Quarry (15 page)

“Just.”

It took three minutes.

Broker said, “Trouble?”

“Yes.”

“Can you talk?”

“Yes.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m in a pay phone.”

“Fine. What’s the number?”

I told him.

“I’ll need five minutes,” he said, “to get to where I can talk.”

“Okay.”

I hung up.

Five minutes later, give or take ten seconds, the phone rang and I picked it off the hook and Broker said, “Go.”

“Boyd’s dead.”

“How?”

“Somebody creamed him with a wrench.”

“What about the job?”

“The job went all right. I came back to Boyd’s right after and found him with his head smashed in. I had a scuffle with who did it, got my shoulder banged up a little, but nothing serious.”

“You saw him then?”

“The guy who did it? No. It was dark and he hit me before I knew what was coming.”

“No idea who or why?”

“I know why, I guess. Not who.”

“Why then?”

“The money was gone.”

“I see. This all just happened?”

“Within the past half hour.”

“The authorities?”

“Nobody’s seen either one of the bodies yet.”

“Nobody but you.”

“That’s right.”

“You cleaned up the mess?”

“Yeah.” I told him what I had done, how I’d faked the mugging with Boyd, removed his things from the apartment.

“Good man, Quarry.”

“What about Boyd? Can his body lead the law anywhere?”

“Not if you stripped him clean. His prints aren’t on file anywhere. He wasn’t even in the service, his homosexuality kept him free of that.”

“No homo arrests? Child molesting or anything?”

“No. Boyd was gay, but conservative. You know me well enough to know I don’t take on anybody unstable.”

“Broker.”

“Yes?”

“I’m getting an idea.”

“What kind of idea?”

“An idea of who wasted Boyd.”

“Who?”

“Who else? Our employer. The man who came to you and said he wanted Albert Leroy dead.”

“Impossible.”

“Possible. Very possible, for a number of reasons. Do I have to go into them, Broker?”

“No.”

“Who is he, Broker?”

“I can’t tell you that. You know I can’t tell you that.”

“Sure you can.”

“Against policy.”

“There you go again, Broker, talking like this is an insurance company and you’re the president and I’m your top salesman.”

“Is it really so different?”

“Christ, Broker!”

“This is a business and there are certain rules. You’re asking me to break our most sacred trust.”

“Sacred? Trust?”

“I can’t tell you, Quarry. I won’t tell you.”

“Broker.”

“No way, Quarry.”

“I want my money.”

“It’s gone. Live with it.”

“That’s what I want to do, Broker. I want to find my money and live with it.”

“I’ll tell you what, Quarry.”

“What?”

“I’ll let you have the twenty-five percent down payment that was left with me. My commission. I’ll hand it over to you. As a present. A bonus, let’s say. But give this a rest.”

“No.”

“You’re being unreasonable.”

“Am I. I don’t care if you give me the equivalent of all the
money, my share, your share, Boyd’s share. I want to find the bastard responsible. I want to make him eat that wrench.”

“Maybe we should talk when you’ve calmed down.”

“Okay, then. Call me back next year.”

I hung up.

Thirty seconds later the phone rang again and I picked it up.

Broker said, “What do you intend to do?”

“I’m going to find out who hired me, Broker. If you won’t tell me, I’ll find out on my own.”

“Jesus Christ! You’re insane, man!”

“Impossible. You only work with stable personalities.”

“Listen. Listen to me. Get out of that town. Get out. Now.”

“I think I’ll stay a while.”

“Have you cracked up? You can’t hang around after a job, especially one that’s gone sour like this one has.”

“Watch me.”

“I’m going to tell you only one more time . . .”

“Good. Then I won’t have to hear it anymore after that.”

“. . . get out of Port City, Quarry.”

“This isn’t Chicago, Broker. This is a hick town and I’m not going to have any trouble.”

“You’re right, Port City isn’t Chicago, you could hide in Chicago. In Port City you’ll be conspicuous as hell.”

“Good-bye, Broker.”

“Wait!”

I waited.

“Isn’t there anything I can say?”

“Sure.”

“What?”

“The name of the guy who wanted Albert Leroy dead.”

“Quarry, I’m not going to stand for this.”

“Yes you are.”

“All right. All right, all right, all right make a fool of yourself, but Quarry . . . make damn sure none of it touches me. If you do that, if you even come close to endangering me, you know what I’ll do.”

“I know what you’ll try to do.”

“You aren’t the only assassin in the world, Quarry.”

“No. But how many do you have better?”

I hung up.

I sat there for thirty seconds and when the phone rang again I picked it up and said, “Hello, Broker.”

“Quarry!”

“What, Broker?”

“Uh, what about Boyd’s car?”

“What about it?”

“You’ve got to get rid of it.”

“How?”

“Bring it up here and we’ll get rid of it for you.”

“I’m not sure I want to do that, Broker. I’m going to be kind of busy today.”

“I tell you what . . . let me do some checking. I’ll contact the man you’re looking to find, I’ll talk to him and try to find out if he knows anything. Give me till tonight and if I haven’t got anything for you, go ahead, go ahead tomorrow and snoop all you want.”

“I don’t know, Broker.”

“Trust me.”

“Trust you. Kind of a sacred trust, huh, Broker?”

“Do you know the river road?”

“That old road that runs along the Mississippi, up to Davenport.”

“Yes. There’s a limestone quarry about ten miles outside of Davenport on the river road. Carl and I will be pulled alongside there at, say, midnight. Bring Boyd’s car and at that time I’ll tell you how I’ve done with . . . the man you want to find.”

“How will I get back to Port City, Broker?”

“I’ll have Carl drive you back. We’ll bring two cars.”

“Okay.”

“Tonight, then? At the stone quarry?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll see you tonight, then.”

“Sure.”

“At midnight.”

“Sure. See you then.”

“See you then. Quarry?”

“Yeah?”

“Take care of yourself, will you? Lie low today and just take it easy.”

“That’s sweet, Broker. Your concern is goddamn fucking touching.”

He hung up.

So did I.

18

THE SIGN SAID
“Coke” and underneath, in only slightly larger letters, “Port City Taxi Service,” but the place was more than that: it was an all-night grocery of sorts, as well as restaurant and bookstore. The groceries ran to pretzels, pop and milk, and the books ran to porno paperbacks and skin mags, and the restaurant was little more than a couple of tables stuck next to a stand that had on it a coffeepot and napkins and plastic spoons and an infrared mini-oven for the heating of cellophane-wrapped sandwiches which were for sale at the counter as you came in.

Behind the glassed counter, which was long and full of candy and cigarettes, was a heavyset woman of indeterminate age with frowzy gray-brown hair and a curiously friendly face. She was wearing a red and white checkered dress that looked like a tablecloth left over from a 1957 picnic and was sitting in the corner with her back to an ancient black metal sender-receiver, a squared hand mike leading out from it on a worn spiral rubber cord and resting in one of her hands, a mostly smoked cigarette in the other. From somewhere out of the radio outfit came muffled static which she apparently understood, as she responded to it now and then.

When she and the static had finished talking to each other, she grinned at me and said, “Howdy, mister. Little early yet, ain’t it?”

“Sure is,” I said.

“It gets early every morning round this time.” She rasped out a little laugh and pointed a finger down toward the end of the counter. “Fresh rolls down there, dime a piece. You get first pick today, sonny. Early bird catches the worm. The coffee’s still perking, shouldn’t be more’n a couple of minutes and it’ll be ready. There’s a dish on the stand, by the napkin container. Drop a nickel in the dish for every cup of coffee you drink.”