Макс Коллинз - Quarry in the Black

I sat back down. “Okay. What exactly?”

He settled back in his chair, too. “The Reverend has two regular handlers... bodyguards , who I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

The two big black guys packing heat? Yeah, I’d noticed.

“Believe so,” I said.

“Well, you’re an ex-Marine. Bronze Star winner. I would imagine you can handle yourself. And know your way around a firearm.”

“I know which end to point.”

He flashed a smile but his eyes couldn’t have been more serious. “We could use some additional security ourselves, and you’re the only person on staff who qualifies. Would you be willing to go over to the Reverend’s home this evening, and essentially be a third bodyguard?”

“Glad to,” I said.

“Should I see about getting you some kind of weapon?”

“I own a handgun. It’s in my suitcase. I can use that.”

“Well, Jack, that would be fine. But surely you aren’t licensed in the state of Missouri...?”

I gave him half a smile. “I’m not licensed anywhere. But I’ll risk it if you will. Should some son of a bitch make a move on the Reverend, and I have to shoot him? I have a hunch all will be forgiven.”

He grinned, and got up and held out his hand, which was a very nice way to say I’d been dismissed.

I shook it, then at the door paused to say, “I’m gonna grab some lunch. Would you tell Friday and Gannon that I’ll be back by one? To answer whatever questions they might have.”

“Jack, I’d be happy to.”

The two cops didn’t notice me head out. They were busy, now that many of the staffers from the weekend trip were starting to drift in. No sign of Ruth yet.

I caught lunch, alone, at a place called the Ladle, where I had the chicken-pot-pie soup with a puff pastry floating on top. Very good, but this was another of these Central West End hippie-type joints — art glass, Goodwill furniture, church pews, colored tablecloths. I ate slowly, thinking, letting the comfort-food soup warm my belly and encourage my mind.

Like Duff’s, the Ladle had indoor old-fashioned telephone booths, a row of four right out of a ’40s train station. I’d come up with the beginnings of a plan, but it couldn’t include Boyd. Not a double-cross, that’s not my deal. But something that might work best single-o.

I closed myself in a booth and put in a collect call to the Broker. This time I did get some fucking flunky and so I had to sit in there and wait for him to get back to me.

I took the opportunity to reflect on how the money worked with the Broker, at least on a usual job, and this admittedly wasn’t that. But generally he received a down payment from the client that covered his end and enough more to give Boyd and me — or any of his two-man teams (those basketball jerseys popped into my head again) — an advance.

I’d received five grand up front and I assumed Boyd the same. The rest of the payoff — Boyd’s second five grand, and my twenty — would be made a night or two before the hit. Procedure was to call the Broker and report that everything was in place and the job about to go down. The Broker would contact the client, instruct him or her to make the drop, the client providing a time and place, of course, which would be passed along to me.

Finally the Broker called. “Yes?”

Was he a little peeved, hearing from Boyd and me so often on this contract? Was I interrupting a secretarial blow job? Was he playing cribbage at his club? Okay, so I don’t know what cribbage is and didn’t know what club that would be, but you get the drift.

“I found my window,” I said.

Of course, I hadn’t. But I was heading over to the Reverend’s place tonight, wasn’t I? And I bet the house had windows.

The Broker perked up. “Good, good. I was afraid, with this difficulty that cropped up...”

He meant the late André.

“...that you might not be able to deliver. Certainly Boyd, when he called this morning, indicated the possibility.”

“No. I’ll make it happen.”

Maybe I would. Not sure yet. Still bobbing and weaving, when I should be floating like a butterfly and stinging like a bee.

“So,” he said, “this is the payoff call.”

No pompous phraseology when we were this down-to-business.

“Yeah,” I said. “I still have to go in the office and deal with the cops. You’re sure my cover story will hold?”

“For now, yes. Long-term, of course, doubtful.”

That meant no.

“Tell the client,” I said, “to arrange the drop for me to pick it up tonight at four A.M.”

“Why four A.M.?”

“I have things to do until then.”

“Sounds like another busy night.”

“I do try to make good use of my time.”

We hung up.

Back at Coalition HQ, I found Ruth finally at her desk. But one of the detectives was interviewing her. I was on my way to my usual post when a hand wrapped around my arm. Not firm, not gentle.

I turned and looked into the beautiful if troubled, heart-shaped face of Mrs. Raymond Wesley Lloyd. Big brown eyes, apple cheeks, gentle slope of a nose, bright red-lipsticked full lips, lovely mahogany complexion, shoulder-length processed curls. She wore a fur-collared gray topcoat beneath which a black dress with pearls peeked.

“Excuse me, young man,” she said. I had a hunch she might be twenty years older than me, but it might have only been ten. “Are you Mr. Blake?”

“John Blake, yes, ma’am.”

She beamed, beautifully, but it didn’t make the pain in her eyes go away. “Could I speak with you? Could we perhaps step outside?”

Nobody ever asked me to step outside so sweetly before.

“Absolutely,” I said, and instinctively took her arm and stepped outside into a chilly but not windy afternoon. Did I sense Ruth’s eyes following us, or was that my imagination?

“Young man,” she began, but I interrupted.

“Mrs. Lloyd,” I said, “please make it ‘Jack.’ When a woman as lovely as you calls me ‘young man,’ I feel like the world has passed me by.”

She gave me a wide white smile, and maybe her eyes weren’t quite so sad now. Not quite.

“I’m going to impose on you,” she said. “I don’t know you at all, but I want to ask you something personal, if I may.”

“Impose away.”

She smiled again, but she’d put her dazzling white teeth away. “You were on the weekend campus trip.”

“I was.”

“I’ve heard from... my spies... that you and, uh, the young lady... Ruth... are something of an item.”

“We’ve been spending some time together.”

“Did you spend time together on the bus trip?”

“We did.”

“Did she... did she spend any time with my husband?”

“She did not.”

“You’re quite sure?”

“Can you keep a secret, Mrs. Lloyd?”

“You have my word.”

“I hate to kiss and tell, but Ruth and I spent the night.”

Relief flooded her face. “Well... thank you. Though I hope I don’t seem catty if I make another comment, which is that it doesn’t surprise me she found someone to sleep with in such short order.”

I grinned. “You have a right to that opinion, and I’m not offended. But if you knew me better, you’d realize with someone as irresistible as me, Ruth took a lot longer to fall into bed than is usual with the ladies.”

That stunned her momentarily, then she smiled so wide it made her apple cheeks even fuller than before, and she tapped me on the chest lightly with a small fist.

“I believe you’re telling me the truth,” she said.

“Oh, I am. The females fall all over themselves trying to get next to me.”

That made her laugh. No sadness in her eyes now.

I said, “By the way, you’ll be seeing me tonight.”