Макс Коллинз - Killing Quarry

It was a broad strokes introduction, flavored with facts and figures — 500 banks now operated in the Cayman Islands, and 16,000 businesses were incorporated there — and the participants were listening with the rapt attention of guys in the front row of a strip club. But this wasn’t about stuffing dollar bills in G-strings. This was about a lot more G’s than that, but it was dollars, all right. Lots of them.

After about an hour, Goldman wrapped up, saying tomorrow morning he would detail various options they might like to consider, followed in the afternoon by one-on-one consultations and recommendations.

Poole stood and led a round of applause, hollow in the low-ceilinged, open-raftered room.

“Great job, Mr. Goldman,” he said. All that plastic surgery gave his grin a Phantom of the Opera tinge. “Wonderful stuff. Could you get, uh, Mr. Vanhorn’s help again, and clear your things out of the way for now? We have some serious partying to do.”

I was Mr. Vanhorn, remember, even though everybody knew I wasn’t.

While I helped Goldman move his gear off to a corner, Poole stood in front of the fireplace, saying to his fellow murder brokers, “Go up and get your girls, fellas. I’ll do the same. And, trust me, we’ll have more than beer tonight to help us celebrate.”

Kraft asked, “Celebrate what, Hank?”

Poole shrugged. “Having more than beer.”

I went up to the third floor to fetch Lu. She was watching a Murder, She Wrote rerun as she sat in one of the rough-hewn, fur-cushioned chairs we’d pulled over earlier.

I sat next to her. “I guess we’re partying this evening.”

“You learn anything much from that Guess-Who’s-Coming-to-Dinner Jew?”

“He’s Catholic, actually. Yeah. I learned it’s good to be rich. Did you learn anything from the sewing society?”

Her eyes were still on the tube, where the mystery was getting explained by Angela Lansbury. “I did. Seems only the also-ran Playmate of the Year has any kind of ongoing relationship with anybody. She’s Poole’s mistress. Old-fashioned word, huh? Better than shack job, I guess. The others are working girls.”

I frowned. “I never saw street corners with the likes of them.”

“And you won’t. We’re talking high-ticket call girls. I gather they are from the Outfit’s typing pool. Only they don’t type.”

“None with history with any of my fellow chauvinists downstairs?”

“I didn’t say that. I think these girls have been escorts for most of those beasts before. Just aren’t going steady with any of ’em, shall we say.”

“They aren’t going down to the malt shop together.”

“Just going down.”

“Let’s us go down. Downstairs, that is.”

We did, taking the stairs again, with music coming up to greet us — “Like a Virgin,” which is what the four beauties were dancing to. Unintentional irony or smug sarcasm? You decide.

In any case, the flying pheasant carpet between the two couches had flown, the seating scooched back to make more room for the girls to dance. The beauties had not changed the outfits they’d worn on arrival, with the partial exception of the redhead, who had removed her denim jacket to reveal a neon lime-and-gray t-shirt with a plunging neckline, to show off the boobs she had undoubtedly bought. And worth every penny, I’d say.

“Join in,” I whispered in Lu’s ear.

She nodded and got to dancing with the other babes. Or boogieing or whatever the fuck they were calling it. These kids today.

The couch by the windows where I’d sat earlier had been shoved to one side, and in its place sat a big blocky wooden table with bottles of gin, vodka, rum and bourbon. A tower of red Solo cups and an ice bucket shared the space, and on the floor next to the table squatted the Styrofoam chest of iced soda and beer. Also on the floor back there was the source of the music, a big boom box, really cranked.

Poole, who already seemed a little drunk, brayed over the sounds, “Help yourself, kiddies! I got plenty more upstairs if we run dry!”

Obviously Poole had come prepared to violate the notion that only soda and beer would be served at the retreat. Not being a rule breaker by nature, I helped myself to a can of Diet Coke.

On the left, as I faced the dancing girls, pudgy Kraft sat next to skinny Field — the worst Laurel and Hardy impersonators ever. On the right sat pruneface Callen, alone at the moment. I joined him.

“The Power of Love” started up, a song I actually liked. Huey Lewis. Now and then one of the girls would pogo to it. Worse things to watch in the world.

I said to Callen, “We need to talk.”

The wrinkled face managed to convey what we all know: those four words, strung together like that, are nothing anybody wants to hear. Especially from a lover, but also from somebody attending a murder bookers convention, however exclusive.

“About?” he asked. Even his voice sounded wrinkled.

“I wanted to give you some food for thought.”

“Not especially hungry.”

“How about a warning? Can you make room in your belly for that?”

His eyes were cold and dark and hard, nothing at all like their saggy settings. His nod was barely there. But it was there, all right.

I said, “I think my business partner, Vanhorn, was murdered by one of us.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“The five of us who broker murder contracts. Does that spell it out enough?”

The barely there nod again.

I went on: “I think somebody among us is trying a power play. I think one of us killed Vanhorn as an opening gambit. For a wholesale takeover of our business. To become one overall broker.”

“Impossible,” he said, and huffed a sneering laugh. “Ridiculous. There are a good two dozen of us operating in the continental United States alone. We need regional set-ups.”

“Where do you work out of, George?”

“Milwaukee.”

“Vanhorn was in Wilmette. Which is Chicago. Do you know where Hank and Joe and Alex operate from?”

A shrug. “Cleveland. St. Louis. Des Moines.”

“Midwest. A good chunk of it, anyway.”

Again the barely there nod.

I said, “Somebody’s trying to take over the region.”

His eyebrows tensed, making his forehead wrinkle even more. “You have proof?”

“Just a friendly heads-up. Remember me, if my warning works out well for you.”

He shrugged again, but those cold dark eyes were moving in thought. Barely moving. But moving.

I had similar conversations with the others. Whether any of them figured out what I was doing — noticing that I’d quietly buttonholed each of them in the noise — I couldn’t tell you. But the subject even seemed to sober Poole up. Temporarily.

“A power play?” he said, gesturing with his sloshing Solo cup. We were standing off to one side, talking over “Everybody Wants to Rule the World” (I swear) but with no one close enough to hear us over it. “You can’t be serious.”

“What part of Vanhorn shot in the head can’t you buy?”

The eyes narrowed in that face of stretched skin. He leaned close. “This is a dangerous line of enterprise we’re in.” He was slurring now. “Vanhorn could’ve alienated our Chicago ’sociates. How should I know?”

“Maybe you better find out.”

He shrugged and spilled a little booze. “Coulda been a straight-up home invasion, y’know. Place is isolated enough, wealthy area. If there’s anything to it, Chicago will let us know.”

“Unless Chicago’s behind it. Maybe they want their own people in and independents like us out.”

The capped teeth flashed. “Indies like you ? I didn’t even know who the fuck you are , Mr. Will-i-am Wilson. I never heard anything about Vanhorn having a silent partner.”