He nodded.
“You need an alarm system.”
“There’s one in the club.”
“How about this floor? And the magazine office?”
His grin was a lazy thing that told me I’d sold him; whatever I suggested, he’d do.
“You want a beer?” he asked. “Got a name, by the way?”
“I’d take a beer if it’s not Bud. Got a Coors? Call me Quarry.”
He frowned at me, rising. “You don’t really drink Coors, do you? It’s like makin’ love in a boat — fuckin’ close to water! All I got’s Budweiser.”
“Got any Coke?”
“Wanna do lines or you mean the sugar shit?” He laughed, as he came out from around the desk, leaving the .357 behind. “Just funnin’ ya. And it’s Max, by the way. We don’t stand on ceremony around here.”
Just as Johnny Cash was starting to sing “The Rebel” from the old Johnny Yuma TV show, I slipped the .25 in the windbreaker jacket pocket and followed him back to the kitchen. He got himself a can of Bud and me a can of Coke, and then said, “You play pool?”
“Been known to.”
Climer led me into the wood-paneled den. He was in jeans and bare feet, and maybe an inch shorter than me — of course, I was in shoes. He went over to the stereo set-up and wall of LPs and said, “So you drink Coors. What do you listen to? The Lennon Sisters?”
I had to smile. “If it has to be country western, stick with Johnny Cash or Patsy Cline. Otherwise I might kill you myself.”
That got a chuckle out of him. “We’ll make it soul. How about Otis Redding? You’re in Memphis. Listenin’ to Otis is practically the law down here.”
“Wouldn’t want to do anything illegal.”
He put on Otis Blue. Again, not loud — just a presence.
We played eightball. He broke, sinking three balls, then ran the table. No conversation, just pool, with “Shake” getting some additional (if out-of-rhythm) percussion by way of the clack-clack of the balls.
“Glad it’s not for money,” I said.
He chalked his cue. “Now you.”
I broke, sinking two balls, then ran the table.
He stared at the green felt where only the cue ball lived now. “Who’s the hustler here, I wonder?”
He broke again, but this time the eight ball found a pocket, and he lost interest, saying, “Best two out of three means it’s yours. Don’t you wish we were playin’ for money?”
My host got himself another Bud, this time a bottle from a refrigerator behind the bar — I’d finished the Coke and didn’t want another. He gestured in the casual way a pasha might toward the two big comfy-looking leather chairs angled toward the wall of LPs and the stereo set-up. Otis was singing “Wonderful World.”
“So,” he said, “Yale locks.”
“Like I said, just a start. Those ex-bikers, any more of them available?”
He nodded. “I can put together a small army of hard-asses. Guns, chains, knives.”
“Well, army might be the operative term. Any of these biker types ex-military?”
“Some.”
“Use those.”
The dark-blue eyes were only a third lidded now. “I was told
you were ex-military,” he said, and sipped the Bud.
“That’s right.”
“Silver Star?”
“Bronze actually.”
“You saw action?”
“I did.”
“Rank?”
“Corporal.”
“What exactly did you do over there?”
“Sniper.”
“So, then... killing people is not, uh, a problem.”
“Well, it is for them.”
He thought about that. A low-slung glass coffee table held a couple of glass Climax Club ashtrays, clean, a silver naked-girl lighter, and a pack of Camels. He shook out a smoke, lighted it with the naked girl, offered the pack to me, and I declined.
“What branch, Quarry?”
“Marines.”
“I was in the navy. Between wars. Loved it. I made a lot of money off those hick kids from Bum Fuck, Idaho, and Loose Goose, Montana. Poker, on the ship. And pool, on shore leave.”
“But you didn’t stay in?”
He gulped more Bud. “No. Too damn dull, long run. I was born to the damn bar business. Sold moonshine for my old man, then after the navy, I bought government booze and sold it in dry states. Lived with my aunt and uncle, and they had a bar here in Memphis. Bought ’em out and the rest is history. So what’s your story?”
He seemed to want to know.
“Took what skills I picked up in the Marines,” I said, “into private industry.”
That could hardly have been more sketchy, but it satisfied him.
“Security,” he said, interpreting it his own way. “And now you’re here to help me. As a high-end bodyguard?”
“Not exactly...”
“Till this scare is over,” he said, ignoring that, cigarette between two fingers of the hand he was gesturing with, “you’ll be at my side, running the show with the extra boys I put on.”
I raised a “stop” palm. “No, Max, I may be serving that function from time to time, but I have a bigger job.”
A rare blink. “What job’s bigger than protecting my ass?”
“I know how to spot the kind of people who’ve been sent to take you out. And I also hope to figure out who might have hired this thing in the first place.”
Climer thought about that while Otis did his blistering “Satisfaction.” Then he said, softly, “If you pinpoint the assassin...”
“Likely a team of two. Yes. Go on.”
“If you spot these people, Quarry, what will you do?”
“Do you want to know?”
“Do I?”
“I would say... no. But keep in mind, if I remove those sent to take you out, that doesn’t solve the larger problem. Another pair would be fast on their heels. There’s only one way to really stop this. We need to look at who might’ve hired them.”
His frown barely registered on the childish face. “Christ. That could be anybody from half a dozen screwball religious groups... we’re not talking Presbyterians, but cult kooks who handle snakes and talk in tongues... to the Highland Strip Merchants Association, who think the Climax Club and my publication bring down the moral tone of Memphis in general and their precious little strip of it in particular.”
I shrugged. “It’s probably not a group, unless you’ve tangled personally with a strong leader who considers you a personal enemy. Of course, you have been known to inject yourself into controversy. To encourage readers and the public at large to see your magazine as an extension of Max Climer, and vice versa.”
The faint smile returned. “You almost sound like a reader yourself.”
“I am one. Hell, I’m a subscriber.”
Now the smile flashed some small, rather feral teeth. “You are a loyal reader!”
“I am. Or maybe I just don’t want to be embarrassed buying that rag of yours in public.”
That made him laugh. He laughed a while, actually, with Otis singing “You Don’t Miss Your Water” in the background.
When the album was over, Climer got up, dirtied one of the ashtrays stubbing out the Camel, flipped the disc on the turntable, and Otis started in on “Ole Man Trouble.”
As he settled back in the comfy chair, I said, “Tell me about the people in your life.”
He frowned again, really frowned, the first time I’d seen him seriously wrinkle that baby face, or anyway the forehead part of it.
“I am surrounded by people who love me, and I love them,” he said, the defensiveness back. “I really can’t see you wastin’ your time going down that road.”
“People rarely get killed by people they don’t know,” I said. “It’s usually a relative or close friend.”