The Wrong Quarry by Max Allan Collins Page B

being sent after you, I’d have either asked for a shit-pot more or taken a pass.”
    The dark eyes flared. “And just let me die?”
    “Roger, we’re not friends. I didn’t know who the fuck you were two weeks ago.”
    He swallowed again, nodded. “What made him so...so dangerous? Or don’t you want to talk about it?”
    “Actually, we need to talk about that. A bit, anyway. This was a specialist, not just somebody who removed problems. Somebody who made his subjects suffer.”
    “Subjects?”
    “Targets. Victims. You.”
    He was trembling. “You’re trying to scare me again, like you did Sunday. Why are you always trying to scare me?”
    “I’m not trying to scare you, Roger, and anyway, you should be scared because somebody obviously wants you more than just dead.”
    That seemed to knock him back. “What’s ‘more than just dead ’?”
    “I told you. Pay attention. Whoever hired this done wanted you to suffer before you died.” I sighed. “Roger, the man sent to kill you had a reputation in my business. A reputation for torturing people. To death. Slowly.”
    “That’s...that’s crazy. Why would anyone want that?”
    “For revenge.” I shrugged. “Somebody thinks you murdered Candy Stockwell, and they loved her so much that that’s how much they hate you.”
    “What do you mean, exactly...torture?”
    I gave him some examples.
    “Jesus Christ,” he gasped.
    “Actually, he did crucify a guy once. Priest who diddled a choir boy who was a mobster’s nephew.”
    He rushed over to the sink and puked. I waited while he splashed his face with water; finally he staggered over, an extremely awkward gait for a guy in Capezios.
    As he sat down, leaning back this time, he was trembling even more visibly. His face was white, or as white as the phony tan would allow.
    His voice seemed distant as he asked, “Why should I believe you?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “How do I know this isn’t some sort of shakedown? Maybe you’re a cop. Maybe you’re...what do they call it? Wearing a wire! And you’re trying to get me to confess to something I didn’t do.”
    “Aw, shit,” I said.
    I stood, took off the sport jacket, tossed it on the couch. Unbuttoned the long-sleeve shirt, slipped it off, tossed it on the jacket, did a pirouette that was unlikely to get me a slot in his dance class.
    Then I spread my hands and said, “Satisfied?”
    He nodded a bunch of times and I put myself back together. “It’s not a shakedown.”
    “Well, you can see why I might think it is.”
    I sat down. “No. I can’t.”
    Again he sat forward, his expression painfully earnest. “Quarry, you come around a week and a half ago, you say somebody has hired a contract on me. You come around later and wave a gun around and scare me some more. Now you show up and you say you’ve killed the killer, but can’t tell me who it was because the less I know the better off I am, and can you have your other five grand, please?”
    Maybe he had a point.
    I sighed. I pointed toward the phone on the wall in the kitchenette area. “Go call the Rest Haven Court.”
    He frowned in confusion. “What? That sleazy motel across from the Holiday Inn?”
    “That’s the one. Tell them you’re...what’s the name of the local paper?”
    “The Sentinel .”
    “Tell them you’re calling from the Sentinel and wondered if the guest who died in Cabin Twelve had been identified yet. Ask if they can provide any details at all.”
    He thought about that for a moment, then nodded, and went over quickly. He got a phone book from somewhere, found and called the number, and did as I asked. He listened to the answers, then said goodbye, hung up, and returned to the comfy chair.
    “Well?” I asked.
    “They said the name of the guest who died is being withheld till the family can be notified, but that it was death by natural causes. He died in his sleep due to a heart attack.”
    Pretty specific, considering I doubted anybody had done an