Quarry in the Middle - Max Allan Collins [56]
I’d been hopeful the room would be empty but for Jerry G, knowing I might face the problem of a lingering guest and/or a barmaid tidying up. And I caught a break—it was just Jerry G and me.
I pushed him toward the table, not rough, not gentle.
“Sit,” I said.
He took his usual dealer’s seat, shaking his head. “Where are Bubba and Bruno? What the hell did you do to them?”
“That redneck went by Bubba? Really?”
He didn’t answer. His horsey face was as pale as dead skin. Even his Frankie Avalon pompadour seemed a little droopy. “You…you killed them?”
“I think it was the motorboat engine props that killed Bruno, assuming you mean that big black bastard. Took his face off, like a slice of meat from an Oscar Mayer loaf, and some fingers, too. And it caught him in the throat. Bubba, assuming that’s the white prick? Him I killed, with the sawed-off he would’ve used on me.”
“My God…where…where did you leave them?”
“Where do you think? They’re floating. Your chums are chum.”
That was a little cute. But I was pretty hyper, so cut me some slack. I was pissed at this guy, otherwise I’d have shot him by now.
“What was the idea,” I said, “of that elbow in the nuts? What did I ever do to you?”
“Are you…are you kidding? You came here to kill me, didn’t you?”
“No, first I was trying to figure out if you were the one who hired somebody to kill Cornell. You might have got a pass. But now I just don’t care.”
Hope and fear flickered in his eyes, as if fighting for control. “I’ll pay you twice what he is. What’s he paying you? I’ll give three times!”
“Not an option. Conflict of interest kind of deal.”
His eyes showed the white all around now. “Listen to me, Quarry…you can walk out of this room a rich man—I can have half a million deposited wherever you say, Swiss account, Caymans, you name it.”
I lifted the hand that wasn’t training a gun on him. “No, you see, you’d hold a grudge. You’d give me the money, sure…but then people would come try to kill me, and that would take the fun out of it.”
He had both his hands up, his palms out—surrendering, in a way; but still trying, as he said, “What can I do to make this right?”
“Nothing,” I said. “But I do want to thank you for one thing.”
“…What the fuck?”
“Soundproofing this room.”
I put one in his forehead, and his skull didn’t explode exactly, but it definitely cracked, and after he’d gone backward initially, he flopped forward on the table and spilled blood and brains on the green felt.
I didn’t leave immediately—I had noticed his little tin box on the bar, which held the bank from the recent poker game. Taking a quick look, I determined Jerry G had done very well tonight—the box had twenty grand in it. Make a lucky devil joke here, if you’re so inclined.
The tin box of money I tucked under my left arm, and—with the nine millimeter in my hand, and my hand in the right pocket of my windbreaker—strolled out into the dead parking lot and got into my new car.
Chapter Twelve
The morning had stayed chill, the sky smoky gray. One of those cold days in Hell they always talk about, or anyway a cold day in Haydee’s.
It was six-thirty-something when I pulled into the Paddlewheel lot, which was empty save for two cars, one of them Richard Cornell’s Corvette, the other Angela Dell’s little red Subaru. I’d figured there was a good chance everybody would be gone for the night/day, except for Cornell himself, and I was almost right—and the only other person still here was part of the family, in a couple senses.
So my timing was excellent, particularly considering that my client—typically spiffy in a navy blazer, yellow sport shirt and light-blue trousers—was exiting the big old reconverted warehouse and striding toward his Corvette, parked toward the rear of the lot. Had I been Monahan doing his vehicular homicide bit, I’d have been in perfect position to send Dickie flying into the next life or at least a hole in the ground.
But of course I’d turned down Jerry G’s offer for a contract