Free Quarry's Deal by Max Allan Collins Page B
Authors: Max Allan Collins
they were doing in ’40s dress and trappings, since that’s when the play first came out, and because people like nostalgia, I guess. She was no Judy Holliday, but she was blond, and well-built, and not a bad little actress, for Des Moines.
She was also Frank Tree’s girl friend.
But then was that so surprising?
After all, Tree himself was sitting at a ringside table. I saw him there when the house lights went up for intermission.
The bitch had brought me along on her goddamn stakeout.
19
_______________________________________________
_______________________________________________
SUNDAY EVENING WAS INTERESTING.
I won a hundred some bucks playing draw poker, but that in itself wasn’t particularly interesting. What was was the dealer, the kid with the worried expression and closed mouth and glasses, the one who played stupid every time I sat down at his table, which was every night I’d been there.
So winning a few bucks from him was nothing special. In fact I usually won a little bigger.
But it was unusual to see him wearing make-up.
I don’t mean to imply he was queer or anything (though you never know). I don’t mean he was wearing lipstick or mascara or rouge. It was makeup, flesh-colored stuff, the theatrical-type liquid some women use in place of powder these days. He’d applied it along one cheek, across the cheekbone and down a ways. That side of his face was a little fucked up, a little puffy. The make-up did a fair job of disguising it, and the somewhat dim lighting in the room helped, too. But his face was fucked up, no question, like maybe he’d been in a fight.
Like maybe somebody had given him an elbow in the face.
He didn’t say much that night. He didn’t say much any night. He let his cards speak for him, and they didn’t say much either, except that he was lousy.
I listened to what little he did say, though. You can’t play poker and not let out a few words, now and then, especially sitting in the dealer’s chair. So I listened and tried to match the voice with the voice behind the light that had shined in my eyes last night.
At one point one of the other players commented casually on the bandages on my face. I still had five of them, covering little cuts I’d got from where the lamp caught me. I gave a small speech about how people who use electric razors shouldn’t switch all of a sudden to a straight razor unless they don’t mind looking like chopped meat for a couple days: The various players laughed politely at that. Everybody but the dealer. He just shuffled his cards and said to the man at his left, “Cut them.”
It was the same voice, all right.
I made a mental appointment with him, and returned to my cards.
The other interesting thing that happened Sunday night was Lu (as I was beginning to feel comfortable calling her) had invited me to move in with her.
“Why keep paying for that bed at the Holiday Inn?” she said. “You haven’t been using it.”
“Your apartment’s pretty small. We’re going to be tripping over each other.”
“That sounds kind of nice.”
It did at that.
So I moved in with her, wondering how she was going to manage to watch Tree with me around, knowing that if anyone could find a way it was Lu.
Glenna.
Ivy.
20
_______________________________________________
_______________________________________________
WHEN I GOT there Tree was almost finished with his lunch. He was sitting alone, in a booth, eating a bratwurst sandwich. It was eleven and the lull between breakfast and lunch was just about over; soon the coffee shop would be crowded again, and I wanted to talk to him in private.
I went over and smiled and said, “The swimming pool, when you’re done.”
Tree looked up and his mouth was full but his china blue eyes were empty. He just nodded, looked down again, picked a pickle
She was also Frank Tree’s girl friend.
But then was that so surprising?
After all, Tree himself was sitting at a ringside table. I saw him there when the house lights went up for intermission.
The bitch had brought me along on her goddamn stakeout.
19
_______________________________________________
_______________________________________________
SUNDAY EVENING WAS INTERESTING.
I won a hundred some bucks playing draw poker, but that in itself wasn’t particularly interesting. What was was the dealer, the kid with the worried expression and closed mouth and glasses, the one who played stupid every time I sat down at his table, which was every night I’d been there.
So winning a few bucks from him was nothing special. In fact I usually won a little bigger.
But it was unusual to see him wearing make-up.
I don’t mean to imply he was queer or anything (though you never know). I don’t mean he was wearing lipstick or mascara or rouge. It was makeup, flesh-colored stuff, the theatrical-type liquid some women use in place of powder these days. He’d applied it along one cheek, across the cheekbone and down a ways. That side of his face was a little fucked up, a little puffy. The make-up did a fair job of disguising it, and the somewhat dim lighting in the room helped, too. But his face was fucked up, no question, like maybe he’d been in a fight.
Like maybe somebody had given him an elbow in the face.
He didn’t say much that night. He didn’t say much any night. He let his cards speak for him, and they didn’t say much either, except that he was lousy.
I listened to what little he did say, though. You can’t play poker and not let out a few words, now and then, especially sitting in the dealer’s chair. So I listened and tried to match the voice with the voice behind the light that had shined in my eyes last night.
At one point one of the other players commented casually on the bandages on my face. I still had five of them, covering little cuts I’d got from where the lamp caught me. I gave a small speech about how people who use electric razors shouldn’t switch all of a sudden to a straight razor unless they don’t mind looking like chopped meat for a couple days: The various players laughed politely at that. Everybody but the dealer. He just shuffled his cards and said to the man at his left, “Cut them.”
It was the same voice, all right.
I made a mental appointment with him, and returned to my cards.
The other interesting thing that happened Sunday night was Lu (as I was beginning to feel comfortable calling her) had invited me to move in with her.
“Why keep paying for that bed at the Holiday Inn?” she said. “You haven’t been using it.”
“Your apartment’s pretty small. We’re going to be tripping over each other.”
“That sounds kind of nice.”
It did at that.
So I moved in with her, wondering how she was going to manage to watch Tree with me around, knowing that if anyone could find a way it was Lu.
Glenna.
Ivy.
20
_______________________________________________
_______________________________________________
WHEN I GOT there Tree was almost finished with his lunch. He was sitting alone, in a booth, eating a bratwurst sandwich. It was eleven and the lull between breakfast and lunch was just about over; soon the coffee shop would be crowded again, and I wanted to talk to him in private.
I went over and smiled and said, “The swimming pool, when you’re done.”
Tree looked up and his mouth was full but his china blue eyes were empty. He just nodded, looked down again, picked a pickle
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