Quarry In The Middle Part 14

But I didn't have the time.

When I woke up, I was lying on my back and looking up at ceiling tile.

"Little early for the game, aren't you, Jack?"

I knew the voice: Jerry G's.

And by now I knew where I was-supine, with my knees up, on one of the room-length built-in couches in the Lucky Devil's private poker room with its creamcolor carpeted floor and walls. I could feel the adhesive strip across my mouth, and more of it was around my wrists-silver duct tape-and more yet around my ankles above my running shoes.

"Only it isn't 'Jack,' is it? It's Quarry. What kind of name is that? Some kind of hired gun, aren't you? Working for Needle-d.i.c.kie Cornell?"

I didn't answer, because I couldn't. Anyway, these were rhetorical questions, or at least ones that Jerry G already knew the answers to: his little yellow-permed spy with the red Firebird had told him.

Most conversations between Cornell and me that might have been heard by Chrissy in part, or even in whole, had been somewhat elliptical. Only that had changed this evening with our most recent conversation, which had spelled it out so well that Jerry G didn't need to hear about it from me.

And, of course, Chrissy's spying ways explained how Jerry G had known I was an interloper at the Lucky Devil, a Cornell infiltrator at his card game, and arranged to have me beaten and maybe killed, if my mobile-home angel hadn't come along to save my a.s.s.

Somehow I didn't think she'd come flying in to whisk me to safety this time.

Jerry G and I were not alone in the room. Two bouncers were also present-the big bald black guy, and the bearded bruiser who had head-b.u.t.ted me. The black guy had an automatic stuffed in his waistband-a nine millimeter, I thought, but not a Browning like mine. Smith and Wesson maybe. The bearded guy had a Mad Max-style sawed-off shotgun in one beefy fist. He had too much belly for a gun to fit in his belt. Did I mention he was wearing amber goggle-type sungla.s.ses? In f.u.c.king doors? Should be a capital crime.

As for my host, in a gray silk jacket over a black t-shirt with gold-chain necklaces and stonewashed blue jeans, he didn't appear to be armed-the jacket was open and no weapon showed in his waistband, nor any telltale bulge under either arm.

So all I had to deal with were a measly nine mil and a sawed-off. And a couple yards of duct tape. Piece of cake.

"You don't look the part," Jerry G said.

His horsey features had a dreamy cast, and I figured this was as philosophical a soliloquy as I could ever expect from him, even if I'd had a future.

He was saying, "You don't look tough. You don't seem like a psycho. Maybe that's how you stayed alive this long. But you know what they say-all good things must come to an end, you motherf.u.c.king p.r.i.c.k."

He brought his elbow down into my nuts, like a wrestler faking a nasty blow, the kind that misses and jolts the canvas, only he wasn't faking and he didn't miss.

The pain was so intense, I saw flashing red and yellow stars, not cute cartoon ones, rather exploding ruptures, like the Fourth of July going off inside your skull. I'd heard Jerry G was a hothead, but he hadn't shown that side to me, leaving it to his boys to teach me that lesson in the alley the other day.

This, however, was over the line. He knew d.a.m.ned well this was just business. Put a bullet in my head and be done with it. But there's no reason, no excuse really, to lose your temper, and turn s.a.d.i.s.tic a.s.shole. Unprofessional. Uncool.

"Cover this s.h.i.t up," he was saying. "Dump his sorry a.s.s."

I could see the carpeted room fairly well-Chrissy wasn't there, just Jerry G and his two bully boys. But on the floor was a canvas tarp, and the black guy reached for it, and that's what they were going to cover me up with.

But first the black guy swung the walnut-grip b.u.t.t of his nine millimeter at my head. The angle was weird, and he couldn't put much swing into it, and in that half-second or so, I figured it probably wouldn't kill me, but likely would put me to sleep.

It did.

When I came to, I was under the tarp on a metal surface and I could hear a raspy rumble, and feel the lurch and bounce and sway of what I quickly realized was a motorboat cutting through somewhat rough waters.

I got my bearings. I was in the bottom of the boat. My head was toward the stern, where the motor was grinding up foam at a pretty good clip. Twenty miles an hour? I was on my side, so my duct-taped hands were against the deck, which was steel and gently curved, nothing fancy-a jon boat?

I minimized my movement, but the tarp was so heavy, and the boat's trajectory loping enough, the engine noisy enough, that I figured I needn't worry too much. The tape looped around my hands put them in a praying position, but I hadn't stooped to prayer just yet. I still had better options.

And the best one was to find something sharp enough to work at the duct tape. These guys weren't the brightest, or maybe their boss Jerry G wasn't, because if they'd used any kind of rope, I really would would have been praying-and making every promise to the Man Upstairs you can think of, about my new reformed life. As it was, they'd used duct tape. have been praying-and making every promise to the Man Upstairs you can think of, about my new reformed life. As it was, they'd used duct tape.

And duct tape is designed designed to tear easily. to tear easily.

"River's a rough f.u.c.ker tonight," a high-pitched, whiny voice said from the bow.

"Pretty, though," came a more mellow, lower-pitched voice from nearer me, at the stern, working itself above the motor. "Nice clear night, for so choppy."

This was the black guy, I'd venture. He had a soothing ba.s.s, with an Isaac Hayes vibe to it. The a.s.shole at the bow was clearly white, probably the bearded head-b.u.t.t artist with the beer belly.

"Wish to f.u.c.k I'd brought a jacket," the white guy said.

"You got that right."

"Is that why the river's so empty? Too f.u.c.kin' cold?"

"Yeah. Normally, this time of year, even this time of night? You'd have some some a.s.sholes out drinkin' and drownin'." a.s.sholes out drinkin' and drownin'."

"There was a few up nearer River Bluff."

"Yeah. They'll be more down Ft. Madison way."

The river seemed to settle down a little. I wished they would start talking again. I'd thought the way my wrists were bound, I might be able to get my fingers down to where I could get enough purchase to do some judicious ripping. But that wasn't happening. So now I was trying to explore the bottom of the boat, and find something sharp to work the duct tape on.

Two or three minutes went by before the white guy blurted: "Will you look at that full the f.u.c.k moon! Not a G.o.dd.a.m.ned cloud in the sky. Look Look at them f.u.c.kin' stars!...Ever wonder if anybody's up there lookin' back down at us?" at them f.u.c.kin' stars!...Ever wonder if anybody's up there lookin' back down at us?"

"What, like G.o.d, you mean?"

"Naw, not Jesus or n.o.body. I mean, outer-s.p.a.ce-type aliens. You know, Star Trek Star Trek s.h.i.t. E.T. phone the f.u.c.k home?" s.h.i.t. E.T. phone the f.u.c.k home?"

The black guy chuckled."I don't think so."

"What, so then, like, we're all alone alone down here? Whole great big universal galaxy, and it's just us idjits? I mean, what are the f.u.c.kin' down here? Whole great big universal galaxy, and it's just us idjits? I mean, what are the f.u.c.kin' odds? odds?"

"Odds, one hunnerd percent."

"How you figure?"

"One hunnerd percent, fool. Ain't no aliens on a star."

"And why is that that, smart-a.s.s?"

"Because a star is a gaseous ma.s.s."

The white guy made a farting sound with his lips. "You're a gaseous ma.s.s." a gaseous ma.s.s."

"Maybe so. But I ain't a ignorant redneck redneck gaseous ma.s.s." gaseous ma.s.s."

That shut the white guy up.

I was enjoying the conversation-not because of its intellectual aspects, or its rustic American humor, but liking that these two stupid sons of b.i.t.c.hes were distracting each other, while I was moving my hands down to where the metal hooks for a middle bench would've been, had it not been removed so the boat could be used for hauling contraband and dumping bodies and other fun and games.

I d.a.m.n near laughed-the black guy on a bench at the stern, the bearded idiot on a bench at the bow, and me in the middle again. Didn't take long at all, and made zero noise (at least any that registered), using the metal edge of that fastener to carve through the duct tape.

The white guy asked, "Where should we dump the c.o.c.ksucker?"

"Let's give it another ten miles or so."

"Before Ft. Madison, though." Ft. Madison, though."

"Yeah. Before."

"...You know, my brother's in there."

"Huh? Where?"

"Ft. Madison! The pen!"

"What's he in for?"

"Killed a dude at a register, 7-Eleven."

"That was stupid."

"Well, the dude had a gun under there. That's self-defense!"

The black guy had no comment.

I had removed the duct tape from my mouth, for comfort, not practicality, but had decided that I could not risk undoing the tape locking my ankles-that would likely create obvious movement under the tarp.

"Somethin' about me," the white guy was saying, as they spoke across my p.r.o.ne form, "might surprise your black a.s.s."

"Such as?"

"I like that soul music."

"You do, huh?"

"I ain't no redneck. That's racial. You shouldn't say that kind of racial s.h.i.t."

"Yeah. Sorry. So. What do you listen to? Otis? Wicked Pickett? Aretha maybe?"

"Who? No, no! I like them Blues Blues Brothers." Brothers."

"...You gotta be f.u.c.kin' s.h.i.ttin' s.h.i.ttin' me..." me..."

"What?"

"Them pasty white boys can't sing that s.h.i.t."

"h.e.l.l they can't!" Then he started singing "Soul Man," which I thought was pretty funny, though I didn't laugh, too busy taking a chance lifting the edge of the tarp near my head just enough to get a fix on where the black guy was...

The black guy, who told the white guy to shut the f.u.c.k up-which only made the b.a.s.t.a.r.d sing louder, intermingling it with laughter-was wearing gray running shoes. Big ones-size elevens, anyway, with some miles on them. I got a good look, because those stompers were about five inches from the edge of the tarp.

Then the white guy started singing "Rubber Biscuits," and this the black guy found funny as h.e.l.l, lightening up, and he was laughing right up until my hands gripped his ankles and brought him sliding down hard onto the floor of the boat, rocking the little craft.

I stood up, like a ghost waking, and flung the tarp off and at the bearded bouncer at the stern, getting a glimpse of the sawed-off, which wasn't in his hands, rather down in the floor of the boat, a nice break for me.

The black bouncer, whose nine mil was still in his waistband, had let go of the stick guiding the motor (and the boat), which now ran sort of on automatic pilot. He was fumbling not for the gun but for something to push up on, so he could get on his feet and deal with me. He was also saying, "f.u.c.k!" over and over again.

The guy was big all right, but right now he was just a bug on its back, and I didn't have that much trouble shoving him over the side, rolling him off; he made a smaller splash than you'd think, and-on my knees on the metal floor-I grabbed for the stick and swung the boat hard left, sending the bearded guy, still tangled in the tarp, over the right side (the dope still had the amber sungla.s.ses on-at night!), and a hand that had just got hold of the sawed-off lost its grip, leaving the weapon behind.

As the boat swung around, the triple rotors of the Evinrude 25 HP came in contact with the black guy, who was splashing around and treading water desperately. The blades sheared his face off and a noseless red mask remained; as his screaming split the night, I swung the boat around in a circle and the bearded f.u.c.ker managed to swim just out of its path, but his scarlet-masked partner got another helping, hands coming up protectively and fingers flying like sausages. Somewhere along the line, a rotor blade must have caught his neck, because a geyser of red headed for the moon and didn't make it.

The bearded guy was still swimming away from me-I had straightened the craft around-but he hadn't got very far, not far enough to avoid the sawed-off's blast, which exploded his head and those stupid goggles with it and left him with his neck making its own fountain, not that the moon was ever in any danger of stain.

Then they were both bobbing there, with the night nicely quiet, the river otherwise empty, the full moon giving the water an ivory sheen. The gaseous ma.s.ses of the universal galaxy made reflections, except where the river had gone frothy with reddish foam.

I headed upstream. Never had much experience with motorboats, but I was getting the hang of it.

Chapter Eleven.

On the trip upriver, I grew increasingly uncomfortable in the cold. Some dark clouds had started rolling in, smudging the moon, a wind kicking up, making the water even choppier. I was in a short-sleeve shirt and all I had to put over me was that f.u.c.king tarp, and that wasn't going to happen. But it was good for my head, the chill, because I could think with more clarity.

I was missing my wallet, but that was no big deal-nothing in it but some fake John B. Gibson I.D., driver's license, social security, a couple of credit cards. The money from the poker game that I'd woken up with on me was not an issue-I'd stowed it in my suitcase back at the motel, after leaving Candace's mobile home and before going to see Cornell at the Paddlewheel. And speaking of the motel, I still had my room key, stuffed deep in my right front pocket.

Also, I'd been left my wrist.w.a.tch, which was nothing expensive, just a Timex, and yes the sucker was still ticking-it was ten after midnight. Tonight's poker game at the Lucky Devil hadn't even started yet.

I'd given thought to pulling the jon boat in at the Paddlewheel's little dock, but my Sunbird was in the Lucky Devil lot, and I decided to see if I could risk docking at Jerry G's landing. That pier was more elaborate than the Paddlewheel's, with a few other jon boats tied up, plus a brick boathouse for the cabin cruisers that were part of the "recreational boating" fleet that was actually used for drug-, gun-, and who-the-f.u.c.k-knew-running.

Fairly adept with the Evinrude by now-my little outing with the two bouncers had taken me maybe twenty miles downriver-I slowed and had a look at the dock, where the only lighting was one yellow security lamp on the boathouse itself. I could see n.o.body standing watch, the jon boats bobbing at an empty expanse of pier. I glided in and tied up there, and crawled up on the spongy dock.

I had no weapon other than the sawed-off, and I'd used one of its two sh.e.l.ls-any reloads had gone down with its previous owner. But it was a formidable-looking weapon and I could still do one blast's worth of damage, so it was worth hauling along.

A gravel path wider than a sidewalk and narrower than a one-lane road made its way up the slope through trees to the edge of the Lucky Devil parking lot, which was full now. Post-midnight Friday was prime time for the Lucky. The security lighting was subdued, with the handful of lamp poles outshone by the occasionally opening doors of the hooker trailers lining the lot at right and left.

I moved toward where I'd left the Sunbird, with the sawed-off at my side, staying close to cars so that the weapon couldn't be easily seen. Parking places were rare enough that arriving vehicles were trolling for them, and when a car found a s.p.a.ce, it swung in to disgorge drivers and pa.s.sengers who had already long since pa.s.sed any legal drinking limit. Dumb loud remarks and drunken louder laughter made dissonant music in the open air.

When I got to where I'd left the Sunbird, I at first thought I'd miscalculated, and was off a row, because the Pontiac wasn't there. Then I leaned against the Dodge in its s.p.a.ce and thought it through: my car keys hadn't been on me, so that meant Jerry G's minions had located the Sunbird and moved it, dumped it some-where.

You're a dead man, I reminded myself. I reminded myself. They couldn't have left your wheels just hanging around their parking lot... They couldn't have left your wheels just hanging around their parking lot...