Quarry (29 page)

“What’s this . . . what’s this all about?”

“Go back to Broker, Carl. But one thing . . . bring him back here.”

“What? You’re crazy.”

“Get him up and bring him out here and let him get his ass wet like the rest of us.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“You got forty minutes. Broker doesn’t live all that far from here. I’ll wait forty minutes. Now go.”

“Go?”

“Go.”

“Sure,” Carl said, humoring me, “fine. I’ll bring him back in forty minutes.”

“I know you will. Just tell him one thing for me. You tell him I only gave him half that load of heroin from the airport job. You tell him I kept back a bag. Tell him I got it hid safely away, and if he wants the key to where I hid it, he should come back here within forty minutes and bring twenty thousand in hundreds with him.”

Carl didn’t argue with me. He didn’t try to tell me Broker wouldn’t be able to raise the money or other similar lies. Twenty thousand was a low figure for the stuff, very low, and I only picked that figure because I knew Broker would have that much on hand at home.

Carl said, “I’ll be back in forty minutes with the Broker.” Carl knew the Broker would come; for the heroin, Broker would come.

“Go, Carl.”

Carl nodded. Very carefully, very slowly, he sloshed back to the Charger, its motor still running. He waited at the door for any last instructions I might have I said, “You come back with him, Carl. Don’t bring anyone else. Come unarmed.”

Carl nodded again, got in the car and pulled out. I watched the Charger disappear into the rain and seconds later the road was deserted again.

Behind me, Vince said, weakly, “What . . . what’s this about? Who . . . who the hell are you?”

I turned and looked at him. He looked pitiful. A skinny shot-up kid in my raincoat, leaning against the Ford and clutching his side. His long hair was hanging in thick wet streaks across his forehead, making a stark contrast with his pale white face. His mouth was slack open, the chipped tooth giving him a look of naive idiocy.

I said, “You don’t know, do you?”

Vince said nothing.

I said nothing.

We waited.

Vince said, “In Christ’s name, do something . . . help me . . .
I’ll fucking bleed to death if you don’t do something . . .”

I just looked at him.

He said, “You got to, got to . . . please . . . oh, please, please, do something . . .”

He was right. It was time to do something.

I said, “All right. I got a first-aid kit in the trunk of my car. I’ll go get it.”

He made a strange sound, a cross between a whimper and a sigh. He whispered, “Thanks . . . thanks, Jack.”

I walked the eighth of a mile back to the Mustang and opened the trunk.

I got out the wrench.

29

“SHIT,” CARL SAID.
He paced awkwardly back and forth, like he was trying to make fun of himself. He’d been fifty minutes bringing Broker out here and I’d told him forty. He’d come back and found the area deserted and for a full minute now he’d been pacing and saying shit. He didn’t know I’d moved the two cars to where they couldn’t be seen. The rental Ford was at the mouth of the gravel access road to the quarry, the car just barely out of view, where I could get to it quick if I had to. Boyd’s Mustang was down in the quarry itself, not far from what was left of Vince.

Carl looked at Broker, whose face was visible in the back side window of the car. Carl held out the palms of his hands as if to say, “What can I do?” Broker pursed his lips and shrugged with his eyebrows. Carl shook his head as if to say, “I’m sorry.” Broker eased the irritation from his face and nodded forgiveness.

Just the same, Carl went back to his pacing alongside the car, which this trip was not the shiny dark blue Charger, but a big brown Buick with a vinyl top. Broker’s car, obviously. An executive’s car.

“Shit,” Carl said again, “shit, shit, shit.”

“Oh stop crying,” I said. I stepped out from the bushes and let Carl see I was still keeping company with the nine-millimeter.

Relief flooded Carl’s face, and then anger. Carl spoke and his voice dripped venom, but his words were contrite: “I’m . . . I’m sorry I was late.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “Open your coat.”

He unbuttoned the black raincoat and held it open. I walked over to him and gave him a quick, one-handed frisk. He was unarmed. “Good boy,” I said. “That fake leg of yours isn’t hollowed out and full of firecrackers, now is it?”

Carl pouted. His eyes told me to go to hell. But he said nothing.

“You can close your coat now,” I said.

“Where’s your friend,” Carl asked.

He meant Vince.

At the bottom of this limestone pit, Carl, where he landed when I shoved his remains over the edge.

“I patched him up,” I said, “and he’s doing fine. Walking up and down the road here, keeping his eyes open. Making sure you and Broker didn’t bring any of your friends along.”

Carl said, “Broker wants you to get in the car and talk with him in there.”

I waved the gun toward Broker, whose face in the window
of the Buick was bland and emotionless and practically bored. “Broker,” I said, loud, “get your ass out here!”

The back door opened. Broker didn’t come out, but his voice did. He said, “Climb in here with me, Quarry. No need to stand out in the rain and catch pneumonia.”

“Why don’t you come out here and join me, Broker. I been in the rain so long it’s gotten to be my natural state.”

“Please,” the Broker said. With solemn patience.

“Why not,” I said. I looked at Carl and said, “You get in the front. Sit on the rider’s side and don’t cause any trouble.”

Carl did as he was told.

Broker was wearing a charcoal double-knit suit and a dark blue shirt and a wide tie colored robin’s egg blue. He moved over to make room for me, which put him directly behind Carl. There was plenty of room in the Buick’s back seat—headroom, legroom, everything. I laid the nine- millimeter on my lap and folded my gloved hands. It was cold in the car. The damn airconditioner was on, which was stupid on a rainy and not particularly warm night like this one, and between its coldness and size, that Buick could’ve been used as a meat locker.

“Excuse the delay,” Broker said. “My wife and I were entertaining a houseful of guests, and it was most difficult getting away.”

“Having a party, huh, Broker? Well that’s one way to establish an alibi.”

“Please, Quarry.” His mustache quivered.

“You and your pretty wife are eating caviar and sipping cocktails and I’m out here in the rain getting my nuts shot off by a cripple.”

I could see Carl in the rearview mirror. I could see his face get tense. But he didn’t say anything.

I said, “You might be interested to know that my business in Port City has been settled, and without rousing the police or causing J. Edgar Hoover to rise from the dead.”

Broker’s expression turned grim. He nodded slowly and said, “I received a call from the party who contracted your services . . .”

“Mrs. Springborn, you mean.”

Broker couldn’t keep back the sharp look this time. But it passed quickly. He said, “The party informed me of your visit, and that you had promised to leave Port City.”

“That’s right.”

“And that you demanded and were paid an additional four thousand dollars. How do you think that makes me look? I’m not a blackmailer, Quarry, I won’t condone extortion.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh at the bastard or strangle him. I told him so.

“Quarry, please!” The Broker patted his hands at the air. “Please. I shouldn’t have brought up the subject.” He cleared his throat. “My friend, we could drag this out forever, shouting at each other, accusing each other of all sorts of things. You could tell me again of your distaste for that job at the airport, and reexpress your general displeasure with my management of your affairs these past several months. And I could remind you again of your unpardonable behavior in Port City, and, successful or not, could you really refute the insanity of staying on the scene after a job and, in the name of God, investigating? I think not. This is unfortunate, this is all most unfortunate, and rehashing all of our grievances will get us nowhere. I’m sorry our mutually beneficial working arrangement must be dissolved in so disagreeable a way, after so long a period of time. It’s obvious reconciliation is impossible. I’m fond of you, I really am, and you’ve done good work for me. But in recent days we’ve treated each other badly and have left our relationship in a state of damage beyond repair. Tonight, and I admit my judgment was faulty, tonight I tried to have you killed. Just as you, while working for me, betrayed our trust and kept for yourself valuable property belonging to me. Well, one hand washes the other, as they say, and I say let us dispense with past differences and get on with the business at hand.”

If he’d been running for something, I would’ve voted for him. The rain beat on the roof of the car like applause.

“Well, Quarry?”

“Okay,” I said.

The Broker nodded gravely and withdrew from his inside suitcoat pocket a thick, sealed envelope. He ripped the envelope open with a great sense of the dramatic, and displayed the thickness of green bills.

I dug into my pants pocket for the key. I handed it to him.

He said, “The airport? A locker at the airport?”

I nodded.

“Reckless,” the Broker said, softly, “most reckless.”

He handed me the envelope, without ceremony this time. I spread it open, ran my thumb across the edges of the bills. The bills were new and crisp; they even smelled new. I started to count the money, and from the corner of my eye I saw the Broker make a movement of his head and in the rearview mirror I saw Carl nod back.

And I saw that the glove compartment was open.

Sometime during Broker’s pompous speech, Carl had quietly opened the glove compartment.

Carl was watching me in the mirror to make sure I wasn’t watching him. I waited until his hand was inside the glove compartment and on the revolver and then I grabbed Broker by the arm and yanked him over hard and plastered myself against the door and Carl fired.

Carl fired and his bullet caught Broker in the right eye and the back of Broker’s head flew off and sprayed-splattered a surrealistic, mostly scarlet design across the back window.