Quarry's Choice by Collins Max Allan Allan Collins Max

Author:Collins, Max Allan, Allan Collins, Max [Collins, Max Allan, Allan Collins, Max]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Titan Books
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

TEN

Somebody said once that it’s better to be lucky than smart. But the truth is, it’s best to be lucky and smart.

Last night I’d certainly been lucky. The hotel had been under-populated and even the desk clerk had been a ghost. But I’d been at least a little smart, too. When we arrived at the Fantasy Sweets last night, I left the Caddy unlocked, so that I could leave the car keys with Killian in the Caligula Suite and still be able to wipe my fingerprints off the steering wheel before hoofing it the three blocks to the Tropical.

From the phone booth across the highway, I’d called Mr. Woody at his club and said, “Just so you know, Jack Killian drove himself to the Fantasy Sweets around eight this evening. I had the night off.”

“So then. . .”

“So then you might want to have somebody at the hotel check on him. Like maybe you expected him to stop by Mr. Woody’s at ten or so but you haven’t heard from him.”

“It isn’t ten.”

Was he slow on the uptake or what?

Patiently, I said, “Wait till eleven and call the desk at the hotel. To check on Jackie boy. You know, if you haven’t heard from him.”

“All right. Sorry. I follow.”

“Good. Good night.”

“Quarry!”

“Yeah?”

“Listen, come around tomorrow mornin’. We should talk about the future.”

“What future?”

“Well, the comin’ days.”

“I’m out of here by noon.”

“No. Come see me first.”

“Where? Your club?”

“My home. Got a pad and somethin’ to write with?”

I wrote down the directions and said I’d see him at ten.

“Uh, Quarry. . .?”

“Yeah?”

“Just in case? You might talk to the girl.”

He meant Luann, getting her to cover for me. Talking murder on a possibly tapped phone was always a pain in the ass.

So this morning around eight I knocked on the connecting door between our rooms. I had to do it a couple of times before Luann opened it and stood there yawning, raising her hands over her head. She’d been sleeping in a Led Zeppelin t-shirt and the yawn pulled it up to reveal her triangular muff like a curtain rising at the start of a show.

I wasn’t in the mood for a show or anything else. I had no desire to hang around Biloxi for even a morning, and needed a clean break with my little companion here. But Mr. Woody had thrown a wrench in my works, maybe just a morning’s worth, but a wrench.

“Let’s get some breakfast,” I said.

“Okay. Give me fifteen.”

“Take twenty.”

We both showered and got dressed. She emerged through the connecting door in the red top and striped jeans from the Dixie Club trip. Out of habit, and as not to raise any suspicion if the wrong somebody noticed me, I got into my last clean black suit, a pale blue shirt and a red-and-navy tie. Mr. Conservative Businessman, that’s me.

I drove us to a nearby Waffle House where, just to be rebels, we had pancakes. Silver-dollar ones. This time I remembered to ask for unsweetened iced tea. Luann looked a little tired to me, puffy around the eyes.

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