Quarry's Choice (6 page)

A roulette wheel, where retirees stood staring into their limited futures, took center stage, with a craps table at one end and several blackjack tables spotted around. The sound level was subdued, with only the calls of the dealers, croupiers and stickmen discernible above the murmur of patrons.

Here at the rear of the room, under conical lamps, were four poker tables, only one of which had a game going. At left were cages for buying and cashing in chips, at right a fully stocked bar similar to the strip club’s, though with a single bartender on duty, male, also in white shirt and string tie. A trio of waitresses in the same white shirt/black mini costumes as on the
MR. WOODY’S
side were threading through with complimentary drinks. A pair of floor men in suit and tie were on the prowl, while a few girls in skimpy halter tops and hot pants tight enough for a gynecological exam seemed to be shilling for the house, sidling up to unaccompanied men to help them make bad decisions.

Mr. Woody guided me to the far end of the bar. We were barely settled into our high-back stools when the bartender delivered a Scotch straight up to the boss.

I asked for a Coke. Not requesting Barq’s root beer may have been a faux pas, but we would all just have to live with it.

Mr. Woody gave the bartender a glance that said give us plenty of space, and he did. No other stools were taken.

“Don’t get the wrong idea, Quarry,” Mr. Woody said, grinning as he glanced around at the underpopulated casino. “A month and a half from now, the ole Seven’ll be packin’ ’em in like the Kentucky Derby, minus the goddamn hats. And we got plenty more joints, all up and down the Strip, that’ll be doin’ likewise.”

“
You
have plenty more joints,” I asked, “or
Jack Killian
has plenty more?”

Barely audible above piped-in Sinatra, my host said, “Killian and me, we own ’em together. Monopolizin’ the Strip ain’t the problem, Quarry. Our group’s held sway over this stretch of Highway 90 since ’fore you were born.”

“Then what
is
the problem?”

Eyes narrowed behind the big lenses, and all those teeth got swallowed up in a close-mouthed scowl.

“It’s that Jackie’s gettin’ out of hand,” he said, upper lip twitching to let out the bitter words. “Reachin’ too far. Tryin’ to take over the whole damn South, one county at a time. Spreadin’ like a goddamn cancer. You know, there’s powerful people startin’ to take notice, and not in a good way. Carlos Marcello and Santo Trafficante, for two.”

Neither name meant shit to me, but I got his drift.

My Coke arrived in a tall glass with a lemon slice. I had a sip. The bartender had already evaporated.

“There was another man in that green Caddy,” I said. “The driver? Possible he got a glimpse of me. I doubt it, but that’s the biggest risk I face, being here.”

“You don’t face no risk,” he said, shaking his head.

“You sound sure of yourself, Woody.”

I couldn’t quite bring myself to use the “Mister.”

Very quietly he said, “That boy whose eyes you dotted last week, Quarry? Turned up dead in a ditch outside town. Jack has been tellin’ all and sundry that one of his enemies done it, and that he was gonna find the guilty party, rip off his head, and fuck his skull in the eye holes.”

The contents of my eye holes widened. “And
this
is why I don’t face any risk?”

He patted the air reassuringly. “I’m told the late shooter enlisted a cousin of his from the moonshine bidness—as wheelman? And also that that self-same cousin shat hisself. . .whether this is a figurative expression, Quarry, or a literal one I cannot say. . . due to the violent nature by which his late relative passed.”

“Do tell.”

He showed me all those teeth again, and the magnified eyes twinkled. “Seems the moonshiner cuz has gone into hidin’, up in the hills near Hattiesburg, and is not currently on the local scene. So you are quite secure in your anonymity.”

This struck me as thin: the spooked cousin wouldn’t stay holed up forever. And any moonshiner I ever saw had a shotgun. Granted, that was in the movies and on TV.. . .

I said, “Do I have to remind you that you’re recommending as replacement the very guy who created the vacancy on Killian’s staff? If ‘Jackie’ figures out who I am, where does that leave good ole Mr. Woody? Seems to me that shitting ourselves would be the least of it.”

He waved that off. “I am well aware, Quarry, well aware. You must trust my judgment on this. We are within the margin of acceptable risk.”

I shrugged. Let some air out. “Okay. I guess.”

Mr. Woody sipped some Scotch and said, “Why, Quarry, you seem rather tense to me.”

“No. Just by nature cautious. And this is. . .never mind.”

“What, son?”

I let more air out. “This isn’t a part of the country I’ve spent any time in. I feel like that fish out of water everybody talks about.”

He frowned and the big glasses climbed his face a little. “Well, that’s certainly not a good feelin’. Fishies out of water, they go belly up and can’t breathe no more. And I
need
you
breathin’
, Quarry. I do indeed. Need you cool and calm and collected.”

I batted all that away. “I’m fine. Just a little jetlagged. Thanks for your concern. When do I meet Killian?”

“Tonight.” He glanced at his watch, a Rolex, or a damn good facsimile. “Nine o’clock sharp at his office at the Tropical Motel. Which is where you are stayin’, by the way.” He leaned across the bar a little. “Fred! Phone!”

Fred the bartender nodded and found a phone under the counter and set it on the bar, half a dozen stools down from us. Mr. Woody went to use it while I watched the gambling action, such as it was. One of the halter-top hot-pants girls was leaving arm-in-arm with a man old enough to be her father, but presumably wasn’t. He didn’t seem to have any chips to cash in. After a losing afternoon, she was the consolation prize, though it would cost him even more at the adjacent motel.

Mr. Woody returned to his stool and was smiling, pleased with himself. “You are about to learn the meanin’ of Southern hospitality, Quarry.”

“That right?”

“I am determined to make you feel at home, son.”

“Really, I’m fine.”

He put his hand on my forearm. His touch was warm. “You are really gonna enjoy this. I’m gonna provide you with some company for the duration. A little tour guide to keep you feelin’ like you know which way is up, and where it’s at.”

And maybe even what’s happening.

“Woody, Mr. Woody, I don’t need a tour guide. Just let me do the job I came to do.”

“Well, of course. But have you ever been in Biloxi before?”

“No.”

“Then trust me on this one, son. Take my word, you will thank me to your dyin’ day.”

Somehow it always came back around to death, didn’t it?

He guided me back through the Employees Only door that connected us to the strip-club side. On stage, three strippers were doing some kind of all-nude finale, a lanky brunette with painfully fake tits, a short plump redhead with nicely real ones, and the little blonde I’d seen earlier, currently swinging around the center stage pole, her little pink pussy blowing everybody a sideways kiss. The song was “War” by Edwin Starr, and as antiwar demonstrations went, this was among the most convincing.

As a DJ in a booth stirred up some collective applause “for the vixenish Veronica, the gorgeous Ginger and the luscious Lolita,” the girls collected their wadded-up dollars and gathered the wisps that were their discarded costumes. Then they exited down side steps, but not before they had taken time to swathe themselves in sheer negligee-style robes to preserve their modesty.

We took a little table well away from the stage, close to the unused secondary stage, in fact. Mr. Woody had brought his Scotch along.

Nodding toward my t-shirt and jeans ensemble, he said, “Before you meet with Jack Killian, do spruce yourself up some. Did you bring any suits along?”

“Yeah. Couple.”

“What color?”

“Well, I guess one’s tan and another is blue, navy blue.”

“No black?”

“No. Should I have?”

“Wear the navy number. D’you bring some ties along?”

“Yeah.”

“Patterned or solid color?”

“Well, one’s kind of floral, the other’s, what-you-call-it, paisley.”

He thought that over, shrugged. “Well, that’s okay. It’ll make Jackie feel important.”

“What will?”

“Sendin’ you out to buy the right clothes. Makes him feel like a big shot.. . . Well, will you look at
this
little vision of loveliness!”

The little blonde stripper was walking over toward us. She had on a hot-pink halter top and matching hot pants, similar to the girls shilling in the Lucky Seven. Had a smile going but her eyes were cold.

“You wanted me, Mr. Woody?” She had a breathy little-girl voice that didn’t appear to be a put-on. Goldie Hawn without the irony.

“Yes, Lo. Sit, honey, sit yourself.”

She sat herself. Glancing at me, she nodded but otherwise I didn’t register with her any more than the dust motes floating in the stripper-stage lighting.

“This is my friend Mr. Quarry,” he said to her. “John Quarry. He’s in town to work for Mr. Killian for a while.”

Her smile was sweet as she nodded to me. “Pleased,” she said.

“Lo honey, Mr. Quarry needs some special attention. He’s new to our fair city, doesn’t know his way around at all, far from home. That can make a fella kinda lonely.”

She nodded. “Okay. But I have three more sets.”

“No, Lo, I’ve taken care of that. You’re off the stage for a while.”

“How long?”

“A while. Few days at least. You’ll make double for this, even accountin’ for tips.”

She shrugged and nodded, her chin crinkling in
doesn’t-sound-so-bad
acceptance.

Cute as she was, I was not liking the direction this was going.

“Uh, Mr. Woody,” I said, “I appreciate the sentiment, but I can take care of myself.”

He gave me a smile that had some smartass in it. “Do you know where the Tropical Motel is?”

“It’s not that place next door is it?”

“Oh, my,
hell
no!” That gave him a good laugh. “Lo will show you.”

Judging by what the DJ had said, “Lo” would seem to be short for Lolita. They had genuine (pronounced
gen-you-wine
) literary sensibilities down South, it would appear. Must have been the Faulkner influence.

“Now, honey,” Mr. Woody said, putting a hand on a nearby knee of hers, “I will make the usual arrangements. Just be a good girl and be useful and never in the way.”

She nodded, like a high school girl dutifully assuring daddy she’d be in before midnight.

“Quarry,” he said, “they will be expectin’ you at the front desk. All expenses taken care of, no credit card required, and they have a decent little restaurant there, too. Just sign everythin’ to your room. Enjoy yourself, son.. . .Don’t be late for Mr. Killian, now. Nine sharp!”

There was no getting around it. Little Lolita would be my Biloxi tour guide, for now anyway, and that was all there was to it. Somehow I’d handle this, but not with Mr. Woody around.

I shook hands with my host and he made his brisk way back toward his office, in a blur of eyes, teeth, gold rings, and hideous apparel.

I got up and so did she. I looked at her. She looked at me. I smiled. She smiled. I stopped smiling. She stopped smiling. I sighed (this, at least, she didn’t echo) and took her gently by the arm and led her out into the parking lot, just as another stripper was coming on stage to “American Woman.”

Outside I asked her, “Do you have a car here?”

A little pink purse was fig-leafed before her. She shook her head and the golden hair flicked bare shoulders, catching dying sunlight. “I don’t have a car. I never learned to drive. Girlfriends I live with get me places. They work here, too.”

I had the sense that I’d just heard about one-third of her life story.

“Okay, then,” I said. “I’ll drive and you navigate.”

“What, you got a boat?”

“No. I mean, you’ll point the way. To the Tropical?”

Her tone turned defensive: “I know.”

We got into the Chevelle. The rock station came on and she seemed to like it, bobbing her head to “Bang a Gong.” She told me to turn right out of the lot and we’d gone only half a block when I said, “You really don’t need to do this.”

She stopped bobbing and glanced at me with the slightest frown. “Do what?”

If her eyes had been any lighter blue, they would have been transparent.

“Show me around,” I said. “I can take of myself. I’m a big boy.”

“Are you really?”

“You bet. Took my training wheels off a long time ago.”

“That’s a silly thing to say.”

“Is it?”

“Grown men don’t need no training wheels. On their bikes. I bet you don’t even have a bike. Less maybe a Harley.”

I glanced at her to see if she was fucking with me. She didn’t appear to be. She reminded me of that actress in
The Time Machine
—both her looks and her intellect.

I said, “It was just an expression.”

We were at a light, a trashy row of bars and strip joints to our right, white beach and the blue expanse of the Gulf of Mexico to our left. The entire span of human existence seemed to take place between those two points.

“Keep goin’,” she said, nodding at the intersection.

I did so.

After another block, I asked, “How old are you, Lo?”

“Twenty-one.”

“No you aren’t.”

The blue eyes flashed at me. “Callin’ me a liar?”

“I’m calling you. . .seventeen years old.”

“Nineteen.”

“If you’re nineteen, why lie about it?”

“I don’t lie. I fib sometimes.”

“Why fib about it?”

“Got to be twenty-one to get a card in Biloxi.”

“What kind of card?”

“Card that lets you work where they sell liquor.”

“Oh.”

“See it?”

“What?”

“The Tropical sign. See it?”

I saw it.

“Pull in there.” I did.

The motel wasn’t something you’d encounter on the Riviera, either, nor was it much of a match for the Vegas version. But it was nicer than I’d figured, a pale pink brick eight-story with a vertical sign with a green neon palm tree at right and at left, in pink: