Quarry's Choice (22 page)

Taking the snubnose along, I left the storeroom and the crackle of burning hair and stench of charred flesh behind, walking bareass through the mini-casino, followed by my own bloody footprints. Outside, the air felt good, surprisingly cool. Must have been around forty-five degrees. I stepped carefully out into the parking lot and looked around, every which way.

In a few seconds, I took in quite a bit.

First, the Dixie Club in its entirety was closed, which considering the commotion I’d just caused was not surprising. Signs on every entry said boldly:

RE-OPENING SOON

UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT

The second thing I noticed was a pick-up truck, a nice new red Ford F-100, unlocked and with the keys in it. Probably Buck’s or Chuck’s, who were apparently trusting souls. Well, hell, this was the South where everybody was good neighbors.

The third thing I saw was the most interesting. The Dixie Court seemed to have one customer, even though it, too, was closed for business. On the far end, well away from the main Dixie Club buildings, the two-tone green Fleetwood filled the parking slot for Room 14.

So the third man was still here.

Why?

And what the hell was he doing in Room 14?

I tried to free my mind of car-trunk rides and screaming men with gouged-out eyes and their hair on fire. Just clear the cobwebs and think.

And right away I had it.

Assuming he started in Biloxi, the third man had driven here to pick up Buck and Chuck, many hours ago. Leaving the red pick-up behind, the three had driven the Caddy up to Biloxi, where my ass got grabbed. That made twelve hours in a car for the third man.

And now they had made another six-hour trip
back
up to the Dixie Club, with either Buck or Chuck driving, the third man possibly resting, sleeping, maybe in the back seat. Once they returned to the Dixie Club, the third man had stood silently and apart as they hauled me out of the Fleetwood trunk and inside the Dixie Club to have their Dixon family fun with me. . .

. . .while he crashed in a room at the motel to catch a few z’s before making yet another six-hour drive. After all, it was probably approaching four in the morning by now.

So he was in that cabin, snoozing, at this very moment. And though I had no idea what his name might be, I figured I knew who he was—the driver of the Fleetwood that night when those shots were taken at the Broker and me. I hadn’t ever seen him, really, so I couldn’t recognize him; but this all made sense to me. Maybe if I hadn’t been naked and bloody and beatenup, I might not have been quite so sure.

But in that parking lot, in my bare feet, with a snubnose in my hand and my dick hanging out, I was dead certain.

The third man was in Room 14.

I made it over to the check-in office, a
CLOSED
sign on its door, which proved unlocked. At some point, probably many hours ago, Buck or Chuck or some asshole had let the third man in here to collect a key to Room 14, so he could grab a nap before heading back to Biloxi on the last leg of this back-and-forth journey.

And one of the two keys to that room was still hanging on the wall behind the check-in desk.

Glad for a sidewalk, after my barefoot trip across a gravel parking lot, I walked quietly along the row of rooms with the gun in one hand and the room key in the other, stopping at the door near where the Fleetwood was parked. Because of the truncated evening Luann and I had spent in a Dixie Court room, I knew the layout. I worked the key slowly, gently, in the door numbered 14, pushed it open quick, and pointed the .38 at the bed.

But the covers were back in a rumpled pile, a .45 and a pint bottle of bourbon with a water glass on the nightstand; down the hallway that led to the swimming pool, the open door to the bathroom bled light. Sink water was running. Brushing his teeth or something. Washing his hands maybe.

I stood there waiting on his doorstep, and when he stepped out in his boxers and nothing else, unarmed, he sensed something, turned my way, and grimaced, recognizing me.

He even said, “Quarry!”

Like I said, I’d never seen him before, except in blurs—the blur that night in the Concort Inn parking lot, the blurs of him and Buck and Chuck grabbing me from my Tropical room and stuffing me in the trunk. He was about my size and was another of these ex-military guys, judging by his butch haircut and solid build, and that’s all I can tell you about what he looked like.

Because he was a blur again, running down the hall toward that door onto the pool.

I didn’t run. I moved fast, as fast as I was capable in my condition, but I didn’t run, I just followed him, through the cabin, down that hallway, and when he pushed open the door and was halfway out, I fired the snubnose four times. They all hit him in a nice tight cluster, the dark spots where they went in standing out starkly in the moon- and starlight, ribbons of scarlet flying from him as if in celebration. He stumbled forward and he landed in the scummy pool with a belly-flop splash, his arms outstretched, like he was starting a lap.

But he wasn’t going anywhere.

Back in the motel room, I caught a real break. First, the Fleetwood keys were on the nightstand. Second, the guy’s clothes were my size.

I washed up a little and put some of them on.

When I went outside, I thought for a moment that dawn had come. But then it became clear that the light was generated by a conflagration—the Dixie Club was burning, that blowtorch igniting some of the booze, apparently. The wooden-frame building was going up fast, the gambling side already almost gone, the blaze working on the restaurant now, generating billowing black smoke but mostly orange-and-blue flames that were making glowing heat. Funny how the sound of a big fire is so similar to that of a rainstorm, but when I turned my back to it, that was exactly what the death of the Dixie Club sounded like.

I got in the Fleetwood, glad not to be in its trunk, and started it up and drove off, leaving all that hell behind.

With more awaiting me back in Biloxi.

In no shape to make the six-hour drive down to Biloxi, I considered checking in somewhere to sleep and recuperate a little—somewhere other than the Dixie Motel, that is. The trousers I’d appropriated in Room 14 had a wallet with $152 in its left back pocket, so I felt pretty flush for a guy who’d begun this outing naked, battered and stuffed in a car trunk.

But I needed to get back to Biloxi as soon as possible—I had things to deal with there, including little Luann, last seen flung against the side of a hot tub, knocked silly. I thought about calling her, but going through the Tropical switchboard might not be wise. Nor was I sure what ultimately to do about her.

Getting back to Biloxi by car meant dealing with various roads and highways and maps, and the thought of that made my head hurt even worse. But I knew how to get to Memphis and found myself heading there. A plane was out this time, as I didn’t have the I.D. or the money.

At a gas station on the outskirts, I got directions to the bus depot, in whose lot I left the Fleetwood, after wiping it down for prints, trunk included. I left the keys in the ignition. A nice surprise for somebody.

A bus ticket to Biloxi cost me $22.50—the guy in the window goggled at my beat-to-shit countenance—and at a magazine stand I picked up two little tins of aspirin. A vending machine gave me stuff they claimed was Coke with floating shards they claimed was ice, and I washed down six tablets with the swill, then found a bench and waited for the 7:10
A.M.
bus to Biloxi.

At the rear of the bus, I claimed the double seat, stretching out on my back, putting my knees up a little, tucking a complimentary pillow behind my head, which was aching less, thanks to the Bayer Company. A pleasant older woman in a floral dress approached me, holding a hand out tentatively, as if to a dog that needed help but might bite.

“Are you all right, young man?”

I knew I looked a horror, having washed up again in the bus station john, where I’d applied a cold compress of wet paper towels to my swollen eye. But I had on a dead man’s brown sportcoat, tan sportshirt and dark brown slacks, and the .38 was in a pocket, so I looked fairly respectable.

“I’m fine, ma’am, thanks. Are you going all the way to Biloxi?”

“I am. My daughter and her little ones are there.”

I nodded as if that mattered. “When we hit the city limits, could you wake me?”

“Certainly. Were you in an accident?”

“You should see the other guys.”

That made her smile a little. Good thing she couldn’t really see them.

She was true to her word and gently shook me awake when we hit town. The inside of my mouth thick as paste, I sat up slowly, the aching pretty bad. I’d gotten almost seven hours of sleep, though, and when I’d been up and around and moving for a while, it would be better.

A cab dropped me a block away from the Tropical Motel—I didn’t want to pull up and be let out in front. I came around through the alley, cutting through the parking lot. My rental Chevelle was still in its slot by the outside door to my room, and the slot next to Luann’s door remained vacant.

My hunch was she’d still be around. I thought for a moment about whether she’d be in her room or mine. Hers made more sense, but mine had the better TV.

With my left hand, I knocked on the outside door to my room—the snubnose .38 was in my right hand, down along my side. Working my voice up as much as I dared, I said, “Luann! Me.” Then I added: “Johnny.”

She cracked it open. I could hear the TV going—
The Newlywed Game
. She was barefoot in frayed jeans and a pink t-shirt. My nine millimeter was tight and huge in her small right hand. Her hair looked unwashed, her eyes red, her face sans make-up almost ghostly.

But seeing me seemed to transform her—she beamed, opening the door wider, and I slipped inside.

She hugged me and it ached like hell, but I didn’t want to hurt her feelings so let her keep at it. Looking past the girl, I took in my room—no one seemed to be here but us. That left the bathroom, and I pushed her away gently and checked it.

We really were alone.

The door between our rooms was shut but not locked. Snubnose in hand, I went quickly in and found it (and its bathroom) vacant as well. I returned to my room, where Luann was shutting off the TV. She’d set my nine millimeter on the dresser. It had the safety on. I wondered if she knew how that mechanism worked.

I asked her, “Are you all right?”

“Yes. Oh my God,
look
at you! What did they
do
to you, Johnny?”

“You hit that tub pretty hard. Did it knock you out?”

“Yes, but. . .” She raised a gentle hand, not quite touching my face. “. . .oh, they hurt you
bad
.”

I took her by that hand and we sat on the foot of the bed. “Have you been taking it easy? You could have a concussion. You should get checked out at an ER.”

“What about
you
, Johnny? Your face, it’s. . .”

“It’s all right. I was lucky. They don’t seem to have broken anything.”

“What
happened
? How did you get away from them?”

“Honey, you don’t need to know any of that. Let’s just say an ER wouldn’t help any of them at this point.”

She squeezed my hand and nodded, her chin crinkling. “Good. Good.”

“Have you been out of this room?”

“Just in here and mine.”

“No one’s tried to get in?”

“No. I put on the do-not-disturb.”

If only I’d thought of that last night.

“Luann, that’s not going to stop anybody who wants to come in and do you harm. Or me, if they know I’m alive.”

“Who did this?”

“I think you know.”

Her face hardened. “Mr. Woody.”

I sighed. “I wish I’d done what you asked me to, like right away.”

She nodded. “He called me.”

“
Called
you?”

She nodded some more and pointed a thumb toward the door to her room. “Not too long ago. He wants me to come in to the club tonight, and do the last shift, seven to three.”

“What else did he say?”

“That you were gone and the job was over. He meant me keepin’ you company and servicin’ you and stuff.”

“Yeah. I get that. That’s all he said about me, that I was ‘gone?’ ”

More nods.

I thought about that. “Did he say anything about you clearing out of your motel room?”

“No. He probably hasn’t thought of that. It’s nothin’ he’d check. I’m not important.”

I got up and walked around a little, thinking. She was right. As far as Mr. Woody knew, Luann was just another employee. Just the little whore he’d provided me. He wouldn’t even know—or it was very unlikely, anyway—that she’d been in my room when the Dixon boys and their helper barged in and dragged me away.

I went over and sat back down next to her. I took her hand again. “Luann, Mr. Woody doesn’t have any way of knowing that we’re. . .friends.”

“Is that what we are?”

“I think so. I hope so.”

She smiled. That seemed to be enough. “So he doesn’t suspect me of anythin’?”

“What of? All you did was show me around town a little and stay on call for when I got horny. He knows nothing about you accompanying me to the Dixie Club. Or following me to the Fantasy Sweets and making those video tapes. Could have
no
idea that you approached me to make him go away.”

“That’s a good way to put it,” she said with no irony. “But you know, it’s typical.”

“What is?”

She shrugged. “I’m nothin’ to him. Nobody, just a nice little piece of ass. To sell or use any way he feels like. He doesn’t know I have thoughts. Or feelings.”

Now I was nodding. “Well, if he does, I promise he doesn’t give a shit. But you’re not alone, Luann.”

“Huh?”

“He’s been using me, too.”

I was hungry. I’d bought a Snickers at one of the stops on the bus ride, but otherwise I was empty and my stomach was growling. The girl said she hadn’t eaten either, hadn’t even thought about it, but now that I was back “alive and everything,” she was starving.

I had her order some room service for us, to her room, while I took a long, hot shower, after which I made a general inspection of the bodily damage. My eye wasn’t so badly swollen now. My face had skinned patches where fist had met bone and skin, and my upper lip was a little puffy. Naked in the mirror I looked like Joseph’s coat of many colors, if those colors were purple, blue, red, yellow and variations thereof. You will be glad to know that my dick and balls were in mint condition, and all my poking at my sides did not reveal anything that might be a broken or even cracked rib.