Quarry's Choice (12 page)

Killian gazed at the sheriff with hooded eyes. “What concern is it of the mayor if some white-trash outlaws posing as restaurateurs get their due and just reward?”

The sheriff shifted his big rear end in the chair. “His Honor is concerned, Jack, that you are changin’ the nature of the Biloxi Strip, particularly as to your expansion beyond our city limits.”

“I’ve always had a good relationship,” Killian said, “with His Honor. And with
you
, Jeff. We pay our tithe, don’t we? Haven’t we been more than generous?”

The sheriff raised a palm. “You have, you have. . .but in the past, you and Mr. Woody and your people, well, things have been. . .kind of spread around. Lot of small businesses, workin’ to cooperate with each other, and with local government. Accordin’ly, realizin’ the futility of tryin’ to legislate morality, we in public service have made mutually beneficial arrangements with you and others. We put our focus more on protectin’ the interests of the tourists who visit our little town, and of course our boys from the air base, and our own fine citizens. But when something happens like this mess at the Dixie Club, well. . .it sends up a kind of a. . .red flag.”

Killian’s eyebrows went up. “It does? And why is that?”

“You’ve gradually taken over nearly the whole strip yourself, Jack. But, all right, I understand that, that is after all the American way. However—expandin’ around the state, and even
beyond
state lines, into Tennessee. . .with talk of Alabama and Kentucky and Louisiana. . .that kind of consolidation can attract attention, Jack. FBI attention.”

Killian’s shrug was barely perceptible. “They’ve never been a problem for us.”

The sheriff sat forward. “They’ll
start
to be. They ain’t interested in a tithe from you fellas. They are interested in convictions, and million-dollar fuckin’ fines, and with all the power you’re gatherin’, Jack, and all the enemies you’re makin’, you are stickin’ your chin out beggin’ for a RICO violation.”

The Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act.

Even a small fry like me knew about that. And what the sheriff was saying made sense.

“Jeff,” Killian said amiably, “I had nothing to do with what happened to the Dixons. Karma finally caught up with them, is all.”

The sheriff’s smile seemed a little sick. “That is a relief to hear, Jack. But there may be repercussions from the survivin’ family members.”

Though seated, Killian made a sort of half bow. “I will be reaching out to the Dixons to express my sympathy and give them my sincere assurance that I had nothing to do with their
tragic
loss.. . .Is there anything else, Jeff?”

The sheriff swallowed thickly. Many a wrongdoer must have sat across from Jefferson Davis Delmar and felt plenty intimidated. But right now it was the sheriff who was sitting in the principal’s office.

“Yes, Jack,” he said, and his tone was almost conciliatory. “There’s somethin’ Mayor Clayton and I would very much like you to consider. This is an election year. We won’t ask you to shut down, even temporarily, because everybody on both sides of the political fence knows what it takes to make a tourist town like Biloxi tick.”

“Good to hear.”

“But if you could help minimize the violence. . .as you say, you had nothing to do with what happened at the Dixie Club. . . but as for any other conflicts that might arise, here or elsewhere ’round the state? His Honor and I would very much appreciate you tampin’ down the fireworks.”

“You come in loud and clear.”

The sheriff forced a big grin. “Let’s keep the Strip a fun place for locals and out-of-towners alike to have a good ol’ time. And let’s keep the headlines free of any suggestion of. . .unpleasantness. Fair ’nuff?”

“Fair enough,” Killian said, and smiled, and stood, extending his hand again. This was his way of saying the meeting was over.

The sheriff got to his feet, shook Killian’s hand, nodded at me, and lumbered out, not looking very satisfied.

Killian’s expression was similarly sour. “They stuff their pockets with my money and then tell me how to run my business. Can you imagine?”

“No.” Actually, I could. Hypocritical politicians didn’t exactly come as a shock to me.

Killian gave the air a karate chop. “Why don’t they stick to what they’re good for? Looking the other way!”

Another knock came, but before Killian could grant permission, Mr. Woody rushed in, looking put out. He was in a blue-plaid polyester sportcoat with a light-blue wing-collar shirt and darker blue trousers. No tie, which was probably a breach of protocol.

“I waited,” Mr. Woody said, helping himself to the chair the sheriff vacated, “till Delmar was gone. He didn’t see me.”

“So what if he had?” Killian said. The meeting had barely begun and already he seemed bored.

Mr. Woody noticed me, nodded, and pressed on: “I didn’t want our esteemed sheriff to think we were in some kinda crisis mode over this Dixon debacle. Jesus Jones, Jackie—did you do this thing?”

“No.”

“Of course you didn’t do it
yourself
. But did you
have
it done? Not that the world isn’t a better place without them crazy assholes.”

“I did not. The Dixons had plenty of enemies closer to home. Decades of outrageous misconduct finally caught up with them.”

Mr. Woody was shaking his head, though his combover remained intact. “Maybe so, but it’ll come back on us. Isn’t that why Delmar was here?”

“Certainly.”

“What did you tell him?”

“What I told you.” Killian sat forward, his brow tense. “Now. Woodrow. Dix has a brother and some cousins who own clubs on both sides of the state line.”

“Right. Those are the only ones you don’t own along there, at this point.”

“I want you to call the Dixon boys and express our condolences.”

“Why don’t you do it? You’re the top of this here food chain.”

Killian shrugged. “You’ve been friendlier with them than I. They might take it wrong, coming from me. Send our sympathy, blah blah blah, and make an offer on the Dixie Club.”

“Oh, my God, how will they read
that
?”

“Make it a third again what we offered last time. They’ll read it as money, and they’ll read it as a way to get off the firing line.”

“So you
did
do it.”

“I didn’t say that. But of course I know I’ll be blamed. Fine. They won’t in future fuck with Biloxi. We have too much power, and too much firepower. Just do it, Woodrow.”

With a sigh, Mr. Woody got up and went over to the liquor cart and helped himself to some Scotch, filling a tumbler a third of the way, shaking a little as he did so.

Then he sat and sipped Scotch and mulled for a moment. “Well, hell, Jackie—we might as well make an offer on
their
clubs, too. A third more than last time?”

Killian shook his head once. “No. Same offer on theirs as we made before. Only up the ante on the Dixie. That should do the trick.”

“Christ. All right.” Mr. Woody emptied the tumbler down his gullet, rose, leaving the empty glass on the liquor cart.

He stopped at the door to add: “You mind if I borrow your boy Quarry for a moment, Jackie? I wanna see how the little gal I loaned him is workin’ out.”

Killian made a magnanimous open-handed gesture. “By all means. You know, I’m very satisfied with Mr. Quarry. That was a fine recommendation, Woodrow. He’s a capable, discreet man.”

I knew what “discreet” was code for:
don’t tell Mr. Woody what you did at the state line last night.
He needn’t have bothered.

As I was going out, Killian said, “Mr. Quarry, take the rest of the afternoon off. But stay handy. I may need you this evening.”

I nodded.

Mr. Woody and I walked through the wood-paneled bachelor-pad suite with its several guards in black suits positioned here and there, and out where two more watched the elevator. He and I hadn’t exchanged a word. We got on the elevator and went down.

Alone at last, Mr. Woody demanded, “Did you do that dirty work for Jackie at the Dixie?”

“No,” I said. What business was it of his?

He kept pressing: “Did you overhear anythin’? Did he send somebody?”

“Not that I know of. But what if he did? It sounds like these were horrible people who could cause you a lot of trouble.”

He let out a big sigh. “Well, they were. Fuckin’ monsters, and good riddance. But this has to be another Killian takeover move, in which case he’s courtin’ disaster for all of us. If Marcello don’t swat us like flies, the feds’ll slam our asses in the slammer.”

Which I believe is why they called it a slammer.

I said, “I’ll let you know what I see and hear.” Like hell.

We stepped off into the lobby, empty but for a young woman busy at the check-in desk. He walked me to one side, where we were well away from her.

“You seem to be nicely positioned on the inside,” Mr. Woody said, speaking low.

Keeping my voice down as well, I said, “Inside a fortress. I don’t relish shooting my way out.”

Eyes flared behind the big lenses. “Well, you need to
act
, man. Jackie is obviously spinnin’ out of control.”

Actually, Killian seemed far more in control of himself than Mr. Woody here.

He was saying, “How are you gon’ to do this thing?”

“I’m waiting for my window.”

“Well, how—”

“You’ve heard the old saying. What you don’t know can’t etcetera?” Really, I was thinking what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt me.

He sighed, nodded, bowing to my wisdom. “You know, Jackie thinks he has these politicians by the short and curlies, and maybe he does, but nobody’s immune from a bullet.”

“How does he have them that way? Short and curlies, I mean. Just because he pays them off?”

Mr. Woody smirked and shook his head. “No, Quarry, it’s more than pay-offs. Our Jackie’s one smart cookie. He’s got a fantasy hotel he uses. Down the Strip half a mile.”

“What’s a fantasy hotel?”

“It’s got theme rooms—you know, Roman times, spacecrafts, jungles, caverns, all with beds in them. Whenever a politician comes into office, here in town or around the state—and I mean high-rankin’—U.S. Senator included—Jackie gives ’em an invitation for an all-expenses-paid fantasy night with one of our girls.”

“So what?”

He grinned and raised a forefinger. “Them rooms are rigged with video cameras. He’s got tapes on you-wouldn’t-believe-how-many big shots. Startin’ with our sheriff starring in a Candid Camera porno with that little gal I loaned you, for instance.”

“No kidding.”

“And of course it’s been a real moneymaker for us, extendin’ to well-off civilians, as well. Lots of married fellas who check into Fantasy Sweets without the missus go home with a keep-sake that costs ’em plenty.”

I grunted a laugh. “A keepsake they are not likely to share with ‘the missus.’ ”

“Not hardly. It’s not home movies of the Grand Canyon. Well, sometimes it is. Depends on which girl.”

I walked him outside into sunshine and seventy-five degrees, the blue of the Gulf in our line of sight. Our talk of fantasy suites seemed to have cheered Mr. Woody up.

He put a hand on my shoulder, grinning at me. He smelled like Jade East. “Still enjoyin’ Lo?”

He meant Luann.

“She’s good company.”

Mr. Woody’s expression was reflective. “Nice girl. Sweet kid. I known her since she was knee-high to a grasshopper. Her mom was a great gal, too. Died way too young—drank herself into an early grave. Fuckin’ tragic. Sometimes life ain’t fair.”

“Sometimes,” I said.

He waved as he headed into the parking lot.

At the front desk a manila envelope was, as promised, waiting for me. I didn’t look inside till I was back in my room.

Five grand in nice new hundreds.

So I didn’t have to worry about not getting paid by Killian before I whacked him.

That was good.

When I signed on with the Broker, this kind of shit was not even in the fine print. Getting close to a target like Killian made me uncomfortable, as did coming into contact with so many people. Never mind the waitresses and patrons back at the Dixie Club—hell, they wouldn’t connect me to anything or remember me at all.

But what about the small army of guys in black suits who worked for Killian? What about the hookers and bartenders and strippers who saw me getting shown around by Mr. Woody? What about the desk clerks at the Tropical, who knew I was connected to the man in the top-floor suite?

And Killian himself was a problem. I didn’t
want
to get to know a target—their habits, their pattern, sure. But Killian had been decent to me, in his way, and seemed like one of the more admirable players in this foul game. He was trying to drag the Dixie Mafia screaming and kicking into the 1970s, enough so to make his number-two man eager to help remove him.

I had to keep in mind that Killian had ordered a hit on the Broker, a hit that had almost made collateral damage out of me, and that alone was enough to justify getting rid of him. Not that it needed justifying. He was just another contract, right? It wasn’t that I liked him or anything. He was just another one of these Southern fried gangsters—granted, one with ambitions beyond anything that the bottom feeders around him could ever grasp.

Then there was Luann.

Should I have turned down Mr. Woody’s gift of her services, a gift apparently intended for the duration of my stay? Would that have seemed suspicious, or ungrateful? Why look a gift whore in the mouth? Having such a creature handy to provide creature comforts did not suck, even if
she
did, in a good way.

But things would be heating up and she might become an encumbrance. True, the little hooker would stay in her room if I told her to, and I had no reason to think she’d ever intrude. Only, goddamnit, she was becoming a person to me. Which was the same problem I was having with Killian, but worse. I felt sorry for this kid. Her own damn mother had sold her into the sex trade—even in a world as mean and meaningless as this one, that put a whole new spin on Mother of the Year. I did not have these thoughts while fucking the girl, I admit, but in my more reflective moments, like in the shower or on the can, I did.