Quarry in the Middle - Max Allan Collins [20]
“To the price of saving your ass.”
He thought about that. “How would you go about saving my…ass?”
“I’d stop the hit from going down.”
“Non-violently?”
“Of course not. I’ll have to kill the bastards. What do you think?”
His eyes widened and his smile widened and he played at thinking this was funny. “You are a card, Mr. Quarry.”
“Let’s stick with Gibson. There’s no extra charge for the amusement factor.”
He grunted a laugh. “This may be the most outrageous shakedown I’ve ever heard of. You come in to my place of business and make a few references to low people in high places, to convince me of your authenticity…and then you presume to have me pay you off, to protect me from what? From whom?”
“I’ll want twenty thousand dollars,” I said, ignoring most of that. “After I’ve delivered. I don’t expect you to pay in cash, though with the casino you probably could. But I understand the accounting problems that might ensue.”
“Oh you do. Accounting problems.”
“I’ll give you the banking information—I’m using the Cayman Islands now—and you can have the twenty K transferred to an account there.”
“I see. I agree to pay you, and nothing happens to me.” He laughed loud enough now for it to ping off the brick wall opposite. “This has to be the most audacious extortion scheme I’ve ever heard of…and I’ve heard of a few.”
“Bet you have.”
His face seemed to darken further under the leathery tan. He slammed the empty tumbler down on the glass and leaned forward and pointed a finger at me. “Listen, booby—you know not with whom you fuck. I ran key clubs on the West End for the Kray brothers when you were sucking your mama’s titty.”
“I’m a bottle baby.”
“I’ve seen things undreamed of in your fucking philosophy, Horatio. Fuck! I ran Rush Street Clubs for the Giardellis when you were—”
“Shooting gooks with a sniper rifle?”
That stopped him.
“Listen,” I said, and I held my hands up, palms open. “I’ve invested some time and money and energy in this, but I’m well aware it’s a speculative endeavor. You can say no—you don’t have to buy my Fuller brushes, you can pass on my Amway products, you don’t even have to buy any magazine subscriptions to send me to Bible camp. Your choice. Of course, you’ll be dead, this time tomorrow.”
I rose.
He looked up at me. I had a feeling he had a gun stuffed down in that chair, particularly because of the way his hand was way back on the cushion. If he made a move, I could have the glass coffee table in his face faster than Chrissy could snort a line.
But he raised his own palms and patted the air, gently. “Sit,” he said. “Sit.”
I sat.
“Suppose I take you seriously,” he said. He got a cigarette going, taking one from a gold box on the coffee table—not a Virginia Slim, I’d wager. “Suppose I accept this outrageous scenario as potentially real and not just ridiculous twaddle.”
“Isn’t twaddle inherently ridiculous?”
He closed his eyes. “You are insufferable.”
“Sorry. Just trying to lighten the mood.”
“What do you know about this?”
“About this?”
“About how I would be…eliminated.”
I shrugged. “It’s going to be nasty. You’re going to be run down by a car.”
His eyes popped. “You said something about triggers being pulled…”
“That was meant to cover the whole panorama of how many ways your ass can be ‘eliminated.’ My guess is, this particular specialist has been brought in so that your death can pass as accidental. Somebody wants you dead who doesn’t want a killing coming back on them.”
He frowned, looked off toward the door. But he wasn’t thinking about Chrissy, I didn’t think.
Then his leathery puss turned toward me and he said, slowly, “I know who hired this done.”
“Ah. So it is credible, then.”
He nodded. “Very credible. That’s why we’re still talking, Mr. Quarry.”
I didn’t correct him. It was his way of saying he was talking to a hired killer, not a veterinary medicine salesman.
“What,” he said, “if I wanted that party removed. By that I mean, the party who wanted me removed.”
“Party of the first part?” I said and risked a grin. “It is a contract, after all…I’d be glad to.