“Mr. Quarry, this isn’t something one can…”
“Say it. I sat through ‘This Is Your Life’ patiently enough, but now the show’s over. Cut to the commercial.”
He cleared his throat, as if about to make a speech. Maybe he was. “You are said to have been the best at what you do. But you dropped out.”
“I dropped out. My partner bought it, the Broker bought it, and I dropped out. Say what you came to say.”
He let the cigarette fall to the deck and ground it out with his heel.
Then he said: “One million dollars.”
There’s only one thing you can say when somebody says that, and I said it: “What?”
“One million dollars,” he repeated.
“In regard to what?” I asked, dumbfounded and a little annoyed.
“One contract.”
“A million-dollar contract.”
He nodded, his smile confident now, not nervous at all. “One hundred thousand down. In cash. Unmarked twenties. It can be delivered to you in twenty-four hours.”
“I’m… retired.”
“I noticed you hesitate before saying so.”
“Anybody would hesitate, offered a million bucks.”
“You could go anywhere in the world. You and your wife. Nothing could touch you.”
“Don’t mention my wife again.”
“No offense meant.”
“Don’t mention her. Don’t speak of her. Or I’ll cut your fucking heart out.”
He swallowed and nodded. He’d noticed the axe.
“I just wanted to emphasize what a rosy future you could paint for yourself with that kind of money.”
“I don’t believe in the future, and I don’t give a fuck about the past. And my present is rosy as fucking hell. So why don’t you just go away.”
“Mr. Quarry, it’s a million dollars.”
“I know it is. But… I’m retired. What do I need with it?”
“One job. One simple job.”
“I doubt it would be simple.”
“You’d be surprised.”
I stood. I walked to the edge of the deck and looked out at the lake. The sun was still under a cloud and a light breeze was blowing in. The water looked gray. I was going to have a son, or a daughter, before long. With my past, maybe it would be a good thing to get out of this country. With a million bucks you could live like a king in Mexico or South America. Maybe on a beach, the ocean your front yard. A protected life. A safe life for me and mine. In a year, I would be forty years old.
I turned and looked at him. “What’s the contract?”
“Have you heard of Preston Freed?”
“I’ve heard the name… he’s some sort of right-wing loon, isn’t he?”
His face cracked with the first of his many smiles to reveal teeth; too white and too perfect to be real.
He rose and walked over to me. “That’s exactly what he is,” he said, folding his arms, seeming at ease with me for the first time. I’d have to do something about that. “He is the founder and leader of the Democratic Action party.”
I made a sound in my throat that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Just another one of these homegrown would-be Hitlers.”
He shook his head no. “He’s not a Nazi. His politics are a grab-bag mixture of extreme right and extreme left, but he’s relatively young and genuinely charismatic, a Kennedy of the lunatic fringe if you will… and he’s gathering real momentum for his movement. Do you follow the political scene in the papers?”
“I catch it on TV. But, look…”
He raised a hand in a gentle stop motion. “Freed has several key issues that have rallied conservatives around him-he’s strongly anti-abortion and pro-school prayer, for instance. That’s all some people need to hear.”
“I suppose, but…”
“You don’t have to know much about politics to understand that the coming presidential election will be a volatile one. We have a once popular, now somewhat tarnished president ending his two terms in office. Supposedly a conservative, this man has raised the national debt to a record high.”
“Politics don’t interest me.”
“Even so, we are coming into a fascinating election year. The two parties-depending upon whom they choose as their standard bearers of course-should be in for a real battle. Think of it: the highest office in the land up for grabs… we could have a true conservative in the White House, or our most liberal president in years…”
“What does this have to do with anything? If this contract is political, you can really forget it.”
His gray eyes pleaded with me, his brow knitting a goddamn sock. “Mr. Quarry, Preston Freed is a presidential ‘spoiler’ in the truest sense. The way his movement, his ‘party,’ is gathering steam, he will throw the entire election off kilter.”
“Yeah, I suppose. I don’t know much about it, and I don’t want to, either.”
“At this point, it is hard to say whether the Democrats or the Republicans would suffer the most, but…”
“I think you should leave. This is a civics lesson that I just don’t want to hear.”
“I represent a certain group of private citizens, responsible, powerful, patriotic citizens, who want Preston Freed stopped. Who want the natural order of our political system restored, and this madman-this potential American Hitler, as you aptly described him-destroyed like the rabid animal he is.”
“That’s very colorful, but I don’t do politicals. I don’t do any contracts anymore, as I tried to make clear… and I shouldn’t have let you get into this at all.”
“Mr. Quarry…”
“I don’t do windows, and I don’t do politicals.”
“Why not?”
“You can offer me two million and I’d turn you down.”
He was astounded; shaking his head. “Why, do you think it would be difficult to get near the candidate? True, Freed is somewhat reclusive, but with the first primary in January, there’ll be plenty of opportunities, starting with a major press conference next month, which…”
“Stop. It’s not hard to kill a politician. It’s the easiest thing there is. You got a public figure, an egomaniac who thinks he’s immortal, going out kissing babies and shaking hands and it’s the easiest hit in the world.”
“Then what is your objection?”
“I wouldn’t live to spend the money.”
“Are you implying that…”
“That you would have me killed? Why, I don’t know what got into me. You and your concerned patriotic citizens wouldn’t think of being party to murder, now would you?”
“Mr. Quarry, we are men of honor.”
“Sure. I’d be an instant loose end, pal. You don’t get away with shooting presidents or even would-be presidents. Oh, the guys who hire you can get away with it. In fact they always do. That’s ’cause the poor bastard who squeezed the trigger is either dead, or locked in a cell and written off as a madman.”
“I assure you…”
“I’m retired. I don’t want to get back in the business, not even once, not even for your big bucks. This is a real good place to call a halt to this conversation… I still don’t know your name, and that’s how I like it.”
“You won’t reconsider?”
“No. And I don’t want to see you again. You know far too much about me. I ought to kill you on general principles.”
He sucked breath in, hard; till now, talk of death had seemed abstract to him, I’m sure. “But… but you won’t.”
