Read Online The Wrong Quarry by Max Allan Collins - Free Book Online
Authors: Max Allan Collins
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suffering.
Mob hits were something I had occasionally done, and that was true for everybody who worked through the Broker, but those jobs were the minority. Mostly we disposed of crooked business partners, pesky business rivals, cheating wives, cheating husbands, and other civilians who had displeased some important somebody.
Imagine mob guys feeling they needed to bring in a guy like Farrell—that their own in-house expertise for mayhem just wasn’t up to the task of making some asshole suffer sufficiently. Kind of says it all.
This wasn’t just a guy skilled with a gun and/or a knife, or an expert in staging believable accidents; this was (as the Broker’s file detailed) an individual skilled in such arts as bone-breaking, freezing, live burial, castration, toe/fingernail removal, flaying, limb-sawing, burning, and scalping; a specialist able to prolong a victim’s misery before death for many hours and even days, skilled with such esoteric devices as cattle prods, thumbscrews, cat o’ nine tails, branding iron, Tucker Telephone (don’t ask), and Picana (ditto).
“You men,” Jenny was saying, lighting up another Camel.
“Huh?” I said, shifting my eyes to her in the barroom mirror from watching the back-booth meeting between the torturer and the antiques dealer.
“You shoot your wad,” she said, curling her crimson-lipsticked upper lip (she had redone her makeup in the Spike ladies’ room), “and then get all quiet. All morose.”
“Maybe I’m just satisfied.”
I hadn’t seen any documents passed between them. Maybe I’d missed that, since Farrell was already in that booth when I’d returned. But there was no manila envelope or folder or notebook on the table, and almost always the surveillance guy turned over extensive notes to the hitter. Maybe it was beside Farrell on the booth seat, blocked from view.
Jenny said, “You intrigue me.”
“I’m an intriguing sort of guy.”
“You wouldn’t want to come see my etchings, would you? I got a nice house. Nice bed. No kids. No husbands.”
“Sounds lonely.”
“Just terrible lonely. I could use some company.”
Was she part of this? Had I just been invited to my own murder? Silly as that might sound, keep in mind: I was sitting there looking in the barroom mirror at a guy whose definition of Iron Maiden wasn’t a heavy metal band.
I turned my gaze to her and smiled, gently. I touched the red-nailed hand that didn’t have a cigarette in it. “Sugar, you drained the company right out of me. But I’m hanging around town all week. I do want to get together.”
“If that’s the brush-off, you have nice technique.”
I shook my head. “Not the brush-off. You intrigue me, too.”
The gypsy hair and the dark tan and the wide scarlet mouth and the green translucence of her eyes really did intrigue me. So did the sadness behind her flip slutty manner, and the intelligence in that beautiful, time-and-cigarette-ravaged face. If she didn’t want to kill me, marrying her might be an option. She had money and she could suck the chrome off a ’57 Chevy fender. Who could ask for more in a female?
She got into her purse and took out a black felt-tip pen. “Give me your hand,” she said.
I complied.
She wrote a series of numbers across my wrist. “That’s my phone number. Don’t call before eleven A.M. ”
I glanced at the black numbers on my skin. “That was unnecessary. You said you were in the book.”
“Well, that will remind you.” She tossed a five on the bar and gathered her things.
She’d had four of those Jack and Gingers. I knew I should drive her home, but I needed to keep an eye on Farrell and Mateski, who were still deep in conversation, former listening, latter chattering.
“Listen,” I said, “I can run you home, but I can’t come in. I’m meeting somebody here later and have to get right back.”
She slid off the stool. “Another woman, already?” She nodded toward the barmaid, down serving somebody.
Mob hits were something I had occasionally done, and that was true for everybody who worked through the Broker, but those jobs were the minority. Mostly we disposed of crooked business partners, pesky business rivals, cheating wives, cheating husbands, and other civilians who had displeased some important somebody.
Imagine mob guys feeling they needed to bring in a guy like Farrell—that their own in-house expertise for mayhem just wasn’t up to the task of making some asshole suffer sufficiently. Kind of says it all.
This wasn’t just a guy skilled with a gun and/or a knife, or an expert in staging believable accidents; this was (as the Broker’s file detailed) an individual skilled in such arts as bone-breaking, freezing, live burial, castration, toe/fingernail removal, flaying, limb-sawing, burning, and scalping; a specialist able to prolong a victim’s misery before death for many hours and even days, skilled with such esoteric devices as cattle prods, thumbscrews, cat o’ nine tails, branding iron, Tucker Telephone (don’t ask), and Picana (ditto).
“You men,” Jenny was saying, lighting up another Camel.
“Huh?” I said, shifting my eyes to her in the barroom mirror from watching the back-booth meeting between the torturer and the antiques dealer.
“You shoot your wad,” she said, curling her crimson-lipsticked upper lip (she had redone her makeup in the Spike ladies’ room), “and then get all quiet. All morose.”
“Maybe I’m just satisfied.”
I hadn’t seen any documents passed between them. Maybe I’d missed that, since Farrell was already in that booth when I’d returned. But there was no manila envelope or folder or notebook on the table, and almost always the surveillance guy turned over extensive notes to the hitter. Maybe it was beside Farrell on the booth seat, blocked from view.
Jenny said, “You intrigue me.”
“I’m an intriguing sort of guy.”
“You wouldn’t want to come see my etchings, would you? I got a nice house. Nice bed. No kids. No husbands.”
“Sounds lonely.”
“Just terrible lonely. I could use some company.”
Was she part of this? Had I just been invited to my own murder? Silly as that might sound, keep in mind: I was sitting there looking in the barroom mirror at a guy whose definition of Iron Maiden wasn’t a heavy metal band.
I turned my gaze to her and smiled, gently. I touched the red-nailed hand that didn’t have a cigarette in it. “Sugar, you drained the company right out of me. But I’m hanging around town all week. I do want to get together.”
“If that’s the brush-off, you have nice technique.”
I shook my head. “Not the brush-off. You intrigue me, too.”
The gypsy hair and the dark tan and the wide scarlet mouth and the green translucence of her eyes really did intrigue me. So did the sadness behind her flip slutty manner, and the intelligence in that beautiful, time-and-cigarette-ravaged face. If she didn’t want to kill me, marrying her might be an option. She had money and she could suck the chrome off a ’57 Chevy fender. Who could ask for more in a female?
She got into her purse and took out a black felt-tip pen. “Give me your hand,” she said.
I complied.
She wrote a series of numbers across my wrist. “That’s my phone number. Don’t call before eleven A.M. ”
I glanced at the black numbers on my skin. “That was unnecessary. You said you were in the book.”
“Well, that will remind you.” She tossed a five on the bar and gathered her things.
She’d had four of those Jack and Gingers. I knew I should drive her home, but I needed to keep an eye on Farrell and Mateski, who were still deep in conversation, former listening, latter chattering.
“Listen,” I said, “I can run you home, but I can’t come in. I’m meeting somebody here later and have to get right back.”
She slid off the stool. “Another woman, already?” She nodded toward the barmaid, down serving somebody.
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