“No,” I said, cutting him off. “You’re assuming if we spot somebody going after the guy... either in that building across the street, or by way of a drive-by kill outside his favorite barbecue joint or something... that we can interrupt things in a timely enough fashion to save his ass and take down the hitters.”
And by “we” I really meant “me,” because I was the active half here.
“I see your point,” he said, and the defensiveness was gone. “And you’re right. Sorry. I guess I... I guess I really screwed up.”
I waved it off. “Climer isn’t dead yet, so forget it. You’ve picked up worthwhile intel, which is good, but now we have to shift our focus from Climer to the team sent in to take him out.”
Boyd sighed, nodded. “Might not be a team, though. Might be a lone wolf. Not everybody works this game the way the Broker does.”
“True. But a lot do. Either way, we need to locate the competition and put them out of business... like that café below us.”
He smiled, a little embarrassment in it. “Wish a café were down there now. Would come in handy.”
“Actually, it wasn’t bad.”
The shaggy eyebrows came together. “You ate there? When in hell?”
“One of my first jobs for Broker, before he teamed us up, was here in Memphis. They served sandwiches and cold beer and if you used the head, you got yourself a free contact high. It was all hippies and dope back then.”
He smirked. “Now it’s pussy and pornography.”
“Well, not entirely. Seems like this neighborhood is trying to come back to respectable life, and I’m sure Max Climer’s presence here is not a happy thing for many of his neighbors.”
Boyd frowned. “Unhappy enough to want him dead?”
I grunted a laugh. “Wouldn’t surprise me.” I stood. “Look, stay at your post. I’m going to take a look around the neighborhood. See I can spot anything or anybody.”
Boyd nodded. “Okay. Do that. Good idea. Good thinking. Uh, Quarry?”
I was halfway across the room, heading for the hallway. I glanced back. “Yeah?”
“Sorry I... kind of screwed up.”
“Naw, you didn’t. We’re just getting started here.”
“You won’t, uh... mention how boneheaded I was to the Broker or anything...?”
“Hell no. And you weren’t. Cool it. I’ll be back in an hour or two.”
Soon I was down on the street where dusk was darkening to night and the air had turned cool even as it stayed dry. I had the black windbreaker on, the nine millimeter (minus the silencer) stuffed in my back waistband — the jacket came down over my hips enough to help hide the weapon.
I took a nice casual walk along both sides of the streets adjacent to the Climax Club. What I was looking for was somebody (or somebodies) sitting in a car without the engine running. Probably a man or men, but a female gun wasn’t out of the question — I knew of several who worked for the Broker. In many cases, someone sitting surveillance would tuck into the backseat, keeping down, so that at first glance the car would appear unoccupied.
For now, anyway, I spotted no one who might be on stakeout. But I’d have to stay on top of the possibility.
As I walked, I also looked at the second-and third-floor apartments of buildings close enough to Climer’s to provide decent surveillance. On the cross street, the side of the three-story building opposite the front of the club had second-floor lights on above a pawnshop.
The door to the stairs up to the apartment was on Highland, between the pawnshop and a secondhand furniture store. It was unlocked and, after switching on a light inside the door, I went on up to the landing. These stairs were carpeted and not at all creaky, the walls fairly freshly painted, and the door on the landing had also been painted this decade, a friendly bright yellow.
My right hand on my hip, for easy access to the nine millimeter, I knocked with my left. One more knock, and the door cracked open, a young woman with dark curly hair and big brown eyes gazing across the night latch. She was in navy slacks and a navy-and-white polka-dot top, and looked nice if a little harried. The sound of a toddler making a noise that was identifiable neither as happy nor sad was making her wince a little.
“Yes?” she said, talking over the kid noise.
“Oh,” I said, “I’m sorry — I thought this was the Lindel residence. Sorry.”
I backed away, smiling embarrassedly, and she found a smile and a nod, then closed the door on me.
That was not a lady hitman. Nor was her toddler, though he or she might having been killing mommy by inches.
I went up the remaining flight and knocked several times at a bright green door. No response. Some landlord had spruced the building up, but apparently this apartment was either unoccupied or its renter wasn’t home.
I returned to the second-floor landing and knocked again.
As before, the young woman in navy blue answered, frowning over the latch chain, and I said, “Forgive me — this is the last time I’ll bother you. But do the Lindels have the upstairs apartment? No one responded to my knock.”
“That’s because no one lives up there,” she said with a painfully forced smile. “If you’ll excuse me?”
The door closed a little harder that time. Didn’t blame her.
This made the upstairs apartment problematic. If it sat empty, that meant sometime in the next few days it could be occupied by people in the same profession as Boyd and me. It might be occupied by suchlike right now, if those doing so were being discreet and quiet about it.
No other lights were on in nearby second-and third-floor windows. And I knew how to spot minimal light from between windows and curtains, as well as the glint of binoculars.
Nothing.
I returned to Boyd, who was still in his camp chair with his own binoculars at the ready.
Plopping down in the uneasy chair, I said, “I don’t think they’re here yet. Nobody’s running a parked-car stakeout, and I don’t see anything suspicious in the rooms with a view.”
“Well,” Boyd said, brow furrowed, “the Broker indicated he turned this job down only recently. The client would have to find a new broker and things’d have to be set in motion. Could be we’re ahead of the curve.”
“If we are,” I said, “it’s just barely. But still an advantage. You had any sleep lately?”
“Some,” he said. “According to the advance intel the Broker gave me, Climer sleeps in till noon. Likes to work all night or party the same, depending on his mood and the needs of his magazine. So I’ve been sleeping in myself. But this has been fucking drudgery, and we’re just getting started.”
I pawed the air. “Catch yourself some zee’s. I’ll cover the night shift.”
“Cool. I appreciate it, Quarry.”
“Don’t freak out if I’m not here. I’m going to check out the Climax Club at some point this evening.”
“Okay. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
He’d said this to me before and knew what my response would be.
I gave it to him anyway, with a smile: “No promises on that score.”
Four
I was a little uptight about Boyd’s failure to grasp the different demands of this assignment. I blamed the Broker in part, for not properly prepping him. But maybe my passive half was still off his feed following his break-up with that hairdresser back east. Boyd had been fine on the Vegas job, but on the one before that had damn near got me killed, after he picked up some guy in a bar when he was supposed to be watching my back.
In the coolness of late evening, I stood in front of our boarded-up storefront and looked across the street, surveying the three-story building whose bottom floor was the Climax Club. The first floor had a few bikers and blue-collar types milling around outside, smoking and shooting the shit, while patrons came in and out of the bar. Lively but not crazy — probably a typical weeknight here. The second floor, the Climax Magazine offices, was almost dark, some subdued lighting but no sign of activity. The third floor had lights on behind several windows — the penthouse living quarters. It would appear the master of the house was home.