once.
Now he said, “I’m sorry about your wife. But it doesn’t have anything to do with me.”
“It has everything to do with you.”
He shook his head no. Moisture beads flew off his forehead. “Like you said: you were a loose end. They tried to tie you off.”
“You don’t think you’ll be an immediate loose end yourself? You really think you’ll survive this, to spend your dough?”
“They’ve already put up half the dough. Up front.”
“Half a million bucks?”
“That’s right. In a numbered Swiss account.”
I’d only been offered a paltry hundred grand-but in cash.
“How are they supposed to pay the balance?”
“A deposit to that account.”
“They’ll find you,” I said, “and have you killed.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You think you’re smarter than they are?”
“Yeah. And you.”
“Where I failed, you’ll succeed, you think.”
“You didn’t fail, Quarry. They didn’t kill you. You killed them.”
“Like you killed Ridge tonight?”
That threw him. And this was a Stone not easily thrown.
“I didn’t kill him,” he said, sitting back, resting his hands on his knees; that put his right hand near the right, somewhat weighted-down pocket of the robe.
“I saw Ridge go in, and I saw you go in, and I went in after you took off.”
“You get around.”
“But you know, I never knew you to kill with a knife. How’d you manage that? You didn’t even get blood on you.”
“That’s because he was dead when I went in there,” he said.
“Well, then who killed him?”
“How should I know?”
We sat and listened to each other sweat. Then I said: “Ridge was the man who contacted you about the hit?”
He nodded.
“And you were supposed to meet with him tonight?”
He shook his head no. “I didn’t know it would be him. There was a message at the hotel. There were going to be some… ‘last minute changes.’”
“So then everybody’s presumption is correct? Tomorrow’s press conference is where, and when, the hit’s going down?”
He just looked at me. Then he nodded again.
Paused. Arched one eyebrow. He did look like a sinister Mr. Spock, gone bald and slightly to seed. “But when I got there, Ridge was dead on the floor, throat cut. I just got the fuck out.”
“Why are you still here? Why haven’t you split? Isn’t somebody icing Ridge enough to queer the deal for you?”
He slipped out of the robe; it made a slight clunk as he put it beside him. Beside his right hand.
He said, “Yes it was. I was planning to blow. To just get the fuck out.” He shook his head, smiled faintly. “Even though this hit is a piece of cake… brother. You check out the lay of the land?”
I nodded. “It looks like the easiest million this side of the lottery.”
“Yeah, well I don’t gamble.”
“Then why are you still hanging around here?”
“I’m deciding whether to stay or not. Whether to go through with it or not.”
“Why in hell would you still want to go through with it?”
He thought for a moment, not sure if he wanted to tell me something.
Then, casually: “Because there was an envelope waiting for me at my room. Somebody slid it under the door. It had ten one-thousand dollar bills in it. Crisp as fuckin’ lettuce.”
“And all I got was a mint on my pillow.”
“There was a typewritten note.”
“Which said?”
He shrugged. “‘Tomorrow as planned.’”
“Well, surely you don’t intend to take that advice.”
“I intend to take the ten grand. But I got to think the other through…”
“Stone, there’s nothing to think through. Ridge was another loose end that got tied off. You’re next in line.”
“But I’m already a loose end. Why not at least take a shot at the other half mil?”
“Who are you going to collect from? Did you deal with anybody besides Ridge?”
“No. But that just means I’m no danger to anybody. I can’t finger anybody. They might just as well pay me off.”
“You told me, way back when, never do a political kill. You said if you want to commit suicide, jump off a bridge.”
His slightly yellow smile was spooky yet oddly gentle. “That was a long time ago, Quarry. You take all the advice I gave you back then?”
“Some of it. Let’s not get all mushy, now. You’re no father figure.”
“I remember you bitching about the ‘trail’ I leave.”
“I found you, didn’t I? Without hardly trying. By the way, I beat you at ‘Popeye’ earlier this evening.”
That also threw him a little, but he laughed. “I bet you didn’t.”
“You must want to quit pretty bad.”
He looked at me sharply. “What?”
“You been at this a long time. You were a mob guy, right? Where, Cleveland? Then you broke away and went freelance. That’s a lot of contracts. You must be tired. You certainly look old.”
“You’re older, too.”
“I’m older. You’re old. Like I’m heavier, where you’re fat. You’re going to die, Stone. You go through with this, they’ll kill you.”
“Or maybe you will.”
“Why should l?”
“To get back at ’em.” His lip curled up in a faint, sardonic smile. “Whoever it is that put this contract in motion, whoever it is that’s responsible for what happened to your wife. For fucking up your life. If you can get in the way of tomorrow’s plans, you’ll screw things up for them.”
“You might be right,” I said, my hand in the towel.
He was older, and fatter: before he could even slip his hand in the robe pocket, for his gun, the nose of mine was against his sweaty temple.
I met her in the lobby just after midnight. I’d been up to my room to change; I was casually dressed-jeans and a sweatshirt and running shoes. I felt refreshed. The swim had done me good.
She was in jeans, too, and a blue blouse, hastily thrown on; her hair was messed-up, looking greasy, obviously unwashed, her eyes were red and circled, she wore no make-up. But she still looked good to me.
We sat on a sofa, in the otherwise deserted lobby, a couple of ferns eavesdropping nearby. I told her that the man responsible for her husband’s death could not be touched by the police; I explained why-and I explained how he could be otherwise touched, done terrible damage-without violence.
We talked for forty-five minutes. She was alternately upset and angry but, finally, when I revealed what I had in mind, she was laughing. A little hysteria was in it, but it was laughter.
“Here,” I said, and handed her the black plastic box.
