His face seemed to darken further under the leathery tan. He slammed the empty tumbler down on the gla.s.s and leaned forward and pointed a finger at me. "Listen, b.o.o.by-you know not with whom you f.u.c.k. I ran key clubs on the West End for the Kray brothers when you were sucking your mama's t.i.tty."

"I'm a bottle baby."

"I've seen things undreamed of in your f.u.c.king philosophy, Horatio. f.u.c.k! I ran Rush Street Clubs for the Giardellis when you were-"

"Shooting gooks with a sniper rifle?"

That stopped him.

"Listen," I said, and I held my hands up, palms open. "I've invested some time and money and energy in this, but I'm well aware it's a speculative endeavor. You can say no-you don't have to buy my Fuller brushes, you can pa.s.s on my Amway products, you don't even have to buy any magazine subscriptions to send me to Bible camp. Your choice. Of course, you'll be dead, this time tomorrow."

I rose.

He looked up at me. I had a feeling he had a gun stuffed down in that chair, particularly because of the way his hand was way back on the cushion. If he made a move, I could have the gla.s.s coffee table in his face faster than Chrissy could snort a line.

But he raised his own palms and patted the air, gently. "Sit," he said. "Sit."

I sat.

"Suppose I take you seriously," he said. He got a cigarette going, taking one from a gold box on the coffee table-not a Virginia Slim, I'd wager. "Suppose I accept this outrageous scenario as potentially real and not just ridiculous twaddle."

"Isn't twaddle inherently ridiculous?"

He closed his eyes. "You are insufferable."

"Sorry. Just trying to lighten the mood."

"What do you know about this?"

"About this?"

"About how I would be...eliminated."

I shrugged. "It's going to be nasty. You're going to be run down by a car."

His eyes popped. "You said something about triggers being pulled..."

"That was meant to cover the whole panorama of how many ways your a.s.s can be 'eliminated.' My guess is, this particular specialist has been brought in so that your death can pa.s.s as accidental. Somebody wants you dead who doesn't want a killing coming back on them."

He frowned, looked off toward the door. But he wasn't thinking about Chrissy, I didn't think.

Then his leathery puss turned toward me and he said, slowly, "I know know who hired this done." who hired this done."

"Ah. So it is is credible, then." credible, then."

He nodded. "Very credible. That's why we're still talking, Mr. Quarry."

I didn't correct him. It was his way of saying he was talking to a hired killer, not a veterinary medicine salesman.

"What," he said, "if I wanted that party removed. By that I mean, the party who wanted me me removed." removed."

"Party of the first part?" I said and risked a grin. "It is a contract, after all...I'd be glad to. I couldn't quote a price until I knew more of the circ.u.mstances, but I'd be fine with that."

Really fine-after all, when you kill the contract killers, the guy who hired them might be miffed with you. So eliminating the buyer would be the best kind of contract to get-lucrative and self-interested.

"Should we discuss it?" he asked.

"Let's discuss you. First things first. How many on your security staff?"

"Twelve."

"I counted six."

"Six working tonight."

"Are you including the parking-lot deputy?"

"No."

"Is he trustworthy, the deputy?"

"Of course not."

"So what's the story on law enforcement in Haydee's Port?"

"There isn't any, Mr. Quarry. There's a county sheriff's sub-station in Burris, which is ten miles from Haydee's. They have half a dozen deputies and one very corrupt sheriff. All of them work for not only me but the other businesses in Haydee's."

"Like the Lucky Devil downtown?"

"That's right. The Lucky Devil and all of the other low-rent dives."

"When does the deputy go off duty?"

"You mean, off duty here?"

"Right-when does he stop babysitting your parking lot?"

"He'll stay till the lot's emptied out."

"Which is?"

"Five-fifteen."

"Latest he could still be around?"

"Five-thirty."

"What's your pattern? Do you stay here? You've got a bedroom."

"Not usually. Sometimes on weekends, when I allow myself a little...lat.i.tude. Otherwise I maintain regular hours."

"So, during the week, when do you leave here? And where do you go?"

"I leave, oh, about five-thirty or six. I live just down the road a few minutes."

"What about...?" I was nodding toward the closed bedroom door.

"I don't take my work home with me," he said. "I'm separated, and my wife and I don't live together right now, but, still, I wouldn't insult her like that."

He would f.u.c.k a little c.o.ke s.l.u.t the floor above where she was singing her heart out, though. Good thing this guy had that English accent or I might think he was a s.h.i.theel.

"So when you leave at five-thirty or six, is the lot generally empty?"

"I'm the last out, yes."

"Okay. Makes sense."

"You mean...that's when he'd do do it? He'd...Jesus f.u.c.king...he'd run me down in my own parking lot?" it? He'd...Jesus f.u.c.king...he'd run me down in my own parking lot?"

"Bingo."

"How in G.o.d's name is that not suspicious?"

"It's a not a bullet in the head. It's a guy who got run down in the parking lot of a place that serves drinks till dawn. Getting tire tracks on you from a drunk under those conditions isn't suspicious at all, particularly in a county where the sheriff and his deputies are just possibly on the takey-poo."

He thought about that. He was trying to go pale under the tan, and it was d.a.m.n near working.

"d.i.c.kie, how subtle do I have to be about this?"

He blinked at me. The f.u.c.ker could could blink, after all. "Subtle?" blink, after all. "Subtle?"

"Yeah. If I shoot this p.r.i.c.k, will we have the law to answer to? If we have a dead body on our hands, one with a bullet or two in him, can you have him removed?"

He twitched a frown. "If a deputy shows up, we could handle it. Could be expensive. I mean, it would be right out in the open. You saying, if he was behind the wheel of his car, and you shot him, and we had a car with a bullet hole in the windshield and-"

"A driver with a bullet in his head, could you deal with it?"

He flinched. "Is there another way?"

"Might be. Might be."

We both just sat there a while.

"You're asking a lot," he said.

"I know."

"You come in with this wild story. It's credible, in its way, and yet it's fantastic."

"I know."

"Is there someone I could call?"

"You mean do I have references?"

"I guess that was a stupid question."

"Well...funny thing is, I did a job like this for the guy who used to own this place. I was never here before-I met him at a much smaller operation, in Des Moines. Frank Tree. Did you buy this place from him?"

"No. I heard of him-he's the guy who opened the Paddlewheel, turned it from a warehouse into a goldmine. It came to me through my Chicago friends. Gave me and my wife a chance to buy in. They're silent partners."

"Yeah. Silent until they get noisy." I stood. "Come with me."

"Where?"

"Just out to your parking lot."

He looked alarmed. "Why, is he he out there?" out there?"

"No! h.e.l.l, no. He'll be anywhere but there."

Truth was, I didn't know the details of Monahan's approach. I couldn't imagine he would use the Buick he'd bought in Des Moines for the job. How would he get back? Call a f.u.c.king cab?

Actually, he probably could could ditch the car at the scene and walk to somewhere and call a cab and then take the train or a bus home or anyway a bus to an airport where... ditch the car at the scene and walk to somewhere and call a cab and then take the train or a bus home or anyway a bus to an airport where...

f.u.c.k it. Those details weren't important. Stopping him was. And convincing Cornell to let let me stop him. I was almost there with d.i.c.kie boy. Just needed to close the sale. me stop him. I was almost there with d.i.c.kie boy. Just needed to close the sale.

In the elevator, I said, "What's the story about that farmhouse across the way?"

"That? Farmer sold out to one of those big corporate farms, maybe ten years ago, everything but the house itself and a small plot of land. He and his wife lived in that G.o.dd.a.m.n hovel, and then after his wife died, the farmer stayed on himself. He finally did the world the courtesy of dying, and about four months ago, I bought the property. We'll build a hotel over there, as soon as all the right wheels have been greased. We'd need to buy some of that expensive farm land around there to...why in the world are you asking?"

"That's where the back-up guy has been staking you out, probably for a couple weeks."

"The h.e.l.l!"

"The h.e.l.l," I said with a nod.

Soon I'd led him out into his own parking lot and over to my Sunbird. I got around behind and used the key to open the trunk and let him have a look at the fetus-curled blond kid. The blood on him was black and crusty now and he was very white; it made him look even blonder, too clean-cut for the Poison t-shirt. Lots of blood turned to crunchy-looking black had pooled and dried on the trunk floor.

"What is it you guys call it," I said. "The boot?"

"f.u.c.k me me. Who's this?"

"The back-up guy. I took him out on spec."

"Christ." He looked at me with a ghastly, meltingwax expression; his face had managed to go white despite the tan, finally. "What the h.e.l.l's this this going to cost me?" going to cost me?"

"It's like drugs-first one's free. Ask your little girlfriend about it." I shut the lid. "Well?"