Read Online The Wrong Quarry by Max Allan Collins - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Max Allan Collins
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“Hate to break your heart, but Mary Ann has a boyfriend.”
“I’m not surprised, and it’s not another woman. It’s an interview for my story. Really.”
She shrugged elaborately. She was a little drunk. “You don’t owe me anything, Jack. You can go home and wash my number off and no big deal. Of course, late at night, every now and then, you’ll remember that hummer out by those garbage cans, and you’ll wonder what you missed out on. I’ll give you a hint— they call me Snapper Jenny. Wouldn’t you like to know why?”
“I think I might know.”
She grinned. Those teeth were yellowish but it was a hell of a smile. “I bet you do, Jack. I just bet you do.”
She leaned in and kissed me on the cheek, leaving lipstick behind. I swiveled on the stool to watch her go. Long limbs, bony kind of frame, but such a nice round ass.
Then she was out the door in a blast of cold air.
Mary Ann in her purple tank-top materialized, rubbed the lipstick off my cheek with a drink napkin, and asked, “Another Coke?”
“Just freshen this one, would you?”
She nodded, and when she came back with it, gave me the cleavage lean-in, saying, “You and Jenny have a good time outside, Pastor?”
“I ministered to her needs.”
“I’ll just bet you did. I bet she got down on her knees and prayed.”
“You’re half-right.”
She didn’t try topping that, just threw me a smirk and wandered down to needle some other customer.
Farrell was sliding out of the booth. He paused to smooth his sharp suit and shake hands with Mateski, then strode in my direction; but his eyes weren’t on me, or anything specifically. They were cold hard unblinking orbs, small black buttons sewn on a ragdoll’s face.
That nicely tailored suit did not allow for any document to be tucked away in a side pocket, and he wasn’t carrying anything. Had Mateski given him chapter-and-verse out loud, in that back booth? With no need for sharing his surveillance notes, and for Farrell just to remember? That seemed very damn doubtful.
The slender hitman let in some more brisk air in as he went out—the temperature was falling—and through the Spike’s front window I saw him stroll to a nondescript gray vehicle. When I’d seen him pull into the Spike’s lot, I hadn’t discerned the make, but now I did: a Chevy Cavalier, four-door, an ’80 or ’81. Nothing special, which made sense, because Farrell probably bought it for cash at some shady used lot like I had the Pinto. Like Mateski probably did the Bonneville.
Should I follow him?
Very unlikely that Farrell would try anything tonight. He would want to get settled in, do some minor surveillance of Vale on his own, get comfortable with the information Mateski had shared, tool around town a little and get the lay of the land. And I didn’t mean Snapper Jenny.
I felt confident I’d be easily able to track Farrell down. He’d be at one of Stockwell’s half a dozen active motels—there were two resorts and another half dozen motels shuttered for the season—and I should be able to do that yet tonight. Then I would stake him out, watch for my opportunity, and if necessary follow him to Vale’s studio and intervene there. That Farrell would not have a quick kill in mind was helpful, as he’d probably be grabbing the dance instructor and transporting him somewhere for a road company show of The Marquis De Sade Follies. Too bad there wasn’t a poster for Vale to frame.
Farrell could wait.
Right now I needed to handle Mateski. I glanced at him in the mirror, still seated back there in his booth. He wouldn’t leave immediately after Farrell, that was a lock. At the moment he was talking to his waitress. She was a cute blonde, a little broad in the beam, thirties, probably a single working mom. Was he ordering more food? No. He was hitting on her!
He had just asked her out. I knew this because I had rudimentary lip-reading skills developed on surveillance stints over the years. These
“I’m not surprised, and it’s not another woman. It’s an interview for my story. Really.”
She shrugged elaborately. She was a little drunk. “You don’t owe me anything, Jack. You can go home and wash my number off and no big deal. Of course, late at night, every now and then, you’ll remember that hummer out by those garbage cans, and you’ll wonder what you missed out on. I’ll give you a hint— they call me Snapper Jenny. Wouldn’t you like to know why?”
“I think I might know.”
She grinned. Those teeth were yellowish but it was a hell of a smile. “I bet you do, Jack. I just bet you do.”
She leaned in and kissed me on the cheek, leaving lipstick behind. I swiveled on the stool to watch her go. Long limbs, bony kind of frame, but such a nice round ass.
Then she was out the door in a blast of cold air.
Mary Ann in her purple tank-top materialized, rubbed the lipstick off my cheek with a drink napkin, and asked, “Another Coke?”
“Just freshen this one, would you?”
She nodded, and when she came back with it, gave me the cleavage lean-in, saying, “You and Jenny have a good time outside, Pastor?”
“I ministered to her needs.”
“I’ll just bet you did. I bet she got down on her knees and prayed.”
“You’re half-right.”
She didn’t try topping that, just threw me a smirk and wandered down to needle some other customer.
Farrell was sliding out of the booth. He paused to smooth his sharp suit and shake hands with Mateski, then strode in my direction; but his eyes weren’t on me, or anything specifically. They were cold hard unblinking orbs, small black buttons sewn on a ragdoll’s face.
That nicely tailored suit did not allow for any document to be tucked away in a side pocket, and he wasn’t carrying anything. Had Mateski given him chapter-and-verse out loud, in that back booth? With no need for sharing his surveillance notes, and for Farrell just to remember? That seemed very damn doubtful.
The slender hitman let in some more brisk air in as he went out—the temperature was falling—and through the Spike’s front window I saw him stroll to a nondescript gray vehicle. When I’d seen him pull into the Spike’s lot, I hadn’t discerned the make, but now I did: a Chevy Cavalier, four-door, an ’80 or ’81. Nothing special, which made sense, because Farrell probably bought it for cash at some shady used lot like I had the Pinto. Like Mateski probably did the Bonneville.
Should I follow him?
Very unlikely that Farrell would try anything tonight. He would want to get settled in, do some minor surveillance of Vale on his own, get comfortable with the information Mateski had shared, tool around town a little and get the lay of the land. And I didn’t mean Snapper Jenny.
I felt confident I’d be easily able to track Farrell down. He’d be at one of Stockwell’s half a dozen active motels—there were two resorts and another half dozen motels shuttered for the season—and I should be able to do that yet tonight. Then I would stake him out, watch for my opportunity, and if necessary follow him to Vale’s studio and intervene there. That Farrell would not have a quick kill in mind was helpful, as he’d probably be grabbing the dance instructor and transporting him somewhere for a road company show of The Marquis De Sade Follies. Too bad there wasn’t a poster for Vale to frame.
Farrell could wait.
Right now I needed to handle Mateski. I glanced at him in the mirror, still seated back there in his booth. He wouldn’t leave immediately after Farrell, that was a lock. At the moment he was talking to his waitress. She was a cute blonde, a little broad in the beam, thirties, probably a single working mom. Was he ordering more food? No. He was hitting on her!
He had just asked her out. I knew this because I had rudimentary lip-reading skills developed on surveillance stints over the years. These
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