“I would have found it impossible. Unbelievable.”
“Fine. Keep that in mind when you consider the story I’m about to tell.”
And I told Preston Freed, self-styled presidential candidate, the story. That I was a retired professional assassin who had been offered a million-dollar contract; that he was the target of said contract; that I had refused the contract; that an attempt on my life had subsequently been made. I did not mention the loss of my wife, my life at Paradise Lake. That was none of his fucking business.
Freed listened with rapt attention, eyebrows arching, nostrils flaring, eyes narrowing, widening, as one might expect. But disbelief was something I did not sense. Perhaps in a way I was making a dream come true for him: his paranoia was finally being substantiated, even if the Soviets weren’t involved.
“Now,” I said, “it would seem to me we have some mutual interest in this matter. For my part, I’d like to respond in kind to those who tried to have me killed.”
“Understandable,” Freed said, nodding.
“And you, I would think, would like to identify those who are trying to have you killed.”
“Frankly,” he said, drawing on the thick cigar, “I’d like to do more than just identify them.”
“I thought you might. You need to consider exactly what this situation is: I turned the contract down. That made me a loose end-in a political assassination, involving a national figure, a presidential candidate, one does not leave loose ends. But that speaks only to my situation. What about yours?”
“Mine?”
“Someone else-someone like me-was approached with that million-dollar contract. Someone who accepted it.”
“Is this a conclusion you’ve drawn, or…?”
“It’s more. It’s direct knowledge. I understand you fear retaliation from what you describe as the ‘Drug Conspiracy’-the banks and the mob.”
“The Sicilian/Hebrew Connection,” he said, nodding.
“Spare me. But I will give you this much: somebody with mob connections who died recently gave me that information.”
The icy blue eyes narrowed to slits in the tanned face. “Victor Werner? You killed Victor Werner?”
“I didn’t say that. Did you know him?”
“I never met the man, but I knew of him.” Then, with contempt: “Knew of his ‘family’ ties. He told you of a second assassin?”
“Yes, Werner gave me a name. It’s a name I’m familiar with. Which is one reason why I think I can head this thing off.”
“Head it off?”
“I can stop the hit from going down. Because I know who it was that came to see me, the upstanding citizen who tried to hire me. And I know who he hired in my place.”
“I have to do something about this!”
“No kidding. Look, we can go about this a couple of ways. I can just tell you who these people are, and fade away. You have men on your staff; you might be able to deal with this in-house.”
I knew he wouldn’t want that; but saying this gave me leverage.
“What’s the other way?” he asked, sitting forward.
“I could handle it all. I can take out the other hitter. I can take out those who hired it done, as well.”
“There… there might be more than one person behind this?”
“The man who tried to hire me said he was representing a group of patriotic private citizens.”
He laughed mirthlessly at that. “And you said, this individual spoke of me as a ‘spoiler’-meaning this threat might have come from the right or the left?”
I nodded.
“If I… were to turn you loose on this, to handle it as you wish… what would be in it for you, besides a certain satisfaction?”
I shrugged. “Well, the revenge factor is going to work in your favor. That ‘certain satisfaction’ you mentioned is going to make a hell of a perk. So all I need is ten grand. And you don’t owe me anything unless I deliver.”
Those spooky blues studied me suspiciously. “You said you were offered a million dollars.”
“Ten grand for the assassin. Ten more for whoever hired him.”
“That’s still only twenty thousand dollars.”
“Feel free to tip.”
“Will they… look like accidents?”
“Not necessarily. No frills. Dead is dead.”
He blew out a stream of smoke and raised his eyebrows and considered the ceiling’s open beams. “You know the name of the man who came to see you,” he said.
“That’s right. I did some snooping today.”
“Are you a detective, or an assassin, Mr. Quarry?”
“Necessity has turned me into a little of both, Mr. Freed. Now do you want my help? Or do you want to handle this yourself, in which case I’ll have to ask a finder’s fee of five grand, if you want the names I know.”
He was thinking.
“Or,” I said, “I can just walk out of here, fade into the forest and out of your life. You can choose to not believe me. Or try to deal with this yourself, without the names.”
He was shaking his head no. “I would like, Mr. Quarry, for you to handle this. But I wish to know none of the… messier details.”
“That’s best for all concerned.”
“I would, however, like to know the name of the man who came to see you. Who tried to hire you.”
“You agree to my terms? Ten grand with a ten grand bonus?”
“Yes.”
I drew my upper lip back across my teeth; it was my very worst smile. “Guess what I do if somebody reneges on me.”
“I think I can guess that quite easily, Mr. Quarry.”
“His name is George Ridge.”
He sat up. Turned ashen.
“George Ridge,” he intoned. “George…”
“You were friends once.”
“Yes… yes, we were. He was one of my staunchest supporters..”
“And something went wrong.”
He stood, began slowly to wander amidst the framed political posters and memorabilia. “How much do you know about me-that is, about my party?”
“I’m not political, Mr. Freed. I just don’t care.”
He ignored that. “You must understand-I am thought of, in most quarters, these days, as right-wing. That is a gross simplification. It is an attempt by the powers-that-be, of both major political camps, in league with the media, to defuse my efforts; the Illuminati understand that a third political party, not beholden to the bankers and the mobsters, with a real candidate, not some rehearsed synthetic one, threatens their stranglehold on America, on the world.”
“Mr. Freed…”
“I have a ten-year plan, Mr. Quarry,” he said, and his voice, his presence, added up to something persuasive, despite the loony tunes text. “I must keep it, or humanity is doomed. It is unlikely-though not impossible-that I will secure the Presidency this year; but in the following election, I can and must win-and global alliances are but a step away.”
“Yeah, right. Look…”
“I’m keeping this simple, Mr. Quarry, because you say you are not political. But you live in a world, a society, controlled by politics. What is politics but human relationships? Make love not war, we once said; but both are politics!”
“Right. What about George Ridge?”
He looked out the window into darkness. “We were great friends. You must understand that my political
