I rarely used a revolver. Boyd preferred them over automatics, because the latter sometimes jammed. That was true, but you can’t use a silencer on a revolver. We agreed to disagree.
I pulled the green easy chair over and sat, which put the “easy” part in question. He turned the camp chair toward me and settled into it, crossing his legs. Bing Crosby started singing, “Pennies from Heaven.”
I asked, “How long you been here?”
“Three goddamn days.” He winced at the world around us. “What is the smell in this dump?”
“Cat urine. Ancient cat urine, but unmistakable. Like vintage wine.”
“Jesus.” He shivered, then gestured generally. “I put those air freshener things around, too, and what good are they doing?”
“Not much. How much good are you doing?”
He smirked, shook his head. “Not much more than the air fresheners.”
“This our only stakeout site?”
Boyd nodded. “That’s the saving grace of this shitty job and this shitty shithole.”
“What is?”
His head bobbed toward Highland. “We have one-stop shopping here. This character Climer lives on the top floor of the building across the way, in a kind of penthouse. The magazine offices are on the second floor, and of course the club is on the first.”
“You been over there?”
He nodded. “Club floor only. Nicer than the outside looks. Mirrors and leather. No cover charge. Pretty girls. Nice bodies. They strip down all the way. If that’s what you’re into.”
“Well, it kind of is.”
He flipped a hand. “Drinks aren’t weak, or expensive. There’s no hooking on the premises, but the girls and the clientele negotiate on the side. Night I went over there, I saw table dances with as much talking as dancing. Then back here at my post, I observed several of the little dears, after closing, meet the gentlemen out front of the club and go off with ’em.”
“You think the club is in on that action?”
The other hand flipped. “Don’t know. My guess? The management doesn’t discourage the hooking, ’cause it brings in the customers. But they probably don’t participate because even in this corrupt town, they might get busted big-time.”
“You assuming the town’s corrupt... or did you see something?”
“Saw something. A couple of plainclothes gendarmes who I took to be vice cops got paid off at the bar. Money passed hands with no effort to conceal.”
“Was Climer making the payoff himself?”
“Well, a Climer was. Max’s first and only cousin, Vernon. He runs the club now that Max has turned editor and publisher. I have the Broker’s file for you to go over — Vernon’s in it.”
I frowned. “Does the Broker think Climer’s own cousin took out the contract?”
Under the bushy brush of a mustache, white teeth blossomed. “Why, Quarry, would that shock you? He’s Max Climer’s sole close living relation, no brothers or sisters, and Mommy and Daddy went to heaven when Max was but a teen — seems the family moonshine still exploded.”
I gave him half a grin. “You gotta be shitting me.”
“Not even a little. Max Climer grew up in a cabin straight out of Dogpatch. The family business was shine. Hell, the Climer boys are still selling spirits, aren’t they?”
“Yeah, but that’s not where their fortune’s being made. And somebody in that organization is smart, because their magazine isn’t just another skin rag.”
The shaggy eyebrows climbed. “Really? And what separates it from the smutty crowd, would you say?”
“For one thing, it’s funny as hell. The cartoons, and even the articles, are really off the wall. That rag tells all kinds of important people to go fuck themselves. And it does it in between split-beaver pics.”
The ugly phrase made Boyd shudder. Which of course is why I used it. I have to have some fun out of life.
His chin rose so he could look down his nose at me. “So you read Climax for the articles, do you, Quarry? Now I’ve heard everything.”
“Why, you ever read the magazine?”
“I don’t believe I’m the target audience.”
“Well, if you ever cracked a cover, you’d know that hillbilly Hefner over there writes editorials in favor of gay rights, women’s liberation, and civil liberties in general. Of course, his idea of striking out against racism is running a pictorial of a big black stud banging a young white chick.”
Boyd made a face. “Must you?”
“Racial objections?”
“There’s no reason to insult me.”
“Anyway,” I said, “there are all kinds of people who want to silence a guy like Max Climer. It wouldn’t have to be a family member who wants to inherit.”
The Broker’s manila folder was on the cooler. Boyd nodded toward it. “Why don’t you go over the file, and see if you have any questions?”
I sat and read it, sipping a Coke courtesy of Boyd, who had a six-pack in his cooler for me, looking after my needs like the good partner he was.
The cousin was in the file. So was a wife, separated but not yet divorced from Climer. And a current girlfriend who’d been a dancer at the club. Also the daughter of cousin Vernon, who was some kind of women’s libber. A few other co-workers. Local civic types who’d spoken out against Climer and Climax Magazine. Some religious leaders, a few of them potentially dangerous flakes.
Tossing the folder back on the cooler, I said to Boyd, who’d angled his chair back to the window and was using his binoculars, “How have you proceeded, so far?”
He lowered the binoculars, swung his head toward me. “The usual. Keeping an eye on Climer’s comings and goings. He stays pretty much to that three-story castle over there. Goes out for an early supper, five, six o’clock. Country boys don’t eat late like city folk, I guess.”
“You follow him then?”
Boyd nodded. “Haven’t been here long enough to know if he’s got a regular schedule in that regard. You know, favorite eating spots he frequents.”
Some people established a pattern that way, going to favorite restaurants on the same nights of the week, every week.
“So, then,” I said, “you barely got back from Vegas when the Broker got in touch and sent you here.”
With a few quick nods, Boyd said, “That’s right. A little odd, doing two jobs this close together... but Broker’s the boss, and this is paying very damn well, don’t you think?”
I nodded. I didn’t want to go into specifics because I might be getting paid more than Boyd. Previously when the Broker sent me in undercover, he’d rewarded me for it. No need to get Boyd’s nose out of joint over that.
I said, “You’ve been following our regular routine?”
“Right.”
“As if Climer himself were the target.”
“Uh, yes, of course.”
I held up a “stop” palm. “Okay, now meaning no offense... he’s not our target. We have multiple targets here, but Climer is not one of them.”
Boyd frowned. He clearly hadn’t thought this through. We had our usual way of doing things, and he’d fallen into step. Nor had the Broker thought to give him new directions in this different circumstance.
I said, “Our targets are as follows — first, the team that somebody’s sending in to kill Max Climer. Second, whoever hired that team... who we have to identify and then dispatch. Because if we don’t, another team will be sent in, and on and on it goes.”
Boyd was still frowning. Defensively, he said, “Well, if we keep an eye on Climer, surely that will lead us to—”