Макс Коллинз - Quarry in the Black

“You did get hit hard.”

“No, hear me out. We have a deadline, right? We got till the end of the month.”

I nodded. “Specifically, before the big McGovern rally here in St. Louis where the Reverend is featured speaker. Yeah.”

“With specific instructions from the Broker not to hit Lloyd there, right? And if we haven’t made it happen by then, we’re to pack up our tents and go home.”

Now I saw what he was getting at. “The Broker is too shrewd,” I said, “too smart to want Lloyd taken out at a big event, with lots of security. It’d be a stupid play. Even a suicidal one.”

The slits in the macaroon eyes widened. “But a homegrown hater like Commander Starkweather wouldn’t see it that way.”

“No he wouldn’t,” I said. “He’d want to make a statement, and what better way than take down a prominent black leader in public. And that rally — biggest of Lloyd’s campaign for McGovern — would be the natural place to do that.”

Boyd pounded the table with a fist, kind of lightly but enough to make the money stacks shimmy. “And that’s what Delmont came to town to do. A low-end hitman hired through racist redneck channels.”

“But the Broker insists the Lloyd hit isn’t ‘overtly’ political, or racial,” I said, “preferring a less showy removal. Okay. That makes these two contracts, with their contradictory goals, feel a little less coincidental — though I think we might still be missing a piece. Not that it matters.”

“It doesn’t?”

I shook my head, sipped some lousy beer. “Tomorrow morning, when one of us checks in with him, the Broker’s almost certainly going to pull the plug. The shit will fly in this town when the Commander turns up burned blacker than everybody he ever hated, with a bullet hole in his head.”

“Maybe not by tomorrow morning...”

“Maybe not. But I’ll talk to Broker on a very secure line where I can spell everything out. Hell, maybe I should call him tonight and wake him up. Then there’s Delmont.”

Eyebrows rose over the awful eyes. “What about Delmont?”

“Well, his body’s going to be found on a side street, in the trunk of his Charger, where we’re going to dump it a good distance from here.”

“We are?”

“Yeah. We’re going to get dressed and I’ll drive the Charger and you follow me in the Impala. Can you see out of those things?”

“Sure.”

Maybe. But he looked like one of the Mole People.

“It is kind of a shame,” he said.

“Knock it off about Delmont already.”

“No, not him. Dumping that Charger. I came by plane, you know. I could use a car, sweet ride like that.”

I grunted a non-laugh. “That ‘sweet ride’ is registered under Delmont’s own name. Apparently the Dogpatch branch of Associated Assassins is just fine with a member using his own name and his own vehicle on the job. And keep in mind Delmont and Starkweather were killed by the same gun — mine, remember? I’ll switch out barrels on the nine mil, sure, but the bullets will connect the two kills. Which is why the Broker is likely to yank us out of here. Delmont’s racist pedigree combined with the late Commander’s Nazi résumé will put the spotlight on local racial matters, which’ll surely lead to increased protection and attention for Reverend Raymond Wesley Lloyd. Our target, remember?”

“Yeah,” Boyd said, sitting up now. “Best dump the Charger.”

“And Delmont.”

“And Delmont. But, really, he wasn’t so bad.”

“Go put some pants on.”

Fucking Odd Couple was right.

We dumped the car ten blocks north, in a black area. That was a risk, two white guys making a drop like that, since we might be remembered if seen; couldn’t count on us all looking alike to them. And we are talking about a bright yellow muscle car. But we chose a residential area that was quiet and basically asleep, so we should be fine.

I left the keys in the unlocked car, which might give somebody a nice surprise, followed by a not nice surprise, when the trunk got opened. Anything that confused the issue was good.

We stopped at a phone booth outside a closed gas station and I put in a call to the Broker. Again, it went right to him, maybe because it was so late. I told him I needed an absolutely secure line, so we could call a spade a spade, a remark the Broker took as me being cute but was completely accidental.

“My house was swept today,” he said.

“My compliments to your housekeeper.”

“I meant electronically swept.”

“I know. That time I was being cute.”

And I told him everything I’d shared with Boyd, even the ten grand we split. It was no skin off his nose or money out of his pocket, either.

“I’m assuming you want us out,” I said.

“Not just yet.”

“Not yet? What if the cops come around the Coalition office and do background checks?”

“They won’t likely, but should they, yours will hold.”

“My address won’t. I gave them the YMCA, like you said, but I haven’t set foot in there.”

His voice radiated patience; you’d never know I got him out of bed. “I made the reservation and paid by credit card over the phone. A credit card as secure as this line. You will be fine. Oh, you might want to go to the Y and drop by your room. One of those rare times it might pay to be seen. Maybe take a swim there. You like to swim.”

“Yeah, I know I like to swim. I’m the one doing the swimming. But swimming in shit I don’t like. Or blood.”

“Understood. But there’s no need for melodramatic overstatement. You boys stay on for a while. Again, if things look compromised, follow your own judgment — I won’t second-guess. You’re the ones on the scene.”

“That’s right. Don’t forget that. So. Was that Starkweather character our client or not?”

“Obviously not, or I would indeed advise you to pull up stakes.”

Did anybody else on the fucking planet use “indeed” in conversation like that?

“Last time we spoke,” I said, “you implied he might be connected to our client.”

“It’s possible. Perhaps not directly, but... possible.”

“It’s a secure line, Broker. You needn’t be coy.”

“I do, if I’m to maintain the role that I play in our relationship, which is as a buffer, as insulation, as a middleman.”

As a redundant prick.

“Your role,” he was saying, “is fairly well defined. I won’t insult your intelligence by reminding you what the boundaries are.”

“Well, I’d be glad to insult yours. Where should I start?”

“Now, Quarry, I understand you’ve had a very full and taxing evening. I can tell you, with utter sincerity, that I am very pleased that you survived the unpleasant circumstances you happened upon this evening.”

“Circumstances like getting attacked by a KKK Klavern, you mean?”

He chuckled. “You do have a knack for getting yourself into the most outlandish jams.”

I held the receiver out and looked at it. Shook my head. I wasn’t going to win with this guy. Or maybe I was just too beat to try.

I said we’d talk tomorrow and he said that was a good idea, and we exchanged goodbyes and hung up.

I tried to sleep but couldn’t. I tossed, I turned, back, sides, belly, and still my brain refused to stop buzzing, the sheets getting more and more tangled. I kept turning things over in my mind, getting nowhere, but always coming back to the same conclusion.

Boyd and I should not hang around.

Tonight I’d killed two people who were not on my dance card. Yes, I picked up ten grand for my trouble, five after splitting with Boyd, but this job had really gone off the rails.

I turned on the nightstand light and read. Half an hour later, I finished the Louis L’Amour paperback and climbed out of bed, in my underwear. Light edged under the door between my bedroom and Boyd’s, so he was probably awake, too. I knocked lightly and announced myself. He said come on in.