“Vaguely,” I said with a shrug. “Raunchy skin mag, isn’t it?”
The white eyebrows raised and lowered in the tan face. “To say the least! I certainly had no idea it would become a success in its field, let alone a cause célèbre.”
I sat forward. “You say that like you had something to do with it.”
He sighed. His expression was one I’d never seen from him before. What was it? Shit! Embarrassment! The Broker was embarrassed!
“Just because I might invest in a hamburger chain,” he said somewhat stiffly, “does not necessarily mean such cuisine is to my taste.”
“You’re an investor. You backed Climax.”
One-shoulder shrug. “Several of us did. It began as a money laundry but turned unexpectedly profitable. This man in Memphis was poor white trash, as they say, but he displayed a genius for making bars and strip clubs pay. He became so successful at it that he began talking about expanding into the magazine field. The conditions were ideal for passing money through, as all of us felt the chances of his success in an already crowded arena were minimal.” The Broker rolled his eyes. “Then he came up with his grand idea of depicting women in all their hirsute glory, and the money began to stream in!”
“Max Climer,” I said. “That’s his name, right?”
I knew damn well it was his name. In just a year or so, he had become as famous as Playboy’s Hugh Hefner and Penthouse’s Bob Guccione.
“That’s indeed his name.”
I was frowning again. “You said you turned down a contract. So who did Climer want killed?”
The Broker’s hands flew up like Butterfly McQueen in Gone With the Wind crying Lawsy-mercy. “No one! There are those who want him killed.”
I gaped at him. “Climer’s the contract you turned down?”
“Yes. Yes.”
I sat back. “Who wants him dead?”
“I have no idea.”
I dealt him half a smirk. “Broker. Remember who you’re talking to.”
“I have no idea, Quarry!” He heaved a weight-of-the-world sigh worthy of Atlas himself. “You must understand, son. The business I’m in... the business we’re in... is multi-layered, designed to protect all concerned. Including ourselves. Insulation every step of the way. You never know who hired you. Neither, in most cases, do I.”
I was shaking my head. “Hard to buy, Broker.”
“Perhaps.” The eyebrows flicked up and down. “And I... generally know the, shall we say, direction from which a contract is coming. Most often it’s from the nationwide crime syndicate — various factions thereof, that is. And remember that the straight citizens who seek our help most often do so through someone they’ve encountered along their mostly lawful way who operate in the left-handed endeavor of organized crime. Many respectable businessman — captains of industry included — have turned to such sources for financing at times. And, networking through those sources, they turn to us for the removal of inconvenient associates, or troublesome personal ties.”
What he meant was business partners or rivals, and wives or mistresses or the lovers thereof. Thereof! Now he had me doing it.
The Broker flipped a hand. “Those who might like to see Max Climer depart from the ranks of the living are numerous and varied. A veritable legion.”
That seemed a silly exaggeration, even for this pretentious prick.
I said, “Come on, Broker — surely you can work backward through your contacts, discreetly, and come up with the client you rejected.”
“Possibly,” he admitted. “But I must not do anything that might lead back to me. The ramifications would be unfortunate and severe. The entire network of professionals like yourself and Boyd would be endangered. No, I can’t go through the back door — you must find a window.”
I sipped Coors. “Well, if you’re looking for ideas... Boyd and I could go to Memphis... Climer still operates out of there, right, his clubs and his magazine?”
The Broker nodded.
I went on: “Boyd and I could stake out this Climer joker and see if somebody else is doing the same. We might be able to take out the hitters. Should be able to. But that doesn’t take care of the bigger problem — whoever wants Climer dead will just try again. Hire someone else.”
His lips twitched and his mustache bristled. “Your analysis is inarguable.”
That meant he agreed, I guessed.
The arctic eyes froze mine. “Your job will be to stop the impending assassination of this pornographer and to determine who put it in motion.”
“By stop it, you mean kill the team sent to do the job?”
He gave one small nod.
“And,” I said, “by determining who put it in motion, you mean kill the son of a bitch who hired it?”
Another small nod.
“I’m not sure I know how to do that,” I said. “Boyd and I can track another team — that’s tricky but doable. But how can I be expected to find out who hired it when somebody as connected as you can’t?”
“Won’t,” he corrected me. “As I explained, I don’t dare. It would risk—”
“Yeah, I got that. But it gets back to the insulation concept. Assuming the hitters are pros, they probably work like Boyd and me, like all your guys — meaning they have no contact with whoever hired them.”
He was nodding, slowly. “I believe — call it an educated guess — that someone close to the pornographer will be the client. I have already provided Boyd with a list of names with photos and rundowns of those I suspect. He’ll obviously share that intelligence with you.”
I frowned. “Wait, you’ve already talked to Boyd? You went to him first?” Somehow that seemed insulting. My feelings were a little hurt. I was the number one guy on the two-man team — right? Right?
He sensed my reaction. “Quarry, Boyd is considerably more malleable than you. I knew you would be sharper, shrewder, and would require a more detailed, sophisticated sell.”
More smoke up my skirt. But it felt kind of good.
“I also knew,” he went on, “that if Boyd was on board, your loyalty to your partner would be a factor in my favor. You would not want to subject him to some stranger as a partner — not in facing so delicate and dangerous a task. Nor would you want to deny your associate the chance for so handsome a payday. You have too great a sense of honor.”
Okay, now that was a little too much smoke.
“How is having rundowns on the suspects helpful,” I said, “when Boyd and I are sitting stakeout?”
“No need for both of you to take the passive end, not at all times. You’ll take active, as usual. But I’ve arranged to get you inside the Climax organization. You see, I’ve been able to suggest to Mr. Climer that he may have a quisling in his woodpile.”
“I know what’s usually in a Southern white guy’s woodpile, but what the fuck is a quisling?”
His eyes narrowed. “A betrayer. A traitor. I’ve seen to it that you have been recommended by an associate of mine to Mr. Climer as a minder.”
“A what?”
“A guardian. A defender. A bodyguard, if you will.”
Like the guy in Vegas who I duct-taped into submission. Only with a gun.