“What’s this about?” he asked. He didn’t seem very afraid.
“I used to work for the Broker.”
That only seemed to irritate him. “Well, what are you coming around here for, then? And what’s the idea of the gun, and tying up my wife?”
“Simple precaution,” I said; he seemed to have taken me for somebody else, which could prove interesting.
“Look… Stone, is it? None of this has anything to do with me, and I don’t want to have anything more to do with it. You can tell that to Ridge.” He sliced the air with the side of his hand, karate-chop style, in a gesture of finality. “I’ve done all I’m going to do.”
“I may not be who you think I am.”
“Well, you’re Stone.”
“No I’m not. I know who you mean. I worked with Stone, a few times. But I’m not Stone.”
“You’re not.”
“I’m someone else who used to work for the Broker.”
“Someone else? Who?”
“What’s in a name.”
“Look, a lot of people worked for the Broker. But that’s ancient history. That cunning old son-of-a-bitch died years ago.”
“I know,” I said. “I was there.”
He wasn’t impressed yet. “Were you really.” It wasn’t a question.
I said, “He pointed you out to me, once, Mr. Werner. He said you were a rising star who fell.”
He laughed humorlessly. “That sounds like him.”
“He said you were destined for big things in the Outfit, but that you made some mistakes. You were lucky to stay alive, actually, let alone hang onto your vending business, hotel interests and other holdings locally.”
“I have very little to do with those people anymore,” he said. “I am, as I told you, a respectable member of the community. What are you, down on your luck? Looking for work? If you’re auditioning, you’ve come to the wrong place. If you’re just a thief, now, well, there’s little of value in my house, but I’m willing to lead you to what there is, if you’ll be done with this and go. We have perhaps a thousand in cash, some negotiable securities, some jewelry, a few paintings, though the latter might not be anything you’d want to fool with.”
“Well, you’ve seen me, Mr. Werner. You’d give my description to the authorities.”
“But I wouldn’t. I’m still connected enough that I don’t relish investigation of any sort. If they caught up with you, you might tell them what you know about me, and while I don’t think much would come of it, it could prove embarrassing.”
“Embarrassment is the least of your problems. I said I used to work for the Broker.”
He looked at me sideways, drawing back a bit. And then it hit him. The blood left his face. “You… you’re not the one he called… Quarry, are you?”
“That’s right.”
And now he was scared. He was starting to breathe heavy, his country club cool melting on him, even in this weather. He started backing up.
“Don’t do that,” I said.
He stopped; suddenly his breath was smoking up the place. “I thought… I thought…”
“You thought I was dead? And why is that?”
“Look-I was just doing a favor for a friend… I…”
“What friend? What favor?”
He patted the air with his palms. “Let’s be reasonable. Let’s just be reasonable. I can explain.”
“I’ll explain. Someone came to you, someone who knew you had mob connections, and requested the name of an assassin. And you used to be the Broker’s mob conduit, so you knew the names and even the whereabouts of some of his people. What made you pick my name out of the hat?”
A swallow and a sigh. “Broker said… he said something about you once.”
“What’s that?”
He looked at the ground. “I don’t remember. I just remember he singled you out.”
“No, really. I’m interested.”
He swallowed again, reluctantly met my eyes with his. “He said you were his best man. If I ever had anything… out of the ordinary, anybody important, you’d be the man for the job.”
Even dead, all these years, that cocksucker was still causing me problems.
“Well, I’m flattered,” I said. “And that’s why you gave out my name for this political contract, is it?”
He shook his head no, repeatedly. “I don’t know anything about the contract. I just know who put it in motion.”
“And who would that be?”
He thought.
Then said: “If I tell you, you have to promise me something.”
“Which is?”
His eyes were slits. “You’ll kill this man at your first opportunity.”
“No problem.”
“He’s… a friend of mine, you see, but he’s… he wouldn’t stop at anything, to reach his goals. If he knew I’d told you who he was, I’d be dead.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s a self-made millionaire. Real estate.”
“What’s his name? Ridge?”
“Ridge,” he nodded. “George Ridge.”
“Lives here in the Cities?”
“In Davenport. That’s where his business is, too. It’s in Paul Revere Square on Kimberly.”
“I see. You’ve been helpful, Mr. Werner.”
He smiled. “You don’t have to worry about me keeping my mouth shut,” he said.
“Oh, I know,” I said, and raised the nine-millimeter.
“Wait! Wait. That’s not necessary!”
“You thought I was dead, Mr. Werner. Why?”
“George… George told me you hadn’t worked out. He asked me if I could give him another name. I… I gave him one.”
“Stone.”
He thought for a moment, then shrugged, what the hell. “Stone. I.. guess I let that slip before.”
“That’s right.”
“But that’s just what the Broker called him. He was living under another name. Brackett, I believe.”
“I know that, too,” I said.
“Oh, you do. But I have been of some help…”
“You have. Only something doesn’t track, here.”
“What?”
“The two men who tried to hit me. Neither one was this man Stone, Brackett, whatever. I don’t think they were pros, those two.”
He lifted his eyebrows. “Well-I think Stone was going to get offered the job you turned down. George has people working for him who have pretty rough backgrounds. He might have used some of them.”
“How educated a guess is that?”
“Pretty educated. He did say to me… well, he said he was going to have to do something about you.”
“Because I was a loose end.”
“Something like that. He… I admit he makes me more than a little uneasy.”
“And why is that, Mr. Werner?”
“Well, hell-I didn’t want to be a ‘loose end’ myself.” He shrugged, lifted his eyebrows. “But I don’t really think George looks at me that way.”
“Why’s that?”
“He thinks of me as Outfit. Which I still am, to a degree. It’s just that I’m strictly legitimate these days.”
“Do you love your wife, Mr. Werner?”
“What sort of question is that?”
“Do you love your wife?”
“Of course I love her.”
“Well, thanks to you, my wife is dead, and my unborn child. So when I’ve done you, I’ll do Mrs. Werner.”
“No!”
“And I may just look those kids of yours up for the hell of it.”
His eyes went wide with a terror like none I’d ever seen; I let it linger there a few moments, then shot him between them. The heavy camel’s hair overcoat cushioned his fall and he lay on his back staring up at the overcast sky, eyes and mouth open, in a look of empty yet reflective horror.
I had no intention of killing his wife or kids. I didn’t want to lower myself to that level. I just wanted him to think I would.
There’s no reason to believe there’s anything after this life but darkness, and I wanted to make sure the son-of-a-bitch spent at least a few seconds in hell.
7
The wide one-way of Brady Street burrowed through a valley of plastic and metal and cement that was America in all its fast-food, discount-chain glory. It was Saturday afternoon, and the four lanes were thick with cars; even in the unemployment-stressed Quad Cities, people seemed to have income to dispose of, as car after car would leave the pack and disappear into the jammed parking lot of this temple of Mammon or that one. And on the right, as the valley dipped, between McDonald’s and Payless Shoe Source, an auto lot sprawled, a virtual football field of vehicles,