Quarry's Choice (27 page)

Was he shadowing one of these wealthy parents?

That seemed a good bet. This was a money town, and these were money moms and dads, for the most part.

For whatever reason—maybe some parents had gone inside to have a word with the dance instructor—it was a good hour before the lights in the big black building went out. All the daughters, all the parents, were long gone by now. I started the car up, drove slowly past the parked Bonneville, and again went around the block, down the hill, and came up around and into the parking lot.

Only two cars remained on the gravel—a baby-blue Mustang and a red Corvette, parked very near the foot of the small slope behind the building. Not Lincolns or Caddies, but two very choice automobiles, it seemed to me, especially driving a fucking Pinto.

But no parents or kids were around those vehicles. Everybody was gone. No mink-coat moms, no dads in Cads. Only one light on in the building now, and that had been around front.

The dance instructor?

Did he
live
on the premises, as well? That seemed unlikely but not impossible.

I again nosed the Pinto out of the lot, turning left, heading down the hill. I turned around in a drive and came up and parked opposite the dance studio’s parking lot entrance. I had barely done this when another car pulled in just ahead of me and parked.

The Bonneville.

Shit fuck hell
, as the nun said when she hammered her thumb.

I just sat there with my nine mil in my hand, draped across my lap, wondering if I’d screwed the pooch already. The Bonneville’s driver’s side door opened and the big red-haired red-bearded quilt-jacketed apparition that was Mateski—still in those tinted glasses!—got out, and my hand tightened on the nine mil grip. Then, once again, he climbed in the back of the Bonneville.

I waited five minutes, five very long minutes, then pulled out and drove off. When I parked next, after doing another circling-around number, I was just around the corner from Mateski, parked a few spaces beyond where his Bonneville had originally been, where I could just catch a glimpse of the Pontiac’s grillwork.

Perhaps three minutes later, a car’s bright headlights made me wince—
brights in town? What the hell!
The vehicle was going fairly fast, probably pushing forty, and as it roared through the residential intersection, I saw two things—a pretty blonde teenager behind the wheel, and that she was driving that baby-blue Mustang.

Would Mateski follow?

Was the blonde, or maybe one of her parents, the target?

I started the car, just in case. Anyway, I could use the heat.

But the Bonneville stayed put.

So did I, and I left the motor running because I was cold and hungry and tired, and gradually getting to be not cold anymore was about all I could do about any of that.

He was still parked there at three in the morning when I left, heading to the 24-hour delicacies offered at Denny’s. Like I said, I was hungry, and I would then head to the Holiday Inn, because I was tired. These are the things we settle for when we are hungry and tired.

Anyway, I’d had a busy day.

I’d bought some Louis L’Amour paperbacks, and I’d flirted with a desk clerk, and had a pleasant and illuminating conversation with a mom in a mink coat.

I’d also, almost certainly, figured out who Mateski’s target was.

A dance studio instructor.

Mr. Roger.

No “s.”

Hard Case Crime brings you gripping, award-winning crime fiction by best-selling authors and the hottest new writers in the field.
Find out what you’ve been missing:

by
MAX ALLAN COLLINS

SHAMUS AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR

Marcy Addwatter killed her husband. Shot him dead in the motel room where he was trysting with a blonde hooker. Shot the hooker, too. But where the cops might see an open-and-shut case, private eye Michael Tree—
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MICKEY SPILLANE

PREPARED FOR PUBLICATION BY MAX ALLAN COLLINS

For 20 years, former NYPD cop Jack Stang has lived with the memory of his girlfriend’s death in an attempted abduction. But what if she didn’t actually die? What if she somehow secretly survived, but lost her sight, her memory, and everything else she had. . .except her enemies?

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PILLANE
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MAX ALLAN COLLINS
and
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Compared to the $40 million the cops think he stole, $75,000 may not sound like much. But it’s all the money in the world to the struggling Cuban exiles of Miami who rescued Morgan the Raider. So when it’s snatched by a man the Cubans trusted, Morgan sets out to get it back. A simple favor—but as the bodies pile up. . .dead men and beautiful women. . .the Raider wonders what kind of Latin hell he's gotten himself into, and just who or what is the mysterious Consummata?

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MICHAEL CRICHTON

WRITING AS JOHN LANGE

IS THE PERFECT HEIST
ABOUT TO GO UP IN SMOKE?

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UTHOR

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RICHARD STARK

When he’s not pulling heists with his friend Parker, Alan Grofield runs a small theater in Indiana. But putting on shows is expensive and jobs have been thin, which is why Grofield agrees to listen to Andrew Myers’ plan to knock over a brewery in upstate New York.

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AVES FOR
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STEPHEN KING

College student Devin Jones took the summer job at Joyland hoping to forget the girl who broke his heart. But he wound up facing something far more terrible: the legacy of a vicious murder, the fate of a dying child, and dark truths about life—and what comes after—that would change his world forever.

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ING
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RICHARD ALEAS

Three years ago, detective John Blake solved a mystery that changed his life forever—and left a woman he loved dead. Now Blake is back, to investigate the apparent suicide of Dorothy Louise Burke, a beautiful college student with a double life. The secrets Blake uncovers could blow the lid off New York City’s sex trade. . .if they don’t kill him first.

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For more information, visit
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