“There isn’t, not for me. I didn’t get into the trade because I lost a leg, either.”
“You lost a wife. Is that so different?”
“Yes. You can grow a new wife.”
“You haven’t.”
I didn’t say anything. It was time for getting things out of the way. I dug into my pocket and tossed him an envelope. The key to the locker was in it. Of course the key to the other locker was elsewhere, tucked safely away for my own later use.
“What’s this?” Broker said.
I told him what it was, and what was in the locker the key opened.
“Christ almighty, you mean to tell me you left the stuff right there in the airport?”
“Right there. In the airport.”
Broker got angry for a moment, said, “What if the police searched the lockers for some reason? After the body was discovered, for example, or in the case of a bomb threat.”
“Why, you thinking of calling one in?”
Broker wanted to stay mad, but saw it wouldn’t do any good. “I don’t know about you, Quarry,” he said, like a father disappointed with junior’s grades.
I said, “You going to send Carl after the stuff? You and I can wait here.”
“I’ll have to go myself.”
“Yourself? You’re full of balls in your old age, Broker, what’s got into you?”
“I can trust myself.”
“And you can’t trust Carl? Broker, I’m ashamed of you. Talking that way about a disabled veteran.”
“Go to hell, Quarry. I’m sending Carl up to keep you company. Any objections?”
Why bother? “No,” I said.
So Broker went out and Carl came in. He got settled back in his chair and sat there and gave me a hard look, which he’d no doubt been practicing outside while he thought about me and the remarks I’d made about him and his leg, or lack of same.
Finally he let it out. He said, “What the hell you got against one-legged guys, anyway?”
“Four of them got together and gangbanged my sister.”
“Aw eat shit, Quarry, can’t you answer straight just once?”
“I got nothing against one-legged guys,” I said. “It’s just you I can’t stand.”
“Oh, oh, really? And, and what’s wrong with me?”
“Don’t ask me for reasons. Don’t ever ask me for reasons.”
“I don’t think I ever met any bigger bastard than you, Quarry. You’re one big fucking bastard.”
“Army teach you to talk that way? Really foul stuff like that? Shocking.”
“You just shut up.”
“What?”
“You shut up, I said.”
“Didn’t Broker tell you what I am?”
“He told me.”
“Then you ought to know better than to tell me to shut up.”
“I’ll tell you again.”
“You tell me again and I’ll come over there and feed you that wooden leg.”
His eyes got big. “It’s… not wooden. It’s not a wooden leg.”
“What the hell would you call it?”
“A prosthesis.”
“Whatever.”
“What… what the hell makes you hate me?”
“I didn’t say I hated you.”
“Oh? What then?”
“I said I couldn’t stand you.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Yeah.”
“Such as?”
“Such as I don’t waste energy hating you. But I can’t stand to look at you, because you’re an asshole, and I don’t like looking at assholes… now that’s all the explanation you’re going to get, so leave it alone.”
He did. He got quiet and folded his hands in his lap and sat there thinking, trying to understand what it was he did that made me want to give him so bad a time. I didn’t know why myself. I just knew this kid was going to die and somewhere in the back of my head, somewhere it seemed vaguely a waste.
But die he would. Like anybody who goes into it for any other reason than to make money. There’s no room for revenge. No leeway for crusades. You can’t kill people because you hated your daddy or because you saw mammy screwing the milkman when you were five or because when you were six a bully took your wagon away from you or because you want back the leg some other mindless idiot blew off for some mindless idiotic nonreason. You last only if you don’t care. If you care, if you have to care about something, care about money. Money and your ass.
7
Dawn was poking at the sky. I was standing at the glass door to the balcony, drawing back the curtain and watching the colors of the sky change and reflect and shimmer on the water of the pool below. I hoped I’d be able to get in another swim before I left.
An hour or so had passed and Carl and I had stopped trying to make conversation. It got to the point where either we’d have to get friendly or keep quiet, and I wasn’t about to get friendly. The air was so heavy with mutual hostility I was almost relieved when the single, soft knock came at the hall entrance. I went to the dresser and got open the drawer where I’d stashed the nine-millimeter automatic and took it out and Carl’s eyes flickered. I walked to the door, the gun behind me.
Broker came in and with one quick motion dismissed Carl, who was only too glad to go. I put the automatic away and sat on the bed. Broker selected a chair and brought it up close to where I sat. He took off his suitcoat and folded it across his lap, folded his hands. He looked at me. He looked at me hard, his eyes moving toward the center of his face, all but crossing.
“Well, Quarry?”
“Well, Broker.”
“That was all.”
“You asking or telling or what?”
“The one bag. Was that all?”
“Of course it was all.”
“There should have been more.”
“Is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“How much more should there have been, Broker?”
“Another bag.”
“Oh?”
“Another bag of the same size.”
“There was only the one.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Positive?”
“How many times do I have to answer the same question, Broker?”
