Free Quarry's Choice by Max Allan Collins Page A

this going?”
    He rocked a little in his swivel chair. He was looking past me, then he gestured in that direction. “You’ve noticed I’m well-insulated.”
    “I picked up on that.”
    “Can you make an educated guess why?”
    “You’re a powerful man, and reading between the lines, I’d say you’re getting more powerful all the time. That makes enemies.”
    “It does. It does.”
    He got up so suddenly, it startled me and I damn near showed it.
    “Come with me,” he said. “Let’s take a little walk.”
    He moved swiftly past me and out the office door and I followed him, staying back some. He issued curt orders for the Hawaii Five-O watchers to spell the two watchdogs in the vestibule, who as he left his quarters he instructed to come with us.
    That put all four of us in the elevator—me, Killian, the unibrow and the dishwater guy. Nobody said a word. There seemed to me a small chance that I might be in trouble. That the “walk” we were about to take might be the Biloxi equivalent of a Chicago ride.
    I’d known I’d have to stand for a frisk, and so had left behind my nine millimeter and the knife I sometimes strapped to my leg, too. I was okay in hand-to-hand, but not exactly Bruce Lee.
    And all three of these fuckers were armed. Anyway, the watchdogs were, and I assumed that tailored suit of Killian’s allowed room for a weapon, on a hip or under a shoulder.
    We walked briskly through the lobby. The blazer blond at the desk said, “Good evening, Mr. Killian!” This did not rate even a nod, much less a response.
    Before I knew it we were outside in the parking lot. The night was breezy and cool, cooler than I’d imagined Biloxi might be—maybe forty degrees. Enough to give me goose pimples. Right. The weather was doing that. Sure.
    Without a word, Killian—tall, broad-shouldered but slender in the sharp black suit—knifed through the night and across the four lanes of highway. Traffic was light, but somehow I had the impression he’d do the same if it were fucking streaming. I was between him and the two watchdogs, who were trailing, giving me more space than I expected.
    Once we were across the street, Killian deposited the watchdogs on the sidewalk and took me by the arm and walked me onto the white beach. He planted himself, crossed his arms, and stared straight ahead. I did the same. A small-craft harbor was off to our left, and the vastness of the Gulf lay straight ahead. Salty air twitched at my nostrils.
    How many bodies has this bastard dumped out there? I wondered.
    “The man I lost,” Killian said, lighting up a fresh cigarette with a gold JJK-initialed lighter, “wasn’t just anybody.”
    “Yeah?”
    The sound of water lapping joined with that of a boat engine somewhere out there to creep me the fuck out.
    “He did special jobs for me,” Killian said, exhaling smoke that the breeze carried away. “He took care of people. I don’t know if Woodrow made that clear to you.”
    “Take care of people how?” Facetiously I added, “Like pick them up at the airport for you?”
    Like shoot at the Broker and me in the Concort Inn parking lot?
    He gave me a sideways grin. The teeth were wolfish and not as white as Mr. Woody’s, but they didn’t live in a glass at night. His black hair glistened in street- and moonlight.
    “I’m going to guess you’re educated, Mr. Quarry.”
    “Not really. Just high school.” I shrugged. “I read some.”
    “Ah. Self-educated.” Dragon smoke drifted out his nostrils. “I dropped out of college my freshman year. I could have aced that shit but I preferred booze, drugs and girls.”
    “Who doesn’t?”
    “Went into the service. I didn’t go overseas, but. . .” He gave me a quick look, then returned his gaze to the Gulf. “. . .I’ve seen combat of a sort.”
    I said nothing.
    He glanced behind him. “This Strip of mine has real potential, Mr. Quarry. We can rival Vegas. We can deserve that Riviera comparison some people make. The day