Quarry (7 page)

8

I LEFT THE
Quad Cities at three-thirty that afternoon. I drove down the Illinois side, along a moderately traveled road bordered by lush farmland, busy with harvesters; an occasional cluster of trees bent over green and graceful in the less than gentle afternoon breeze, like oversize, out-of-shape ballet dancers trying in vain to touch distant toes.

I crossed the suspension bridge over the Mississippi River—though it was more suspense than suspension, as it was a rickety, narrow, mostly wooden old thing that had to date back to horse-and-buggy days—and found myself in the heart of Port City’s business district. I set aside an hour and started driving, aimlessly guiding my gray rental Ford over and around Port City; when the hour was up I felt for a stranger I knew the little town pretty good, and why not? It was the same as a thousand other small towns. Not unlike the one I grew up in.

Port City was two hills with a downtown in between, with growths extending from each corner of the city, one to the north a prosperous shopping-center boomtown, one to the south a slum-ridden embarrassment to the Chamber of Commerce. The latter section of the city was in fact called South End, and only by small-town Midwestern standards could it be classified a slum; in big cities used to ghettos and such, South End would’ve been a residential neighborhood. From a Port City point of view, it was a clapboard eyesore, saved only by the beginnings of commercial growth at the town’s southernmost tip.

East Hill ran mostly to aging but still distinguished- looking brick and/or wooden two-stories, and was very much middle class, while West Hill had apparently once been the home of the elite, and no doubt still was to some extent; while the young rich might choose to move into one of the classier of the housing additions dotting the northwest edge of town, the older guard would probably be content to remain in the elegant near-mansions of West Hill, old nineteenth-century beauties full of character, many of the best ones overlooking the bend of the river Port City was situated along.

The downtown, in the valley of the two hills, bordered on either side by factories, was more death rattle than business district; ancient buildings wore shiny new front-of-the-store bottom-floor facades, like terribly old men boasting terribly new false teeth. This collective face-lift was undoubtedly inspired by the shopping mall on the north end of town, where East Hill exploded into franchise restaurants and gas stations and motels and auto dealerships.

There was a building downtown, on a corner across from two churches and the post office, that looked like a prefab grammar school got out of hand. It was the YMCA. Next to the sterile, dull Y, extending down to the other corner, was a huge gothic brick-and-stone building with a long stone stairway that in three tiers led up to archway doors: the city library. It was being torn down. A guy inside the cab of a metal monster was smacking a big black steel ball into the building’s side, and there was a crunching groan of a sound each time the ball hit. Some people were standing around watching, leaning up against a fence that squared in the work area; a billboard just back of the fence, over to the left, showed a drawing of the projected new library, which looked to be a twin of its YMCA neighbor, but bigger and pointlessly angular, some computer’s idea of design. Most of the people had neutral looks on their faces, others looked vaguely pissed off. One longhaired kid flipped the bird to the guy working the ball. Stupid. If you want to finger somebody, I thought, finger the asshole who ordered the place torn down; say fuck you to the asshole who shoved a new library down the town’s throat, the city manager whose brother-in-law runs a cement factory, or the empire-building librarian who’ll get a better job somewhere else because he got Port City a new library, or the alderman whose firm did the electrical work, or whatever bureau- cratic bastards cause the trouble here. Not the guy working the ball.

I parked in front of the Y and went in. The outside of the building was light-brown brick and the reception area was more of the same, but with blue metal trim and white ceiling tile trimmed with black metal. The atmosphere was homey, like a reformatory remodeled by a contractor who wanted more money than he was getting. I knew the pool must be close by because the air was full of chlorine and little kids with suits wrapped in towels were scooting around bumping into things and each other. A three-walled fortress of a desk enclosed and protected an office, which had a windowless door, shut. Standing behind the desk, leaning on the counter reading
Zap Comix
, was a skinny, younger-than-middle-aged guy with white shoulder-length hair and matching bushy beard, though the mustache was black and so were the eyebrows and streaks of black were elsewhere in his hair. He was wearing a long-sleeve lumberjack plaid shirt, and both shirt and beard seemed out of place in summer, but then maybe he stayed in where it was air-conditioned most of the time Now I knew what Gabby Hayes must have looked like as a young man, something I hadn’t been dying to find out.

I said, “I’m going to be in town for a few days. Do you have a room for me?”

The bushy head wagged affirmative. By looking real close at the young old man I could see he was enjoying the comic: his eyes had crinkles at the corners and the mustache was turning up at the ends.

“Can I use the pool while I stay here?”

“You mean for swimming?” he said, finally looking up at me but still not really listening.

“No,” I said. “In case I wake up thirsty in the middle of the night.”

“Sure, man, you can use the pool.” He looked back down at the comic, then continued: “Course you’ll have to work yourself around our schedule. Afternoon swim classes and Saturday morning swim classes, and Businessman’s Swim Wednesday night, and Thursday night Family Night.”

I wondered what threat I might pose to Family Night, but let it pass. “How much in advance?”

“One day’s worth. Four.”

I gave him five and he gave me change. He had me sign a name in a book and he got a key for me from a board which was stuck up against the wall next to the office door. “Room’s upstairs,” he said, and he pointed, looking back down at the
Zap
. I followed his finger to the stairway at the end of the hall.

Up on the dorm floor, I found a pay phone next to a Coke machine. I used both. Sipping at the can of Coke, I dialed the number Broker had given me.

“ . . . yes?”

The hesitant voice was Boyd’s.

“I’m in town.”

“Hey, Quarry. Good enough.”

“How’s it going?”

“Smooth. Remember St. Louis?”

“Yeah.”

“That smooth. Smoother than that.”

“Where are you?”

“You know this town at all?”

“I drove around a while.”

“Remember seeing a dump called Binelli’s?”

“A cigar store?”

“Yeah, with a bar in it.”

“Taco joint across the street?”

“That’s the one. It’s the building next to Binelli’s. An old chiro’s got an office on the bottom floor. I’m up on the third.”

“Front or back entrance?”

“There’s a front way in, but come around the alley way. There’s a wooden stairway comes right up to the back door.”

“You need me immediately or anything?”

“Not really.”

“Let me get settled then. Maybe catch an hour or two of sleep. Look for me round seven, okay?”

“Okay. Hey, Quarry?”

“What.”

“You like tacos?”

“Not especially.”

“Pick some up before you come up.”

“Oh Christ.”

“Ah come on, I been smelling that taco smell till I could go crazy. Come on and pick up a couple orders, goddamnit. I’m sick of eating my own cooking.”

“You got a place to
cook
there?”

“Sure. I’m staying right here, too. There’s room for you, Quarry. I suppose you’re staying at the Y, Jesus.”

“What’re you doing, sleeping on the floor?”

“You know me better than that. There’s twin beds here.”

“Twin beds? And you’re cooking? What the hell kind of lookout is that?”

“Come see.”

“Okay. Seven.”

“Seven. Tacos, Quarry?”

“We’ll see.”

I hung up and finished off the can of Coke and dumped it in a trash can. Then I went down to my room, which was small and clean and new but about the size of a closet; the floor was scuff-marked tile, and the furniture—what there was of it—was that kind of wood that looks like plastic. I unpacked, put my stuff in the dresser, except for the nine-millimeter, which with a few other odds and ends I left locked in my briefcase and shoved under the bed: I set my little travel alarm for an hour and got settled down for a nap. When the alarm went off, I’d go down and see if the pool was free. After my swim I’d join Boyd.

9

BOYD WAS HOMOSEXUAL.
I figured I better tell you right off, rather than sneak up on it. Queer as a three-dollar bill, but he never tried anything with me, so I didn’t give a damn. His life was his.

I couldn’t help but wonder whether or not Broker knew about Boyd’s sex leaning when he teamed him up with me. Later, when I told Broker about Boyd, he acted surprised and asked me did I want somebody different to work with and I said no thanks, Boyd’s different enough as it is. After I gave it some further thought, I realized Broker had to be playing dumb—which was typical of him—since his research into each man he took on was nothing short of phenomenal. Somehow he figured I wouldn’t mind Boyd, whereas some- body else would. He was right. Boyd could sleep with sheep if he had a mind to, so long as he didn’t fuck me or the job.

From the first I had suspicions about that side of him, and they must’ve showed, because before long Boyd came right out and told me. But he said not to worry, though, said he was “married” and didn’t do any playing around. Out of bits and pieces of what he said over the years, I came to know that his “wife” was a gay hairdresser he lived with somewhere back east.

Boyd was a pro, and his sex life he didn’t let interfere with business. Sure, I had thoughts about the sexual implications of his being in this line of work; the idea of a bullet entering a man’s body being a kind of symbol for penetration, sexually speaking I mean. Which is Freudian bullshit. For one thing, Boyd was as cold as I was about the actual carrying out of an assignment; he took no pleasure from his work, or at least revealed no overt signs of emotion. For another thing, he preferred back-up position, which generally entailed no actual violence whatsoever. The back-up does the watching, gets the mark’s schedule down pat and then covers while somebody like me does the actual job. Every fourth assignment, Boyd would take the active role as hitman and I’d take over in the passive back-up position, so he could keep his hand in, should our team get split and he have to go with another partner.