I had a nine mil under my arm and could shoot these bastards twice over.

“Those names,” the plastic-surgery guy said, “we checked in under? They’re only for that purpose.”

His hair had started out black, and it still was, but needed help. His eyes were green — like the green felt of my poker table back at the A-frame — and his nose was straight and plastic-surgery perfect and his capped white teeth could smile nice, I bet. Right now they weren’t. Smiling nice.

Though they were smiling.

“I’m Henry Poole,” he said. “My friends call me ‘Hank.’ Like Henry Fonda. People say I look like him, some.”

“I can see that.”

“And this is Alex Kraft,” Poole said, gesturing to the fat-faced fuck.

Kraft had skimpy blond hair and little tiny light-blue eyes in pouches and puffy little lips and no chin to speak of. His face was pale with some reddish mottling.

I said, “Mr. Kraft.”

Nothing.

“Over there is Joe Field,” Poole said, and gestured to the narrow-faced man, who was slender, brown-haired, brown-eyed, with something of a jut to his chin. His tan was dark and, I think, fake.

I nodded to Field.

“And this is George Callen.”

Callen was very wrinkled, though not any older than these others, I didn’t think. My guess was weight loss. His hair was dark blond and combed-over. He had big dark blue eyes that threatened to burst from the pouches. An ugly man.

I nodded to him, as well.

“But the problem, Mr. William Wilson,” Kraft said, “is that you are not Charles Vanhorn.”

“No one is, anymore,” I said.

The four faces looked blankly at me. Poole had his steak knife in his fist, resting on the table.