Free Quarry's Deal by Max Allan Collins

What kind of boss is he?”
    “Best way to describe him is he’s a man’s man. He can drink without getting drunk, tell you who won the 1952 World Series, play poker for six hours and get up and pee and sit down and play six more.”
    “That doesn’t say what kind of boss he is.”
    “Well, he’s a pleasant enough boss. Friendly, even. But businesslike, like I said. Fuck up and you’re fired.”
    “I see. Good poker player?”
    “Very. Oh, and he hates to see anybody lose, if you buy his act. Truth is, he’d take your last dime. Likes to win all the way, at whatever cost . . . to his opponents, I mean.”
    “You sound like a pretty good judge of character.”
    “I’m a bartender, aren’t I? Besides, how do you know I’m right? Maybe this is just a bunch of bullshit.”
    “Because I’m not a bad judge of character myself. Got any more of that Sanka?”
    “Sure.”
    She filled my cup and I said, “What time do you have to be at work?”
    “Not till six.”
    “What time is it now, eleven? Want to take in a movie this afternoon or something?”
    “I got a better idea,” she said, sitting down, sipping her own cup. “There’s a good dinner theater here that has Sunday matinees and a great buffet lunch. Want to give it a try?”
    “Wouldn’t happen to be that place over on University, would it?”
    “Yeah, that’s the one.”
    That was the place where Frank Tree had met with that busty little blond girl friend of his, the other night.
    “Why not?” I said. “I can appreciate good acting.”

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    18
    _______________________________________________
    _______________________________________________
     
     
    THE CANDLE LITE Playhouse was a modern brick two- story that looked somewhat cold and even austere from without, but within was decorated in warm golds and greens. The plush floral carpet, subdued lighting, piped-in muzak and cozy tables conspired to make the large room seem intimate. We were seated at the edge of the balcony, at a table barely big enough to hold its glass-enclosed candle (as yet unlit, by the way), and sipped a drink before going down to the stage, where the food was being served, the set and its props having been scooted back to accommodate a generous buffet. It looked a little odd, people parading up the few steps onto the stage, going through the cafeteria line collecting their food, then exiting nervously, awkwardly, balancing the several filled plates, coming off the stage like bit players who had wandered into the wrong scene. The stage, Lucille explained, had been the altar of the place when it had been a church.
    “Church?”
    “Yeah,” she said. “Some crazy evangelist type thing. They had a young guy who thought he was the Second Coming or something. Or at least the second Billy Graham. He had a big following here, even had his own radio show, but he got an offer to do the same thing for more money someplace in Texas, I think, and once he was gone everything just sort of fizzled, church went bankrupt. Some local people got together and bought and remodeled the place into this.”
    “Either way it’s show business,” I said. “For somebody new in town, you sure know all the local gossip.”
    “Ruthy just talks a lot, that’s all.”
    “Ruthy?”
    “I’ve mentioned her before, haven’t I? She’s the friend who got that apartment lined up for me, before I even got here. She’s also the one who got us this good a seat at such short notice. She works here.”
    “Am I ever going to meet her?”
    “You’ll see her a little later.”
    I decided not to pursue that. The way I was playing this allowed me to ask a lot of questions; in fact, pretending ignorance, as I was, required that I ask a lot of questions. But it would be wrong to press, so I waited till our drinks were finished, then rose, pulled out her chair and walked her down a softly carpeted, gently winding stairway to the main floor, where we joined