I pulled the Mustang onto the apron of gravel where a Chrysler Cordoba, presumably Vernon’s, was parked near the two-story cabin, whose downstairs windows glowed. I parked near the milk-chocolate vehicle with its dark-chocolate vinyl roof and Corinthian leather within, if Ricardo Montalban was to be believed. A luxury car to be sure, but a little smaller than many of its brothers, in response to the recent oil crisis and ongoing inflation.
Just the kind of car a businessman like Vernon Climer would select. No pink Cadillacs for him.
I headed casually to the porch, still in the black windbreaker and polo and jeans, but the .25 in my pocket had been replaced with my nine millimeter Browning. No noise-suppressor attached — no need out here in the boonies. Frogs were singing and insects talking, as they had when I’d been out for dinner with Corrie a hundred years ago, or was that yesterday?
Today, this evening, I was calling on her father.
I knocked. I heard but could not make out muffled talk behind that door — not right behind it, though — and, after I knocked again, footsteps approached and the door opened a crack or two. Vernon looked out tentatively, surprised that anyone might be calling on him — on them — out here.
He said nothing, just frowned at me uncomprehendingly. He was in a light blue shirt with darker blue stripes and a big white collar, unbuttoned and showing some chest hair and a gold chain, and if his white jeans had been any tighter, I could tell you whether he was circumcised or not. This was apparently Vernon Climer in casual mode.
“Sorry,” I said. “Hate to interrupt your Sunday. But it’s important. Talk to you for a few minutes?”
The narrow, sharp-cheekboned, sharp-chinned face considered me, sky-blue eyes slitting behind the oversize tortoiseshell glasses. His sandy hair didn’t look so perfect now, mussed enough to reveal itself as more obviously thinning, the mustache darker and more Fu Manchu than porn star at the moment, tugged down by a frown.
My unenthusiastic host spoke softly, as if keeping this just between us. “How did you know you could find me here?”
“Leon told me.”
It kind of sounded like, Joe sent me.
His eyes unslitted. “Leon has a big mouth.”
“No, I’m just a charmer. If you’re worried I might tell Max about this, don’t be. This is going to be just between us.”
“What is?”
“Our conversation. Should I come in, or would you like to join me out here? Kind of pleasant out on the porch. Cool. Nice nature sounds, if you don’t mind the frogs croaking.”
The door still remained barely open, but enough so that I could see Dorrie Climer approach behind him. She was in a yellow-and-white halter top that her full breasts were too much for and tan hip-hugger bells that bulged a little over where the cloth cut her, but not in an unappealing way. Also no shoes, red toenails showing to match her fingernails and candy-apple red lip gloss. The hair that was neither quite brunette nor blonde was up in a beehive, held in place by a bright yellow scarf.
She was a good-looking woman. Or, as most men would admit to each other out of female earshot, one great-looking piece of ass.
The kind you might kill over.
She was looking at me suspiciously, then — as if going through the mental file cards and realizing she’d fucked me once upon a time — put on a bright red smile and said, “Well, hello, Jack. You want to come in for a drink or something?”
Her eyes flickered with friend-or-foe categorization, and hadn’t made a decision yet when Vernon said to her over his shoulder, “Mr. Quarry and I need to speak in private for a moment, dear. Perhaps later.”
Him calling her “dear” in front of me was a good start.
Then the door opened enough to let him come out and for her to be framed there in confusion, revealing some of the lines in her not-really-young-anymore face.
He shut it.
“Shall we walk?” he asked, nodding around. “Lovely view this time of night.”
“Sure,” I said.
We strolled to the edge of the property where brush and smaller trees fell to the shore of the Mississippi as if working to keep their balance. This time of day, or almost night, turned the river gun-metal gray; it had a nice shimmer, while — over the trees that crowded the opposite shore — sundown was burning like a distant conflagration.
“Why are you here, Mr. Quarry?” He was looking out at the river and the dying sun, not at me.
“Kind of a delicate matter,” I admitted. “I have to ask your patience.”
The face dominated by the big glasses swung toward me sharply. “If this is blackmail—”
I raised a single palm of surrender. “No, sir, it is not.”
“Well, you clearly know about Dorrie and myself.”
“I do.”
“How did you come by that... knowledge? To that conclusion?”
Shrugging, I said, “I pretty much knew it that first day, when we spoke in your office, and Dorrie came bounding in without knocking. Supposedly looking for a check that she didn’t really need to come calling for, since the post office has been managing that kind of thing just fine ever since Benjamin Franklin started it.”
He returned his gaze to the river view. “Why not assume my cousin and I were putting her to the trouble just to be, well, assholes about it?”
“Two reasons. First, I saw no sign in your cousin Max’s attitude, or his demeanor either, that indicated he had any real animosity toward his ex-wife-to-be. Second, you’re too professional a businessman to be part of such nonsense.”
Thin lips made a thin smile. “I suppose I should feel complimented.”
“Maybe not. Another factor was that couch in your office.”
“My couch? What the hell did you gather from my couch?”
“It was the only piece in that expensively appointed space that didn’t match. It was oversize and looked very comfy, and obviously had a few miles on it. Perfect for banging a lush piece of ass like Dorrie on.”
He took no, or at least little, offense at that crude characterization. Like I said, such things between men are tolerated and even expected. And anyway he was probably a little complimented by that, too.
I went on: “Then I noticed that you were having long conferences with somebody in your office. The Climax Club doesn’t seem like the kind of place where you’d invite too many business associates in for a conference.”
“And this was enough for you to somehow get Leon to talk.”
“Yeah, it was. He was nervous because I figured out you were paying him to provide Mavis with smack, to keep her generally sedated.”
He lifted the sharp chin, but neither confirmed nor denied my assertion.
I said, “But when Dorrie herself invited me to the Holiday Inn, to see where that great motel chain started... and also to fuck me silly... that got me to thinking. Why would she be so interested in me? I’ve been known to find a willing female now and then to fulfill my desires... but the nude model who was Mrs. Max Climer? Really? Maybe it had something to do with me being introduced as a security consultant. Maybe she wondered if I was here to investigate her. And you.”
He had only barely flinched when I mentioned banging his honeybunch. But his eyes traveled back to me when I raised the issue of my presence in Climax world as a security consultant.
He asked, “Are you here to do that, Mr. Quarry? To investigate Dorrie and myself?”
“If I were, I’m not sure I’d have enough to cause you any trouble. Would Max be annoyed or otherwise freaked by the notion of the wife he was about to abandon climbing in the sack with his trusted cuz? Maybe. But more likely he’d just shrug. Maybe he’d even like the idea.”