Free Quarry by Max Allan Collins Page A

than I look, you know. I ran away from home when I was a kid.”
    I was too drunk to notice how contrite the guy was getting. If I’d looked at him close I probably would’ve seen tears in his eyes. But I didn’t look at him.
    I concentrated on my drinking and several minutes went by before I realized he’d been talking quite a while, talking about God knows what. He was saying, “ . . . bummed around a long time. My folks were dead and buried before I ever got back home. I was bumming before it was popular. I hitchhiked when it was a way of life, not a damn fad. You know what I’m saying?”
    “Sure.”
    “No you don’t. You don’t know what I’m saying. You don’t know why I show movies to those guys either.”
    “Sure I do.”
    “No. You don’t know why I asked you for a drink.”
    “Yeah I do.”
    “What then?”
    “You don’t want to lose your job. You want to make sure I’m okay.”
    “You’re okay, I know you’re okay. That’s maybe part of it, I guess, making sure you’re okay, but you still don’t know, do you?”
    “Sure I do.”
    “You’re a salesman, you say?”
    “Yeah.”
    “How long?”
    “Five years.”
    “You’re young yet. You thirty?”
    “No.”
    “You’re young yet. Get another job.”
    “What?”
    “Get off the road.”
    “What?”
    “Find somebody. Find some woman. Or somebody.”
    “Sure.”
    “I mean it. If you don’t, you know what happens?”
    “No.”
    “You mean you don’t know?”
    “Tell me.”
    “You wake up old.”
    “Is that right?”
    “That’s right. And you find yourself old and alone and in a room and you die that way.”
    I looked at him. For a moment he was Albert Leroy. Sitting on that bed and wearing a gray sweater with diamond shapes on it. For an icy instant he was my mark.
    I blinked.
    Hard.
    And I looked again and he was a young Gabby Hayes. Only he didn’t seem so young anymore, and I didn’t feel so drunk anymore.
    I thanked him for the whiskey and left the room.
    So I went to bed depressed and woke up with a sour film in my mouth and a sour mood in my mind and I climbed out of bed and took the shower I never got around to the night before and went down for a long, cold swim.
    I had to see Boyd today. Had to. Today was Wednesday —and Thursday was the day.
     

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    14
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    THE POOL WAS long and narrow. The water was green to look at and cool to swim in. Cool was good. I hate it when the water’s overheated, it puts me off—it’s closer to soaking in a big hot bath than swimming in a pool.
    For a long time I swam. Somewhere between one hour and two. A good half hour of that was spent floating on my back and staring at the ceiling and thinking. It wasn’t good to think. Not on a job, not when your mind should be uncluttered. But if thinking couldn’t be helped, best to do so in a relaxed way like this.
    I loved the water. Its coolness, its gentle, lazy movement. The water made me think of Wisconsin, even though this water was full of chlorine and in Wisconsin the water was clear and fresh. I thought of Wisconsin and the lake and the nice moments my life had its share of.
    My life.
    I thought about it, defined it: I live in a small A-frame, a prefab, on a lake in Wisconsin. Alone. I’m within an easy drive of Lake Geneva, where I belong to the Playboy Club, where I spend a night or two a week, when I’m not working. One night a week I play cards with some friends of mine down at Twin Lakes, mostly old guys who’ve retired, doctors and dentists and lawyers who stay the year round, though the crowd changes during the summer and the winter skiing months, when some men closer my age drift into the penny ante game. Once a year I go to Las Vegas and gamble and do my best to screw some pretty girls; sometimes I win. Once a year, in the winter, I go to Fort Lauderdale and soak up some sun. When I’m at the lake, in summer months, I swim and sun and water