furniture, which would in turn lead to making all sorts of noise.
But there had been no noise, and I was so surprised to sense him approaching, I almost moved.
He stooped down to me. Touched my shoulder with his left hand. His right hand had a gun in it. “Beatty?” he said.
I grabbed his right hand and shook the gun loose. I nudged his belly with the nine-millimeter. “Up,” I said.
We stood together. Slowly. His gun on the floor, mine in his gut.
“You must be Quarry,” he said.
3
I flicked on the light switch with my free hand and got a look at the guy. He, too, was dressed in black; he wore a quilted thermal jacket instead of a sweater, but basically we were dressed the same, and stood there facing each other like a reflection.
He was smaller than me, at least an inch or two shorter, though by weight he was a little heavier, I’d imagine, but not softer. His brown hair was thin on top, trimmed close on the sides, and he had the friendly face of a bartender who can be your buddy all night long, then the second you step out of line, whip a sash weight from under the bar and split your head open.
“The jacket,” I said.
He made a shrugging smile and unzipped the jacket and got out of it slowly and let it drop. He watched my eyes to see if they followed the jacket. They didn’t.
He wore a red, black, and white plaid shirt, a hunter’s shirt. There was no holster, shoulder or otherwise. His silenced automatic, the nine-millimeter’s twin, which I’d already kicked over in the corner, was more than a holster could handle, except for perhaps something special made. But then a hitman usually has little need to constantly carry a gun, would only carry a gun those few minutes it takes to get a job done, so the lack of a holster was no surprise.
“The wall,” I said.
He nodded and slowly turned to the side wall, leaned against it in the space between the closet and the door, hands behind his head, legs spread.
I patted him-down. I felt a hard narrow shaft as my hand traveled over his left trouser pocket, which either meant he was horny or he had a knife in there. I ripped the pocket open and a stiletto hit the floor.
“Cute,” I said.
“Some people don’t like knives,” he said pleasantly, glancing back over his shoulder at me. “Me, I don’t mind ’em. I’m not squeamish.”
His voice was medium-pitched, well-modulated. It went well with his friendly bartender face.
I kicked his knife over toward the corner, and it bounced off the wall and ended up under the bed. “Okay,” I said. “Stand away.”
He released his hands from their behind-thehead clasp, turned around, and looked over toward his dead partner. We were in close, because the room was very small, sort of a closet with aspirations. I didn’t like the closeness, because this guy was obviously stronger than me, and his carrying a knife indicated he was less wary of physical struggle than I am. Also, anyone who carries a knife-that is, anyone who carries a knife expressly to kill people-has psychotic tendencies, if you ask me. At the very least, such a person reveals a disturbing willingness to make a mess.
So I tried to keep a few feet between us, which was a challenge in that tiny room.
“You mind if I take a look?” he asked, gesturing toward the bed.
“Go right ahead.”
He lifted the sheet back and looked at his partner. I looked at him. I figured he was hoping I’d look at his partner, but I’m afraid I disappointed him. He let the sheet drop, shook his head, said, “Just had the little bastard broke in.”
“That’s a shame.”
“I guess I should’ve taught him a little better. Shit. He must’ve come in like the fourth of fuckin’ July.”
“That’s right.”
“I told him this was a special case. Little bastard’s been getting cocky lately, and just wouldn’t listen. Guess this’ll teach him.”
“I guess.”
“You know, this here was very good, exchanging clothes with my boy Beatty here, you fooled me good.”
“Maybe you been getting cocky lately.”
“Yeah!” the guy laughed. “Maybe I have at that. Look, Quarry… you mind I call you Quarry?”
“Be my guest.”
“I’m Lynch. I’d offer you a hand to shake, but…”
“I understand.”
“Well, anyway. Looks like we got a situation here, don’t we?”
“Looks like it.”
“Could we get out of this cramped bedroom? I just know you’re not going to be comfortable talking to me till we do.”
I nodded. “The living room. You know the way. You came in through there.”
“I did at that. It was a tricky fucker, too. You want me to turn on the hall switch?”
“Know where it is, do you?”
“Fuck, yes. I been in here three times.”
“Really? I’d have thought you were good enough to get by on once.”
He laughed. “We better stop tryin’ to impress each other and go in the other room and talk like civilized people.”
“Good idea,” I said, and we did.
I kept the nine-millimeter on him, but I didn’t make a big thing of it. He had decided to try and talk his way out this, and I wanted to encourage that view. But I watched him. Close.
“You mind if I smoke?” he asked, sitting on the couch beneath the open stairway to the loft.
I had pulled the kitchen stool around and was sitting on that. I liked being up a shade higher than him.
“I don’t mind,” I said.
“You got any cigarettes around this joint, then? I didn’t bring mine in with me.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I don’t smoke myself, and I don’t keep cigarettes in my house.”
“Why not, for Christsake?”
“They’re bad for you.”
He thought that was funny, or pretended to. He laughed and shook his head for thirty seconds and said, “You got anything to drink?”
“Coke, Dr Pepper, Seven-Up.”
“And what else?”
“I got some wine, but I’m saving that for New Year’s Eve.”
That tickled him, too, or anyway he laughed about it. “Shit, man, you live like a fuckin’ nun.”
“Monk.”
“Whatever. But that’s how you live. If you call this living.”
“It beats what your partner’s doing.”
That stopped him, for just a moment, and he said, “You been waiting for this, haven’t you? You were ready for us.”
“Either that,” I said, “or you weren’t ready for me.”
“Ain’t that the truth, pal. Ain’t it the truth. But you ought to be crazy by now. How long has it been like this?
