She stood. Kicked off the sandals. Unzipped the jeans, tugged them off, and as tight as they were, that was fascinating to watch. The jeans left some marks, but nothing that detracted. She had no underpants on, and her pubic triangle was just as yellow as her hair-I was pretty sure she dyed it, and the bush had been cut into a heart shape and thinned a little. Very stylish, and thoughtful, coming from such a self-centered brat.
You must have a very low opinion of me to think I’d fall for this game. That this detestable little cunt could seduce me so easily. For one thing, I didn’t have a rubber handy, and I wasn’t sticking an arrow into that heart unprotected-that reckless I’m not. And for another, she was a detestable little cunt…or did I say that?
I did let her blow me, though, and she was good, very thorough and skilled and while I wouldn’t say she enjoyed herself, she seemed to take a certain pride in her work. When she was done, cheeks less sunken, containing a mouthful of me now, she held up a “wait” finger, and padded naked into the bathroom, where she spit it out in the john, flushed it, then went to the sink and partook of my mouthwash.
“You can use my toothbrush if you want,” I called. Gracious host that I am.
“Thanks!”
“It’s still only four grand for the car.”
The water was running. Wasn’t sure she heard me.
I got on the phone. The desk at the Wheelhouse was open all night.
“You folks have any clothesline or rope up there?” I asked.
“No, Mr. Gibson. Sorry.”
“Damn. Well…how about duct tape?”
By dawn, the parking lot at the Lucky Devil was almost empty. I supposed Chrissy’s red Firebird was a little conspicuous among all those absences, but on the other hand, it was a familiar set of wheels here. I parked back almost to the trees and sat and watched.
The hookers began exiting their trailers with little suitcases, heading for home. After spending fifteen minutes checking his watch every three, the parking lot bouncer went in the casino exit, off-duty apparently. Some dancers and waitresses came for their cars, which were also parked toward the back, leaving me more bare than a Lucky Devil stripper at the end of her third song.
I had the dark-blue windbreaker on over a light-blue polo shirt; also black jeans and running shoes. Also the nine millimeter, in my right hand, in my lap.
At a little after six, Jerry G-still in the gray silk suit and black t-shirt and gold chains-escorted some guests out the exit of the private poker room, nobody I recognized from the mid-week game. They had the well-dressed look and confident bearing of the high-stakes player, though they were dragging some, having played all night. And some, presumably, had lost some dough.
Then Jerry G stepped back in and closed the door.
I stuffed the nine millimeter in my waistband, got out of the Firebird and headed quickly toward the building. I had my right hand on the butt of the nine mil when I knocked with my left on the poker-room door, not a minute after the last guest had gone.
Jerry G opened the door, initially with a pleasant, curious expression that shifted to shock, then rage, then fear, as I pushed through and shut the door behind me.
I’d been hopeful the room would be empty but for Jerry G, knowing I might face the problem of a lingering guest and/or a barmaid tidying up. And I caught a break-it was just Jerry G and me.
I pushed him toward the table, not rough, not gentle.
“Sit,” I said.
He took his usual dealer’s seat, shaking his head. “Where are Bubba and Bruno? What the hell did you do to them?”
“That redneck went by Bubba? Really?”
He didn’t answer. His horsey face was as pale as dead skin. Even his Frankie Avalon pompadour seemed a little droopy. “You…you killed them?”
“I think it was the motorboat engine props that killed Bruno, assuming you mean that big black bastard. Took his face off, like a slice of meat from an Oscar Mayer loaf, and some fingers, too. And it caught him in the throat. Bubba, assuming that’s the white prick? Him I killed, with the sawed-off he would’ve used on me.”
“My God…where…where did you leave them?”
“Where do you think? They’re floating. Your chums are chum.”
That was a little cute. But I was pretty hyper, so cut me some slack. I was pissed at this guy, otherwise I’d have shot him by now.
“What was the idea,” I said, “of that elbow in the nuts? What did I ever do to you?”
“Are you…are you kidding? You came here to kill me, didn’t you?”
“No, first I was trying to figure out if you were the one who hired somebody to kill Cornell. You might have got a pass. But now I just don’t care.”
Hope and fear flickered in his eyes, as if fighting for control. “I’ll pay you twice what he is. What’s he paying you? I’ll give three times!”
“Not an option. Conflict of interest kind of deal.”
His eyes showed the white all around now. “ Listen to me, Quarry…you can walk out of this room a rich man-I can have half a million deposited wherever you say, Swiss account, Caymans, you name it.”
I lifted the hand that wasn’t training a gun on him. “No, you see, you’d hold a grudge. You’d give me the money, sure…but then people would come try to kill me, and that would take the fun out of it.”
He had both his hands up, his palms out-surrendering, in a way; but still trying, as he said, “What can I do to make this right?”
“Nothing,” I said. “But I do want to thank you for one thing.”
“… What the fuck?”
“Soundproofing this room.”
I put one in his forehead, and his skull didn’t explode exactly, but it definitely cracked, and after he’d gone backward initially, he flopped forward on the table and spilled blood and brains on the green felt.
I didn’t leave immediately-I had noticed his little tin box on the bar, which held the bank from the recent poker game. Taking a quick look, I determined Jerry G had done very well tonight-the box had twenty grand in it. Make a lucky devil joke here, if you’re so inclined.
The tin box of money I tucked under my left arm, and-with the nine millimeter in my hand, and my hand in the right pocket of my windbreaker-strolled out into the dead parking lot and got into my new car.
Chapter Twelve
The morning had stayed chill, the sky smoky gray. One of those cold days in Hell they always talk about, or anyway a cold day in Haydee’s.
It was six-thirty-something when I pulled into the Paddlewheel lot, which was empty save for two cars, one of them Richard Cornell’s Corvette, the other Angela Dell’s little red Subaru. I’d figured there was a good chance everybody would be gone for the night/day, except for Cornell himself, and I was almost right-and the only other person still here was part of the family, in a couple senses.
So my timing was excellent, particularly considering that my client-typically spiffy in a navy blazer, yellow sport shirt and light-blue trousers-was exiting the big old reconverted warehouse and striding toward his Corvette, parked toward the rear of the lot. Had I been Monahan doing his vehicular homicide bit, I’d have been in perfect position to send Dickie flying into the next life or at least a hole in the ground.
But of course I’d turned down Jerry G’s offer for a contract on my boss, for reasons previously stated.
He saw the Firebird pulling in, and smiled, thinking it was Chrissy come to see him, which was sort of true. Then he made me behind the wheel and frowned, not in displeasure, just confusion. I stopped next to him and got out. He met me at the rear of the sporty red convertible.
“Something I want to show you,” I said.
The white crease lines formed in the too-tanned forehead. “What are you up to, love?”
“This is sort of where I came in,” I said, and unlocked the trunk.
