Макс Коллинз - Killing Quarry

“That’s why you don’t hear anything. They’re silent.”

“Why don’t you stay that way?”

And he scowled and drifted off.

By the time “Sussudio” by Phil Collins came on, I’d talked to them all, and Poole was not the only one drunk enough to imagine he could dance — they all did. It was funny for a while. Then at a certain point you were embarrassed to be human. This did not seem to be a species worth belonging to.

A slow song started up — “You Give Good Love,” Whitney Houston — and the four men danced with, or was that dry-humped, their dates. Ah romance.

The former runner-up Playmate of the Year was getting publicly pawed in an embarrassing, overt way by the now very drunk Poole. One hand on her ass, the other on a breast. When the song finally stopped, she squirmed out of his grasp and pushed him away and ran off. Crying maybe.

Poole grinned at everybody, since we’d all become his audience, and shrugged and said, “Chicks!” In that charming way gentlemen do.

Then, with all eyes on him, Poole reached in a trouser pocket and withdrew a small black-capped bottle of white stuff.

“Anybody interested in dessert?” he asked, and headed toward the dining room.

Everybody followed him, except Lu and me and the most embarrassed guest at the party, Seymour M. Goldman, Jr., who throughout had been awkwardly standing on the periphery with a drink in hand and a frozen smile on his face, and after all, where else would it be?

I went over to him.

“What wise man was it that said,” I asked, “are we having fun yet?”

“Zippy the Pinhead,” Goldman said, an answer that — especially in his British/island accent — made my estimation of him rise, as did what he said next: “I don’t care to be a part of this. Actually, I can’t be a part of this.”

He had a car. Nothing to stop him.

“I was supposed to stay here at the chalet,” he said, “but now...”

“Understood,” I said. “Will you be back tomorrow?”

“I don’t honestly know.”

Everybody was in there doing lines on the two round tables, Poole generously pouring out nose candy and everybody was giggling and laughing. Who knew better than I what things go better with?

I said, “Dan Clark would arrange a room for you at the main lodge, I’m sure.”

He put a hand on my shoulder and patted it. “I’ll find somewhere, Mr. Vanhorn. Thank you. These are not conscientious people.”

No, really?

But before the guru could leave, Michael McNally — Poole’s Playmate playmate — came back from wherever she’d been and grabbed Goldman by both hands. Astonished — whether by her beauty, which was considerable, or the abruptness of it all — he allowed himself to be pulled out to the dance floor, where “Suddenly” by Billy Ocean was playing.

She folded herself into his arms. He was trying to just dance with her, to keep it friendly, but she was drunk and she’d been mishandled by her man, literally manhandled, and before Goldman could extricate himself, Poole came bolting in from coke town and yanked her free and slapped her twice, hard, enough for the blows to be heard above “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go.” Wham.

She screamed and started slapping him back in a flurry, like a child trying to bat away a bully, which is really what she was doing. He grabbed her and started shaking her. Till her teeth rattled, and that’s not a figure of speech. It’s what you could hear.

Now this is what Goldman did.

He disappeared.

He got out of there so fast and so slippery, I didn’t know whether to admire him or run after him to kick his ass.

Now here’s what I did.

Nothing.

I wasn’t here to be a hero. I was here to watch and listen and do my best not to get killed, with Lu along for the ride. She got it. She was next to me, right next to me, her arm looped in mine. We were just pausing at a cage as we strolled through the zoo. Ah! The monkeys are throwing shit again — best keep our distance.

No, it wasn’t a man who finally rode to the rescue. Not one of the other participants at the retreat, either, including yours truly, as I’ve said. The saviors of the Playmate — her mouth bloody, her big hair even more askew than her stylist had made it — were the high-class whores who came running in, several with powder on their noses, but every one indignant, yelling at Poole and then gathering around the Playmate protectively.

Pam Grier’s stand-in yelled at Poole, “We are fucking out of here!”

Poole yelled at her, “Well, get the fuck out then!”

My turn.

I stepped up and said, “I’ll call Dan. He’ll arrange something for them.”

Poole, calming a little, said, “Our limo’s still here.”

“No it isn’t.”

He made a waving gesture, as if I were a fly. “Not parked here, but our driver is staying over in the main lodge. You make the call, whoever-the-fuck-you-are.”

“Since you asked nicely,” I said, and went off and used the kitchen phone to call the desk and get Dan.

Within fifteen minutes the young women had gathered their things and were the fuck out of there, to get swallowed up by the same black limo that had earlier disgorged them.

The only female left was mine. Lu. And she was hanging close to me.

Funny thing. Through all of that, nobody had bothered to turn off the music.

Whitney Houston was singing, “The Greatest Love of All.”

The subdued lighting in the main lodge’s indoor pool reflected the hotel policy of adults only between nine and eleven PM. After hours, at a little before midnight, that twilight ambiance remained, but I didn’t have any other adults to put up with, thanks to my “in” with the manager.

I’d called Dan before coming over. “How’s our financial guru doing?”

“Not saying much. I gave him a suite and he was polite, but he doesn’t seem happy.”

“Will he bail?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. The, uh, ladies were picked up safely by the limo, I trust?”

“Yup.”

“Any additional drama?”

“Nope.”

His chuckle sounded warm, even over the phone. “I have to admit it’s kind of nice having you there on the scene, Jack. Your eyes and ears come in handy.”

“Glad to be of service. You okay with Lu and me coming over for a midnight swim? Think I need a little time away from this relaxing retreat.”

He grunted a laugh. “Don’t blame you. Of course you can come over.”

“Could you line up a suit for Lu?”

“Glad to. It’ll be at the front desk. You still have that key to the pool area?”

I said I did.

Dan had a two-piece suit waiting for Lu at the front desk (I had trunks in my locker), and we had the place to ourselves. The kidney-shaped pool wasn’t large, rather overwhelmed in fact by the surrounding cement and endless deck chairs. Not ideal for swimming laps, though that was what I was doing. Nice and easy ones in the warm water.

Funny how, while I did enjoy summer swims in a lake that was after all at my doorstep, I somehow preferred an indoor pool like this, year round. The echo of a big room lending an otherworldly resonance and the shimmer of water reflecting around the chamber, even the chlorine bouquet burning eyes and twitching nostrils, seemed oddly soothing to me. Probably because it took me back to high school days when I was on the swim team and winning ribbons and trophies that weren’t for shooting.

Things at the chalet, it seemed to me, had really gotten out of hand, and the only way I could think it through was to swim. Lu, in a navy two-piece suit that fit her surprisingly well for a loaner, was not doing laps. She was in the hot tub, immersed to her shoulders, arms spread out along the sides, eyes hooded.