might write a book about the case. Being a published author was important in politics, locally or nationally.
Berty Wrenner, as well as most of the surviving Quest and Quarry clients, had been tried and convicted, and the rash of modern-day duels in the city had soon abated.
Quinn’s reverie suddenly ended with the grating ring of the intercom. He glanced at his watch and climbed out of bed.
Pearl identified herself, and he buzzed her in, then unlocked the apartment door and returned to the bedroom to pull on some pants.
He was sitting on the bed working socks on his feet when Pearl walked into the room. She was wearing jeans, black boots, and a black leather jacket. She had a folded Post tucked under one arm.
She said, “You’re running late, Quinn.”
“I took a shower last night,” he said. “I’ll get dressed, and we can get right outta here.” He’d promised Pearl he’d go with her to visit her mother at the Sunset Assisted Living home in New Jersey. She had to appear there at least every month or so to keep the staff on their toes. She felt it was her duty. She hated to go alone. Quinn understood why, but on another level he kind of liked Pearl’s mother.
Pearl sniffed the air. “You been smoking, Quinn?”
“Not in months,” he lied.
“Smells like smoke.”
“It lingers.” He nodded toward the folded newspaper as he struggled to put on his shoes. “Anything going on?”
“Nothing unusual. A guy on the Lower East Side killed himself with a shotgun outside a women’s shelter. Put the barrel in his mouth and used a bent wire hanger to push the trigger. Made a big mess in the street.”
“You’re right,” Quinn said. “Nothing unusual.”
He went into the bathroom and peed, washed his hands, used deodorant, splashed cold water on his face, then combed his hair. It stuck up kind of funny on one side, but what the hell. He went back to the bedroom and found a clean shirt. Added a conservative blue tie. Pearl’s mother would like that.
Within a few minutes they were in the Lincoln and on their way, driving through a light snow that the weather forecasters swore wouldn’t amount to any measurable accumulation.
“We can stop at that place across the bridge and get some doughnuts and coffee,” Pearl said.
Quinn nodded, concentrating on his driving and wondering if he should use the wipers. “We can take some to your mother.”
“Whatever,” Pearl said.
The sky seemed a darker gray, and the swirling snowfall thickened. There was no doubt now about using the wipers. Quinn switched them on, and they settled into their metronomic thumpa…thumpa…thumpa, spanning most of the wide windshield. The sound was conducive to thought.
As he did from time to time, Quinn wondered what Zoe Manders was doing these days.
Not that he cared a great deal.
After what had happened with Martin Hawk, Quinn realized that Zoe had been prepared to let him die, while Pearl had saved his life. After all the soul searching and mental machinations, it had come down to that simple truth. It meant something.
So Quinn had left Zoe and resolved to rekindle his relationship with Pearl.
Pearl knew exactly what was going on and why, and she didn’t allow much reason for hope.
But some.
The big car sped on through the snow-roiled cold air, toward an uncertain future. Quinn turned on the headlights so he could see the road ahead more clearly, but they didn’t do much good.
