Quarry's Choice (23 page)

But I still had a general achiness that expressed itself with every breath, and I knew I could use some rest, even if my mind was too active to let me get any more sleep.

So after we ate our room-service meal, more Dockside grub (cheeseburger and fries for her, a rare steak sandwich and fries for me), we spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening just relaxing in the room. Most of the time we lay on the double bed with her snuggled next to me and watched whatever she wanted to on TV.

Around five-thirty, she started getting ready to go into the strip club, explaining that she did her stage make-up at work, just taking a shower and washing/drying her hair. That brought to an end a sleepy, lazy late afternoon, and you would never know that anything nasty hung over our heads but for the .38 on one nightstand and the nine millimeter on the other.

At one point I got off the bed and knelt by her canvas tote bag and removed the two bulky video cassettes; one had a label (blank) stuck on, the other didn’t. Which brought something to mind.

I asked her, “Is there any way to know which of these is which?”

She knelt on the bed like a cat about to spring. “What do you mean?”

“One has Mrs. Woody bonking Mr. Killian, the other has me—you know.”

“Oh. Yes. Actually, the one with the label is the one where you, uh, are doin’ what you did. I stuck that on to know which is which.”

“And why did you do that?”

“In case I needed to use the Mrs. Woody and Mr. Killian one on Mr. Woody.”

So she’d had a plan B, in case I didn’t come through for her. The kid did have a streak of the blackmailer in her, but in this instance I didn’t mind.

“Might come in handy at that,” I admitted.

Luann suggested applying some of her cosmetics to take the edge off my rough-and-tumble look. I said okay and, while the combination of pancake and liquid make-up seemed obvious under the harsh bathroom light, she assured me it would work just fine in the low-key lighting of a nightclub.

At six-thirty, I drove her within a block of Mr. Woody’s, not wanting to be seen dropping her off at the club itself. I told her I’d meet her later, and she nodded and frowned, but didn’t question me.

I did not feel like returning to the Tropical just now, so I drove over to the modernistic sprawl of the Broadwater Beach Hotel, where I treated myself to lobster in the Royal Terrace dining room. After that beating, I felt I deserved a decent meal, plus I was celebrating my imminent departure from this hellhole of a tourist paradise.

After a leisurely meal, I returned to my rental Chevelle in the Broadwater parking lot and got the video cassette with the blank label from the floor of the back seat. I placed the cassette snugly against the left rear tire, then got in the vehicle, started it up, and backed over the rectangle of plastic with a satisfying crunch. I pulled forward slightly, bumping over it again, and the crunching became more of a crackle.

I got out and retrieved the smashed, flattened cassette, its video-tape guts squishing out, pieces of plastic flaking off. I tucked the object under my arm and strolled around to the marina in front of the hotel. The night was rather dark and there were few lights out on the waters. At the end of a dock, I tossed the mangled video tape long and hard. Its splash seemed nicely distant.

Just before midnight, I sauntered into Mr. Woody’s as if I owned the place, and in a way I did. The big guy on the door frowned at me but said nothing as I moved into the smoky near-darkness. The stripper on stage was the short redhead with real breasts; this was early on in her routine, because both pasties and g-string were still in place as she worked it to Ike and Tina Turner’s “Proud Mary.”

Weaving around the occasional waitresses in their white shirts and black minis, I made for the door that said
PRIVATE—NO ENTRY
. The shaved-head Tony Orlando-mustached brute again stood watch in that same bored genie crossed-arms stance. He raised an eyebrow at me. I wondered if that came natural or had taken practice. Either way, Leonard Nimoy had nothing to worry about.

I gave him a near smile and said, “Tell Mr. Woody that Quarry is here to see him.”

The raised eyebrow came down and a dumb-shit expression took over, indicating that maybe he was familiar with the name. But after a beat or two, he nodded, said, “Wait here,” and went in.

I waited.

Maybe thirty seconds passed, as Mr. Woody decided whether or not he wanted to see me. I didn’t blame him for needing time to think—after all, I’d had all afternoon to figure out how I would handle this.

The door opened and the big bald bouncer said, “I need to pat you down.”

I opened my leisure-suit jacket and showed him the nine millimeter in the shoulder holster. “That’s all I’m packing, and I’m not giving it to you.”

He thought about that.

“But you’re a big guy,” I said. “You might be able to take it off me.”

He thought about that.

“Look,” I said, “I work for Mr. Woody, too. He
insists
that I be armed.”

We were now officially dealing with concepts above his pay grade and all he could do was shrug and lumber back to his post while I headed down the hallway to the door marked
MR. WOODY—PLEASE KNOCK
.

I knocked, then went in.

He was already standing behind the steel desk. The room was as before, though the framed stripper posters were mostly gone, no doubt transferred to his new, nicer digs atop the Tropical. One remained, of Carol Doda, the girl who put fake tits on the map.

“My God, boy, am I relieved to see you,” he said, gesturing to a waiting visitor’s chair. “Sit! Please. Sit.”

I did, and he did.

He was, as always, all eyes and teeth, the silver-gray combover rigidly in place; his leisure suit was about the green of the lower half of the Fleetwood I’d abandoned this morning in downtown Memphis. His shirt, a lighter green, was unbuttoned some to reveal tan skin, gray chest hair, and gold chains.

“I thought you’d left town on me,” Mr. Woody said with a sideways grin. “I called and called your room at the Tropical, left message after message.”

This of course was a lie: he hadn’t considered that Luann would have been in my room to contradict him.

I said, “I had something of a narrow escape.”

He frowned at me. “Is that. . .
make-up
on your face? What. . .?”

“I got pretty badly beaten up last night. I had to plaster this stuff on to make myself presentable.”

He lifted his half-gone tumbler of Scotch in salute. “Can I get you somethin’, boy?
Beat up
, you say?”

I waved off the drink offer and said, “Three guys rushed into my room last night, around, oh, nine? They pulled me out bareass and dumped me in the trunk of a car.”

“What? Jesus! No! Go on.”

“Well, it was an interesting car to get dumped in the back of—a two-tone green Fleetwood Caddy.”

He squinted at me, as if seeing no significance to that. Sipped some Scotch, as he waited patiently for clarification.

“That’s the drive-by car,” I said, “from the Concort Inn. That nearly got the Broker and me?”

“Was it? Damn! Well, though, that makes sense.”

“Does it?”

Mr. Woody waved a hand. “My word yes. Remember, I said the shooter you took down, there in Davenport, had a cousin in the moonshine bidness? A cousin he recruited as his wheelman for the Broker run? Well, the cuz must’ve come
lookin’
for you.”

“The man I killed didn’t look like any moonshiner.”

“You
killed
the man?” He shook his head. “What the hell happened, Quarry? Tell me your story.”

So I told him my story. I didn’t leave a damn thing out. I wanted him to hear what I’d done to Buck and Chuck and the man in Room 14. Every hammer blow, blowtorch swipe, and bullet in the back.

He finished his Scotch, got up, went to the liquor cart, and poured himself some more. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Quarry. That is one harrowin’ story. Sure I can’t get you anythin’? If not hard stuff, how about a Barq’s?”

“I’m fine.” I shifted in my chair. “Is this all such a surprise? Didn’t you hear what happened at the Dixie Club?”

He sat behind the desk again, nodding. “That the place burned down and some charred bodies turned up, yes. And that there’s an unfortunate, as yet unidentified, shot to shit and floatin’ in the motel pool.”

“I kind of figured you’d know,” I said, “since you mentioned to the sheriff yesterday how you’d made peace with the Dixons. Please tell me, Woody, that you didn’t betray me to those
Hee-Haw
rejects.”

He raised a palm, frowned in wounded displeasure. “Quarry, no. I am nothin’ if not loyal to my people.”

Just ask Jack Killian.

Mr. Woody was saying, “But I don’t have to tell you how crazy them inbred state-liners can be. I guess they just didn’t know who or what they was up against.”

“I guess.”

He swallowed. Rocked in his chair. “Well, you survived it, and that’s what counts. It just shows to go ya that my confidence in your potential was damn well-placed. More than
ever
I want you to stay on here as my top man.”

I shook my head. “No, Woody, I’m going to have to pass. When they start beating my bare ass senseless, and come at me with hammers and blowtorches, I draw the line. I’m heading home.”

He sighed. Rocked some more. “Can’t say as I blame you. You leave with my blessin’, son, and do give the Broker my best regards.” He extended his hand.

I raised a “stop” hand. “Woody, I’m not leaving just yet. We have a separate though related business matter to discuss first.”

“We do?” The extended hand seemed to wilt.

I nodded. “I’ve been put through the mill, I guess you could say. . .”

“I guess you could.”

“. . .and I feel I deserve some compensation.”

Eyebrows that needed trimming rose above the goggle-style glasses. “Well, I don’t know, Quarry—you pulled down some heavy bread from Jackie. I give you that little hooker on the house. Took care of your room tab, meals included. I’m sorry you got beat to shit, but that was not my doin’. . .if you’re fishin’ for some kind of severance pay, I don’t think I can help. I mean, you only worked for me a day or so, and ain’t done jack squat yet.”

“Oh, you don’t owe me anything in that regard.”

“Okay. Good. Agreed.”

I sat forward. “But I have something I’d like to offer you. Sell you.”

“Sell
me
? I don’t believe I’m in the market for much of anythin’.”

“You are this. It’s a videotape. One of those broadcast-type cassettes? Very high quality.”

He frowned. “And why would I want that?”

“Because it has your wife fucking Jack Killian on it. In the Caligula Suite. The night he was killed.”

His mouth pulled to the sides as if a smile was about to blossom, but instead froze in a fleshy-lipped grimace. Behind the thick lenses, the eyes were wide with the blankness that precedes rage.

“If,” I said, “you’re trying to decide whether to act surprised. . . maybe play cuckold or some shit. . .let me save you the trouble. It’s obvious that
you
put your wife in bed with Killian that night.”

“
What?
Why the
hell
would I—”

“To make it easier for me to get at him. She drugged his wine, too, didn’t she? Later you sent her around to fuck with me
and
my head. Whether she’s your partner in this or just your top whore, I wouldn’t hazard a guess.”

That round face went red as a ripe tomato.

“I guarantee you,” I said, “there are no copies. I know tape copies
could
be made, but I don’t know how, and don’t have access to anything or anyone who could.”

The red began to drain, lingering in his neck. I’d been hoping I might be treated to some nice deep purple, but this was more a whiter shade of pale.

He spluttered, “Who gives a diddly damn if you do have such a tape? Might be personally embarrassin’ to me and my Wanda, this little peccadillo, but—”

“This tape puts your wife in bed with Killian just minutes before his death. That raises very embarrassing questions. Now, your friend the sheriff might not ask those questions, but the T.B.I. well might.”

The Tennessee Bureau of Investigation. I admit that sounded a little like a TV show with a laugh track, but it got the right reaction out of Mr. Woody.

“How much, Quarry? How much?”

“Fifty thousand.”

“You have a very peculiar sense of humor.”

“I have a very keen sense of what I’ve been put through.”

The fleshy upper lip formed a sneer. “You really think I keep
that
kind of money here at the club?”

“I have no idea what you do. Most of what you people down here do in this fucking swamp eludes me. But that’s my price. Fifty k.”

He drank some Scotch, slowly. His eyes were narrow and moving behind the lenses. He seemed to be settling down.

Finally: “I will need till tomorrow mornin’.
Late
mornin’. This requires a visit to a safe deposit box.”

“All right. You mind if I keep my room at the Tropical till then?”

He shrugged, overdoing it. “Why not? You’re still my guest. I can meet you at your room with the money, if you like.”

“Make it the parking lot. Noon?”

He nodded. “Noon’ll be jes’ fine.”

I grinned at him, getting up. “Don’t take it personally, Woody—it’s just ‘bidness.’ After all, I did rid you of Killian. Think what kind of money and power’ll come your way now.”

He was breathing heavily through about the most strained smile imaginable, saying nothing.

I went out.

Luann was on stage, bare as the day she came into the world, but sharing attributes that had come along much later. Every chair ringside was filled, though only a few tables were. The sound system was blaring Three Dog Night’s “Joy to the World.”

I gave her a little nod and she gave me one back.

I waited in the Chevelle in Mr. Woody’s parking lot until Luann came out in the short-sleeve Ole Miss sweatshirt and jeans. This was right before three and just after the patrons had stumbled out, some adjusting trousers, others doing their best to walk straight. She had stopped dancing at two-thirty—the bar’s clocks were set ahead twenty minutes, not an uncommon practice—and had quickly gathered her things and hustled out.