Quarry in the Middle (4 page)

“Not at the Paddlewheel, though…”

“No! No. I don’t even think any high-class ass works
out of there. Bluff City is too smalltown for call girls, and the kind of girls you meet on the Haydee’s side, you don’t take home to mother…unless mother is a doctor specializing in the clap.”

I shook my head, did a little shiver. “Since AIDS came around, Mrs. Gibson’s little boy don’t go out in the rain without his rubbers.”

“Ha! Don’t blame you. I’m a happily married man with a beautiful wife. Two healthy kids. I wouldn’t risk all that, fooling around with some trashy little cunt.”

I grinned at him, recalling the carry-out cutie back home. “What about the little beauties who were sunning themselves this afternoon?”

“I’m married,” he said with a grin, “not dead.”

Yet.

“I still have a pulse myself,” I said.

“You’re not tied down?”

“Nope.” I nodded toward the memory of the bikini girls around the pool. “What do you think, they’re college girls?”

“The ones today? They’re secretaries and office workers from St. Louis, on holiday.”

“You talk to ’em?”

“Maybe a little.” He grinned again. “No charge for looking. But there are some college girls from Iowa City checked in, too. This is nice, young, sweet pussy, my friend. Looking to be naughty. It’d be a sin not to help ’em out. Downright fucking unkind.”

Not only had he already forgotten the beautiful wife, the Chinese chickie was yesterday’s carry-out, too.

“Well,” I said, and reached down for the rolled towel, then slipped my hand inside, around the nine millimeter’s grip, “nice meeting you.”

The silencer wasn’t attached, but the towel would muffle a shot, though the cloth would likely catch fire.

He grinned again. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he said.

“I think I can keep that promise,” I said.

I didn’t see where he could have a gun on him, not in swim trunks and t-shirt, but I took no chances, walking at an angle to my room, keeping the seated man in my eyeline.

As I reached my door, I saw him get up and slip off the shirt, his body ghostly pale in the moonlight. He dove in. He was doing his own laps as I went inside.

The bed cut the room nearly in half, and I sat on its edge facing the door with the gun in my hand, trained there. I was still in my trunks, which were damp, and I wasn’t completely dry myself. Then it occurred to me that if he was brazen enough to shoot through the door, he might get me.

So I moved down the bed, near the headboard, and sat and waited.

Nothing.

That had just been talk, right? Friendly talk? Guy stuff? He was staying here, I was staying here, two fellas taking a swim and striking up a conversation. He had a job to do but wouldn’t necessarily head over to the Paddlewheel till near dawn, when the time came to execute his plan. It was not at all unnatural for him
to relax by the pool, to swim, to chat amiably with another guest. He had time to kill.

Could he have discovered his partner was dead?

I had the body, of course, but I hadn’t cleaned up after myself except to remove fingerprints. Blood was still on the refrigerator, and on the floor, and even on the back steps and driveway gravel—crusty and dark by now, but unmistakably blood, especially to a pro like Monahan. A clean kill in that the guy went quickly, but otherwise sloppy.

Like me?

Was I too sloppy and stupid to survive?

I showered and sat up on the bed in my shorts with a gun in my hand watching an old movie on Turner Classics. Monahan did not come knocking, and for that matter did not come
not
knocking…

This was what I got for staying at the same goddamn motel as my target. Perhaps I should just get in the Sunbird, dump the blond kid’s body along the road somewhere, and head back to Wisconsin. This was feeling like too much risk, with too much exposure. Sure, I had invested some time and money and spent a couple of nine millimeter slugs on Mike Love. But why chance it?

On the other hand, I was still about twenty grand short of what I needed to buy Wilma’s Welcome Inn. I wasn’t in a position to get a bank loan. I needed cash.

So I put on my Don Johnson duds and headed over to the Paddlewheel.

I pulled in about nine-thirty and found the big parking lot nearly full, the Paddlewheel doing remarkable busi-ness for a Wednesday night. At the far end, a brown-and-gold vehicle emblazoned
SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT
was parked by a fence, nose forward, with what I presumed was an off-duty deputy sitting there to provide security. His windows were down and he was smoking—the amber eye of his cigarette and his vague shape were all I could make out.

His presence didn’t alarm me—I’d have been surprised if some off-duty law enforcement rep
hadn’t
been so employed here—but neither did it mean the master of the Paddlewheel castle was safe from becoming the victim of a hit-and-run in his own parking lot. Only after its closing around dawn, with the target leaving the building to head for his own parked car in an otherwise empty lot, security deputy long gone, would Monahan practice his vehicular artistry.

I backed my Sunbird into a space in a row parallel to the river, leaving a little room to get around to the trunk, where the blond kid was sound asleep, the little angel. After folding it inside a road map, I tucked the nine millimeter in the glove compartment, having no intention of walking into the place armed. Holsters, shoulder or belt, weren’t my style, and I couldn’t risk
that kind of lump under the lightweight white jacket.

Having parked fairly close, I felt loose and at ease—I’d willed myself to leave any misgivings behind, and anyway, the warm night and the cool breeze were battling in a gentle, soothing way. Nothing about Monahan’s poolside behavior gave me reason to believe he’d made me—actually, quite the opposite.

Still, he was a pro and not to be underestimated; he could easily have been playing me. And because this was a speculative project, I had the ability to bail at any time. True, I’d spent some money and had strained my lower back a little, stuffing that blond punk in the trunk. But I still could say fuck it and go home to my A-frame on the lake.

Nice to have options.

The big old brick building that housed the Paddle-wheel had been built into the small rise along the river so that its lower level was underground except on the Mississippi side (back when the structure had been a warehouse, that was where goods could be on-and off-loaded). That meant you entered from the parking lot onto the second floor.

I moved past a coat check area and restrooms to a hostess station, where a good-looking brunette in a white tuxedo blouse and long black skirt with high-heel boots was currently occupied with a quartet of couples who hadn’t bothered with a reservation. So I didn’t have to deal with her right away, and could get the lay of the land.

Down a few steps from this entryway was a long
dining room, with tables covered in white cloth with glowing red candles, and a big mural of a paddlewheel boat along the left wall, a magnificent picture-window river view at the far end. There were a few empty tables but, for this time of night mid-week in the Midwest, the dining room was bustling.

A bar was at right, and it was crowded, too, possibly with diners waiting for a table. The smoky area had redcovered booths against a wall newer than the other sandblasted brick ones, indicating the floor had been halved to allow for kitchen and possibly offices. Tucked in the corner was a small stage with a pianist in a tux at a baby grand, noodling show tunes; a stool at a mike indicated a singer was part of the mix, but not right now.

The help’s attire was on the formal side—waitresses in white tuxedo blouses and black trousers—while the patrons ran the gamut: guys in everything from leather jackets and stonewashed jeans to suits and ties (though my Armani over a Ralph Lauren tee was about par) and the women sporting designer shit including plenty of shoulder pads and big earrings and miniskirts and feathered hair. But everybody seemed to be spruced up, at least their idea of it.

The group at the hostess station was getting irritable—they could see enough open seating to service them—and the brunette was patiently explaining that it would take a while to put some tables together, and if they’d just go to the bar, she’d call them.

I had no problem. I even got a table by the picture
window, and all it had cost me was my charming smile. The river was reflecting the moon and a silverivory shimmer made it very romantic, except for the part where I was sitting at a table for two by myself.

The food wasn’t pricey—my assumption was, the casino was the money maker—and I took my time eating a fried scallops dinner, including their “signature” beer-battered baked potato. The thing was pretty good, even if it didn’t rise to the status of a Famous Bacon Cheeseburger.

This far down from the bar, the piano noodling was fairly distant, and didn’t cover up the lowend pounding of drums and bass guitar above. Couldn’t pick any tunes out, but you could tell it was rock and not country. Between whatever songs were going on up there, you could make out the muffled music of slots and poker machines below, playing their bells-and-whistles refrain.

I killed maybe an hour with the meal, which included two glasses of Diet Coke with twists of lime. I left the waitress a nice tip, then walked back to the restrooms, to get rid of some of the cola. I noticed an elevator tucked back behind the coat check, and went over to the hostess to ask her about it.

“Is that for the casino?” I asked her.

She had big brown eyes and lots of blue eye shadow that clashed, but her lips were full and red-lipsticked, so I forgave her.

Friendly but guarded, she said, “That’s for our Key Club.”

“Ah. How do you join?”

“You take that elevator down, and go to the window that says ‘New Members.’ ”

“Cool. Thanks.”

So I had a look at the casino. First I joined, of course, and it cost all of ten bucks. I wasn’t sure how joining made this any more legal, but it must have had something to do with the arrangement with the local law. The “New Members” window was just one of half a dozen cages, the rest of which were to buy or cash in chips.

The casino wasn’t the Flamingo but, for the middle of the Midwest, was impressive enough. Certainly was hopping, a couple hundred guests partaking of half a dozen blackjack tables, a trio of roulette wheels, the latest Vegas-style slots on one side, video poker on the other. The far end had a bar with some booth seating along another river-view window.

What decoration there was ran to riverboat stuff, paintings of Bret Maverick-type gamblers and Mark Twain in a captain’s hat and paddlewheels on the river. Mostly, though, the room was just a charmless space of sandblasted brick walls crammed with gambling gear. I noted a security staff—rugged-looking characters in black trousers and red satin vests and white shirts with string ties and no name tags, all blessed with the craggy, humorless mien of the strip-club bouncer.

I counted six of these characters, roaming, keeping a hard eye on things, occasionally communicating with either a boss or their musclebound brethren by walkie-talkie.

I had a beer in the casino bar, served by a perky little redheaded waitress in a red satin outfit that was little more than a low-cut one-piece bathing suit with mesh stockings and black heels; if her push-up bra had pushed any harder, her nipples would’ve popped out.

Half a dozen little booby-displaying beauties were weaving around the casino, providing free drinks. I made conversation with mine and learned she was a community college student across the river—most of the girls were.

“So,” I asked her, “you don’t live in Haydee’s Port?”

“No!” she said, eyes so wide you’d think I goosed her. “
Nobody
lives in Haydee’s Port!”

“What about your boss?”

She got coy. “What boss is that?”

“Mr. Cornell. Does he live across the river, too?”

My knowing the boss’s name was enough for her to replace coy with chatty. “He lives close. A regular mansion. Ever see
Gone with the Wind
?”

“Sure.”

“Like that. White pillars and everything.”

“He lives in Tara and you’re a wage slave, huh?”

“Yeah, minimum wage, but the tips are good.”

I considered kidding her about darkies all working on the Mississippi, but figured the reference would be lost on her.

“Kind of business this place does,” I said, “I’m not surprised Mr. Cornell has a mansion. He here tonight?”

“He’s always here. I’ve been at the Paddlewheel a year, and he’s never missed a night.”

“Could you point him out to me?”

She shook her head. “He’s rarely in the Key Club, unless he’s in the back poker room.”

“Is he in the back poker room now?”

“No.” She got narrow-eyed. “Why?”

“Just like to meet him. Tell him how impressed I am. I mean, I’d heard about this place, but it exceeds all my expectations.”

She liked that. Apparently she was a proud little community-college student/waitress. “Yes! I don’t know of anything like it anywhere else around these parts.”

These parts?
My God, this
was
the Midwest…

I asked, “What about downtown?”

The eyes got the goosed look again. “In Haydee’s Port? You don’t want to go down there, sir.”

“I don’t?”

“No! It’s just for lowlifes.”

So I left her a nice tip. She didn’t consider me a lowlife, and that made me feel good about myself.

I gambled a little. Lost twenty-five bucks at black-jack, got ahead fifty at roulette. Played video poker, a buck a shot, and in ninety minutes carved the fifty in half. Another waitress, who I’d asked for a Diet Coke, delivered it.

I asked her, “The music upstairs?”

She had a galaxy of permed blonde hair and dark blue eyes and light blue eyeshadow and big breasts that made heavy lifting for the push-up bra. “You mean upstairs at the Paddlewheel Lounge?”

“I’m talking about the top floor.”

“So am I.”

“How long does the music last?”

“Till two on weeknights. All night Friday and Saturday. We’re closed Sunday.”

Even Hades rested on the seventh day, it seemed, this branch office, anyway.

It was already close to one a.m., so I took the elevator up to the Paddlewheel Lounge. The big room had lots of neon pseudo-graffiti on the brick walls, glowing in black light—cheesy stuff that tried too hard, jagged lettering of assorted words and phrases:
Da Bomb!, Awesome!, Wicked!, Rad!, Gnarly!

Not that the crowd seemed to mind, a mix of twentyand thirty-somethings, some of whom I’d seen dining downstairs. The dance floor was a raised acrylic platform with red-yellow-blue flashing lights inside, the band fronting big amplifiers on a wooden platform stage (the drummer up on his own smaller one) painted flat black but with more corny neon day-glo fake graffiti. The little dance platform could only accommodate maybe a third of the hundred or so in the lounge, so a lot of smoking and talking (that is, shouting over the band) was going on at the little round tables with red vinyl cloths.

A bar was at one end, as far away from the band as possible. The bartender was female, a pretty blonde with over-teased hair and a black leather vest over her white blouse; she wasn’t particularly busty, which was almost a relief after all those exploding bosoms in the casino.

Perched on a stool, I ordered another Diet Coke and asked her (actually, yelled at her), “
What’s it like on the weekends?
”

“
Zoo-a-rama,
” she shouted back with a friendly smile
and an eyeball roll. “
Hangin’ off the flippin’ rafters, my friend.
”

“
Good band!
”

They were—they were doing “Under My Thumb” by the Stones. They all wore white shirts and skinny black ties and black leather trousers and short spiky hair, including the lead singer, a cute skinny girl.

“
Not bad,
” she admitted. “
Smart. Called the Nodes. They play about half classic rock and half New Wave. That’s why the demo is so broad.
”

“
The demo?
”

“
Demographic. You’ll find ’em as young as twenty-one and as old as forty, out there.
”

Forty didn’t sound as old to me as it used to. Also, I thought some of the girls—like one in a side ponytail, fingerless gloves and a petticoat, who was just swishing by—weren’t twenty-one. Not that I could imagine the Paddlewheel was a rigorous I.D. checker.

That was all the shouted speech I could take, so I got out the charming smile again and made sure the teased-hairdo behind the bar got a nice tip, figuring she was another minimum-wage slave.

I’d been on all three floors of the Paddlewheel now, over these past three hours or so, and still hadn’t seen Richard Cornell, at least not to my knowledge. I really didn’t have any idea what he looked like, just that he was a Brit and a “smoothie.” All I probably needed to do was ask somebody who appeared to be vaguely in management if I could see Mr. Cornell. But I wasn’t ready to stoop that low just yet…

On the second floor, things were winding down.
The dining room had closed at midnight, though the bar was still heavily populated, serving booze and sandwiches till 4 a.m., if the menu was to be believed. I was seated at a little table whose round top was smaller than a steering wheel, having another Diet Coke, listening to the vocalist who had finally turned up on stage to keep the pianist company.

A couple of things had become clear about Richard Cornell’s management style, among them that he paid minimum wage, but chiefly that if you weren’t a good-looking young woman, you need not apply for any job that included interacting with the public. The needle on the pulchritude meter at this place was buried, or wanted to be. Till it closed in ’81, the Playboy Club at Lake Geneva had been my favorite home away from home, and the Paddlewheel rivaled their Bunnies with these cornfed cuties.

But the woman on the small stage, perched on a stool, was not cute, nor was she young. I made her for mid-forties, easy. She was a little heavy and she had some years on her, but she blew the cuties away, because she was beautiful. Truly beautiful.

She had reddish blond widow’s-peaked hair that was up off her high forehead but swept down to her bare shoulders. Her wideset eyes were green and so was her eyeshadow, her face a gentle oval nicely disrupted by prominent cheekbones; her lips were full and ripe and glistening red. She wore a bare-shouldered black dress with a full skirt, the top part putting half of an admirable full bosom on display, no push-up bra, though some
would argue she could use one—I would argue she’d never lack for a man to push them up for her.