Quarry in the Middle - Max Allan Collins [55]
“I need wheels,” I said. “Jerry G stole my car and dumped it somewhere. I’ll buy it from you. I’ll give you cash, and you’ll sign the title over.”
“I don’t want to sell it.”
“I wasn’t asking. I’ll give you four grand.”
“It’s worth a lot more!”
“I know it is, but because of you, the other day I got beaten to that bloody pulp you hear so much about, and then, this evening, almost got killed and dumped in the Mississippi. So I figure you owe me. Anyway, you know what they say—you lose half the value the minute you drive it off the lot.”
She thought she understood me now. She unknotted the pink shirt and let the twins out for some air. They were small but perfectly shaped and tilted up, and the nipples were large and puffy and very appealing.
“I told you before,” I said, “that I’d rather kill you than fuck you.”
The little Tuesday Weld mouth was twisting into a knowing one-sided smile. “I don’t think so.”
She stood. Kicked off the sandals. Unzipped the jeans, tugged them off, and as tight as they were, that was fascinating to watch. The jeans left some marks, but nothing that detracted. She had no underpants on, and her pubic triangle was just as yellow as her hair—I was pretty sure she dyed it, and the bush had been cut into a heart shape and thinned a little. Very stylish, and thoughtful, coming from such a self-centered brat.
You must have a very low opinion of me to think I’d fall for this game. That this detestable little cunt could seduce me so easily. For one thing, I didn’t have a rubber handy, and I wasn’t sticking an arrow into that heart unprotected—that reckless I’m not. And for another, she was a detestable little cunt…or did I say that?
I did let her blow me, though, and she was good, very thorough and skilled and while I wouldn’t say she enjoyed herself, she seemed to take a certain pride in her work. When she was done, cheeks less sunken, containing a mouthful of me now, she held up a “wait” finger, and padded naked into the bathroom, where she spit it out in the john, flushed it, then went to the sink and partook of my mouthwash.
“You can use my toothbrush if you want,” I called. Gracious host that I am.
“Thanks!”
“It’s still only four grand for the car.”
The water was running. Wasn’t sure she heard me.
I got on the phone. The desk at the Wheelhouse was open all night.
“You folks have any clothesline or rope up there?” I asked.
“No, Mr. Gibson. Sorry.”
“Damn. Well…how about duct tape?”
By dawn, the parking lot at the Lucky Devil was almost empty. I supposed Chrissy’s red Firebird was a little conspicuous among all those absences, but on the other hand, it was a familiar set of wheels here. I parked back almost to the trees and sat and watched.
The hookers began exiting their trailers with little suitcases, heading for home. After spending fifteen minutes checking his watch every three, the parking lot bouncer went in the casino exit, off-duty apparently. Some dancers and waitresses came for their cars, which were also parked toward the back, leaving me more bare than a Lucky Devil stripper at the end of her third song.
I had the dark-blue windbreaker on over a light-blue polo shirt; also black jeans and running shoes. Also the nine millimeter, in my right hand, in my lap.
At a little after six, Jerry G—still in the gray silk suit and black t-shirt and gold chains—escorted some guests out the exit of the private poker room, nobody I recognized from the mid-week game. They had the well-dressed look and confident bearing of the high-stakes player, though they were dragging some, having played all night. And some, presumably, had lost some dough.
Then Jerry G stepped back in and closed the door.
I stuffed the nine millimeter in my waistband, got out of the Firebird and headed quickly toward the building. I had my right hand on the butt of the nine mil when I knocked with my left on the poker-room door, not a minute after the last guest had gone.
Jerry G opened the door, initially with a pleasant, curious