Quarry's Deal (15 page)

30

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JOHN SMITH WAS
sitting in the blue Chevelle, on the rider’s side. Slouched against the door, smoking a cigarette, two fingers resting gingerly on his bandaged nose. Where surveillance was concerned, he’d been an incompetent agent, but you could hardly ask for a better subject. It was like sneaking up on a corpse.

The parking lot, dimly lit except directly under the small neon over the door, was empty of anything but cars at the moment. Ten o’clock was too late for many people to be arriving and too early for many people to be leaving. And a perfect time to go out to my GT on one side of the lot, unlock the glove compartment and get out the silenced nine-millimeter, and walk over to the other side of the lot and the Chevelle.

The door he was leaning against was unlocked, I noticed, and when I opened it he fell out like an ironing board from its closet.

He had a gun, a Smith and Wesson snubnose .38, but it, like his cigarette, tumbled out of his fingers while he was tumbling out himself. I scooped up the .38, dropped it into a jacket pocket and pointed the nine-millimeter at the middle of his face.

He was sprawled on his right side and looked like he was trying to swim in the gravel. He looked comical. More so, when his eyes crossed to look at the barrel of the nine-millimeter.

“You motherfucker,” he said, lamely, like he’d never used the word before in his life.

“Shhh,” I said.

“What’s going . . .”

I poked his nose with the gun’s.

“Shhh, I said.”

He put a hand over his nose. He started to weep.

“Please,” I said. “This is embarrassing enough as it is.”

I patted him down with my free hand. He had no other weapon.

“Keys,” I said.

He pointed at the car.

I looked over and the keys were in the dash.

“Get them,” I said.

He pushed himself up, hesitantly, and leaned into the car. I leaned in with him, pressing the flat snout of the silenced gun against his back, his ribs, and he got the keys. We leaned back out and he turned slowly and held out the keys to me. They dangled like a vulgar earring.

I didn’t take them. I shut the car door and said, “Open the trunk.”

He cocked his head, like he couldn’t quite make out what I was saying. With those ears of his, you’d think he wouldn’t have any trouble hearing.

“The trunk,” I said.

He shrugged, but the casualness of that gesture didn’t work for him. This was one scared shitless character.

Which didn’t keep him from opening the trunk, fumblingly of course, but he opened it.

I had, by this time, stuck the nine-millimeter in my waistband. For a guy like this I didn’t need the gun. In fact I could’ve given it to him to hold for me.

I glanced around, looking for the beams of light that would indicate someone coming up the drive into the lot, looking to see if anyone was coming out a Barn door, or if anyone might be able to see us from a window. The latter was barely possible, but between the lack of windows downstairs and the shuttered ones upstairs, and our being way over to the far side of the lot, I felt it unlikely there were any eyes on us.

So we were standing in front of the trunk of the Chevelle like a couple of guys in front of an altar, or urinal. And my bland-looking college kid companion, with his busted nose and big, apparently nonfunctional ears, looked at me wondering what to do next. I told him.

“Get in,” I said.

He cocked his head again.

“In,” I said, and pointed at the trunk.

He cocked his head and pointed at the trunk with me.

“Oh Jesus,” I said, and pushed him in there and shut the lid.

31

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AFTER CLOSING I
sat at the bar and nursed a gimlet while Lu was cleaning glasses and generally tidying up. The dealers were filing into Tree’s office to turn in their money, and witness the ritual of seeing the money go in his fat relic of a safe. There was a second ritual, nightly, of the money being shifted to the real safe, the one in the floor under the carpet, but the dealers didn’t get to see that.

The guy with glasses was one of the first to go, but the sound of the outer door opening and closing didn’t follow him. I hadn’t expected it to.

I waited till the line of dealers had thinned down to two, and went to the coat room to get my jacket. The .38 I’d lifted from the party currently residing in the trunk of a Chevelle was still in the pocket I’d dropped it in. I’d returned the bulky nine-millimeter to the GT’s glove compartment. If Lu happened to see me with a gun, I’d prefer it was the .38 and not the silenced automatic, professional tool that the latter one was.

I went up the short flight of stairs to the landing that separated the club room of the Barn from the restaurant. Stairs rose from the landing a full flight, wide and without a rail, softly carpeted, to the wide doorless entry area of the dining room. I slipped the .38 out of the jacket pocket and started up.

The restaurant closed down at eleven, and all the help involved with that part of the Barn operation were long gone. The large rustic dining room, with its many booths, was dark. I didn’t like that. Not at all. All those fucking booths, so many places to hide, Christ.

I stalked the room like a parody of a western gunfighter in this parody of a western setting. Winding through the rows of picket-fence booths, the thick carpet cushioning my steps, soaking up what little noise I made. Clint Eastwood would’ve been proud of me.

Then I saw the hairline of light beneath the door of the men’s room.

Both of the johns were just off the top of the flight of stairs. An easy, logical place to duck into.

But the lack of imagination these guys showed was staggering. Not only was this asshole hiding in the john, an overly enclosed space and an obvious choice, and the men’s john at that, but he’d even left the lights on. After all, who wants to wait around in the dark? Pathetic.

“Yeah, okay,” I said loudly, in a lower voice that I hoped didn’t sound like my own. “Be with you in a second, Frank. Just let me take a leak.”

And I went in.

There was one booth, door closed, no feet showing below.

I stood at the urinal a few moments, flushed it, walked over and turned on the hot water in the sink, never turning my back completely to the booth, the door to which I then kicked open and the guy in there, standing and crouching at the same time on top of the stool, in an inane attempt not to be seen, caught the edge of the metal door on the chin and threw his head back against the cement wall and he then slid down and bumped every vertebra on his spine along the toilet’s metallic spine from which extended the flush knob until his ass thudded against the floor and his head came to an abrupt rest against the porcelain bowl.

Still in his hand, though limply held, was another S & W .38, this one with a longer barrel, which was the first faint sign of professionalism I’d seen from this fuck-up pair. I kicked the gun into the corner and kicked him in the balls.

He said something that wasn’t exactly a word, grabbing himself, and his eyes were huge and round behind glasses bent out of shape and hanging on his face like a modernistic sculpture.

I picked him up by the front of the shirt and stuffed his head in the toilet a while.

Backwards is a hard way to get dunked, and when I brought him back up he was choking and sputtering and seemed about to die. I waited a second till he was better and then dunked him again, but frontways this time, to try to avoid killing him.

When I let him up, I didn’t let loose.

“Do you know what happens to guys that get in over their heads?” I said.

He was in no shape to say anything, but that was okay. I didn’t want an answer.

I shoved him back in and this time worked the flush handle a few times. A dozen maybe.

“They drown,” I said, letting him back up.

I lifted him off the floor and sat him on the stool. “Get your breath back,” I said.

He sat there complying, chest heaving, water running off his face like he’d been out in the rain a day or two. His shirt was soaked halfway down. I was barely wet at all.

“Can I . . . can I . . . can I . . .”

“Can you what? Say it.”

“Can I . . . get my . . . get my glasses.” He pointed between his legs. His glasses had come off and were down in the toilet somewhere. I told him go ahead.

He reached down through his legs and fished around and finally came up with them. He bent the heavy metal frames around a little and they sat a little better on his face. Not much better. And as water-streaked as they were, I didn’t know what good they were doing him.

“You can dry them off, if you like,” I said.

He was still breathing hard, heaving his chest, and he was trembling, too, but somewhere in there I could make out he was also nodding. He took some toilet paper and wiped off the glasses.

“There’s not going to be any cops,” I said.

He just looked at me, his breath slowing down gradually.

“Just like there’s not going to be any heist,” I said.

He looked down. The floor was wet.

“You invested some time and some money, but you know how it goes. You can’t win ’em all. Though at least you finally filled a flush, huh?”

“Very funny,” he said.

“Hey, coming out alive is winning of a sort.”

He looked up. “Where’s Johnny?”

“Johnny Smith, you mean? Big ears, nothing between? In the trunk of his Chevelle.”

“Is he . . .”

“He’s alive, if you call that living.”

“What . . . what happens now?”

“Now you leave. You go out and get in your friend’s Chevelle and drive away. Let him out of the trunk, when you get around to it.”

I handed him the keys.

“You can have your gun, too,” I said, and went over and picked it up. Stuck the other .38 in my waistband and emptied the shells of first one gun, then the other, into the used towel bin. Then I gave him both guns and he looked at me puzzled.

“That box of slugs in your glove compartment isn’t there anymore, in case you’re wondering. Even if it was, it wouldn’t do you much good. Ask your friend about the gun I almost used on him and see if he’d like to go up against it.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Stopping the heist? I’m getting paid to.”

“Why let us go, I mean.”

“Because you’re just not worth killing . . . though if I ever see you again, I’ll have to reassess that. I’m not real fond of people who break lamps in my face, you know.”

“You won’t see me again. Don’t worry about that.”

“Oh I’m not worried Go away.”