Quarry (14 page)

I didn’t waste time thinking about who. A joker had turned up in the game and nobody mentioned anything about wild cards but I had to play the hand anyway. So. I went carefully forward, holding my gun arm tight against my ribcage, my wrist bent into a ninety-degree angle so that the nine-millimeter was pointing straight out, ready to blast anything, any damn thing that moved.

Nothing moved.

At least, nothing moved here in the kitchen. And there was no good place to hide in here, really, other than in the closet that housed the furnace, and that afforded only a narrow cubbyhole barely large enough for a child to squeeze into. I got close enough to see that the door to the furnace closet was open and the cubbyhole empty and I moved on.

The living room, I remembered, had no good hiding places, either. No furniture in corners that could shelter a hiding man, except possibly if someone should hide down behind the far end of the davenport that was against the wall on the right, near that window where Boyd was silently sitting; but the davenport sat so low to the ground that a man would have to curl in a ball to hide, which doesn’t make for the best of ambush techniques. And too, if Boyd was alive, quietly waiting to make a stand, the intruder wouldn’t be anywhere near him; likewise if Boyd was dead, the intruder wouldn’t want to be close at hand—even a pro (if this
was
a pro) doesn’t like being next door to a corpse, not for long anyway. The living room I ruled tentatively out, though admittedly that was where the front entrance was, the door being over on the left, near the back corner, and someone could be behind that door, waiting out on the landing. But I doubted that. I figured once the intruder got
that
far, got out the door and close to freedom, he’d most likely take off. Unless his express purpose was to kill Boyd and me, and since I didn’t know the intruder’s motives, yet, I had to count that as a possibility.

But not the best one.

The best possibility was the bedroom, which had two excellent vantage points for surprise attack: a large closet with sliding double doors and room enough for five men to hide; and a bathroom in the left corner on the left side, a small bathroom but one with a shower-curtained tub.

The odds were good, very good, that I’d find my intruder either in the bedroom or in the bathroom that led off from it.

I unfolded my raincoat, took it by the collar and shook it gently and held it in front of me and it was like a man was looking back at me. I walked slowly over to the open door to the bedroom and eased my hand around the corner to flick on the light switch, flooding the room with light, and tossed in the coat.

No reaction.

Well.

I moved into the room in a low crouch, fanning the gun around, looking, looking, looking.

Empty.

The fucking room was empty.

The double doors on the closet had been slid down to one end and a lot of hangers were staring me in the face. I walked over slow, staying low, and slid the doors back the other way, fast, and saw more hangers.

Okay.

The bathroom, then.

If the bathroom was empty, then whoever had caused Boyd’s trouble, whatever it was, had gotten away before I got there. Or was waiting in the living room. I couldn’t forget that; if the bathroom was empty I still wasn’t home free. I stood in the doorway of the can and tried to flick on the light but the switch clicked forth and back impotently, the bulb evidently burned out. I turned to the tub with its shower curtain and reached out and began tentatively to draw back the curtain and something lashed out, something solid, something much more solid than a fist, doubled me over, something metal had creased my belly and folded me in half like a slice of bread and I looked through burning eyes as a dark mass rose from the bottom of the tub, looked with red eyes into the black T-shirt of the man who’d hit me, who was now on his feet in the tub and I saw and heard a swishing object as it came down. I jerked to the left, collided with a wall and saw from the corner of my eye the object, a wrench, go sinking into my shoulder, making a
crunching sound as it went, and I was down on my knees, like I was praying, my spine jammed hard against the stool behind me, and an arm swinging the wrench came down after me. With my free hand I batted upward and knocked the arm away before it did me any more damage and brought up my automatic and fired and the silenced gun went
chunk
; and
chunk
again, sounding loud in the confines of the small room, and I heard a yelp. I didn’t see him, not really, didn’t know for sure if the gun had hit home, but the wrench-swinger was scared, so shitass helpless scared, he started in waving his arms and got us tangled in the shower curtain somehow, and fabric and metal rods were down on us, and I fired again, hoping my gun wasn’t aimed at some part of me, and the man with the wrench, still scared, more scared, didn’t finish me like he could have, like he should have, but scrambled out of there, tucked tail between legs and left in a blur of black.

I thought he flicked off the bedroom light switch as he went out, because everything went dark, but when I woke up I realized it was minutes later, how many I didn’t know, not many, that was for sure, but by the time I was on my feet and staggering after the man with the wrench, he was gone. Not long gone maybe, but gone long enough. In the kitchen the door was wide open and when I got to the fire escape porch there was no sight of anybody.

I shut the kitchen door, locked it. I stumbled over to the cupboard, got out a bottle of aspirin and shook out six and got a glass of water from the tap and gulped down pills and water and stood there leaning on the counter, panting. Then I went to the kitchen table and sat down for a moment and stroked my crushed left shoulder with my right hand and felt tears run down my face and said, “Jesus Christ,” a few times, and then I ran fingers across my clavicle and it was fucked up, too, fucked over bad.

When my mind stopped being red with pain, it got red with anger and I slammed my fist down on the table and barely felt the pain as it shot back through my shoulder. By the time I was on my feet again, maybe a second later, I’d forgotten about the pain.

Back in the bedroom I found Boyd’s suitcase in a corner, open, flung there after it had been dumped out.

I went through the pile of clothes and the envelope was gone. I glanced in a wastecan and found it: the envelope had been emptied and then crumpled into a tight ball. I looked around the room for a while, but only for a very short while, as a search was useless. It was something I had to face: the money was gone.

What I found in the living room was no surprise.

Boyd was in his usual position at the window: sitting on the floor; leaning against the wall; head tilted back; but dead. The upper side of his head was caved in and looked as though it had been gently done, as though his was the head of a china doll that had been delicately shattered with a single tap of a child’s hammer. But maybe that was because it was dark in there. Maybe if I had had to look at him closer, in the light, I would have seen it the way it was: a man’s skull cracked bloody open from two or more savage blows of a hard-swung wrench. His eyes were
round open and glowing white in the blackness and I could almost hear his voice speaking in those dead eyes, Quarry . . . Quarry
, what the fuck? The reality of death must’ve been a shock to Boyd, the cruelty, the absurdity, the finality, the million things that must flash through your mind as you die violently. A man can get detached on the winning side of a gun and he can forget what it is he’s doing and Boyd, evidently, died in a traumatic realization of what he was, what he did and what was being done to him. But at least he’d shown one last trait of professionalism, in his final moment: his right hand was still clutching the shade he’d pulled down to warn me.

I had to give him that much.

17

UNDER THE WOODEN
steps in back, grouped close against the wall, were garbage cans. Six of them. I arranged them into a slight semicircle and that was where I left Boyd.

My shoulder was a hunk of agony and made it no pleasure carrying my ex-associate down those three flights of steps. But it had to be done. I didn’t know if the Port City cops would buy this as what was perhaps a rare event around these parts—a mugging—but that’s what I was hoping. I had stripped Boyd of all valuables, leaving his pockets pulled inside out, not only to fabricate a robbery, but to prevent discovery of Boyd’s identity. With luck, Boyd would end up just another cipher in a potter’s field, a poor slob who was passing through Port City and got mugged and killed for his trouble.

I hadn’t had the time to analyze what had happened yet and was acting, really, out of sheer instinct: I was a knee struck by a mallet at the precise point and was jerking up like I was supposed to. Reflex had me getting Boyd out of there and away from that apartment, which had been provided by our nameless employer, who by unwritten law must be protected at all costs. Or almost all: it would have been better to lug Boyd off someplace farther away, like drive him out along the Mississippi twenty miles and dump him off a bluff, but I wouldn’t take that big a chance. Reflex action or not, confusion or no, I thought of my ass first. Survival.

So I had cleaned both Boyd and apartment of his effects and placed everything I collected in the trunk of his green Mustang. I had wrapped Boyd in a sheet, which I removed once I deposited him behind the wall of cans, and had slung him over my good shoulder and headed down the fire escape, hoping for the best.

I was lucky about the configuration of the alley, which in fact wasn’t really an alley at all, as it dead-ended halfway in, surrounded by three-story buildings, making for
something of a modest courtyard back there. The windows in the buildings were few and as yet dark—it was still very early morning—and the building across the way was a garage and windowless. The dreary buildings and the overcast sky gave me a perhaps false sense of security, and once I had pulled Boyd’s Mustang up into the mouth of the street entry, blocking it off and partially obstructing vision from out there, I felt relatively safe carrying him down. Or as safe as you can feel in the company of somebody murdered.

I guided the Mustang out of the little courtyard and let loose a monumental sigh as I got out onto the still empty street. As I drove around to the front the street lights winked out, officially signaling morning’s arrival, and I pulled the Mustang into a vacant spot behind my gray rental Ford and turned the car off and sat there for a while. Across the street all was silent. No one had stumbled onto Albert Leroy as yet. Idle curiosity made me wonder who would be found first—Boyd or Albert.

That particular irrelevant thought was a sign of just how dazed I was. I got out of the car and walked down to the corner and stood there for maybe a minute, alone on the sidewalk, gathering my thoughts. My mind had been blown, almost literally, and I didn’t know how long it would take to collect the pieces and reassemble them.

Across the street, kitty-corner from where I stood, was a telephone booth, standing in front of a big gothic-looking church like a reminder of what century it was. The moment I saw it I was on my way over, digging a dime out of my pocket, searching for more change to make the necessary long-distance call.

“Hello,” a voice said. A slightly groggy voice.

“Is this Carl?”

“Yes . . . yes it is. Who is this?”

“Get Broker’s ass out of bed, Carl.”

“Uh, who is calling please?”

“Get him out of bed, you fucking gimp.”

“Quarry?”

I said nothing.

He said, “Okay, uh, okay, wait a second.”