Read Online The Wrong Quarry by Max Allan Collins - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Max Allan Collins
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skills hadn’t helped with Farrell because he’d said very little, just sitting listening to Mateski, whose back had been to me. But now Mateski was turned toward the waitress, which aimed his face toward the barroom mirror. What time do you get off work, beautiful? Ah, Mateski, you smooth son of a bitch....
She let him down gently—my view of her was a sideways one, which is tricky to read, but I think she said, Sorry, honey, I have an early morning tomorrow. Maybe the truth. Working mom.
Sunday night was lousy for scoring a pick-up at the Spike. This I knew despite my own luck outside by the garbage cans. Friday and Saturday, and even some weeknights, it wouldn’t be that tough. This was the kind of almost upscale shitkicker bar that doubled as a meat market.
But I didn’t figure the chunky redheaded antiques dealer would get anywhere, though striking out with the waitress hadn’t been enough to dissuade him. Two foxy-looking twenty-something gals down the bar, in jeans and bandana halter tops and lots of permed hair, were deep in a conversation that Mateski, climbing onto a stool next to one of them, tried to enter casually. They weren’t having any, and he wasn’t getting any.
Those two might have been up for it with the right couple of guys, particularly in their own age group. But Mateski was no John Travolta, and the girls weren’t into antiques.
His eyes caught mine in the mirror, and I thought this might turn into a bad moment, but he just gave me a fraternal shrug, and I shrugged back at him, as if to say, You’re right — can’t blame a guy for tryin’.
He had already settled up with the waitress who’d turned him down, and now he went back over to the booth, got glumly into his quilted ski jacket, and trundled out.
I hung back five minutes, so it wouldn’t be obvious. Settled my two-buck tab with a keep-the-change five-spot, leaving Mary Ann on good if not promising terms. Then I ambled out into the cold, yawning, glancing around the parking lot, looking casual but in fact alert, gripping the nine millimeter in my jacket pocket.
If I’d been made by Jenny—or if Mateski had noticed me in that bar as a guy he’d seen around town a few too many times to be safe—I could have a king-size problem on my hands. The last thing I needed was to have some asshole who specialized in torture decide to question me about what the fuck I thought I was doing here in Stockwell.
But nobody accosted me, and I got into the Pinto and headed in the direction I figured Mateski had gone—he would either go back to the Rest Haven Court for one last night, or right on by out to Highway 218.
When I passed the motel, no car was parked at Cabin 12. That didn’t surprise me. The way the Bonneville was loaded up with primitive paintings and other horseshit, I didn’t figure another night there was in the cards. So Highway 218 it was.
And it took only ten minutes to catch up with him. I’d had to push the Pinto’s meager horsepower to do so, and even then I didn’t want to go over the speed limit—getting stopped by a cop was not a good idea, not with the nine mil in my jacket.
But I counted on Mateski having stopped at a gas station to fuel up before his trip home, and to maybe grab some snacks and a restroom break. That should make up for the five minutes I’d purposely lagged behind at the Spike. Apparently my thinking was correct, because there up ahead was the Bonneville’s big ass with Mateski’s big ass in it.
Traffic was light, and often I was right behind him, though I tried to keep at least one car between us whenever possible. The Bonneville was doing fifty-five and so was the Pinto, but my mind was racing.
Should I stay on him?
Did I need to remove him, at the next gas station, or when he pulled in at some motel? I didn’t think he could make it all the way back to Woodstock on one tank of gas.
Did he need killing?
Whenever I had worked with a passive partner, I requested that my other
She let him down gently—my view of her was a sideways one, which is tricky to read, but I think she said, Sorry, honey, I have an early morning tomorrow. Maybe the truth. Working mom.
Sunday night was lousy for scoring a pick-up at the Spike. This I knew despite my own luck outside by the garbage cans. Friday and Saturday, and even some weeknights, it wouldn’t be that tough. This was the kind of almost upscale shitkicker bar that doubled as a meat market.
But I didn’t figure the chunky redheaded antiques dealer would get anywhere, though striking out with the waitress hadn’t been enough to dissuade him. Two foxy-looking twenty-something gals down the bar, in jeans and bandana halter tops and lots of permed hair, were deep in a conversation that Mateski, climbing onto a stool next to one of them, tried to enter casually. They weren’t having any, and he wasn’t getting any.
Those two might have been up for it with the right couple of guys, particularly in their own age group. But Mateski was no John Travolta, and the girls weren’t into antiques.
His eyes caught mine in the mirror, and I thought this might turn into a bad moment, but he just gave me a fraternal shrug, and I shrugged back at him, as if to say, You’re right — can’t blame a guy for tryin’.
He had already settled up with the waitress who’d turned him down, and now he went back over to the booth, got glumly into his quilted ski jacket, and trundled out.
I hung back five minutes, so it wouldn’t be obvious. Settled my two-buck tab with a keep-the-change five-spot, leaving Mary Ann on good if not promising terms. Then I ambled out into the cold, yawning, glancing around the parking lot, looking casual but in fact alert, gripping the nine millimeter in my jacket pocket.
If I’d been made by Jenny—or if Mateski had noticed me in that bar as a guy he’d seen around town a few too many times to be safe—I could have a king-size problem on my hands. The last thing I needed was to have some asshole who specialized in torture decide to question me about what the fuck I thought I was doing here in Stockwell.
But nobody accosted me, and I got into the Pinto and headed in the direction I figured Mateski had gone—he would either go back to the Rest Haven Court for one last night, or right on by out to Highway 218.
When I passed the motel, no car was parked at Cabin 12. That didn’t surprise me. The way the Bonneville was loaded up with primitive paintings and other horseshit, I didn’t figure another night there was in the cards. So Highway 218 it was.
And it took only ten minutes to catch up with him. I’d had to push the Pinto’s meager horsepower to do so, and even then I didn’t want to go over the speed limit—getting stopped by a cop was not a good idea, not with the nine mil in my jacket.
But I counted on Mateski having stopped at a gas station to fuel up before his trip home, and to maybe grab some snacks and a restroom break. That should make up for the five minutes I’d purposely lagged behind at the Spike. Apparently my thinking was correct, because there up ahead was the Bonneville’s big ass with Mateski’s big ass in it.
Traffic was light, and often I was right behind him, though I tried to keep at least one car between us whenever possible. The Bonneville was doing fifty-five and so was the Pinto, but my mind was racing.
Should I stay on him?
Did I need to remove him, at the next gas station, or when he pulled in at some motel? I didn’t think he could make it all the way back to Woodstock on one tank of gas.
Did he need killing?
Whenever I had worked with a passive partner, I requested that my other
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