Quarry's Choice (19 page)

Mr. Woody, who fifteen minutes ago had summoned me up, was seated behind the aircraft-carrier desk, which was piled with file folders. A file cabinet nearby had its top drawer open with those below slightly ajar.

In a cream-color cotton shirt, a tan leisure-suit jacket draped over a leather-couch arm, Mr. Woody said, “Well, good mornin’, Quarry. Isn’t this just a lovely day?”

“Beauty.”

“Sit down, son, sit down. Oh, there’s orange juice and soft drinks in the kitchen—go out and help yourself, if you like. I know you’re no drinker.”

He already had a glass of Scotch going.

“I’m fine,” I said, sitting.

The previous tenant’s personal framed autographed photos were carelessly tossed in cardboard boxes lining walls wearing nothing now but their nails. Everything in here looked a little off-kilter, except the liquor cart.

All those teeth grinned at me and the hazel eyes narrowed behind the magnifying lenses. “Pardon the mess. Hell, know how movin’ day can be.”

“Sure. You don’t seem to have many helpers.”

He waved that off. “I give most of the boys the day off. Jackie has his loyalists, you know. Best I handle ’em with kid gloves. Tough transition for some.”

I just nodded.

A hand absentmindedly brushed the frozen silver combover. “Have you had a chance to mull what we spoke about?”

“You mean me staying on for a week? For ten grand? Hard to say no to that kind of money for so little time.”

He slapped a hand on the desk; actually, on some folders. “Then you’ll stay?”

“For a week.”

“Capital.”

Behind me a female voice, a breathy alto, said, “And what shall we do with
these
hideous things?”

I glanced back and Mrs. Woodrow Colter, her dark blonde hair up with a few tendrils loose, her tall slender top-heavy figure in a patchwork denim pants suit with a red bandana blouse and knotted scarf, stood poised in the open doorway. She had a framed abstract-art painting in either hand.

“Darlin’,” Mr. Woody said, “just lean all that junk against the wall in the spare room. I know the gallery where Jackie got ’em from. Believe it or not, they’re worth money.” He glanced at me. “Quarry, you remember my wife—Wanda. Wanda, you remember Mr. Quarry.”

I gave her a polite smile. “Mrs. Colton.”

She gave me a nod. “Mr. Quarry.”

Her eyes tightened, for a fraction of a second, then she turned and was gone.

Mr. Woody was looking after her fondly. “That is one handsome woman, Quarry. And
smaaaaart
.” Confidentially, he said, “But let me tell you—she’s mean as snake when you cross her. Do not fuck with
that
one.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

He sat back, rocking in the swivel chair. “Quarry, I want to explore the possibility of a longer-term employment opportunity. You impress me as the kind of person I need about now. A young man with skills and abilities and a whole lot of potential.”

I gave him half a grin. “I don’t know about that, Woody. I’m a Northern boy. This part of the country and me don’t mix.”

“For the right amount of money, son, even a Yankee can adjust.” He sat forward. “I got an important bidness meetin’ this mornin’—why don’t you come along? Be educational for you to sit in on it.”

“Okay.”

He checked his Rolex. “Hell, we should go
now
. You can drive me over.”

“Woody, I don’t have a handle on this town yet.”

He was up and fetching his leisure-suit jacket. “Just over to the Krispy Kreme. It’s right there on the boulevard.”

I knew where that was.

I got up. “Just the two of us?”

“You’re all the bodyguard I need. I ain’t some paranoid lunatic like Jackie, always thinkin’ somebody’s out to get him.”

I let that slide.

Then I was driving him over there, him in the passenger seat of his big two-tone brown Caddy, and pulling in past a free-standing metal-and-neon sign big enough for a Vegas casino. I pondered what kind of important “bidness” meeting might be taking place at the Krispy Kreme, which—like the Waffle House—appeared to be a common Southern chain. So much sugar down here. Did it help banish the sour taste of losing a certain war? I parked and followed the energetic strip club impresario into a sterile-looking white building with a green-tile roof.

We passed through a cafeteria-style set-up where Mr. Woody collected two glazed doughnuts and a cup of coffee with cream and sugar. I don’t like coffee and had already eaten breakfast, so I opted for iced tea. Absentmindedly I forgot to ask for un-sweetened. Shit.

Seemed slow here for mid-morning on a Saturday. Of course, everything was slow in Biloxi in the quiet before the tourist storm. You could see doughnuts being made through a window, the results parading along in an oil-filled trench. The ventilation appeared purposely poor, to force the aroma of baking doughnuts into your nostrils.

Mr. Woody selected a table in the corner away from where everybody else was sitting and we’d barely plopped down when Sheriff Delmar, in plainclothes but for his hat with its badge, strolled in. He touched the hat brim to us, then went through the cafeteria line, joining us with a cup of black coffee and three glazed doughnuts on a paper plate. Well, that paunch had to come from somewhere.

The big man settled in opposite Mr. Woody, nodded to me (ten to one he didn’t remember my name), and tossed his hat on the empty one of our four chairs. “His Honor sends his regrets.”

Mr. Woody frowned. “Sorry to hear that. I hoped to
talk
to His Honor personal about matters of vital interest to Biloxi in general and us in partic’lar.”

His expression neutral, the sheriff shook his head. “I don’t think Mayor Clayton wants to be seen in public with anyone directly associated with the Strip right now. Not with his re-election campaign about to swing into gear.”

Mr. Woody cocked his head. “Well, though I see where he’s comin’ from, I have to say I
do
take umbrage.”

“Now, there’s no reason to—”

“Sheriff Delmar, I am a respected businessman in this community. I did not suggest we meet in a dark alley or a back room or in a saloon. What can be more respectable than an informal meetin’ at the Krispy Kreme?”

“Well, now. . .”

Mr. Woody pointed a doughnut at the sheriff. “You tell His Honor that in future I expect to be treated with respect. And he can expect the same treatment from yours truly.”

The sheriff was nodding. “I understand, Mr. Woody. I surely do. And let me convey not only my appreciation, but His Honor’s, for the way you’ve conducted yourself where the, uh, tragic loss of Mr. Jack Killian is concerned.”

Mr. Woody smiled as he bit into the glazed doughnut. Sugar bits clung to his lips. “Well, of course I had nothin’ to do with Jackie’s unfortunate passin’. Such a bizarre mishap. So damn tragic. Jack Killian was a close friend and a trusted bidness associate.”

“Oh, I’m very aware of that.” Now the sheriff bit into a glazed doughnut; his fleshy, wet lips latched onto even more sugary residue than Mr. Woody’s.

Chewing, Delmar went on: “Still, that Mr. Killian’s death was an accidental one has had a calmin’ effect in certain quarters here in our city and county and even around our great state.”

“Good to hear.”

“Had one of Mr. Killian’s, uh, business rivals caught up with him, and dispatched him in a violent manner, that would almost certainly have painted Biloxi in a most unfavorable light.”

Mr. Woody smiled as if to say,
You’re welcome
, and had a healthy sip of coffee. “Well, Sheriff. . .Jeff. . .it’s funny, ain’t it? Not funny ha ha, funny odd? How sometimes things just work themselves out for the better?”

Nodding, the sheriff finished one glazed doughnut and started another; by now his right hand was also glazed. Didn’t these people know what fucking napkins were for?

Licking his lips, not very successfully, the sheriff said, “What can you tell me about a young airman, a Thomas Huffman, who has gone AWOL? Some of his buddies at the base say he had a thing for a little gal at the Bottoms Up.”

“That, Jeff, is somethin’ you would have to discuss with Jack Killian. Which is, of course, impossible.” Mr. Woody chewed and swallowed a bite of doughnut before adding, “And if you were to go sniffin’ around? You might turn up more than you care to.”

“You mean regardin’ rumors of an exotic dancer who’s also gone AWOL, and a longtime club manager who up and quit and run off to parts unknown?”

Mr. Woody shrugged. “You tell me, Jeff—you’re the trained investigator. But I do know that if you don’t want to know somethin’, best not go around askin’ about it.”

The sheriff now had enough glaze on his face to rival any doughnut on the premises. Mr. Woody was in marginally better shape. I got up, excused myself, and went through the line and came back with two doughnuts. Not glazed—chocolate-frosted. As disgusting as my companions were in their dining habits, the smell of fresh doughnuts trumped all.

“You need to convey to His Honor,” Mr. Woody was saying, “that under my leadership, the Biloxi Strip will no longer be run in the reckless fashion of recent months. You won’t have airmen and out-of-towners and even wayward employees sufferin’ mysterious misfortunes, left and right.”

“Good to hear,” the sheriff said again, getting started on doughnut number three. I was still on number one, being civilized. Using a napkin slows things down.

“But what,” the sheriff was saying, “about these expansion efforts of Killian’s? That land grab of his at the state line?”

“Well, first off,” Mr. Woody said, “you should know that I have already made peace with the Dixon clan. They have been assured we won’t be encroachin’ on their territory no more. And I am in the process of divestin’ myself of all our holdings up that way, and elsewhere ’round the state and beyond. Oh, we’ll hold onto a little piece of the action here and there—that’s just good bidness. But the Biloxi Strip will once again be strictly the Biloxi Strip. With plenty of home-grown commerce to support me and my people.”

“That is
very
good to hear,” the sheriff said, the doughnuts gone. Finally he reached for a napkin. “We need to get things back to normal in these parts.”

Did he really say that? These parts?

“And we will,” Mr. Woody said. “We
are
. Now, Jeff, I intend to make a gesture of good faith to His Honor, but first he needs to know that I will expect to work out the details in a
face-to-face
meetin’. At the location of his choice, but I will not be disrespected.”

“What do you have in mind, Mr. Woody?”

“We all know Mayor Clayton is likely to be up against a reform candidate. So, for several weeks prior to the election, we will coordinate a kind of cosmetic clean-up of the Strip. We’ll shut some places down, and the few that we do keep up and runnin’, the Mayor can send his troops in on raids and make some arrests.”

The sheriff frowned in surprise. “Includin’ yourself, Mr. Woody?”

“Oh, hell no. But we have people on the payroll who we can afford to have sit in the county jail for a few days, even weeks, till election’s passed and we can get ’em up in front of a friendly judge.”

The sheriff was nodding now, smiling, damn near grinning. “That all sounds highly possible. Let me bring this to His Honor and get back to you.”

Some small talk followed, meaningless to me, and then the sheriff and Mr. Woody stood and shook their sugary hands. I stood and nodded at Delmar, but didn’t shake hands with anybody.

With the county’s top law enforcer gone, I sat and sipped my sickeningly sweet ice tea as Mr. Woody finished his coffee.

“
Now
we can get things back on an even keel,” Mr. Woody said, with a satisfaction approached only by when the sheriff finished his third doughnut. “And this is where
you
come in, Quarry.”

“It is?”

“Damn straight, son. You have brains, not to mention more balls than a Brahma fuckin’ bull.”

“Thank you. I guess.”

He leaned forward, the eyes behind the lenses narrowing again, the teeth lurking behind the straight line his mouth made. “I want you to stay on in Biloxi as my second in command. My number-one advisor and bodyguard and the key man to do my occasional. . .I believe the term in the military is
‘wet work.’
”

So much for Killian’s death making things less violent.

“I don’t think so, Woody. But I do appreciate the offer.”

He raised both hands as if in surrender. “You don’t have to say yes right this second. You already said you’d stay on here for a week. See how you like it. I know what kinda money you make with the Broker. And I realize with him that you don’t have to report in for work every mornin’ like the rest of us poor workaday slobs. But I’m prepared to triple what he pays you, with bonuses for those. . .
special
jobs.”

“Why me?”

He sighed, shook his head. “I just don’t feel like I can trust anybody that Jackie hired.”

“Well, I can see that.”

He gave me a lascivious grin. “You know, son, you can hang onto that little whore long as you like. We’ll set you up in a nice pad and she’s yours, long as you want her. I’ll take her off the schedule at the club, no more dancin’, no more trickin’—she’ll be a one-man woman. But you? You can have all the pussy on the side you want.”

Around us, well out of earshot, were the everyday folks of Biloxi—moms, dads, kids, having a wholesome snack of doughnuts and coffee or milk or too-sweet iced tea. The avuncular middle-aged man with the combover and the big glasses and big teeth must have seemed as harmless as that nice man next door. Of course, sometimes that nice man next door had bodies buried in his cellar.

“Okay,” I said. “It’s a tempting offer. I’ll give it serious consideration.”

“You made my day, son!” he blurted, and stuck out his hand.

It wasn’t as sticky as I expected.

But it was sticky enough.

* * *

That evening Luann and I ate at The Dockside in a rerun of our first meal there—cheeseburger for her and crab cakes for me—and smiled at each other and were pleasant enough, but said very little. There was a strain between us, no question. That can happen with a couple when the girl asks the guy to kill somebody, and the guy says let me get back to you.