17
I dove into the pool, into the deep; no diving board, just off the edge. Sign said NO DIVING but another said NO LIFEGUARD ON DUTY, and I’d broken rules before. A nice clean dive, and I stayed under, swam the length of the pool that way and came up in the shallow.
The pool room was steamy, the lighting subdued, the blues and grays of the tile floor and the brown of the brick walls as soothing as the heated pool itself. Skylights above revealed the night; this was a small rectangular room, taken up mostly by the small rectangular pool. It was after eleven now, midnight approached, and I had the place to myself. The glass wall, separating the pool room from the beige-brick parking-garage entry area, was steamed up; but the occasional shapes of people, going to and from their cars, to and from the hotel, could be made barely out, smudgy apparitions haunting the hall.
I swam laps for a while. Very easily. I don’t push myself when I swim. Exercise is not the point for me. Relaxation is. It helps me not to think, when that’s what I want; and it helps me to think, when that’s what I want- the way they used to claim a sensory deprivation tank would bring you in closer touch with yourself. I was in close touch with myself already, thanks, but I did like the way the water and the warmth slowed my thoughts and at the same time brought them clarity.
I had told no one about finding Ridge’s body, having left as quickly as I arrived, apparently unseen. I considered calling Freed, and I would tell him, but now was not the time.
But I had called Angela Jordan, albeit not to tell her about Ridge. I’d apologized for calling so late-ten-thirty is late to make a phone call, anyway in the Midwest it is-and asked her how she was doing.
“Just fair,” she said “The girls… especially Kristie… are just devastated. Mom’s staying here with me. With us. Thank God for her. It’s been just awful.”
“Have there been arrangements to make?”
“No, not really. Bob’s parents are taking care of everything-there’s a memorial service Wednesday.”
“I didn’t know if I’d catch you at home,” I said. “I kind of thought you might be at the funeral home or something.”
“No. There’s no… body, remember?”
Actually, there was a body-partially cremated in my A-frame; by now, no doubt, it was buried in a grave with one of my names on it.
“It’ll be a church service,” she was saying. “I.. don’t get along with Bob’s folks very well. I mean, I’m not the wife, I’m the ex-wife. But the girls aren’t his ex-daughters, so… aw, jeez. This has just been a horrible day.”
I was about to make it even worse.
“What if I said I thought your husband’s death was not an accident.”
A stunned silence followed, briefly.
Then, in a somewhat accusatory tone: “What do you mean?”
“What if I said I thought it was murder.”
“Murder? Murder? I know Bob was involved in some… rough things sometimes, but…”
“And what if I said I thought I knew who was respon- sible.”
“Jack, what are you saying?”
“What if I said I couldn’t prove it, and that there was no way we could go to the police about it.”
There was firmness in her voice now: “Jack, if you know something, we’re going to the police. Right now-no discussion.”
“Forget I mentioned it.”
“Forget you… Jack, I’m coming there to talk to you.”
That’s what I wanted anyway.
“Okay,” I said. “Make it midnight in the lobby of the Blackhawk. I’ll spell things out.”
She’d agreed to that. I’d called her from my room. Now I needed that swim. To relax. To think. And for another reason.
I sat in the shallow section, my head out of water, rest of me under, and waited. Played a hunch. I was starting to feel foolish, not to mention wrinkled, when I was suddenly not alone.
Another guest of the hotel invaded my dank, until-then solitary chamber. As I had hoped he might. He was six-foot or so, a pale, potbellied, balding man wearing a dark blue knee-length terry cloth robe and black thong sandals. Something heavy was in one pocket of his robe; the right. His face was pockmarked, his chin cleft.
He was the man I’d known as (among other things) Stone.
He took off the robe and draped it carefully across a yellow deck chair. Stepped out of his sandals and, ignoring the sign just as had I, dove into the water. Graceful as an Olympic diver, if considerably fatter.
He ignored me entirely, started doing laps, arms cutting the surface; he didn’t take it as easy as I did, rather made the water churn. I sat there in the waves he made, watching.
Finally, he came up for air in the shallow, came up gulping air, actually, like a heavy, getting-older man would do, and glanced over at me.
The glance turned into a fixed expression, as his slate-gray, oriental-cast eyes locked onto me. The skin around them tensed.
“Quarry?” he asked.
“Stone,” I said and nodded.
He smiled briefly, as if about to say “Small world,” but the smile and the thought didn’t survive long.
“What are you doing here?” he asked. Flatly.
“Having a swim.”
“Besides that.”
“It’s a long story. How about a sauna?”
He looked at me through slits. “Ever drown anybody, Quarry?”
“I threw a TV in a bathtub once. A soap opera was playing.”
“Somebody in the tub at the time?”
“What would’ve been the point if there wasn’t?”
He twitched a smile, shrugged. Said, “I could stand to sweat off some flab.”
We left the pool area and entered the small sauna that was off the short hall to the showers, johns and lockers. He was in his robe again. I was in my trunks, carrying my rolled-up towel under my arm; tightly under my arm. In the towel was the nine-millimeter. No suppressor. The towel, and a contact wound, would make it unnecessary.
We had the redwood cubicle to ourselves-just me and Stone and the heating stones; we selected the higher of two shelves, sat side by side on the slatted wood. I sat on the right, he on the left; that put my rolled-up gun-in- towel under my right hand.
He left the robe on. The heat was dry, and thick enough to slice-if you had a knife.
He sat hunched, looked up at me, his strange eyes placid. “You still in the business, Quarry?”
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I was in retirement, but somebody tried to get me to make a comeback. To do one special job.”
“Really. Isn’t that flattering.”
“Hope to shout. Million-dollar contract.”
His eyes flickered.
“I’ll tell you about it,” I said.
And did.
There were parts I left out: I didn’t tell him I’d contacted Freed and was working for the candidate; and I didn’t tell him anything about Angela Jordan. I also didn’t mention trailing George Ridge from the airport tonight (and all that entailed). But the rest I gave him.
He sat and sweated and considered what I’d said. It had taken almost five minutes, and he hadn’t interrupted
