“Be more specific.”
“Quarry, be reasonable!”
“The mark, Turner. Tell me about him. Or her.”
“Him.”
“Okay. Him.”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Then I’ll ask the inside of your head, after it slides down the wall behind you.”
“You wouldn’t do that. You’re too careful for that kind of thing, Quarry. You don’t go around killing people without…”
“You have five seconds.”
“Bullshit.”
“One.”
“His name is Castile.”
“As in Spain.”
“Yeah. As in Spain. As in Captain from Castile. That’s an old movie you may have seen.”
“I’ve seen it. Tyrone Power’s in it. He’s dead. In a few seconds you can ask him what he thought of the film.”
“What, do you think I’m stalling?”
“Two.”
“Anyway, his name is Jerry Castile.”
“I heard that name some place.”
“Probably have. He makes movies.”
“What kind of movies?”
“The kind you’re thinking. Porno.”
“Go on.”
“He’s up here working on a film. A porno flick.”
“And?”
“And he’s here with some people who are staying at this ski lodge or hunting lodge or something. It’s off in the boonies.”
“How far off?”
“Just a few miles from here, actually. But it’s off the main roads. Back deep in a wooded place. They’re all staying there, cast and crew and everybody. At first they weren’t. They were at the Playboy Club, at Lake Geneva, that hotel or whatever the fuck over there. That was a week ago. Last five days they been at this lodge.”
“And the mark is Jerry Castile.”
“That’s right.”
“That’s not a bad story. Try again.”
“Try again? Quarry, you crazy fucker… you wave that goddamn Browning at me all night and count to five and count to five hundred and I won’t be able to give you any other story, except a lie, Quarry, and what good would that do you?”
The hell of it was I believed him. He simply wasn’t that good an actor, not that good a liar, either, to bluff this way, so thoroughly and so well. I’d been standing by the window, looking now and then toward my A-frame, and not a flicker, not a thing was going on in Turner’s face by way of reaction, and while his life depended on the quality of his acting, I knew from past experience he wasn’t up to this kind of performance. Unless he’d improved a hell of a lot in five years…
“I suppose you have notes,” I said.
“Little notebook in my jacket pocket,” he said.
The jacket was on the couch, nearby.
“Get it out.”
“Really?”
“Go ahead and get it.”
“I mean… aren’t you a little leery about me trying something?”
“Not at all. I’d like it.”
“I think maybe you would, Quarry. Here it is. Should I toss it?”
“No,” I said, and came and got it. I flipped through it, one-handed; the notes were sparse and not particularly thorough, making use of a number system I didn’t quite follow, though it obviously recorded the times of activities carried out by somebody. “I don’t see the name of Castile, anywhere.”
“It’s there. In code.”
“Code.”
“Yeah. He’s in there as ten dash three.”
I looked and saw “10-3” throughout.
“Any special reason for choosing that?”
“J is the tenth letter of the alphabet, C is the third. J.C. Jerry Castile.”
“Or Jesus Christ.”
“Ain’t you heard, Quarry? That sucker’s already dead.”
“Yeah, him and Tyrone Power both. It’s a goddamn epidemic. That’s some code. It’d probably take a Boy Scout a good two minutes to crack.”
“I had to explain it to you, didn’t I?”
“Well that’s true. You have me there. But I seem to have you.”
“What are you going to do with me?”
“That’s a problem.”
“Why?”
“Because I think I maybe believe you.”
“About Castile, you mean? Of course you believe me. I’m telling you the truth.”
“Maybe. Maybe.”
“So what happens now?”
“I’m going to knock you out.”
“Do you have to?”
“You’re going to wake up again. What more do you want?”
“I want to reverse this situation sometime.”
“Maybe you will. Do me one favor.”
“What?”
“Don’t mess around with that little girl anymore.”
“Why? What’s it to you?”
“Boring.”
And I hit him with his Browning, and left the gun in his lap, empty, the clip in my pocket, but the box of slugs still in the dresser.
7
Wilma was waiting downstairs, at the bar. She looked especially big, poised on the barstool like a magician’s balancing act. She also looked tired and not a little old, the oddly pretty blue eyes barely visible under heavy lids, the rows of chins hanging limp and loose, a cigarette drooping from her mouth like another tired appendage. The bartender, Charley, was putting glasses away nearby. He was bald and friendly looking but a hard-ass old guy who was also bouncer for the place. He and Wilma apparently had a thing, though nothing was ever said about it.
“About gave up on you,” Wilma said.
“I talked to him,” I said, taking a stool.
“And?”
